Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  It’s no wonder people would come from miles around; Meritorium was a city, Charley thought. A thriving, bustling, cat-calling, important-name-dropping, busy-people-rushing-everywhere urban center of commerce, entertainment, and pleasure. The multi-storied buildings, though in a state of some disrepair, were pre-Event, while the cobblestoned pathway and haphazard street-level vendor stalls were just as clearly bolted-on facades of post-Event prosperity.

  Charley lowered his head from gawking at the high buildings lining the cobblestone walkway. Instinctively, he knew that to remain transfixed, eyes ogling upward, marked him as an outsider, a bumpkin, a nobody. Self-consciously, he found himself adjusting his arm so that his High Score was on display, and he hated himself for it. All of the post-Event structures had a sort of ancient Roman feel to them, no doubt to keep in line with their main attraction, the Titan Amphitheater.

  With his eyes ahead, Charley watched as various vendors and merchants barked out solicitations for their wares, each voice competing for the attention of the passersby. Some mundane: shoes, shirts, and belts. Others more unsavory: potions for increasing various things one might want increased, potions for growing hair in areas one might want hair or removing hair in areas one might not. Others despicable: a pen of low-Score humans sat positioned adjacent to a pen of rotthogs, each appearing to be fed from the very same trough of slop that separated them.

  Listening to the prices, Charley’s eyes widened; each rotthog was more expensive than each human being beside them. Looking back over his shoulder as they continued their trek, he saw flies lazily buzzing from one pen to the other, their insect brains no more distinguishing between rotthog and human than the owner.

  Ian looked back over his shoulder. “Let’s keep it moving. This ain’t nothing like where you’re from, I suspect.”

  Charley thought back to the gate ceremonies in Meritropolis. “In some ways no. But in other ways, it’s exactly the same.”

  “It’s a tough life in here, especially as a slave, I’m not going to lie. But you four are all High Scores, which I paid a lot for, I might remind you, so I can promise you that as long as you stay in line, I will treat you well.”

  “As long as we make you money,” Charley said.

  “Yes, well, there is that.” Ian smiled his roguish grin. “But I have no worries about the four of you. You all are quite obviously well trained. I can’t wait to get you out of these chains and see what you can do.” He winked at Charley. “Not that I trust you for a moment, my young high-Score rebel—I don’t trust any of you. I’ve had many a slave think that they can do the buddy-buddy approach, get close to me, wait for me to let down my guard. We have—” He paused in his stride and cocked his neck to one side, and then resumed walking. “We have precautions in place. Trust me, you don’t want to cross me.”

  “I got it,” Charley replied.

  “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I said I got it.”

  “Strictly a business relationship. We understand,” Orson said.

  Ian looked at Orson. “Absolutely! And we will make a lot of money together during the Venatio.”

  “Yes, yes, I believe we will make you a lot of money,” Orson retorted, the jangle of his chains the only counterpoint to his sophisticated bearing. “The question is: what’s in it for us?”

  Ian laughed. “I’m assuming you’re hoping I will extend a carrot here, instead of the stick approach?”

  “You will find us quite motivated by the carrot approach,” Orson continued smoothly.

  “Well, I think you’ll find a nice big tasty carrot dangling at the end of the Venatio for each of you already.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Why, it’s part of how the Venatio is set up, not that I expect you newcomers to know. The winners earn their freedom.”

  “You’ll let us go free?” Charley asked.

  “I have no choice; that’s how it works. And I won’t care in the least. If you four win the Venatio, you’ll have made me a very rich man—well, an even richer man.” His blue eyes sparkling, Ian flashed his white teeth, his canines protruding in a lupine gleam. “It won’t be easy, though: many warriors, mercenaries and the like, will be competing, as well as many free men—and many slaves too, of course.”

  “Free men? Why would they compete?” Hank asked.

  “For the money,” Orson said dryly.

  “Exactly right!” Ian said. “Of course, since I paid such a handsome sum for the lot of you, all earnings belong to me as your rightful owner, but win the Venatio, and you win your freedom. We can’t have slaves just moping around, without an incentive to participate with the fullest of their energy and enthusiasm. A pretty nice carrot, I would say …”

  Grigor broke his silence. “What do we have to do to win?”

  “Survive,” Ian said simply. “Kill or be killed. You will be dumped into the amphitheater with any number and any variety of animal combos and other warriors, and given any type of task imaginable—all designed to titillate the crowd. Your only job is to survive. Well, and to do it in a way that pleases the crowd. If you bore the crowd, then Titus—excuse me, Emperor Titus—” Ian looked over each shoulder quickly. “Then Emperor Titus will orchestrate events to have you killed. You do not want to be boring.” A panicked flutter of anxiety for Sandy and her whereabouts flitted across Charley’s consciousness, but he forced himself to push it from his mind; it wouldn’t do either of them any good to fall into despair.

  “I see,” Grigor said.

  “Just survive and keep the crowd happy. That’s it,” Ian said.

  “Will we have to—” Charley looked over at Orson—“kill each other?”

