Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  Orson looked steadily at the emperor. “A fight to the death.”

  “Yes, it’s a huge hit with the crowd. Low Scores versus High Scores with all of the scariest animal combos thrown in for good measure. It’s a delicious bit of fun—but only for those watching, of course. A little tip: it’s almost always rigged so that the Low Scores lose.”

  Hank moaned. “And we’re the Low Scores.”

  “Yes, you are—or you will be, that is. Someone will be in shortly to modify your scores and then ship you off to the low-Score pen. They won’t truly be changed; even I can’t do that.” He looked meaningfully at Orson. “Anyway, the faked Low Scores won’t fool a guard, but they will fool a casual observer and should last for a few days.” He laughed. “Besides, who would ever guess that a High Score would actually want to be a Low Score? It’s only the High Scores that ever receive more than a passing glance.” The emperor got up and walked to the door. “Survive tomorrow, and you’ll get your shot at the czar in the arena.” He smirked at Orson. “Or, Daddy Dearest.”

  The emperor walked out of the room, his robe billowing behind him with a gust from the closing door.

  Turning to the others, Charley opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly shut it.

  Orson’s face held an expression that Charley had never seen before—and it sent a chill down his spine. The emotion on Orson’s face was clear: raw, naked fear.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pankration

  An ant crawled over his foot. Charley kicked his leg out, wiggling his toes inside of his shoes to discourage the little explorer from setting up camp. He sighed. They were now Low Scores, at least according to the new markings on their arms, which had been reconfigured by a bevy of royal helpers wielding complex little instruments, some of whom Charley guessed had just been sent to confuse the process. But the biggest safeguard they had was not the authenticity of their fake scores, but their stamp of approval from the emperor, freeing them from close scrutiny by his guards.

  In the fenced-in holding area, little more than a cattle pen, Charley and his three companions were now adjusting to life as a Low Score. As the sun slipped across the skyline in purples and oranges, its beauty contrasted with the harshly putrid smells. He was quickly finding out that the humiliation of being treated as a Low Score, no better than an animal, paled in comparison to the overall feeling of neglect.

  As much as he hated the System, he had come to rely on his standing as a High Score in ways he hadn’t fully realized. This self-realization of privilege startled him: those who have it are blind to it; those who don’t, see nothing but their lack of it.

  Charley, Hank, Grigor, and even Orson—they were all suddenly nobodies. It had only been hours since they had been feasting with the emperor; now no one cared that they had to sleep in a dirty pen on gritty sand with hundreds of other filthy and half-naked Low Scores. Besides a less than joyful reunion with Sven earlier, the only attention they received was from the ants. Sven refused to talk about what had happened in the arena and now seemed interested only in staying on the opposite side of the pen with his new circle of friends: a pretty dark-haired girl and a number of heavily muscled youths with the demeanor of hardened hoodlums.

  Charley sighed again. Ah, the ants. He realized you couldn’t really know what it was like to have someone else decide your worth until you had experienced it firsthand. Things like having to skulk off to the corner of the pen to relieve yourself; having to drink rust-colored water from an old hose, likely teeming with bacteria or worse; and the ants. Charley slapped his elbow at the perceived trek of an ant. Immediately, the little hairs on his knee prickled up. He wondered why it was that seeing one ant on you made you imagine an army of them traversing your body for the next hour.

  “At least they aren’t crants, eh, Charley?” Grigor smushed two ants at once with a large blunt thumb.

  Despite the circumstances, Charley let out a small grin at Grigor. “That was the first animal combination I ever saw.” He thought back to his first hunt in the forest beyond Meritropolis and the crow–ant hybrid that had dive-bombed his head and taken a bite out of his neck.

  Grigor flicked the remains of an ant carcass. “I remember.”

  “And now look at you,” Orson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Whatever.” Charley ground an ant into oblivion with the knuckle of his index finger.

  Hank looked up from his own skirmish with the miniature invaders. “I wonder what kind of animal combos we’ll face tomorrow. It sounds like that’s what they’re saving all of the really dangerous ones for.”

