by Adam Burch
A hallway leads to a run-down interior courtyard. Synthetic green turf and fabricated trees line the avenues. It feels close and oppressive, everything packed tightly into a kilometer of thickness. Flickering fireglobes illuminate walls slick with moss and condensation. Graffiti slathers their surfaces in swaths of electric pink and blue. There’s not a soul in sight.
I’ve never been on the streets of Meridian before, let alone an arcology. This level of dilapidation is utterly foreign to me. It’s almost like being in another world. Supposedly, my father grew up on streets like this.
The beacon display on my windshield lights up again, revealing that I’m maybe a kilometer from the target. I’m heading in that direction when I hear a shuffle behind me. A man, scraggly, thin, in a grayish jumpsuit looks at me with pale, hungry eyes. His dirty beard and hair splays out wildly.
I raise my hand in greeting, but he hobbles away, alarmed by my presence.
“Wait!” I call out.
I would have thought this place was uninhabited . . .
Voices sound behind me. I turn again. Several of the Julii Academy students decked out in black armor, carrying pikes, sprint toward me.
The “soldiers” sent to stop The Companions. Five, maybe more on their way.
I ready myself.
Fifty meters away, they stop short, recognizing me. I realize that they aren’t running toward me. No, they’re running away from something else. Spotting me has only confused them. They turn to look behind them, and I see what they’ve been running from—a mob with pipes, broken bottles, and pieces of shrapnel in their hands. Several other academy students are being beaten and kicked before the mob as they try to scurry away.
What by the twisted star is happening?
The academy soldiers hesitate, unsure if they should attack me or simply escape the mob. Then their heads tilt.
Someone is giving them audio directives.
They ready their pikes toward me. I surmise they’ve been told their mission to stop me is more important.
Phaestion. I grit my teeth. They run at me, full tilt. I can’t lose. I won’t lose.
I sidestep the first thrust of a pike with ease. I grab the shaft as it passes. I yank it, using the soldier’s own momentum against him. He crashes to the ground, his helmet scraping against the pavement. I twirl the pike in my hand, making it look good for the camglobes and bring the butt end down in a sharp blow to the back of his helm. Crack! One out cold.
I swing the pike up to parry a blow from another soldier. A swift kick to his gut sends him sprawling. Two.
The next opponent swings his pike. I thumb the retractor on my own, shortening its length. I close the distance between us. His spear’s unwieldy at short range. I bring the baton up under his chin, smashing him. Three down.
I’m grabbed from behind. I whip my head back, cracking my attacker’s faceplate. He reels. I grab his arm and toss him over my hip in a classic grappling throw. Four.
I turn to face my final assailant. He raises his hands to surrender. A camglobe records us.
I’ve won! The grueling days of learning to walk again, returning to the gym with The Companions, the blood, sweat, and tears, have all led to this. I am now a warrior.
Or so I think . . .
The boy in front of me is shaking. I’m yanked from my moment of self-praise to feel pity for him and, worse, fear.
He’ll be punished by his instructors if he surrenders, I realize.
“Attack me,” I whisper. It’s probably already too late, but I try anyway. “I’ll make it look good, okay?”
He shakes his head.
The mob closes the distance between us. The single camglobe is joined by several others now, all floating near my head. The beacon for the data card flashes with an incessant pulse. Blood pounds in my neck from the exertion and adrenaline of the fight. The mob shouts and steps closer, the unruly citizens brandishing their “weapons.”
Why are there people here at all? Why are they ready to fight?
I thumb the trigger on the baton, and it lengthens back into a pike.
“Edmon?” Phaestion’s voice blares in my ear. “What’s happening out there? This wasn’t part of the scenario!”
No kidding!
“Edmon?” he shouts again, so I rip the helmet off to silence the noise.
The mob slows and halts. A hush runs through their ranks as we face one another. Neither of us makes a move.
“It’s Edmon Leontes!” someone from the crowd shouts.
“He’s one of them!” says another.