  “I think I can guess who you would go for first,” Ian said, laughing, eyes on Orson. “I wouldn’t plan on ending up on a deserted island with this one.” He gestured at Charley, laughing over his shoulder as they turned down a narrow street.

  “I’ll keep that mind,” Orson said, straightening his shirt and avoiding eye contact with Charley.

  “But no,” Ian said, turning back to Charley. “The four of you will be registered together under my house. You win or you lose as one.” He looked from Charley to Orson and back again. “To win, you’ll all need to work together, do you understand?”

  Charley kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. “I understand.”

  “Good! Well, we’re here: your lodgings for the next couple days until the Venatio begins.” Ian stopped in front of a nondescript two-story stucco building painted a muted olive green. In short, a very unremarkable structure, but better than a stable. Seeming to read their facial expressions, Ian shrugged, making a false attempt at modesty. “It’s just a property I own—one of many—a very low-key place where we can keep you safe and secure under the radar. Word will get out about your high scores, and how much I paid for you. We can’t have people kidnapping you before the Venatio, can we?”

  Charley didn’t say a word.

  “Trust me when I tell you I’m one of the nice ones. You’ll be well taken care of here: food, water, exercise—anything you need until the Venatio. Many of the other slave-masters are not so generous, even to High Scores.” Ian looked at Orson. “But, lucky for you, I do happen to be a strong believer in the carrot approach.”

  Orson nodded. “Very astute.”

  “But, if the carrot approach doesn’t work to my satisfaction …”

  “We understand,” Orson replied, his eyes unblinking.

  “What about our friends? The other people in our company that were captured?” Charley asked.

  “How should I know?” Ian responded, looking annoyed for the first time. “My advice to you is to enjoy your little vacation here, and then do what you have to do to win the Venatio. Once you’re free, you’ll also be famous, so anyone from your company that’s still alive will find you.” He nodded to his cadre of armed gu
ards, two of whom peeled off to accompany him, while the dozen or so others remained. “Well, I must be off.”

  Charley watched Ian walk away. A man on a mission, off on other important business: buying, selling, making money. All on the backs of other human beings sold like chattel.

  Charley let himself be led into the building. He wasn’t going to argue with being on the receiving end of the carrot approach, but his mind was already cycling ahead to what they needed to do in just two days’ time. It wasn’t a hard decision; he already knew the approach he would take.

  The stick, always the stick.

  ***

  “So, the Venatio lasts for three days?” Sandy asked.

  “Yes,” Marta replied. “Well, Emperor Titus has been known to change things around to maximize revenue, but it will typically last for three days. Not nearly as long as the ancient Roman Venatios. When the Roman Colosseum was dedicated, the first Venatio lasted for a hundred days!”

  “I see,” Sandy said slowly. They were seated in Marta’s private living quarters, each comfortably lounging on cushioned chairs. Sandy’s chains were off, and yet she still felt uneasy, as if one wrong word, one wrong move, and Marta would lock her up again. “And you want me to, what, win the Venatio?”

  Marta smoothed her pant legs, brushing off imaginary specks of dust. “I want us to win the Venatio. I’ve entered you, me, and two other women as a team. The four of us represent my house.” She paused, placed her hands in her lap slowly and looked up. “We are the first all-female team to enter a Venatio.”

  Sandy could sense that this was important to her. “I see.”

  “It’s our chance to prove that we can do anything men can do. The scoring system gave us an equal playing field, but this is the first time we have a team worthy of the competition.”

  Sandy swallowed. “But what if we can’t win? I mean, I’m not as good of a fighter as some people.” She thought of Charley, Grigor, Hank, and Orson. “Some men are just … better at certain things … maybe?”

  “It’s women like you,” Marta spat, “that bring us all down. You buy into and enable this paternalistic patriarchal oppression that subjugates all of us into these outdated stereotypes of woman as inferior objects.” Her voice rose as her eyes locked onto Sandy’s. “You will compete with us and you will help us win.”

  “Of course, of course I will,” Sandy said hurriedly. “I want us to win, I just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I just know that all women are important.” She lowered her head. “Whether we win or not.”

  “Everyone’s important?” Marta said sarcastically, a sneer on her face.

  “Yes,” Sandy said quietly. “I believe that women and men are important: High Scores, Low Scores, winners, losers—everyone matters.”

  “Yes, well, that’s a nice sentiment.” Marta lowered her voice. “And I’m sorry for sounding so harsh. It’s just that we have an opportunity here to prove to everyone, to prove to everyone who would just as soon put all of us women in chains, that we can do whatever they can do, and better.”

  The irony of Marta talking about being subjected to chains was not lost on Sandy; her neck, wrists, and ankles were still rubbed raw.

  Marta seemed to read her mind. “And yes, it’s unfortunate that you found yourself captured by me, but now is your chance to actually earn your freedom. If we win the Venatio, you go free. More importantly, we strike a blow for all women. Are you with me?”

  Wisely, Sandy replied with a simple head nod. “I’m with you.” She would go along with Marta’s plan, follow her lead, hunt some animal combos—nothing new there—try her best, and maybe they would even win. She was actually a better shot with a bow than Charley, or even Grigor. Her lips pursed. Not that they ever recognized her for what she could contribute. She was just a girl; Charley was the Chosen One, and he didn’t have time to be bothered with input from a silly female. Well, she would show them.

