Ronin

by Tony Bertauski

  “Go,” Soup whispered.

  Arf squeezed his hand so hard that his knuckles crunched and, for a moment, the pain made him forget the world was watching.

  “Thank you.”

  “I want to thank my socks,” Soup blurted out. There were moans and eyerolls. “What? My feet are cold.”

  That might have come naturally, but he did that on purpose. No one was looking at Ryder anymore. Thank you, Soup.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, children!” BG bellowed. “I’ll see you at the big game.”

  Hands above his head, the larger-than-life figure winked out. The lighted circle faded back to waxy concrete. A large set of arching doors began to move. The tops brushed the second floor as they split open. There was a long room on the other side with a wide table running the length of it. The smell of food wafted out.

  “What game?” Ryder said.

  ***

  The room was candlelit.

  Turkey and yams and turnips and mashed potatoes and pies and fixings covered the table. The nicies spread napkins on their laps and waited for everyone to be seated. The naughties filled their plates and ignored the napkins.

  The walls were dark with large oak columns and rough-hewn beams. A chandelier of antlers flickered with artificial candlelight. Heads of various game watched them eat—glassy-eyed antelope and elk, deer and ram.

  A moose was mounted at the head of the table, its rack spanning wider than all the others’. Jane sat at one setting and John at the other. The one between them was untaken.

  Mouths full, laughter shot food across the table. Silverware clattered on the floor, drinks were spilled and shoulders rubbed. Ryder’s plate was still empty when a glass began to ring. Jane stood up and played her cup with a spoon. It took several attempts to get their attention. A fight nearly broke out across the table.

  “BG can’t be with us,” she said.

  “But that doesn’t mean we’re without leaders,” John finished. “We lead each other with actions and words.”

  “To recognize our unity, we’d like to invite a guest of honor up front this year,” Jane said.

  A wildfire ignited Ryder’s belly and raced into his head. The birthmark was burning when his name was called. He didn’t hear anything else. He felt encouraging pats on the back and was lifted onto his feet and shoved toward the front, where the moose was watching. John pulled out the chair.

  “As Ryder so simply and eloquently put it,” she said, “thank you.”

  There was a long uncomfortable pause before John raised his glass and Thanksgiving commenced. The room was once again filled with laughter and conversation. Jane and John put very little food on their plates. They took small bites and ate with their lips tightly sealed. Mostly, they watched. The naughties slaughtered their side of the table with gravy drips and careless crumbs.

  Ryder wasn’t hungry.

  When he didn’t reach for anything, John and Jane filled his plate and insisted. His stomach was knotted. Anything that hit it was going to rebound like a trampoline. He scrambled the mashed potatoes and managed to eat half a roll. He mostly drank water. No one was watching him except the glassy eyes.

  “What’s the big game?” he asked.

  “Teamwork and structure,” Jane said, dabbing her lips. “It’s why we do chores.”

  “We also have fun,” John said stiffly. Ryder doubted he knew what the word meant. “You seriously haven’t seen the stream?”

  Ryder shook his head.

  They looked at each other and laughed. “Relax. It’ll be fun,” Jane said.

  When plates were empty and everyone was full, a board appeared on the wall. Some moaned; others sighed. It was mostly the naughties who complained.

  Actually, it was only the naughties.

  Ryder was relieved to see his name next to Soup’s and Arf’s. They were on cleanup duty. Ryder’s plate was a mix of mashed potatoes, turkey and cranberries. He carried it to a nearby tub where everyone was stacking their plates.

  “Next time,” John said, “only take what you can eat.”

  Ryder hadn’t put the food on his plate, but didn’t argue. Because drama equals attention.

  “Take this.” Soup handed him a tub. “Or is it too much? I mean, all the love they’re putting on you must be heavy.”

  “Shut up,” Ryder said.

  “That’s the spirit.” Soup dropped more dishes in the tub.

  4

  Ryder woke before dawn.

