Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  However vain it seemed, Sven knew he needed to add a step one to his plan: to get some pants. He motioned Rico over, handed him his too-small shirt, and then pointed at a boy about his size with a shirt and pants that fit. Rico smiled broadly, understanding in an instant. He walked over, pushed the shirt into the boy’s chest, and made a gesture with his hand in between bites of his crab apple. Some things are universal in any language. The boy quickly handed over his shirt and pants, throwing in his piece of bread for good measure. Rico tossed the new clothes to Sven with a coarse laugh and walked away, eating the boy’s bread, and likely heading off to acquire thirds.

  Sven quickly dressed, immediately feeling better. He brushed aside the pang of conscience at using bullying to get what he needed. He couldn’t exactly start a revolution without pants, could he? He quickly thought ahead to his plan, anything besides the flimsy moral footing of relying on Rico as his own personal enforcer. Well, step one of his plan was a success. If only the rest of his plan could be just as easy.

  Sven took a deep breath and bit into his own crab apple. He half-expected to find a worm, and was pleasantly surprised at the tart crispness. He took another bite, thinking. Who knows, things weren’t often as they appeared; life and chance had a way of surprising that way. Sven had acquired a glimmer of confidence, a battle plan, pants, and strong high-Score-in-disguise cousins on his side. And sometimes all a plan needed for success was just a little bit of crazy.

  Rico’s back was turned, and Camilla looked over her shoulder at Sven, her long brown hair waving in the wind. Her wisp of a smile invited a response.

  And he was more than a little crazy; he was loco demente.

  Sven winked at her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Opening Ceremony

  Charley craned his neck, eyes widening. The Titan Amphitheater loomed larger than life, growing in size as they approached—its architecture distinctively Roman. Fluted columns of slate-grey concrete and stone sprouted upward, all supporting arches that frowned in lunate moons, yawning open to accept both contestants and spectators. Those happily paying to watch the opening ceremony flooded through the main entrance: the above-ground triumphal arch. Meanwhile, those who were competing—animal and human, willing and unwilling—were led in cages, chains, and pens into the below-ground tunnels. These tunnels connected the subterranean passageways with the arena above and with numerous exits in all directions.

  The air grew cooler as Charley descended through the tunnels. Ian led the way, appearing to know exactly where he was going, while Hank, Grigor, and Orson followed just to the rear of Charley, Ian’s cadre of men jostling them along. Charley blinked, his eyes adjusting to the underground gloom. With the unfathomable network of tunnels and many exits on all sides, Charley was instinctively aware that when you are in heavy chains, you go where you are led. Scuffling forward, he strained his eyes to see what lay ahead. The shadows rose and fell on the passageway walls, dancing in jerky bobs to keep time with the flickering light of the torches in the hands of Ian’s men.

  After a few moments, the tunnel widened into an appreciably larger area full of more contestants, both man and beast. Condensation bubbled on the walls and ceiling: little droplets of murky, ferrous liquid that incessantly plipped and plopped along their path.

  “Watch your step!” Ian called, his voice bouncing and echoing back in a relay of decreasing intensity. “And keep your hands back from any of the cages. It won’t do to go getting your hand bitten off, or worse, before the opening ceremony even begins.” He chuckled lightly at his own wit and skipped around a puddle of brackish water.

  Charley attempted to trace Ian’s path exactly, looking suspiciously from side to side, the dark shapes along the walls now seeming even more ominous after Ian’s warning.

  “Charley!” Hank hissed. “Look at that, over there!” Hank extended his arm toward a rickety-looking cage made of slatted wood and twine. “Do you see it?”

  Charley squinted, seeing nothing but shadows. “See what?”

  “This!” Orson kicked the cage with his boot, causing a dark shape to hurl itself at the inside of the cage with a garbled bark. Inquisitive, almond-shaped eyes peered through the wooden bars, flashing red with the light cast off from the fulgurating torch flames.

  Charley stepped back hurriedly. “What the heck is that thing?”

