by Joel Ohman
“We’re his prize-winning bumper crop,” Charley said dryly.
“Yes.”
“Tell us about your father,” Charley said quietly.
For the space of a moment, all was silent, the air pregnant with tension. For a moment, Charley thought that Orson hadn’t heard him, as motionless as he lay, flat on his back on the cot. Then Orson spoke, his voice soft. “My father’s a very—forceful man.” The words came out slowly, and then all at once, as if an internal dam was breaking. “It wasn’t always this way. I can remember him a little bit before my mother got sick. He was a powerful man, but he wasn’t—like he is now, the czar. My mom’s sickness, it did something to him, changed him.”
“Made him start the scoring system?” Charley said tentatively, not daring to say more.
“It was already an idea on the table—his idea—but it hadn’t yet been put into action. My mom’s—” He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and then opened them again. “My mom’s illness was the perfect opportunity for him to prove his commitment to the System—his System. She was going to die soon, anyway. That’s what he told me. I was just a child; I didn’t really understand everything.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But I understood enough.”
Charley had suspected as much, but to hear Orson’s account of childhood pain firsthand thickened a swirl of emotions in his mind that he wasn’t sure he knew how to untangle. It must have been a horrendous experience—just as traumatic, if not more so than when his own brother was taken. However, Charley couldn’t help but wonder: what about all of the horrendous things Orson had forced others to experience when he was the commander, dutifully enforcing the System himself? An image of dying men in Meritropolis flashed across Charley’s vision. He had done some horrible things, too, and all in the name of vengeance for Alec. What good would it do if he ended up like Orson—or worse, like his father?
A creak of springs from Grigor’s cot signified his entrance into the conversation. “Our past is forever intertwining with our present, affecting our future, but it doesn’t have to be this way. We can’t change the past, but we can change the way it affects our future.”
“But surely our past has made us who we are in the present?” Orson said bitterly. “What if we do what we do because it is who we are?”
“The past changes us, but the present can change us, too,” Grigor said, his deep voice quiet and soothing. “What we decide to do in the present will change who we become in the future. The present becomes the past, the future becomes the present. Life continues.” Grigor was looking at Orson, but Charley felt as if his words were intended for him as well.
Charley crooked his neck to look over at Grigor. “You told me in Meritropolis that reformation is the answer, not revolution—”
“Sometimes reformation is the answer,” Grigor interrupted. “But there are times when revolution is the answer, too. The psalmist says that he doesn’t trust in his bow, his sword isn’t what brings him victory, for victory comes from God.” Grigor exhaled, his large hands clasping together. “He didn’t trust in his bow or his sword, but neither did he discard them. One must not be afraid to fight for what is right.”
Charley stiffened his neck. “You told me I was a fool for fighting in Meritropolis. And I was fighting for what’s right.”
“Yes, you were fighting for what was right.” Grigor lowered his head. “But I had hoped there might be a more peaceful alternative.” He looked at Orson, still staring at the ceiling.
“You thought Orson might change …” Charley was looking at Grigor, and Orson, in a new light.
“Some good that did.” Hank rolled over on his cot, turning away from them all.
“I am sworn to Orson, I will always be loyal to him. I owe him a great deal.” Grigor looked across at Orson’s still form with eyes that revealed a mixture of pity, sadness, even tenderness. And Charley knew he also owed Grigor a great deal. Grigor had saved his life while hunting on more than one occasion, not to mention his gift of a crossbow on the bion hunt that had likely saved the life of Charley, Hank, and Sandy.
Charley sighed. “So what do we do next?”
Unexpectedly, Grigor flashed his enormous smile, breaking the somber mood like sunrays bursting through dark clouds. “We win the Venatio. I’ve always loved reading about gladiators fighting lions and tigers in the Colosseum. Now that’s us.”
“It’s not like we have a choice.” Charley waggled a manacled hand, but couldn’t help from smiling wryly in return. Just as quickly, a shadow passed over his face, the smile disappearing. “I’m ready to die to zero the System. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Grigor paused, choosing his words carefully. “I believe you. But remember this: dying for something is easy, because you get glory, and then it’s over. But living for something—that’s the hard thing.”
