Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  He struggled to come down to earth, but the lingering effects of the purple mist buoyed him skyward again. This time, to the land of wishes and dreams.

  His chin quivered in an ecstasy of strong emotion; a solitary tear streaked down his cheek, leaving a shining path in its wake. A feeling of deep and inconsolable yearning threatened to burst through his chest, the sehnsucht of the moment tugging him upward to dreams of the stars, the sky and the clouds, the fulfillment of an unwished wish. Was this a dream, or was this the reality, and all of his life the dream?

  Something, or Someone, was calling to him. The voice was nameless, and yet it was the most comfortingly familiar presence he had ever known—always known. It was the voice of the heavens, the skies and the stars, the same voice that had called to him as an orphaned young boy. The same one that had called to him after Alec died. The floating clouds overhead told him he was alone, but not alone.

  But he wanted so badly to kill the emperor and the czar. He knew this thirst for revenge was unhealthy, but as much as he tried to grow, to become the kind of person that could move beyond personal grievances and work for something bigger and focus on zeroing the System, every time he thought of authority figures like the emperor and the czar a hot bubbling rage enveloped him, derailing his aim to be a better person. He wanted to zero the System for good, the System that had taken his brother from him, but the desire for revenge threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted—no, he needed to kill them.

  But what if it still wouldn’t be enough? What if he got everything he thought he wanted, and the emptiness still remained? Some part of him knew that the longing went deeper, truer, further—it was the same longing of a little boy, lying on a grassy windswept plain, eyes searching the sky above him for something more, and getting an answer. The heavens declared truth—not in words, but understood in any language.

  And he wanted that Truth. So badly, he wanted it.

  If only he could have the faith of Grigor. He wanted to believe in a Creator with a sovereign plan, an omnipotent God who could work even these horrible things out for good, somehow, some way. Hot tears bubbled down his cheeks, sticky on his eyelashes. He couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or if he was now awake. Maybe he was some of both. He just needed help, even though he didn’t deserve it. He thought of what Grigor would say: he needed grace.

  A voice, not audible, but louder than that, spoke directly to his heart: The people who survived the sword found grace in the wilderness. I have loved you with an everlasting love.

  Charley wanted so badly to trust, to believe that what he had always truly wanted was at the same time wanting him. But first, someone had to pay for Alec. Charley had lived with this thirst for so long that to look to anything else, or anyone else, to quench it seemed unimaginable. Revenge was a mirage—Charley knew that on some level. But every time he sensed an opportunity to grow, to forgive, to move on, to work to build something better, the anger just seemed to bubble up from within, consuming him. He would make them pay, make them all pay.

  The space between waking and dreaming thinned. The atmosphere above turned dark and brooding. Lightning forked across the purple sky in a jagged seam, splitting the sky like tearing cloth as Charley floated down, back to earth. There was the sound of thunder off in the distance.

  A storm was coming.

  ***

  Charley awoke to the tantalizing smell of roasting meat. Even before his eyes were open, his mouth was salivating. He was in a large, ornately decorated room, bound hand and foot, but positioned comfortably on a luxurious magenta chaise decorated with velvety-soft pillows and intricately knurled wooden armrests. His gaze settled on a massive fireplace with a spit weighed down by an equally massive slab of succulent meat. It slowly rotated over a crackling fire, droplets of grease landing with a sizzle and snap.

  “Don’t even say it!” Hank said. Charley’s eyes snapped from the fireplace to an adjoining couch, equally opulent, where Hank lounged, also bound in chains.

  Charley started to speak, but stopped. He swallowed the bitter taste of sleep, and tried again. “Say what?”

  “Don’t even say it smells delicious; we already know.” Hank looked longingly at the meat. “We’ve been looking at it and smelling it for the last hour.”

  “Try the last two hours,” Grigor said.

  Charley smiled weakly in Grigor’s direction. “I would imagine your body requires a little more of the purple mist than ours do.” Grigor returned his smile, his cheeks creasing in genuine happiness. Grigor was truly the antithesis of the System. He was that rare person who truly cared about people for who they were, accepting them unquestioningly, faults and all.

