The Veritas Project

by C. F. E. Black

  “Pru, I keep thinking if I don’t tell you about some things, you’ll be safer or purer or something.”

  “This ain’t no fairytale you’ve walked into,” Oscar adds, no smile on his face.

  That much I can see. “So, who’s next?”

  “Just watch.”

  In the ring below, the victor walks over to the edge of the crowd, whispers in a girl’s ear, and slips away through the wall of bodies. The girl steps forward—she calls those clothes?—and cups her hands to her mouth. Everyone falls silent.

  “All y’all listen! The next and last round will be a death round!”

  A mighty roar of excitement. A death round? I’m about to watch two people try to kill each other with their hands? I glance at Ty. This place is miserably messed up. I guess this is the point Ty was trying to make. Science can’t fix everything.

  “Okay, you win,” I whisper as the shouts die down. “The Center isn’t helping all that much if this is how people live out here.” He ignores me, his attention fixed below.

  “Our next contestant will be … Axe Johnson!”

  My stomach sinks as I recall the face of the boy from the park. Cheers and boos abound. On the other side of Pru, Ty curses and starts cracking his knuckles.

  “Him?” Pru asks, disbelief in her voice.

  He just nods, eyes glued to the fighting ring below. The tall, skinny boy, muscles ropy but defined, steps into the ring, flapping his arms up and down by his sides to stoke the noise level. On his head, a pattern is shaved, but I can’t tell what it is from here. Tattoos run up and down his arms, one across his neck and face. After making a circle through the open ring, he stops, raises a hand, and waits for silence.

  He spins as he speaks, finger pointing in the air above the heads of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I call out Tyson Buck!”

  His rotation stops. He’s pointing right at Ty.

  Twenty-Five

  My heart lurches. A death round.

  Ty’s eyes are closed, his mouth hard, his arm muscles flexing. He looks like he’s made of bronze. He could win this.

  But what if he doesn’t?

  Pru places a hand on his arm.

  I glance back at the boy in the fighting ring. He is taller than Ty, I remember, but skinnier. Longer reach. But maybe not as strong. Julius catches my eye. He looks terrified. Like we’ve entered a nightmare together, some new trickery of the Center to manipulate our fears. Oscar is unleashing a torrent of unintelligible curse words. I glance back at Pru and Ty and realize Ty may not live much longer.

  Stop that! Ty can win. Which means I’ll watch him kill someone else with his bare hands.

  Ty opens his eyes, looks right at Pru. A startling fierceness burns in his eyes, making me look away. This moment is for Pru only. I wonder if he knew this would happen tonight. But if so, why did he bring us? Why should we have to watch this?

  He reaches over, grips Pru’s shoulder. “I have to do this. Refusing is not an option. You don’t have to stay and watch. Wait outside if that’s easier.” He glances at Oscar. “But I need you out here, man.”

  Pru is shaking. Oscar steps around me, jerks Ty into a tight embrace, and then slaps him on the back. His mouth is a thin, etched line. Are they really going to let him do this?

  “Thanks, brother. I need someone here who will drive me home. Or my body.”

  I nearly vomit at the word. Pru covers her mouth with both hands. Julius stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Ty.

  “Shut your mouth, boy,” Oscar says. “I’ll stay!”

  “Take the keys.” He plants them in Oscar’s hand. Oscar steps back around me. “Here”—Ty says to Pru—“take my gun.”

  “I’m not taking that,” she says, arms lifted, a flash of raw fear on her face that tells me she’s remembering a gun from her time before the Center.

  “Fine.” Suddenly, Ty steps around Pru. Before I know what’s happening, he tugs me by a belt loop, then jams the gun barrel down into my recently purchased jeans. His fingers just brush my hip as the gun leaves his hand. The touch electrifies me, though I can’t say why.

  Now his shirt slides over his head. Automatically, my eyes flitter across his muscled torso, then jerk back up to his face. “You can hold on to this, too.” He wads up the shirt, stuffs it in my hand. It is warm, slightly damp. Turning back to Pru, he says, “Now wish me luck. I need someone in the audience I care about.”

  “Good luck,” she says. “You’re going to win.” And that means he’s going to kill someone.