  “Marmosal.” One of Ian’s men extended a torch toward the cage, causing the animal to shrink back, but not before Charley caught a glimpse of it. The creature appeared to have a noseless monkey face set on a dog-sized body, but with opposable-thumbed hands instead of paws. “Marmoset-jackal combo. Now, keep moving.” The guard gave Charley a little push forward.

  Orson sighed theatrically. “Oh boy. If you’re scared of Marmosals, then we are in a lot more trouble than I thought. Well, at least Grigor and I are here to take care of you two ninnies. We’ve been hunting animal combos more dangerous than your bion since before you two were hiding under the bedcovers in Meritropolis after hearing a spooky bedtime story.” Orson kicked the cage again for good measure, and then sauntered on. “Bring this contest on. I’m not scared of a little dog-monkey.”

  The guard eyed Orson and laughed a deep, guttural croak. “Oh, just you wait, there’s plenty more surprises for you. This little ‘dog-monkey’ ain’t nuthin’. I hear they got combos that ain’t nobody even knows what to call them.”

  “How impressive,” Orson said, a snide look on his face.

  “I wasn’t scared of that marmosal,” Charley said, frowning.

  Orson rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

  The group continued down the passageway, their feet clopping along the stone and sending concussive little booms spiraling off the walls and ceiling. Charley hurried behind Ian, continuing to follow in his steps. He could hear heavy breathing and panting from some of the cages on either side, although he couldn’t see into their interiors—except for the rare instances where the light from one of the torches happened to illuminate them.

  The rustling sounds of beasts rocking against their bars, licking their fur, and scraping their claws sent shivers down Charley’s spine. From one of the larger cages, he even heard what he knew must be tearing flesh—maybe a planned dinner from the beast’s owner, or maybe an unplanned snack of whatever other unfortunate inhabitant happened to share the cage. Charley heard a bone snap; it could be just a dinner of chicken thrown in by the owner, but maybe not. He fought back a shudder.

  But that wasn’t what unnerved him the most.

  The thing that set his heart pounding and tightened his jaw was something he saw very clearly indeed. It was a brief glimpse, a snapshot in time. They were hurrying down the tunnel, Ian seemingly intent on reaching the bowels of the earth itself. But what Charley glimpsed was enough to forever burn the image in his mind. He knew he’d just learned there were some things you just couldn’t unsee.

  What he saw, extending from a cage mere inches from his step, was something that sent him into a state of shock.

  It was a human hand.

  A child’s hand, little chubby fingers outstretched, chipped fingernails and grimy knuckles, had stretched between the bars for Charley’s boot.

  To get his attention.

  To get his help.

  Charley could do nothing—couldn’t even stop. He walked along, eyes glazing, his synapses firing mixed signals, alternating between urges to burn the city to the ground and to cry uncontrollably. Woodenly, as if in a stupor, he looked from Hank to Orson to Grigor to see if they, too, had seen it. They appeared to be more fortunate than Charley had been.

  They were now ascending; there was light at the end of the tunnel, but not enough that Charley could see what was in store for him, or for Meritorium. Charley’s thoughts were clear: the city was evil, the people in power were degenerates—animals all. But who would fight for those without a voice? Who would fight for those who w
ere considered no better than animals? He could choose to look away, but he could never again say that he did not know.

  Ian stepped to one side and pushed Charley through.

  Charley stumbled forward into the bright light. Squinting, he looked up. Surrounded by Hank, Orson, and Grigor, he heard the undulating roar of the crowd.

  They were in the arena.

  Charley stood frozen in place, disoriented. The sights, sounds, and smells were overwhelming. Animal combos—some big, some small, some restrained, some free—scampered, crawled, flew, and galloped around the arena in a wild circus of incongruent animal parts. There were lanthers, chimpanzelles, and even a bion or two. And those were just the combos that Charley had seen before. Others he could only guess: a zippo, the elusive zebra-hippo, and more marmosals. Something that looked like a cross between an alligator and a bear sniffed in his direction, before snapping its jaws shut on a piece of meat extended on a stick from its handler. Ian had instructed them earlier that many of the animals would be partially drugged during the opening ceremony, to allow them to be guided and controlled.