  The sky above the mountains was starlit. Snowflakes fluttered through the barn’s spotlight. A dark figure moved across the horseshoe with a limp and disappeared in the glare. Ryder waited, but the person didn’t return.

  Bradley Cooper dropped off the ceiling with a mechanical click. The green eye cast an eerie glow and followed him into the hallway. The board was lit up.

  GAME ON!

  Chores were limited to breakfast. Free time was a larger block than usual, and there was something new on the board.

  Introspection. Arf’s name was under it.

  A bedroom door opened and the sounds of a flute flowed out. A square mat was on the floor with a round pillow. A candle flickered. Cherry abruptly stopped in the doorway, a towel over her shoulder. Her hair was damp, her forehead sweaty, and her eyes were oversized in the dim light. She was staring like she’d been caught doing something. Ryder broke the awkward silence.

  “What’s introspection?”

  She stared a moment longer then closed the door.

  Maybe she needed to change clothes or wasn’t done exercising. He waited a minute longer and the flute played through an entire song. When it started up again, he went back to his room and gathered a change of clothes.

  The shower room was divided into cubicles. The sinks were lined up below a long mirror spotted with toothpaste. Music filled the hallway when he was finished.

  Soup was in bed with his laptop. Arf was still snoring. Ryder sat on his bed and thought about lying down, but thoughts of the day nibbled at his attention like field mice. Game on.

  “How do you sleep?” Ryder said.

  “What?”

  Ryder repeated the question. Arf had kicked his breathing into a higher gear.

  “I turn my ears off.” Soup tapped the disc on his head. “You think this was headphones?”

  “You’re deaf?”

  “Not anymore.” A cochlear implant, he explained. It took some time getting used to, but it brought his hearing back.

  “And you were thankful for socks.”

  “I thank him every year for the ears, thought I’d mix it up. And I am thankful for socks. Don’t forget the little things, bo.”

  He went back to the stream. Ryder didn’t want to see it. The less he saw of himself, the better he would feel.

  “What’s introspection?”

  “Why?” Soup sat up. “Am I scheduled?”

  “No. Arf is. What is it?”

  He flopped back on the bed. “Oh, man. Never mind that.”

  “Pretty much what Cherry said.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Sort of. I said, ‘What’s introspection?’ and she closed the door.”

  “Huh.” He paused the stream and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, then rolled over and pointed at him. “She’s into you.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “Did she look at you?”

  “What?”

  “Did she look at you, like right at you?”

  Ryder had surprised her. They’d stared at each other for like five seconds before he said something, and then she’d closed the door and never came back out. So yeah, she’d looked at him.

  “It was an accident,” Ryder said.

  “But she still looked at you. You said like five seconds, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “She’s into you, man,” Soup said. “Trust me.”

  Ryder could feel his birthmark glowing. He didn’t want to tell him that it was more than a surprise. She had been
doing something in her room. Maybe it was just exercise, but she looked like she’d been running and was more than a little guilty about it.

  Ryder pried the blinds apart while his laptop booted. A hazy morning settled on the snow. The producers were already in the horseshoe. He hadn’t seen Mindy since the first day. They were here for the big game, the most popular episode of the year.

  Game on.

  Reluctantly, he opened the stream. He couldn’t just sit there and think about what was going to happen. And he was the only one who knew next to nothing about what was going on. He fast-forwarded through the opening—the flyover of the U-shaped building, the horse barn and pastures and endless trees.

  There was a quick scene of a nicy argument. Peter had grabbed the clothes washer even though Erica was waiting for it. They actually raised their voices. Ryder watched the whole thing.

  Most of the action was in the naughty wing, where Jamby, an overweight math prodigy with an annoying habit of counting the letters in words, was caught picking his nose. He studied the end of his finger before popping it in his mouth.

  “Does it all the time.” Soup was watching Ryder’s stream.

  Ryder couldn’t recall if he’d picked his nose since arriving. He’d definitely farted, but it hadn’t made it to the stream. Maybe Bradley Cooper did him a solid. He’d die if he was caught mining for nose gold. Jamby didn’t seem to care.