  “What a great little reunion this is.” Orson crooked one ankle over another, reclining on his emerald-green sofa and still managing to look stately despite the lengths of chain looped around his body.

  “Good, we all survived,” Charley said, aiming a sarcastic smirk at Orson.

  Orson propped himself up on his elbow. “Yes, and I’m sure we have quite a long life expectancy ahead of us. Just a little chat is all the emperor wants us for, I’m sure.”

  “Why, you underestimate me, Orson.” At that, Emperor Titus strode into the room amidst a bustle of soft silk, his purple robe billowing around him. “Or, Commander Orson, I should say. It’s a pleasure.”

  Orson’s eyes widened, his usual composure lost for the space of a moment. Quickly recovering, he nodded. “Likewise.”

  “Yes, yes. I know all about the four of you. On the run from Meritropolis, on a quest to stop this evil System of ours. My oh my, such ambition!” His eyes focused on Orson, a cruel glint flashing. “Maybe even take down Daddy Dearest, once and for all?”

  Orson looked away.

  “How do you know all of this?” Charley asked.

  The emperor lifted an eyebrow in Charley’s direction. “Apparently I am underestimated all around. Please, how many of your people are in our city?” Charley thought of Sven and the other Low Scores and shook off a stab of guilt. The emperor’s eyes remained on Charley. “I do say you don’t lack for initiative, though, that’s for sure. It’s a good thing for me, and for you, that you have such horrible aim with a javelin—”

  Charley lifted himself off the couch. “We—”

  The emperor lifted a hand, and a guard quickly jerked on Charley’s chain, dumping him unceremoniously back onto the couch. The emperor smoothed his robe. “Now, now, I don’t think we have any need for that kind of impoliteness, do we?” He shooed the guard away with a flutter of his hand. “We have a civilized adult conversation to conduct. We can do that, can’t we?”

  Charley paused. “Yes.”

  “Good, good. But first, let’s eat!” He snapped his fingers, and servants appeared as if out of the woodwork, hustling and bustling to slice and serve great hunks of the dripping meat, complete with creamy mashed potatoes and a dark peppery gravy on platters of silver.

  Emperor Titus sat back in a chair opposite them, foregoing food himself, but watching them eat with an amused look. Charley had paused before taking his first bite, wary after noticing the emperor abstain from eating, but then he had shrugged and began to furiously tuck in to the delicious meal; he had been unconscious and in chains for the last few hours, if the emperor wanted to kill him, he had had many opportunities without resorting to poisoning his food. From time to time, a coterie of royal hangers-on would sidle up and whisper some important message or other in the emperor’s ear, and he would direct them with a quick word. He motioned repeatedly for the servants to refill Grigor’s platter, the emperor’s eyes widening as the mountain of a man ate a small mountain of food.

  Grease dribbled down Charley’s chin. Whatever the meat was, he didn’t dare ask, for fear they might actually tell him. It was delicious; it was succulent and juicy, marbled with fat on the inside, and charred perfectly on the outside. After so many meals of dr
y brittle durkey jerky, this was like rediscovering meat as an entirely new type of food. Finally sated, he gratefully accepted a flagon of cider.

  Draining the flagon, he returned it to the outstretched arm of a servant. Charley was full, uncomfortably so. He felt as if he might burst his chains. He pictured the chains bending and creaking from his ever-expanding girth and then splintering off with a snap like a gluttonous reimagining of Samson. Now, that would make for an interesting escape. He giggled out loud and then burped a gaseous, hiccuppy belch that tickled his throat, causing him to titter once again.

  A cunning smile stretched the emperor’s thin lips across his gleaming white teeth.

  “I’ll pass on the drink.” Orson sniffed the air, looking reproachfully at Charley. Charley realized that the juice must be mildly alcoholic.