  High Scores and warriors strutted around the arena like gladiators, reveling in the crowd’s shouts of adoration. Many sported wicked gleaming weapons and elaborate costumes, their flesh sleek with sweat.

  The Low Scores and other no-name slaves were another story. Herds of scantily dressed men, women, and children flocked together in scared bunches, moving in skittish jags to avoid encounters with the roaming predators, both man and beast, and the weapons and obstacles that littered the arena floor. They were sheep among the wolves, defenseless and without a shepherd.

  Charley’s mind flashed back to Alec, to the little girl at the gates. These people, too, had no one to protect them. Charley swallowed, his pulse racing. He thought of all of those put out of the gates in Meritropolis, and how truly dreadful that had been. But here in Meritorium it was even worse: here they reveled in the bloodshed, the sacrifice of innocent lives merely for entertainment value.

  Charley stood straighter, fingering his chains tentatively.

  A voice boomed out, artificially enhanced with some trick of acoustics. All eyes turned to the speaking figure robed in purple. “Welcome! I am Emperor Titus, the sponsor and creator of the Venatio. This event is all about you.” The crowd roared their approval, and even from this distance Charley could sense that many were wildly inebriated. Vendors worked the crowd, offering flagons of drink for sale; if what Ian had said earlier was true, some were no doubt chemically enhanced with plants from the Bramble.

  Bookies maneuvered their way through the throngs of people to take wagers of various kinds. Ian had informed them that entrance fees generated significant income, but it paled in comparison to the revenue brought in by gambling. All betting had to be done through an official bookie, so that Emperor Titus could take his percentage of the spread and, Ian had laughed at this, give it back to the people.

  Ian had gone on to explain that those with significant wealth, of which he included himself, did not make money during the Venatios from their share of gate receipts. Rather, owners of contestants who generated the most significant betting activity were paid directly by the emperor. With their chart-topping High Scores, Ian had assured the four of them that they would receive significant betting attention from the crowd. Even now, Charley felt the eyes of the crowd on them.

  Emperor Titus lifted his pasty white hands, smiled a thin-lipped smirk, and waited for the noise to die down. Drawing down his spindly arms, elbows jutting out of his flowing purple robe that only partially concealed a significant paunch, he spoke in eloquent fashion. “This year’s Venatio boasts animal combos that we have never had before, some with scores of over 100.” At this, the crowd gasped. Charley looked over at Hank, Orson, and Grigor, each also shocked by the pronouncement. Charley had never heard of animal combos that were High Scores before.

  “Yes, it’s true!” Emperor Titus continued, a smug smile transforming his otherwise dour face. “This year we solemnly re-commit to our original vision: everyone contributes to Meritorium—” he paused, a small expectant smile playing across his face, as the crowd joined him with a roar—“in life or in death.”

  The crowd cawed, hooted, and howled their approval. Charley closed his eyes tightly, willing the barrage of applause to stop. The noise assaulted his ears, sending reverberations rattling around his skull. He opened his eyes slowly, the pounding inside his head growing. Members of the audience snarled, baring their teeth, hungry to slake their lust for blood, money, and power on the throwaway lives of the competitors in the arena below.

  Emperor Titus continued with arms again upraised. “As a symbol of our collective dedication to this guiding principal, let us inaugurate this year’s Venatio with Damnatio ad bestias.” He lowered his arms and pointed to a group of about a dozen young low-Score children being driven to the center of the arena by a cluster of bat-wielding men.

  “Damnatio ad bestias, condemnation to beasts,” Grigor said quietly, his jaw muscles bunching.

  Charley thought of the hand in the cage, stretching outward, tiny fingers extended. He couldn’t help but wonder had Alec, all alone before his gate ceremony in Meritropolis, reached out for Charley, and grasped nothing but air?

  “Whoa, I don’t think those combos are drugged anymore—look!” Hank said, pointing. Desperate-looking animal handlers were driving three lunging, snarling lanthers, lion–panther hybrids, toward the children.