  “Who knows …” Orson said, his thoughts elsewhere.

  Charley thought of the look of sheer terror on Orson’s face when he had let his guard down, just for the briefest of moments, after the emperor’s mention of his father’s upcoming visit. Seeing that look, Charley was certain that their most dangerous opponent wouldn’t be an animal combination.

  “I’ve heard talk that there might be some alligator and crocodile combos.” Grigor smacked his palm flat onto a troop of ants. “Probably vulcodiles, vulture-crocodiles, and maybe even a wolverator, a wolverine–alligator hybrid—now those are some mean little critters.”

  “A flying crocodile?” Hank froze in place, not even noticing as an ant resumed its cross-body voyage.

  Grigor chuckled. “Imagine a baby dragon. That’s a vulcodile. They can’t fly all that fast, but if they get close enough, a snap of their jaws is an unpleasant experience.” He eyed Hank’s slack-jawed face with amusement. “Oh, but they don’t breathe fire or anything, so don’t worry about that.”

  Orson suddenly jolted back to reality and joined the conversation. “Didn’t you catch a wolverator once before, Grigor? By that place you used to get all those gobster?” Despite their recent feast with the emperor, Charley’s stomach grumbled at the thought of the delicious, buttery goose–lobster hybrids, Grigor’s favorite food.

  “It was more like one caught me.” Grigor turned over his massive forearm to reveal a jagged pink scar on the underside, which snaked from elbow to wrist amidst the tributaries of veins. Tracing the scar with his finger, Grigor grimaced. “Now that bite hurt.”

  “Wow,” Charley said softly. He had always thought of Grigor as virtually impervious to pain. In their many hunts, various altercations, and even in captivity, Charley had never once seen Grigor display an ounce of discomfort, let alone admit to being hurt. If this creature could do that to Grigor, Charley resolved to stay as far away from any wolverators as he could.

  Orson nodded. “Bugger got away, too, if I remember correctly.”

  Grigor clenched and unclenched his fist, the scar pulsing white over the sinewy cords of his rippling muscles. “Yep.”

  “Well,” Charley said, “maybe you’ll get another shot at one of its family members tomorrow.”

  Grigor turned his arm back over as if to dispel the memory. “Yep. If you come across one, the important thing to remember is to grab firmly behind its ears. That’s the only place you can securely hold on to it where it can’t turn and bite you.”

  “Then what do you do?” Charley asked.

  Grigor shrugged. “I still haven’t figured that part out.”

  Hank moaned. “Great …”

  “We can worry about that tomorrow.” Grigor flattened a dirty blanket on the ground in the semblance of a bedroll, one of a number of items that Grigor had received from one of the emperor’s attendants. “I think we should try to get as much sleep as we can tonight. And, as for the ants …” Grigor walked a few paces away, opened his hand to reveal a few pieces of hard candy he made appear like magic. Crunching them into little pieces, he sprinkled them in a trail leading away from their pitiful campsite. “This should give them something better to occupy themselves with for a while so we can grab a few hours’ rest.”

  “Ah, now that’s a good idea,” H
ank said.

  Not for the first time, Charley wondered what they would have done without Grigor around.

  Brushing his hands together, Grigor stepped over his newly created candy lane, already populated by sugar-crazed insect sightseers. He hopped onto his jacket-bedroll. “There.” He looked at Charley with a smile of satisfaction. “That should do it.”

  Even Orson looked at Grigor with a look of appreciation on his face. “Well done.” He sniffed the air. “Think you can do anything about the smell of urine?”

  Grigor laughed. “Afraid not. I have used up all my tricks.”

  Orson harrumphed and rolled over to face in the opposite direction.

  “Well, I think it was genius. Thank you.” Charley settled down into the dirt. He curled his knees up to his chest, trying to get comfortable, and then settled for laying flat on his back, his arms crooked behind his head for a pillow. It would be a long night, but he was thankful that at least it was warm.