“No!” shouts a third voice. “He’s never been one of them!”
“Look at his hair!” another adds.
My hand self-consciously brushes a dark lock out of my eye. I take in the mob of hundreds. They aren’t the homogeneous blond of the Julii Academy Nightsiders. Gold is predominant, but there are other shades, too, hints of brown, chestnut, and auburn. Some even sport dark hair like my own. I retract my pike from attack position.
“Sir, what are you doing?” the academy soldier whispers behind me.
“Shut up, cadet,” I spit back. Sometimes rank has its privileges.
An older man with withered, gnarled hands and a sagging face steps forward. A blond boy of maybe eight, wearing a gray jumpsuit, helps him. The old man holds a metal pipe in his hand. He’s bleeding from the forehead.
“Edmon Leontes,” the old man says. “I am Jorund.”
“Jorund, you’re injured. You need a doctor,” I respond, but my eyes are on the boy. He has some kind of gap in his lip, a cleft palate. Such a defect should have marked him immediately for the Pavaka.
“I’m fine,” he says offhandedly. “We’re here to protest these war games on our streets. We’re here to stop the theft of our sons and daughters for the Combat, the murder of our infants at the Pavaka. We’re here to protest the drugs that have overrun our city. We’re here—”
He stops as several rib-shattering coughs rack his body.
I had no idea the underclass of Tao lived like this. I always thought the Pantheon provided for them. That’s what we do on Bone for those less fortunate. The village takes care of its own.
“Your father comes from streets like these. Now he is the Patriarch of House Leontes and sits on the High Synod,” Jorund continues.
True. My father replaced Old Wusong last cycle when the old man became too feeble to attend councils.
“Talk to him. Ask him to remember where he came from. Ask him to do something,” Jorund implores.
Even if I talked to my father, what would I say? Would he even listen?
Still, I nod as if I understand the old man’s request.
“Who is the boy?” I ask, unable to pull my stare from the child’s deformed lip.
Jorund protectively puts his arms around the boy. “My son, Alaric.”
“He’s . . . different,” I say. “Why wasn’t he given to the fires of the Pavaka?”
“A barbaric ritual!” the old man hisses. “Simply because a child isn’t perfect does not mean he has no worth.”
“You’re a criminal, Jorund,” I say. The camglobes hover around me, capturing everything.
“If it is a crime to save an innocent babe, then I would do it again, Edmon Leontes.”
“We’re hungry!” shouts someone from the ranks.
“There’s no work!” adds another. “We need jobs!”
The crowd howls assent.
“Every house employs workers in their industries!” I shout over them, parroting Vetruk’s government lectures.
“They take my father’s money!” Alaric shouts. He’s brave, this small boy, malnourished and weak, speaking up to me like he does.
“Reappropriation,” I say. “In return, you’re provided hospitals, roads, maintenance—”
“Does this look maintained to you?” The old man gestures to our surroundings. A hacking cough shakes his old frame again. Alaric supports him.
My heart grows dark as I see the trut
h of his words. The decay of the buildings speaks more than his voice ever could. I’ve been taught that those who are worthy, those who are strong, rise to the top. Those who do not are undeserving. Yet no one deserves what my eyes are showing me: squalor, filth, rubbish, and no chance to make it better.
“The Electors, the Synod, the Pantheon—they’re keeping it for themselves,” the old man says, sighing. “They use it to build private armies for their amusement.”
“Tell the Julii to stop kidnapping our children!” a woman screeches.
What are they talking about? I thought the Julii Academy strictly took volunteers, but in truth, I really don’t know. Nor do I know what the other houses of the Pantheon are doing.
“Cadets in the city being tracked by camglobes for entertainment? That must cost a pretty penny. Is that the best use of the money we earn?” asks the old man bitterly.
He kicks one of the Julii soldiers on the ground in front of him. The boy soldier grunts with pain. I warily eye the camglobes hovering around us, but the old man and the boy step forward.