  Ty hops down the wooden rows as a rift forms in the sea of people. Rome. This is like the bloodthirsty crowds in ancient Rome. All here to watch a death match.

  The blood pounding in my ears drowns out the words the girl says before the match begins. All I can think of, for some reason, is Marcus’ beaten face in that white-walled room. This body-packed gymnasium is no different. The system, the rules are winning out here just like they were in the Center. Marcus broke a rule, so his face got pounded. Now Ty, forced by rules, has to fight someone to the death. Pru should not have to watch this.

  “Pru, let’s go!” I grab her hand.

  She stands like a steel beam, immovable.

  “Julius, we should go.” When he too stays silent, I turn to Oscar. “Oscar, I don’t think we should watch this.”

  Oscar glances at me, eyes wild. “I ain’t leaving.”

  “Shouldn’t M know about this?” I ask, hoping someone, anyone, can make this stop.

  As if I’ve just hit him in the face, Oscar yelps, then digs out his phone, taps open the t-screen, and sends a message to M. “He knows. Not sure what good it’ll … Never mind.” He glances down at his received message then crams his phone back in his pocket.

  “He’s not going to help?” Pru yelps.

  Oscar’s jaw, set like iron, swivels back and forth several times before he says, “You can’t stop a death round. Rules are rules.”

  “Monster!” I hiss, picturing M’s round face. “It’s his own son!”

  Pru holds her hands over her mouth, speechless. Oscar remains silent, bouncing up and down on his toes.

  When Ty said they had something to show us, I don’t think he had his own death in mind. Or his murder of someone else. Either way, this nightmare is devolving quickly.

  As Ty and Axe circle each other, I realize I can’t see the entire ring. When Ty gets close to the wall of bodies, he all but disappears; only his head is visible. Oscar shove his way through the crowd to be close to the ring, flinging curse words at everyone who blocks his way.

  “Come on,” Pru says. She leaps down the bleachers into the crowd.

  “Pru!” Pushing and grunting, I shove my way out of the stands through the crowd toward Pru. Julius leaps after us.

  “I won’t stand for this,” she grunts as we pry our way into view of the ring.

  We catch up to Oscar. He curses at us but not out of anger, out of surprise. “What are you doing? You really want to see this?”

  Pru shoves past him. “I’m going to stop it.”

  Oscar yanks her so hard on the shoulder that were it not for the wall of bodies on all sides, she would collapse. “Oh, no, you don’t!”

  Pru, shocked by his violent touch, rubs her shoulder with a scowl.

  Oscar continues. “Ty said he wanted someone in the audience he cares about. Well, make sure he sees you, then.” He starts moving toward the ring again. “Because a death round only stops in a death. A room full of Reds will make sure of that.”

  Dizzy with confusion at this insanity, I push my way forward with Pru and Oscar and Julius. One last shoulder jab and we’re standing, swaying with the pulse of the thick crowd, right on the edge of the fight. Why are we going to watch this madness? But I will not leave Pru. We’ve done that before. We’re not leaving each other again. Ty notices Pru, just a quick glance, then goes back to hopping and shaking his wrists. Axe is taunting him with words I don’t understand.

  Ty throws th
e first punch, which Axe blocks. But Ty’s second lands on Axe’s jaw. A collective breath escapes everyone’s lips. A few people shout insults.

  Another few punches and the blood starts. Ty’s knuckles split when he connects with Axe’s jawline for the third time, mixing both their blood. Ty’s brow leaks like a hose and his nose sits crooked on his face. Shouts. Boos. Blood. I can’t look away. The fear and adrenaline coursing through me pins me, mesmerizes me, hypnotizes me.

  The fighters tire after a while, spending more time circling each other than attacking. Someone calls for a break; others cuss the idea out of possibility. I stare at Ty, who has forgotten our presence, his attention only for his opponent. He has obviously been trained to fight, unlike Marcus—stop thinking about Marcus!

  A kind soul offers water to the fighters in two tiny, sloshing cups. They look at each other as they approach, wary. Axe nods, drags a hand through the air to dismiss any notions of him attacking, and grabs a cup of water, downs it in a gulp. Ty steps up, does the same.