  “What have they done?” Charley found himself asking out loud, already knowing the answer.

  “They’re Low Scores,” Orson said simply.

  The familiar warmth crept up the back of Charley’s neck. The dark vice tightened, squeezing his head until he felt like he might pop.

  In Meritropolis, Charley knew he had failed Alec. Just moments ago underground, he hadn’t even stopped to look in the cage, it had happened all too fast. Now this was happening before his very eyes, and he could do nothing more than stand and watch. He couldn’t help reflecting what good had all of his rage done in Meritropolis? He needed to calm down, control himself, take a deep breath—

  Deep, black shame twisted his insides, the dark magma boiled and bubbled, expanding, demanding outward expression. There was no release valve internally; Charley knew only action could suffice. He trembled, the molten rage coursing through his limbs like hot fire.

  He looked at Grigor, who slowly turned to meet his eyes. Without speaking, Grigor bent over, picked up a bent metal rod from the debris littering the arena floor, jammed it through sequential links between Charley’s arms, and snapped Charley’s chains with a violent explosion of movement.

  Charley erupted, his feet flying along the gritty arena floor like a roadrunner sizzling across desert sand. He swung a length of chain around each hand as he ran, ready-made weapons created by the manacles still fastened to his wrists. He heard Grigor close behind, with Orson and Hank trailing him.

  The lanthers had broken off from their handlers and were outpacing them quite easily. The animals bounded toward the quivering children.

  Charley angled himself on a collision course with the lanthers, aiming to intercept them just before they reached the huddled Low Scores. Charley vaulted himself at the lead lanther. For a moment, he was weightless, both feet in the air, as he took flight. The hot, dry wind on his face blistered his cheeks and caused his eyes to squint. The lanther’s golden-orbed face turned toward Charley and, with a screaming yowl of exposed canines, pounced to meet him in the air.

  In unison, the spectators rose to their feet; even the emperor had ceased his speechmaking, now watching the four High Scores with a look of surprised interest. The din of the crowd rose to a deafening crescendo.

  Unfurling his chain mid-air, Charley whiplashed his right wrist in a violent strike against the exposed side of the lanther’s head. Falling heavily to the ground on his left arm, he barrel-
rolled under the injured lanther. Rising before the stunned animal could twist around and face him, Charley drove the iron manacle on his left wrist down on the top of its head in a hammer blow. The animal was out cold.

  Charley turned to face the other two lanthers, and immediately saw they were quite occupied with Grigor, who had acquired a club. Charley looked around and assumed it must be from another contestant he saw lying on the ground, with nothing but unconsciousness to show for his fancy plumage and battle dress. Grigor worked methodically, batting and ducking in a rhythm of controlled aggression, his great strength on full display to the crowd.

  Orson and Hank, still attached to each other by a length of chain, were working in tandem to clothesline any fighter unfortunate enough to come in range. One warrior, having made the unwise decision to throw a javelin at Orson and miss, now lay half-strangled on the ground, their chain having left a bright red impression around his neck.

  Seeing a group of armored warriors steadily approaching in the distance, Charley groaned inside at the idea that struck him. They had temporarily neutralized the threat to the Low Scores sentenced to Damnatio ad bestias, but now they must keep the crowd on their side.

  Charley had an idea. Well, if he had been able to ride a bion, even for a second …

  He nudged the fallen lanther with his foot. It struggled to rise, shaking its silky black-maned head. “Well, here we go. I have the feeling you’re going to like this about as much as I am.”

  Before he could change his mind, Charley quickly looped his wrist chains twice around the neck of the lanther, staying clear of its teeth, as it slowly came to its senses. Holding each end of the chain like reins, he gingerly stepped over and onto the lanther’s shoulders.

  The effect was instantaneous. The lanther yowled, leaping and caterwauling in circuitous bounds that jolted them, both lanther and rider, at least five feet into the air. Twisting and snaking its head around with vicious snaps of its teeth, it was all Charley could do to choke back on the chains and maneuver its head away from biting off one of his appendages; he certainly couldn’t try to steer the thing.