Meritropolis

by Joel Ohman

  Copyright © 2014 by Joel Ohman

  JoelOhman.com & Meritropolis.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  whitefox Publishing Services

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed by CreateSpace

  First Printing, 2014

  ISBN: 150018960X

  ISBN 13: 978-1500189600

  Cover Design by Nik Keevil

  Chapter Illustrations by Rachel Crafton

  Editing by Caitlin Doyle, Libby Volke, & Jennie Roman

  Because everyone matters

  Psalm 139

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Dreams of Revenge

  In the year AE 3, everyone in Meritropolis was assigned a numerical “merit” score to decide their worth to society—and whether they would live or die. The mandate of the merit scoring system was simple: the needs of the many always outweighed the desires of the individual. That three years after the Event the small city had scrabbled together a group of 50,000 souls was testament to their resolve.

  Brutal adherence to the System in the years that followed protected the hardiest of the city’s inhabitants from what lay within and without the gates. Submitting to the System provided the best chance of collective survival.

  Of course, there are always those who refuse to submit.

  * * *

  Anger threatened to bubble to the surface. The only outward indicator of the tectonic shift below was a crooked fault line creasing the space between Charley’s eyes.

  “Palms up—show and go, show and go. Keep it moving,” the blue-jacketed officer intoned.

  “Sir, show me your palms. Now.” Cold blue eyes stared at Charley from beneath bushy red eyebrows.

  Charley slowly lifted his palms without breaking eye contact.

  “Score of—” The officer’s eyes widened beneath his shock of auburn hair. “Excuse me, sir. Score of 118. Very good for a young man such as yourself, sir. Please move along.”

  Charley stood in place, lingering just long enough with his forearms brandished and his eyes unblinking to let it be known where the guard and his Score of 79 really stood in the Meritropolis hierarchy—his dangling bat and squeaky jackboots notwithstanding.

  Charley didn’t give a rip about the Score stamped on his own forearm, but Assessment Day, though a weekly requirement of the System, was something Meritropolis residents endured with silence. To be silent was to be safe.

  The line between Charley’s eyes relaxed, but only a little. He looked around. We’ve all been trained to accept being herded like animals, to take being branded with a numerical score, he thought. And for what? So the System can determine who stays In and who gets forced Out? Charley shook his head in disgust. As if any of the guards acting so high and mighty were any better than the people they were evaluating. After all, everyone in Meritropolis had their Score assessed once a week, and everyone was required to keep their current Score stamped on their inner right forearm and clearly visible at all times—even the guards. Everybody used the traditional henna-like “stamping” services freely available on any street corner from approved Score Stampers with their special inks. Some people even added the curlicues, whorls, and other typical tattoo flourishes to their Score; it was as if the embellishments were a kind of talisman that would keep them In, not Out. Of course, the truly fearless don’t need to tattoo the word “brave” on their anatomy. Charley was stunned by the lengths to which people would go to pretend that this thing they were terrified of was, in fact, something to be celebrated.

  What would happen if I flipped one of the guard’s hands over and looked closely at their Score? Charley wondered. What if I told the red-haired one with the fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows it was his turn to be assessed?

  A violent push jolted Charley forward. He staggered and fell, catching himself on one knee. Pushing off the dusty ground with his left hand, a tiny pebble grated against the cobblestone courtyard and pricked his palm. A wave of fury washed over him. Funny how the little things ignite the fuse and end up burning the fastest.

  Charley whirled around to find a crowd of people massing toward him. Being inside the imposing stone gates of Meritropolis provided safety and security from what lay beyond, but as Charley was pushed and pulled in all directions, the walls began to feel constricting. We’re like farm animals in a pen, Charley thought. Young children cried out. An old man stumbled. Charley’s fierce gaze moved from the people closest to him, instantly absolving them of any guilt for the push, to the fast-approaching group of bat-wielding blue-coated officers.

  Blue coats. Black boots. The five guards closest to Charley unsheathed their wicked metal bats and began to use them on the crowd—vigorously. White-hot heat flushed up the back of Charley’s neck. Starburst explosions of light spangled across his vision. Charley saw red—literally and figuratively—as the meaty redheaded guard turned toward an old man standing behind him, and without saying a word, beat him to the floor. His mop of dark auburn locks bobbed in time to the jerky up and down rhythm of his bat.

  “YOU!” Charley raged.

  Each of the five guards turned to focus on Charley, four looks of blank malice and one of malevolently gleeful recognition. The crowd, grateful for the distraction, forced itself outward as far as the courtyard would allow, seemingly parting a clear pathway for Charley to catapult himself at the group of guards.

  * * *

  “Charley, wake up!” Sven called.

  “Come on, Charley. It’s Assessment Day. You know what they said will happen if we’re late. Let’s go!”