  As his chin is back, the monster beside him slams a flat hand, sideways like a knife, into Ty’s throat. Ty chokes on the water, bending over, clutching his neck, heaving and retching and gasping for air.

  “Ty!” Pru gasps. Oscar places two hands on her shoulders, keeping her from interfering. Then the beast attacks again while his opponent is down.

  A kick sends Ty sprawling, still choking, eyes like fountains. He rolls over, clearly trying to evade Axe’s advance, but doesn’t make it. The tattooed boy is on him like a hound, knees in his chest, delivering blow after blow after blow to Ty’s face. The blood! Oh, the blood!

  Ty fell near the edge of the ring, but the people are pressing back now, avoiding the spray of red. The floor begins to collect it in puddles. The tattooed arms aren’t stopping.

  A death round. As I watch, the reality hits me that Ty is losing. Is going to lose. Is going to die. Beside me, Pru is crying, struggling against Oscar’s grip on her shoulders.

  I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him lose, can’t let Pru lose him. Pru already lost so much. We all already lost too much.

  At least no one is holding me back.

  With a lunge, I sprint through the open space, screaming. I knock into the tattooed boy and feel my stomach churn at the sight of Ty’s mangled face. All around, people shout, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I kneel beside Ty, place a hand on his chest. He’s still breathing.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Axe is getting up, calling me all kinds of things. Around me, the crowd is pulsing, breaking up. Someone else darts across the open space, then, in an instant, it sucks the crowd in like a vacuum.

  A gun goes off. Shattered ear drums. Screams. Stampede.

  People are running now, jumping over Ty’s body and slipping on the wet floor. I hunker down, covering Ty, terrified.

  “Get him up!” An arm grabs me, pulls me to my feet. “Get him out of here!”

  A thick face, dark and covered in rivers of sweat, steadies me with a look of pity and remorse.

  “Move! Before this really hits the fan.” The man bends down, scoops Ty up under his armpits, and starts shoving with the panicked crowd toward the exit. “Grab his heels.”

  I oblige, not even sure who I’m trusting at this moment. Axe curses us from behind. “How close is he?” I don’t want to turn around.

  The man glances up, shakes his head. “He’s weak. Crowd’s too thick right now.” He bumps into someone, turns, and bellows, “Move!” The waters part.

  We jog out into the parking lot. Oscar pelts out right behind us, Julius, arms pinwheeling, in pursuit. Where is Pru? The man sets Ty in the passenger seat of the blue car, using Ty’s shirt to dab the blood. I toss Ty’s empty gun into the floorboard, not wanting to touch it again.

  “Get him home and keep him inside. Whole neighborhood’ll be after Ty for this.” The big man looks at me. “You may have saved his life tonight, sugar, but you just put a target on his back. There won’t be a Red out there not after this sucker’s life, M’s son or not. No one breaks the rules of the fight.” He glances at Ty. “And I like the kid. Always thought he’d get out of all this.” He jogs away.

  “Remember I said that car will drive itself?” Oscar says, nearly shouting, as he slides in the driver’s seat of Ty’s blue car. I catch the flying key before I know what it is. “Just tell it where to go.” He pushes a button and the car roars to life.

  “Where is Pru?” I scream, the pop of gunfire still threatening from inside. Bodies like ants spill into the parking lot. “Julius, where is Pru?”

  Oscar slams his foot into the gas, and the blue car draws every eye and ear as it rockets to life. Julius and I are left, staring at each other, as people race toward us, shouting. Pru is nowhere in sight.

  “Get in the car,” I yell, hating the words as they exit my mouth.

  “We can’t leave her!” Julius shouts back, and it hits me like a gut punch.

  Just then, a scream rises above the din. A shrill, curling sound that reaches into my navel and curdles my blood. Julius whips his head around, searching for the source. We fear the same thing—that Pru made that sound.

  Coming out of the gymnasium, among the sea of faces, Pru’s smooth head bobs above the rest as she is carried—toted like a sack—into the night. She cannot see us; her eyes are toward the gym.

  Julius hollers, “They’ve got her!” as if I can’t see this. He starts sprinting toward her.

  Someone in the crowd spots us, points, and lifts a gun in our direction. The car beside us pops as the bullet strikes the metal, halting Julius in his steps.