“Open your eyes, Edmon!” Jorund says. “Electors are rarely made from lowborns. If they are, they forget who they were after they ascend, like your father seems to have done. They’ve escaped a life of servitude and have no interest in going back.”
I hesitate, looking again at the camglobes. He’s always watching, Edgaard said of our father. I need to show him I’m not the weakling he’s always thought. “Then fight for yourself,” I say, “become an Elector. Random violence won’t solve your problem. Such actions belong in the arena, where everyone is equal.”
I feel the lies on my lips even as I speak them.
What’s wrong with you, Edmon? Nadia’s voice screams in my head.
“Equal?” The old man laughs. “After years of fancy training to fight in rigged matches? Sure.”
The crowd murmurs assent.
“Being the strongest, being rich, receiving adulation for those things, doesn’t give one wisdom.” Jorund shakes his head. “Look around at what that way of life has borne.”
We face each other in uncomfortable silence.
“I was wrong. You’re one of them. You always have been,” Jorund says quietly.
I haven’t asked for wealth or privilege. I am one of you! I want to shout. I will change this! Those are not the words I speak, however. “If you really had something to offer, your value couldn’t be denied. They’d meet any fair demand because you’d deserve it, and they couldn’t do without you. But that’s not how it is. You don’t count. You’re replaceable, a cog in the structure. Why should they help you? Why should their hard work and wealth pay for your laziness?”
I say it to hurt him. Instead, I hurt myself. I don’t know who I am anymore.
“We just want a fair chance!” someone shouts.
“We want a say in our own lives,” pleads Jorund.
“Then keep protesting,” I say, resigned.
“You know the penalty for dissent!” the old man shouts as I walk away.
The Wendigo. The brutal prison was established centuries ago by the Great Song in the heart of the Nightside. There, the first emperor of Tao sent the murderers and thieves and enemies of his house. It has been passed down through the ages to House Wusong. Only recently, though, my father, with the help of off-worlders, has turned the ice prison into something more—a forced labor camp. The convicted toil in the frozen tunnels to mine metals for House Wusong. Free, cheap labor. I’ve no doubt that after the camglobe footage today, the mines will have many added to its workforce.
When I was a child brought before the emperor, things seemed so simple. I’m only fifteen now, and the world is out of control. I can’t fight them all—Phaestion, my father, The Companions, my teachers, the Pantheon. The strong devour the weak, war drives civilization, and pain is the only constant.
“If you believe what you say,” I call to the old man, “then you’ll have the courage to face it.” I turn to the Julii Academy soldier who still stands behind me and say, “Come.”
“Edmon!” Jorund shouts. “Leaders are supposed to help people. Not use them.”
“Sir?” The Julii soldier catches my attention. He points out scores of other soldiers creeping from the alleys. He taps a finger to the side of his helm.
He’s receiving orders. I need to get out of here. Fast.
I turn back to Jorund, trying to end the confrontation and save both sides. “I’ve heard your words. Please, I’ll do what I can. Right now you must go home.”
Cries ring out from the back of the mob. The soldier beside me runs past and plunges his pike into Jorund’s chest.
Jorund wears a ghastly expression of surprise, his mouth open in the shape of a perfect circled O. His breath exhales with a hiss. Blood gurgles from his lips as he collapses.
“No!” I scream.
Run, boy, run. But I don’t run. Neither does the boy with the cleft palate, Alaric. The Julii soldier grabs the child’s head and twists, snapping his neck.
What have I done?
I’m a second too late as I tackle the soldier. I lift him off the ground and hurl him as far as I can. He lands on the pavement a few meters away with a sickening crunch.
Julii soldiers now plow into the crowd with Plexiglas shields and spears. Their black armor shines slick with blood in the dimness of the fireglobes.
“Stop!” I shout. “I order you, stop!”
I run into the morass. I smash my fists into their helmets. I sweep them off their feet with my pike. It is pell-mell, but soon the death throes of the crowd fade. Before long, the only sounds are my own exertions. I scream as I kick one soldier to the ground. I swing my pike in a wide arc, smacking another.