  Jane and John began their narration in the interview room.

  “This is my favorite time of year,” Jane said.

  “What?” John said.

  “Well, Christmas is my favorite, obviously, but you know what I mean. It’s the anticipation. Everything is about to happen. We only have so many holidays to celebrate. It’s all in front of us. It’s not like we can start over and do it again.”

  They laughed a little too long. They were always sharing a secret and never let anyone in on it. Even the nicies didn’t know what they were laughing about half the time.

  “They’re in charge,” Ryder muttered.

  “Mmm,” Soup half-agreed.

  Ryder had been at Kringletown almost a month, and it was clear they were running things. They’d interviewed him. The producers talked to them. This was supposed to be Billy Big Game’s show. It was his ranch, but everything went through Sweet Jane and Jocko John. Ryder hadn’t even seen BG yet.

  Not in person.

  There were segments of him trekking the North Pole and photos in the office. The hologram in the library could’ve been animated. This was all for show, just one big semi-serious boardinghouse that made millions in the stream. They didn’t really need BG.

  “He’s not real,” Ryder said.

  “What?” Soup said.

  Ryder was surprised by the sudden answer. Soup’s eyes pinned him in crosshairs. Ryder wasn’t sure what he said. Soup leaped off the top bunk and closed the blinds. He looked in the hall and closed the door gently. He shouted at Arf, telling him to strip down to his boxers. The big boy rolled over and snored.

  Soup took off his pajamas.

  His skin was white as snow and thinly stretched over his ribs. He crossed his pointy arms, already shivering, and had second thoughts about whatever he was thinking. He put his shirt back on then rummaged through his junk drawer. Pen and paper in hand, he tore the blanket off his bed and draped it over his head.

  “Come on.” Ryder shook his head, but Soup nodded aggressively. “Get in, man.”

  “Uh—”

  “Just for a second.”

  Ryder reluctantly peered in. Soup threw the blanket over him. He could feel the drones orbiting around them. There was just enough light to see the pad of paper. Soup scribbled giant letters and held it up.

  Ryder squinted. “BG isn’t—”

  “Stop. Just...” Soup frowned. “I’m writing for a reason.”

  Ryder read the message silently so the room wouldn’t hear. Short of stripping down to their boxers, which was guaranteed not to get them on a stream but not necessarily from being heard, this was the only way to tell a secret.

  BG isn’t real, his message said.

  “You’ve never seen him either?” Ryder said.

  “What? No.” He shook his head and started writing again. None of them are real.

  “Who?”

  “The nicies,” Soup whispered.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “They’re not right. Too nice, know what I’m saying?”

  Ryder didn’t know how to answer that. But there was something going on right in front of them and they weren’t seeing it. The entire world wasn’t seeing it. And it wasn’t just the way Jane and John laughed or BG having an excuse not to be there in person.

  It’s like the secret is out in the open.

  “What should we do?” Ryder said.

  Soup shrugged. That was all he had. Something wasn’t right and that was it. He was no help. In fact, he was making Ryder more nervous.

  It was hot and suffocating. Soup threw the cover off and wadded up the papers. The snoring had stopped. Arf was looking over his shoulder.

  “What?” Soup said. “We’re playing fort. Not like you can fit in here.”

  Arf dropped his man-sized feet on the floor and yawned like an elephant. His hair stood like hay. He grabbed a towel. A sock fight had broken out in the hall. Soup scooped a handful of sock rolls out of the hall and fired them like snowballs.

  “You ready for the big game?” Soup screamed at Ryder. “You jacked? Huh? I know I am.” He shouted down the hall, “N-A-U!”

  “G-H-T!” someone answered.

  They did this several times. Ryder didn’t want to point out they were spelling it wrong. The naughties didn’t stand a chance anyway, but winning really wasn’t the point. That was how Ryder had come to see everything at Kringletown. Everything had a secret purpose.