  “Suit yourself.” The emperor accepted a flagon for himself, but only took the smallest of sips. “It’s actually not alcoholic, at least not in the traditional sense. It’s made from a particular type of berry harvested in the Bramble that has some very unique properties. Think of it like a mild form of laughing gas, but in liquid form. It’s a big hit at the Venatio; they call it the ‘merry berry’ juice.” He raised an eyebrow at Charley. “Most people don’t drain an entire flagon so quickly, though. In small quantities, it’s just perfect to lighten any mood.”

  “Water.” Grigor’s gravelly voice rumbled between bites of meat dripping with gravy.

  Hank nodded to a servant. “Same.”

  Charley looked around: it appeared that he would be the only one ill prepared for whatever type of discussion this was shaping up to be. “Same for me, too, please,” he said quietly to a servant standing attentively at his elbow. He hoped he could water the merry berry juice down a little.

  Seeing Grigor return his empty platter for the last time, the emperor spoke. “Well, now that we’re all pleasantly full, shall we begin?” He made a motion of dismissal to the numerous staff in the room, each of whom quickly exited, leaving only a handful of his personal guards.

  “So, allow me this opportunity to formally welcome the four of you to Meritorium. We get many visitors, for the Venatio and other goings on in the amphitheater of course, but it’s quite a hike from Meritropolis. Or, so the czar tells me …” At this, he eyed Orson carefully.

  Orson refused to take the bait and remained silent. The emperor continued. “Anyway, to get the Commander of Meritropolis—well, the former commander, that is—along with such notable High Scores as you, it’s a true pleasure. Our previous, umm, introduction notwithstanding.” He looked at Charley with a look of healthy respect and a tinge of fear, but surprisingly no malice.

  “You don’t want to kill me?” Charley blurted out, cursing his lowered inhibitions as he did so.

  The emperor’s pinched lips puckered into an expression between a grimace and an aborted laugh. “Why, I don’t wish to kill anyone. As our esteemed Commander Orson here can attest, we who are tasked with enforcing the System of Societal Merit do not wish death on anyone. We simply enforce the law to the benefit of the greatest number of people. It’s quite common for people to not quite grasp this subtlety, however. I am quite used to there being attempts made on my life, many much more—ahem—well thought out than yours. I bear no ill will.”

  Charley’s mind scrambled for an answer. He thought of Alec, and with his reduced filter was unable to keep himself from responding. “Life is cheap under the System. Here in Meritorium, as in Meritropolis.”

  The emperor shrugged. “Here’s the complicated reality in which we live: all life is not equal.” He took another sip of his drink. “If we had a magic wand that would provide for everyone, sure, who wouldn’t wave it? But we don’t.” He looked at Orson. “In Meritropolis, you put Low Scores out of the gates. Here in Meritorium, we put them into the arena.”

  Orson uncrossed his legs and looked directly at the emperor. “In Meritropolis we honored those who were Low Scores. We put them out of the gates, that is our pact with each other, but we treat them with respect; we don’t cheer on their deaths as wild beasts tear their flesh for our amusement.”

  “We allow Low Scores to contribute to society by having their deaths mean something; they die in the arena and it benefits all who are living. Their very deaths provide an economic benefit to all they leave behind; the revenue from the crowds in the amphitheater see to that,” Titus said.

  Charley could feel a vein in his neck bulging. “Neither of you gets to decide! The System doesn’t get to decide! No one gets to decide who matters, and who doesn’t. Everyone matters.”

  The emperor paused for a moment, looking from Charley to Orson and back again. “I can see that the lot of you must have had some interesting campfire discussions. But I believe we can put our philosophical differences aside and come to a mutually agreeable solution to this whole ‘overthrow the System and take down the czar’ master plan that you seem to have.”

  Grigor and Hank remained silent, eyes on Orson and Charley.

  “What do you have in mind?” Orson said, fussing with his chained wrists, and at that moment reminding Charley very much of a cat having encountered something distasteful.

  “Well, not to ruin the surprise, but Daddy Dearest is making a visit to us.”