  Long after Grigor’s breathing had slowed to the point that Charley thought he had fallen asleep, Grigor spoke softly. “You know what they say, Charley, about the honey-versus-vinegar thing for catching flies? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, right? Well, it works for ants—and for people sometimes, too. Not always, but sometimes. Violence isn’t always the answer.”

  “Yeah, I know what they say.” Charley kept his eyes on the stars, as they twinkled their undecipherable Morse code above. “But in order for non-violence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.”

  Grigor paused before speaking again. The night air was thick with the sound of rustling, smelly bodies and the stickiness of humidity, but the silence between them lay thicker still. “That’s true,” said Grigor, his deep voice a soft murmur, “but I refuse to believe that anyone is too far gone for grace. Each of us knows that we’re more than just animals; we’re different than a simple beast. We all have a conscience deep down inside somewhere.”

  “Even the emperor? Even the czar?”

  “Well, look at how Commander Orson has changed, at least somewhat, since Meritropolis.” Grigor paused. “I mean, look at me—look at both of us. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, and I’m still alive. God doesn’t owe me anything, and yet I’m still breathing air I don’t deserve. That’s grace.”

  Charley thought of the people who had died because of the revolution he had helped to start in Meritropolis—they had deserved it, hadn’t they? He shifted uncomfortably, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees up to his chest again. He couldn’t help but wonder what he deserved. He found himself speaking out loud. “I don’t think I have any grace to give.”

  “Maybe.” Grigor’s voice was like distant thunder over the horizon. “But maybe not. You might just surprise yourself. At least I did. Remember, the grace doesn’t well up from within, it comes from above.”

  Charley grunted. “Well, when it comes to the czar, I think he will never respond to the carrot, only the stick.”

  Grigor sighed, the sound of a freight train releasing steam. “Yes, I am afraid you may be right: he is beyond reasoning with.”

  “Is he beyond grace?” Charley didn’t dare to look at Grigor.

  “I trust in God,” Grigor said simply. “That is for Him to decide. But all I do know is that there was a time when many would have said that I was beyond His grace, and yet here I am. Here I am, Lord …” Grigor’s voice trailed off, a whisper slipping off into the night breeze and susurrating like a ship among the currents, unceasingly pulled upward into the inky blackness.

  Charley scrunched his eyes shut. He sensed their conversation was over and the only whispers that remained for Grigor to utter would be petitions directed heavenward. At this point, they could use all the help they could get.

  Tomorrow, pankration—with wolverators and vulcodiles and who knows what other horrible beasties intent on devouring him before the roaring applause of the crowd. Then, if they survived, on the following day, he would meet the creator of the System, face to face at last.

  Sometimes he wished he had Grigor’s faith, he really did. But when he stepped into the arena with the czar, there would be no grace, no honey, and no carrot.

  Only the stick.

  ***

  Sven woke early. The sun was threatening to peek over the horizon, and already it was sweltering. Looking around, he found some reassurance in being the first one awake in the pen, as if that fact alone made him better prepared for pankration and all that was in store for them. At least, that’s what Sven told himself.

  But if he was honest, he was scared to death.

  Sven was fast learning a crucial secret of every good leader: you can be as scared and uncertain as any of your followers—you just can’t ever let them know. Sven had learned that people will often blindly follow a bold and confident, although misguided, leader before a timid one. He knew that if he was to continue using his quasi-mastermind status to direct Rico and his gang in the arena, then he certainly needed to keep up the pretense of having a plan.

  He looked across the pen. It was littered with huddled bodies, many sleeping in the very dirt that would be their permanent resting place before the day was up. His eyes rested on Charley. He was happy to see Charley alive, he really was. And Hank and Grigor, too. Even Orson. At least he was a valuable sword to have on your side—not that Sven was expecting swords or much in the way of any weapons to be thrown their way during pankration. But, as glad as he was to see the four of them alive, a mix of other emotions had flooded his mind as they strolled into the pen last night and immediately claimed the southwest corner, already acting as if they owned the place.