  Even a stupid game of football.

  ***

  The tables were dusted with snow. Boxes were filled with red flags. The producers were carrying clipboards in thick mittens, their breath streaming through wool scarves.

  Jane and John wore black cleats and long-sleeved jerseys with numbers on the back. A yellow belt was cinched around their waists, flags dangling from their hips.

  Team Nicy.

  The naughties dressed like it was just another day, like they’d rolled out of bed and came outside. Only half of them had flags around their waists. Soup had them around his head. Instead of practicing, they were having a snowball fight.

  Arf leaned against the building.

  He had never come to lunch. They’d waited for him to come back from introspection, but he’d met them in the horseshoe. He hadn’t said much since then, mostly staring at the ground.

  “You all right?” Ryder asked.

  He nodded, kicking at the snow. His shoulders were slumped a little more than usual. It was cold; maybe that was it. The sky was a gray sheet, the sun a dull disc rising from the mountains. Drones circled like turkey buzzards. A small plane was silently crossing the gray sky. It was the first one he’d seen. He had been told this was restricted airspace, that nothing was supposed to fly over Kringletown, for proprietary reasons. No one got to cash in on the stream without BG getting his cut.

  “Ryder!” Mindy was calling from the tables. “Ryder!”

  “I think she wants you,” Arf said.

  The producers were gathered like penguins, their noses bright red. Mindy hopped through the snow, clapping as he approached, like a mother watching a toddler take his first steps.

  “How are you?” she sang. She knew exactly how he was doing. “You look great, you really do. These are fun times, right? Are you excited?”

  He offered his best shrug.

  “It’s an annual event, you know that, right? A big deal at Kringletown, bragging rights to the winner for a whole year. You’ve seen the big game from last year, right?”

  He was tired of explaining that, no, he’d never seen the stream before coming there and, no, he hadn’t
watched anything from the archive.

  Mindy hugged the trophy. It was taller than her. The nameplate was engraved with past winners. Team Nicy was stamped on it fifteen times. Since the game was invented.

  The year I was born.

  “Have you ever played?” she asked.

  Ryder shook his head. He was forced to watch it at one of his foster homes every Sunday. It had been dumb then too.

  “Don’t worry.” She put her arm around him. “It’s nothing extreme. It’s fun, you know. A way to get to know your family, challenge each other, and develop teamwork. Most of them have never played either, so you’ll blend right in. Just have fun, okay? Like you’ve been doing.”

  Fun? What stream is she watching?

  “By the way, you’re one of the captains.”

  “What?” His insides suddenly chilled. “I don’t—”

  “It’s no big deal. Just join the others for the coin flip. They’ll tell you what to do. We just want your handsome face.” She grabbed his chin. “Go, have fun.”

  He didn’t want to hear the word fun ever again.

  A small group was waiting in the middle of the horseshoe. Soup was one of them. He was making a snow angel. Mindy walked with Ryder. He really wished she wouldn’t.

  “Good luck,” she whispered.

  Jane and John were there and another nicy named Kraig. Kraig—spelled with a K, he reminded everyone—was the only nicy close to Arf’s size, but beneath that sweatshirt was solid muscle. Arf was just mass.

  “Yeah,” Kraig with a K said. “Good luck.”

  They shook hands and pretended to introduce each other. Soup insisted they high-five. None of the nicies went along with it. Bryant was the only naughty who had any idea how to play the game. He was lanky with a protruding Adam’s apple. His eyes were always a bit too relaxed.

  “Good luck, Campbell,” Kraig said.

  “That’s not my name,” Soup deadpanned.

  Kraig let a dark smile creep under his nose. “Yeah. It is.”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “Okay, Campbell.”

  Soup threw snow in his face and charged. Kraig caught him in a headlock and barely moved, laughing as he spun around. Soup threw swings that just bounced. John wrapped his arm around Kraig. Soup’s face was blotchy and bright. Kraig laughed hard and loud.