  “The czar is coming here?” Hank interjected, dismay etched on his features.

  Emperor Titus continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard Hank. “The czar is coming for the final event of the Venatio, the day after tomorrow. It will be a reenactment of his founding of Meritorium. Well, technically, the water-battle portion. Whatever it was that happened during the land battle reenactment the other day, well, we won’t get into that right now.”

  “The czar founded Meritorium?” Charley asked.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” The emperor’s eyelids twitched in annoyance. “Yes, the czar founded Meritorium after defeating a band of Circumcellions in a mighty battle atop a volcano, blah, blah—just between you and me, I don’t know if the volcano part’s true, but he wants it in there, so it’s in there. Anyway, and now the czar thinks he has special claim to Meritorium.”

  A sinister smile stretched across Orson’s face. “Ah, now I see what your game is here. You want us to kill him.”

  “Well—”

  “You want Meritorium for yourself,” Charley added.

  “I am the emperor,” Titus said, a coy smile playing on his face.

  “So, why don’t you kill him?” Charley asked.

  “Why, I can’t be involved in anything of the sort.” the emperor said. “But if I were to, say, dump the lot of you in with the Low Scores who will be participating in the water-battle reenactment—as a punishment for your actions in the arena, of course—then I would have no way of controlling anything else you might choose to do out there.”

  Grigor shifted his great bulk with a clank of chains. “How is that going to work, exactly? If the czar will be up in the royal boxes with you, we can’t exactly get close to him while we are in the arena.”

  “Ah yes, didn’t I tell you?” A devilish smile tugged at the corners of the emperor’s mouth. “The czar will be playing himself in the reenactment.”

  Charley’s head swam. He would be in the arena with the man who was responsible for the System, the man who had put Alec out of the gates in Meritropolis. It was all coming together—was it possible his plan for revenge could be this wonderfully simple? A muscle bunched in his jaw, and he fought the urge to fantasize about what he would do upon meeting the czar.

  The emperor took another sip of his drink. “Of course, I’m not naive. I have no illusions that you don’t intend to see me hanged myself.” He looked at Charley. “Or, run through with a javelin,” he said mildly, crossing his legs at the ankle. “So, our little arrangement is simple: I get you on the arena field with the czar, and he is yours to do with as you wish. I won’t help, but I won’t in
terfere either. What you do on the arena field is up to you. Then, if you escape the arena alive, you leave Meritorium.”

  Suddenly, an image of the little hand in the arena tunnels, desperately reaching between the cage bars, flashed unbidden into Charley’s mind. If he were to make this Faustian bargain with the emperor, Charley wondered what would that say about all of the others in Meritorium—others just like Alec.

  Heat crept up the back of Charley’s neck. His face flushed, as he looked at Grigor, Hank, and then Orson in turn. Each of them watched him intently. Whether they cared to follow his leadership was a matter of some debate, but each one seemed to hold his explosive temper in a measure of wary respect.

  Charley sighed. He wasn’t sure: It couldn’t be wrong to welch on a deal with the Devil, could it? He pushed away the real question: if you welch on a deal with the Devil, is it still possible to reclaim your soul? He would worry about the emperor later.

  Charley looked at the emperor. “Deal.”

  The emperor searched the eyes of the others. Finding their consensus to his satisfaction, he rose from his chair and moved to the door with a rustle of silk. He stopped, turning back to them with a glint in his eyes. “Oh, there is just one thing. Once we get your scores doctored.” Seeing the looks on their faces, the emperor waved a hand dismissively. “Temporarily changing your scores won’t be a problem. It won’t stand up to close scrutiny, but you won’t be checked out too closely. There are certain advantages to, ahem—” he made a little bow—“having me on your side. You will officially be Low Scores for the next two days, so you’ll have to survive in the pen with them—”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Orson said.

  “And if you want to make it to the battle reenactment the day after tomorrow, then you’ll have to survive in the arena tomorrow as Low Scores.” He paused, studying them carefully. “During pankration.”

  “Pankration?” Charley asked.