  Charley awoke with a start, his head jerking up from the balled-up towel he used as a pillow. Savoring the fast-fading remnants of his dream, Charley sighed and wiped his eyes. He had been so close to actually attacking Officer Red Caterpillar Eyebrows this time. Charley rolled himself up from his lumpy cot, grabbed a dirty and fast-becoming-too-small shirt from the floor and tugged it on. Stepping into his shoes while sweeping his fingers through his shaggy hair absentmindedly, he demonstrated one of the unique advantages of 17-year-old males everywhere: morning “prep” time is measured in seconds and not minutes.

  “Thanks for waking me,” he said to his friend.

  “No worries.” Sven gave a half-crooked smile.

  Charley found it amusing that with a name like Sven, his diminutive friend was neither large nor Scandinavian in appearance. The name worked well for him, though, serving as a counterbalance to his small frame.

  “Something funny?” asked Sven. “You didn’t seem too happy before I woke you. You had that angry-line thing going on between your eyes.”

  Sven wouldn’t understand about the dream. “Nah, let’s go.” Realizing his abrupt reply sounded harsh, Charley flashed a smile to reassure his best friend everything was okay. Sven gave his ever-quick imp’s grin in response and headed out the door.<
br />
  Charley followed, but even his friend’s carefree chatter didn’t quiet the sense of foreboding left over from the remaining wisp of the dream.

  * * *

  Strong, compact brown fingers tap-tapped their perfectly manicured nails on the gleaming metal railing—the sound steady and determined, cold and calculating.

  Commander Orson continued to tap as he surveyed the citizens of Meritropolis milling around down below his vantage point, six stories up, in the Tower. His dark eyes roved across the masses of people. His people. No matter that his father had created all of this. His father was gone, and he had left Orson in charge, the sole administrator—and enforcer—of the System. His father would certainly be proud of all that his oldest child, and only son, had accomplished during his absence. That was, if his father was even capable of showing pride in his son. Orson’s fingers slowed their tapping. He hoped his father would at least have to be satisfied, if not proud, of his son’s managerial proficiency.

  Orson certainly liked the image of himself as a shrewd manager of people. He was tall, dark, and handsome, with probably the highest IQ—and, more importantly, the highest Score in Meritropolis to boot. This wasn’t nepotism: the Score was the Score. Orson unconsciously puffed out his expansive chest and threw back his shoulders as he scanned back and forth, taking in the people below. He knew that with his broad shoulders and dark, flowing hair he cut an impressive figure up on the railing: watching, inspecting, commanding his people. He deserved the highest Score. He deserved to be in charge.

  After all, which of these people in Meritropolis could ever be trusted to make the right choices for themselves, and the community as a whole, when so many decisions were matters of life and death? The real truth of the matter remained: as much as Orson was aware the little people murmured complaints behind his back, they not only needed but wanted someone to make these life or death decisions for them.

  If they only had enough food to feed 50,000 mouths, and there were even 50,200 people in Meritropolis, then who but he had the inner fortitude necessary to mandate that 200 people be put outside of the gates? It would not be a task to be relished, at least not outwardly, but it was necessary. If it were left up to the sweaty, feeling masses, each with either familial or neighborly ties to almost everyone else in Meritropolis, then no sacrifices would be made and winters would bring starvation. If anyone were to survive, the System had to be followed and obeyed.

  Orson remained grateful to the System. The genius of it was that whenever tough decisions were required, the System was there. When someone had to be placed outside the gates, or “zeroed”—a sickly child with little chance of a productive future or an elderly citizen no longer contributing to society—it was the System that could be pointed to as the responsible party. Orson never liked giving the “you’ve lived a good, long life” speech to one of the elderly, and, for the young children about to be zeroed, he inwardly loathed that part of his responsibility. After all, he mused: he was merely a loyal public servant carrying out his duty to the people of Meritropolis by following the System. It was for their own good; it was for the good of everyone.

  It was his father who had first instituted the System in AE 3, as everyone knew, and the basics of it were simple enough: the welfare of Meritropolis took precedence over the selfishness of the individual. Each citizen of Meritropolis, from that day forward had agreed that to live within the protective gates of Meritropolis was to agree to be bound by the scoring system that determined which individuals were most useful to Meritropolis, and thus, kept inside the gates. Of course, being zeroed was just a euphemism for being killed, since no one could survive long outside of the gates. Not at night, and not for long, anyway.

  Orson shifted his weight as he gazed out ahead. He looked from the multichromatically vibrant foliage beyond the gates, the forest bright and beckoning on the outside but concealing something dark and hidden within, to the people in the courtyard inside the gates, mothers carrying babies, small children shoving, skipping, and running. Change was everywhere.