  “Julius!” I lunge for the car. “Get in! Now!”

  He turns, for a moment unsure if he can abandon Pru. “But!” Another bullet strikes the pavement, sending up a spray of black rock.

  “Now!”

  Before his door closes, the car starts moving, propelling us out of the parking lot, away from danger. Away from Pru.

  We’d have never made it back without the car doing all the work. Once I pushed the start button and the self-drive icon on the dash, it drove itself. This time I didn’t care about the noise; I tried to hammer the gas pedal, but the self-drive feature kept us maddeningly at the speed limit.

  In the basement of the mall, we sprint to Julius’ workstation in the labyrinth at Streamline Impressions. I’ve never even bothered to ask what happens in the well-lit, well-decorated part of the business. All I’ve ever known is what happens back here in the labyrinth. The front rooms are just a cover for all this. All M’s hacking and spying and stealing. No more wholesome than the Center.

  Julius flings himself, face cemented with purpose, into his rolling chair, slamming into the edge of his desk with a wheeze. Immediately, he activates his tablet, touches the t-screen display, and within seconds, we’re watching Pru’s feed.

  “They’ve got her,” he says again. He doesn’t say it with blame in his voice; he doesn’t have to. We both know all of this is my fault.

  I lean in, eager to find out where the Reds have taken her. More eager to get her back. M did it for Julius. He can do it again for Pru. He has to.

  Sounds of crying come through the feed. Not much will make Prudentia cry. I shiver to think what they’ve done. Julius pounds his fists into the desk, rattling the whole cubicle. “We’ve got to get her back!”

  “Indeed, we do,” comes a deep voice from behind us. M steps into view, arms crossed.

  “M!” I try to explain what happened, but it comes out in fits and jumbles. At last Julius and I communicate the details of the evening.

  M stands facing us, arms now locked behind his back, waiting for us to finish. “I spoke with Oscar. Ty is receiving medical treatment from the city’s finest doctor, my good friend, Miriam.”

  “Will Ty be okay?” I just want to hear someone say it.

  M tilts his head, not exactly an answer. “Do you know what you’ve done?” M’s voice slithers into my ears. It is soft, calm, terrifying.


  I blink. “Sir?”

  “You stopped him in the middle of a death round against Axe Johnson—yes, I know what happened. You think I wasn’t watching through your eyes?” He nods at Julius’ tablet, the tablet he’d left here at Streamline for the evening, thinking it would be left alone. The looks on our faces reveal our sense of betrayal. M doesn’t care. Why would he? He’s a hacker.

  He continues, voice deep. “You not only have made my son the next target for the Rips, but you have shamed him. You have shamed all of us.”

  “I saved his life!” My hands are trembling beside me. “But Pru—”

  “Yes, you have,” he interrupts. Then he sighs, tone loosening a fraction. “My sincerest thanks. I would not have a son anymore if it weren’t for you.” His chin drops. “I will not forget that. But this is far from over. Understand that you have put my son and every single person who wears one of those blue bands into more danger than they were in an hour ago.”

  Fear turns to anger in my gut. “I was only trying to help! Should I have just let him die?”

  M’s eyebrows rise, creating a crease. “What you should do and what you are expected to do are not always the same thing. You alone must make those choices. Now, if you will excuse me, I must determine our next moves, for you can be assured that the Blues and Reds will fight tonight.” He turns and departs, our existence instantly forgotten. He taps his wrist to activate his phone as he walks away. “Hector, yes, I’ll be needing all my eyes and ears tonight. Get them up. Already? Thank you, Hector. Go to screen one. I need you to …”

  I stop listening and back toward the exit. All of this is my fault. It is time for that to end. Time for me to disappear. Julius’ eyes are glued to Pru’s feed, his heart and his mind totally consumed.

  Without a word, I turn and run.

  Twenty-Six

  The air has cooled, and the breeze carries a faint scent of trash and asphalt. By the time I stop running, the insides of my legs have rubbed raw from my jeans, and my shirt clings to my chest and back. It feels good to pump air in and out of my lungs like this. Pedestrians in gaudy garb prance down the sidewalks to what they think are the world’s most important parties. Many of them walk like astronauts, their heads entirely consumed in the bubble that is their small reality.