  It would be easy.

  “Oh,” Marta added, her dark eyes hardening. “And win or lose, we’re going to assassinate Emperor Titus. And by we, I mean you.”

  Sandy froze, eyes wide and unblinking, hands clasped primly in her lap. So Marta did have ambitions beyond just being a noteworthy businesswoman.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be quite as easy as she first thought.

  ***

  “Lesser people are the means to a better person’s end.” Ian shrugged. “I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, what with you in chains and all, but it is what it is.”

  “Lesser people?” Charley frowned, rolling over his forearm to display his Score. “I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, too, but I’ve got a higher Score than you.”

  Ian laughed, seeming not to take offense in the least. “That you do, that you do. And that’s why I paid such a handsome sum for the lot of you.” He nodded behind Charley to where Hank, Grigor, and Orson lounged on cots, still hobbled with chains, but able to stretch out in relative comfort.

  “Well?”

  “Well.” Ian scratched the orange bristle on his chin. “You may have a High Score, but you don’t have a high bank account balance—”

  “So it’s all about money? The scoring system is meaningless?”

  “No, I certainly wouldn’t say that. It’s just that, here in Meritorium, we still live under the System of Societal Merit, but whereas other cities get rid of Low Scores because they’re a drain on society—and they are—we use the Low Scores.”

  “You’ve realized that Low Scores are only a drain on society when they’re living.” Orson lay on his back, hands interlaced behind his head, eyes gazing at the ceiling. “But their deaths are a boon to society; there’s value in the spectacle of it.”

  Instinctively, Charley knew this to be true. He thought back to the crowds that had gathered in Meritropolis for every gate ceremony. He tried to block that kind of thinking from his mind; there would be time to deal with that later. Right now, he needed answers.

  Charley lifted his head to look at Ian. “But we are not Low Scores …”

  “Well, it started first with the Low Scores, of course, then there was a movement to begin assigning scores to animal combos. That facilitated the buying and selling of beasts—all driven by the demand the Venatio generated, of course.” Ian paused to whisper an order to one of the many assistants and personal guards who always trailed in his wake. “But, like anything driven by the base desires of man, it soon wasn’t enough. There was more and more demand for the spectacle of the forbidden.”

  “People wanted to see High Scores compete in the Venatio,” Charley said.

  “Right, and more than that, house leaders wanted to own their own stable of High Scores to compete.”

  “House leaders?”

  “The people with money,” Orson said wryly, still looking at the ceiling.

  “Right, money and property. Not many people are physically capable of competing, so owning a physically talented High Score is the next best thing.” Ian crossed his leg over his knee. “Not to mention, it’s what the crowd wants to see. Low Scores, High Scores, humans, animal combos—plus there’s demand for all kinds of props and other theatrics. Sometimes these weird aggressive plants even end up in the Venatio.”

  “From the Bramble.”

  “Yes.” Ian looked closer at the four of them. “You have some experience with the Bramble. I’m beginning to think this might turn out to be one of the better investments I’ve ever made.” He slapped his knees and stood up. “Well, just don’t disappoint me. Get some rest; I’ll be back later.”

  Ian exited the safe house, trailed by a gaggle of people in his employ. Charley leaned back on his cot, processing the new information. Charley thought about the growing bloodlust—it seemed only a matter of time before the fickle crowd demanded house leaders compete in the Venatio for their entertainment. Didn’t Ian worry that he
might be next? Charley considered: the danger of living for novelty and spectacle is that eventually everything fails to impress; one always craves something newer, more outrageous.

  “Do you think we should ask him about Orson’s father? If he knows where he is or even who he is?” Hank asked, rolling over.

  “He won’t know,” Orson said.

  “Well—”

  “But I know who will most definitely know,” Orson interrupted, not bothering to look over.

  Charley, Hank, and even Grigor looked at Orson. The ex-commander continued to stare at the ceiling, as if transfixed, his eyes glassy.

  “Umm, so are you going to tell us?” Hank pushed.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The emperor will know; I guarantee it. Who do you think put him in charge? If we can get to this Emperor Titus, then we can find out where my father is.” Orson laughed bitterly. “We’ll ask him where the czar is.”

  “That’s what they call him—your father?” Charley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he’s already in town?” Hank asked, a determined look on his face.

  Orson paused a moment before speaking. “That’s doubtful.”

  “He means that if his father were here, he would have come for him by now,” Charley said, watching Orson closely. “Is that right?”

  For the first time, Orson looked over, taking renewed interest in his fellow captives. “Very astute, maybe your high Score is for more than just losing your temper and fighting.” He looked back up at the ceiling. “Yes, if my father were here, there’s not a chance four people with scores as high as ours could make it into the city without a personal visit from him, or at least an inquiry into our personal details. He’s very—” Orson unclasped his hands from behind his head and lazily drummed long, slender fingers lightly across his chest—“well, he’s very invested in the status of High Scores. The higher your Score, the more he’s interested.”