  But faux low scores or not, one look at Grigor alone was enough to cause anyone to defer to the four. Even Rico, as scary and downright homicidal as he had proved to be in the arena, was no idiot; he gave Grigor a wide berth. Besides, he must have realized it was in all of their best interests to work together. During pankration, the death toll would be high; they had to be realistic.

  Sven sat cross-legged on a blanket that had doubled as his bed. All things considered, he had slept well. He even had a rolled-up jacket for a pillow, the blanket and jacket procured by Rico, who had last night deposited the bundle at his feet with a grunt.

  He knew it was far from charitable; Rico had his own semi-comfortable bedding, and who knows what poor Low Score he had jacked the clothing from. But Sven hadn’t refused the gift.

  Guiltily, he pushed the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder did those Low Scores, robbed of their clothing, think of him the same way he thought of Charley and the other High Scores? As a taker; a person with connections, someone not concerned with those beneath him? Was that how they saw him? Sven cringed.

  He was coming to understand privilege. It’s all relative. You resent those with more, you don’t notice those with less, and yet you don’t even realize that in the midst of your resentment, you are being resented in turn. An instant realization hit: we are all haves, and we are all have-nots—it just depends on who’s doing the evaluating.

  Sven stood to his feet, slowly. He surveyed the landscape, his eyes narrowing. He had found himself responsible for each of the Low Scores sleeping in the pen. His planning coupled with Rico’s brutal implementation had seen to that. Now they looked to him. He wondered whether they would follow him even unto death—and before the day was over, many would.

  He exhaled slowly. Now was not the time for any moral reservations; he would do what he had to in order to keep as many of his people alive as he could. The fact that Orson had likely told himself the very same rationalizations while Commander of Meritropolis was an irony not lost on Sven.

  But at that moment, there were other more important things to think about.

  He began to gather rocks for the day ahead.

  ***

  Charley screamed his rage. His hands gripp
ed the bamboo bars of the cage. Even though he knew it was fruitless, he rattled the bars, veins bulging and teeth bared, and applied all of his strength. But the cage was well constructed; he simply wasn’t strong enough. The worst part was no one even noticed. The deafening roar of the crowd drowned out everything else in a concussive vibration of sound that could be felt deep down in your bones, reverberating and animating your body against your will.

  “Just wait.” Grigor touched Charley’s shoulder gently. Even Grigor hadn’t been able to break out. But Charley couldn’t helplessly sit in the cage in the middle of the arena, just watching.

  The carnage around them was grotesque. Low Scores were being massacred in front of their eyes. Heavily armed warriors took turns cutting through their running and weaponless “opponents.” What they didn’t dispose of, the roaming animal combos did. Charley caught a glimpse of Harold, the portly slave trader who had purchased two young girls from the auction block on the day of their sale to Ian, waddling behind some heavily armored thugs and shouting instructions, and Charley resolved to find him and make him pay a permanent penalty, whatever it took.

  The residents of the pen had been carted into the arena for pankration in large rolling cages, the bamboo slats providing plenty of room to view out, but no hope of escape until the cage door was opened. The rolling cages were opened one at a time, the warriors in the arena playing to the crowd and relishing the unfairness of the fight.

  Charley gritted his teeth, his arms trembling. It wasn’t a fight, it was a hunt; the Low Scores were the prey.

  “They’ll open ours soon. They have to.” Hank’s voice had an edge to it; some of the old Hank with the psychopathic tendencies, the bloodlust for revenge, was returning.

  Charley looked from Hank to Orson. Even Orson had a sickened look on his strong, aristocratic face. It could have just been a mirage of his heightened emotions, but in that moment Charley felt as if even Orson was firmly on his side.

  “Choose your targets,” Grigor said in a hushed whisper. “They are growing cocky, and some of them are tiring.” He looked at Charley. “Control your emotions—just plan ahead, acquire your weapons, and then we regroup and work together.”