Every civilian is on the ground, dead or dying. I’m the last standing, and I’m surrounded, even as I sob with rage. Bodies are strewn everywhere. Blood flows into the gutters and drains of the arco.
The child soldiers lower their pikes toward me. Their orders to kill the mob fulfilled, I’m their prey again.
CHAPTER 10
BANDA CONTINUO
“Should I just leave you, Edmon?” Hanschen sits on top of a fireglobe pole.
How the hell did he get there?
“It would certainly mean less competition.” He laughs.
I take advantage of the academy soldiers’ distraction. I sprint, breaking through their defenses, and hurtle down the avenue. I swerve left into an alley. A metal wall blocks the end of the narrow passage. I run full speed ahead anyway. I drive the point of my pike into a pile of refuse and vault off the end. I let go of the shaft and reach, my fingers barely snagging the edge of a ventilation grate. I try to tear the grate off its hinges, but I’m just not strong enough. I hang, helpless.
“Edmon!” I risk a turn and see my little brother running down the alley behind me.
Edgaard, too? Where did he come from?
Hanschen follows closely behind and, behind them both, sprint the soldiers. The jump is too high for either of them, but Edgaard jumps anyway. He leaps higher than I would have thought possible. Still, it’s not enough. I swing my legs out at just the right moment, and he miraculously catches them. His small, strong hands clasp my ankles. Then I feel the unbearable weight of Hanschen grabbing the human chain as well. I cry out.
“Let go, Hanschen!” screams Edgaard.
The soldiers crowd below and hurl their pikes to bring us down. One ricochets off the wall centimeters from my head.
“I just saved you, Edmon!” Hanschen screams.
He’s right. More than that, he’s not going to sacrifice himself so that we can escape. There’s only one option . . .
“Climb!” I growl.
I grip the grate as tight as I can. Hanschen scrambles over us. He mashes his boot into my face as he reaches the grating. He quickly unscrews it, unblocking the duct. He hurls it at an oncoming Julii soldier like a discus, sending the boy sprawling to the pavement.
“Pull us up!” I demand. Another s
pear clatters against the wall near my head.
“Tell Edgaard to give me the data card first.”
“What?” Edgaard captured the data card?
“Only if you promise not to let us fall!” Edgaard shouts.
“Don’t do it, Edgaard! We have no guarantee he’ll help us after you give it to him,” I say.
I can’t hold on much longer.
This is Phaestion’s doing—pitting us against one another, holding us down. The Companions are all scions of noble houses, each with just as much claim to leadership as him. Yet, here he has us fighting one another at his whim. How is this his vision of working together?
My hands strain as the duct edge cuts into my skin.
All those innocent people were murdered in the street a few moments ago, I realize. I’m no leader if I couldn’t do anything to stop what happened. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the Sophia Academy with The Maestro.
“Edgaard, give him the card. Hanschen, save Edgaard. He’s no physical threat to you.”
“Edmon, no!” Edgaard cries.
“I wasn’t going to win this one anyway, brother. Hanschen?” I demand.
Hanschen nods. Edgaard tosses up a small black cube and climbs up over me. Then Hanschen, the bastard, tries to push Edgaard off. My brother is too quick, though. They struggle. I feel myself slipping. I contract my abdominal muscles and use my bloody fingers to pull myself up. I plow into them both, and we tumble down the ventilation chute.
We struggle. Falling through darkness, I’m punching and kicking. My fist connects with something. I hear a crack. Hanschen cries out. I’ve broken his rib. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
“Hang on!” I scream to Edgaard. His hands wrap around my torso. We free-fall for a gut-lurching beat before we smack into a pile of garbage.
Hanschen scrambles to his feet and wades through the junk as quickly as he can.
“You all right?” I ask my brother.
Edgaard nods. I breathe, but I can’t afford a moment to understand all that has happened in the last few minutes. I have to find a way out of this. “Come on. We’ve got to move. We can still catch him,” I say.