  Now, in the year AE 12, Orson had been left with an unanticipated problem: the teenagers of Meritropolis. Those who had been too young at the time to really understand what a pledge to the System meant were growing up. And, after seeing relatives, friends, and other loved ones zeroed, they were now beginning to understand. Some handled it better than others—it was all they had ever really known, after all—but some were not handling this newfound realization well at all. Commander Orson cricked his neck from side to side, ran a hand through his thick black hair, and absentmindedly watched two adolescent boys below sword-fight each other with two sticks as skinny and knobby as their bony arms and legs. If only the youth had seen what life was like before the System was implemented, then they wouldn’t be so quick to desire change. He sighed. It was every generation’s prerogative: the unfailing belief that they knew better than those who came before them.

  Orson stood on tiptoe and arched his back like a cat while flexing his arms in and out. He couldn’t help but admire the way the veins in his arms pulsed, his muscles bunching and rippling. He had no qualms about zeroing every single rebellious youth in Meritropolis who chose to stand up to him, but he knew that it was far from the best long-term strategy. Zeroing troublemakers, especially those with high Scores, was an overt betrayal of the semblance of order that the System provided. If that crumbled, then all of Meritropolis would crumble. Not only that, but Orson would be forced to face the rage of his father if and when he ever returned to Meritropolis with his band of marauders.

  But as much as Orson feared his father, and the thought of him reappearing in Meritropolis any time soon, he was grateful for the ability to make the decisions that others shied away from. He was pleased his father had drilled that into him from an early age. At its core, the System taught that the needs of the many always outweighed the needs of the individual. Starvation, drought, civil unrest, and worse could all be managed—not prevented but managed—with the guidance of strong, capable leaders like his father and, now, him.

  Orson continued to look from the hustle and bustle of the people in the courtyard below out to the deep, dark forest outside of the gates. He knew he was also responsible, as much as anyone could be, for the problems from the other side: attacks from new species of wild animal combinations that were becoming increasingly aggressive, erratic weather patterns that made farming all but impossible, plus countless other fallout from the Event, the full repercussions of which they were still discovering.

  “Sir?” A tall, lanky blue-jacketed guard approached Orson hesitantly.

  Orson glanced at him quickly out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to skulk around. Out with it. Give me your report.”

  “Assessment complete. Three borderline cases to watch over the next few weeks. And …” He paused.

  Orson groaned inside. No matter how many times he’d been part of it, he still hated it.

  “And there’s also one substandard that needs to be zeroed tonight. It’s—she’s a girl, sir. She’s a little girl. About seven years old, it appears.”

  Orson turned to face the guard, his face unreadable. “Score?”

  “Her Score is 33, sir. Not even close,” he said, but hurriedly added, “She dropped so fast, though. With respect, sir, she could likely as not jump right back up again with a higher Score if we waited a week.” He waited hopefully for a reply.

  “I think not. The System is very clear on these things—everyone with a Score under 50 is to be put out of the gates. You know I want to let this slide as much as you, don’t you? But the System is the System, and that’s what has always kept us alive. ” Orson’s voice was definite.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the guard replied, his tall frame slumping.

  “That will be all. Make preparations with the family for the gate ceremony tonight and communicate to them clearly that it will be completed well in advance of sunset. We can’t chance another incident like last month’s bit
e.” Orson nodded to dismiss him.

  “Yes, sir.” The guard turned and walked briskly away.

  Orson returned his gaze to the milling crowds below and resumed his methodical tapping. No, tonight would certainly not be a night to let anything in the gates at all. Only out.

  * * *

  The mid-afternoon sun caused Charley to squint, and he shifted his gaze downward to the creaky wooden steps under his feet. The cork-gray, near-splintering steps accepted each of Charley’s strides with a ligneous grumble. The steps formed part of a promenade that jutted off the main cobblestone courtyard, adjacent to and within the gates, all evidence of some semblance of rudimentary central planning. Like almost everything around him, even these steps raised questions in the inner recesses of Charley’s mind that scratched, niggled, and itched their way around his brain like buzzing creepy-crawlies. Questions that sought to make their way out into the open. To be answered.

  Why does Commander Orson look down from a tower of meticulously crafted, gleaming steel while the rest of Meritropolis is down below, as rickety and wooden as these steps? Charley wondered. He jutted his jaw forward and slowly surveyed the bustling courtyard of people: mothers clacking their worn shoes along the equally worn and cracked cobblestones, their children tottering behind like ducklings behind a mother duck. Did these mothers really think that those ruling from the tower of steel had their best interests at heart, with so much of Meritropolis virtually forsaken and in a state of disrepair? Didn’t they regret their pledge to the System—now, finally, after so many had been zeroed?

  Why did everyone accept their assigned Score as a measure of their worth and, ultimately, the final say on whether they were to live or die? Well, not everyone did. Charley walked past a group of rowdy teenagers: pushing and shoving, each preening and jockeying for attention. They were all tall and attractive-looking, not a Low Score among them. Charley was well acquainted with the scoring system: if you were smart, strong, healthy, athletic, and good-looking, then you received a high Score. The more of these desirable qualities you possessed, the more useful you were to Meritropolis—and even more so to the future of Meritropolis. Some even came right out and called High Scores, especially the good-looking ones, “breeders.”