Charley squirmed, looking away from Grigor’s gaze. “Yeah …”
Grigor continued. “More often than not, change comes because of little choices we make daily. It comes because of a patient and faithful commitment to a different future, and the willingness to do all of the little things, the unglamorous, the dirty, the mundane. It doesn’t usually come about because of one dramatic sacrifice, which is easier in many ways.”
Charley sighed again. “Reformation not revolution.”
“Yes.” Grigor smiled. “But sometimes revolution is necessary, as a last resort.”
“Okay, so we win the Venatio, get an audience with the emperor, find out the whereabouts of the czar from him, one way or another, and then—what? We all know we want to find the czar, but then what? We use reason to convince him of the error of his ways? Try to get him to reform?”
Grigor looked down at Orson, still laying motionless, a hulking beast closely watching over his master, ready to neutralize any threat. “No,” Grigor said softly, “some people do not listen to reason. They must be dealt with more harshly.”
Charley rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling himself. Well, at least they were in agreement on that.
***
“I saw you throw the rock.”
Sven looked up at the hulking guard and tried to make his face impassive, but the slight droop of his shoulders gave him away.
The guard bared his teeth and curled his lip. Raising a massive gloved fist, the guard towered over Sven, blotting out the morning sun. Sven stepped back, falling over his own feet and dreading the blow to come. Instead, the guard lowered his fist, clapping his hands on his thighs and shaking in guffaws of laughter. “Hah, look at you! Oh, you got nothing to worry about from me. I hardly know that guy, and what I do know of him—trust me: he’s a lazy dolt who got what he deserved.” He smacked Sven roughly on the shoulder in an almost brotherly way. “That was a fantastic throw.” He snorted appreciatively, and then continued his circuitous stroll through the pen.
Sven released the breath he had been holding.
“That was you?” A scrawny kid of fifteen, all spindly legs, bony elbows, and wide eyes, approached him.
“Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sven’s eyes darted nervously. “That guard must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“Right, whatever.” The kid gave Sven a knowing look and stuck out his hand. “I’m Renaldo.”
“Sven.”
Renaldo spoke hurriedly. “I don’t care what you say, that was awesome—you were amazing. I wish I could have done something to that jerk. That girl he kicked was my sister.” He gestured to a girl as she approached shyly, reaching out her hand with a murmured thank-you. “This is Camilla.”
Slowly reaching out his hand to shake Camilla’s, Sven felt something like pride swell inside of him. Yes, it had been amazing; he had been amazing. And, looking closer at Camilla’s dark eyes and long slender legs, Sven straightened his shoulders and gave a confident smile. She seemed pretty amazing, too.
<
br /> “We are both forever in your debt,” Renaldo said.
“It was nothing,” Sven replied, making a half-hearted attempt at modesty.
Camilla grasped his upper arm with soft fingers. “No. It was definitely something. I won’t forget you. I won’t forget what you’ve done.” Her voice had a soft accent, the R’s rolling off her tongue like a cascade of water over smooth stones.
She released her grip, and only then did Sven realize he had been holding his breath. Expelling slowly, he tried to make his voice sound as normal as possible. “Really, it’s nothing. We should maybe stick together, though, plan out our next course of action—for the Venatio, you know.” Sven looked over at Renaldo. “All three of us,” he added hurriedly.
“Yes, absolutely. We should stick together.” Renaldo paused, and then nodded his head behind him. “There’s more of my family in here.” Four older boys, much bigger than Renaldo—and certainly bigger than Sven—loomed in the background, some with arms folded, all with eyes intent on Sven. “Our cousins.”
“They don’t look like Low Scores to me …”
“They shouldn’t be. They don’t speak very good English, though, and I think one of the guards had it in for us; he got us all labeled as Low Scores somehow, even though my cousins were already High Scores. We aren’t from here, we got captured—”
“Me too.”
“Ah, probably like most people in this stinkin’ pen.” Renaldo looked back over his shoulder; each of his cousins stood in the easy poised stance intrinsic to natural athletes; they were cat-like, ready to spring into action. Other Low Scores in the pen ebbed and flowed around them, instinctively sensing where they were in the food chain, numerical Score or not. “But we should definitely stick close with them. My cousins are actually looking forward to the Venatio. They aren’t too happy about this whole pen situation, and their low scores.”
“No, I don’t suppose they are,” Sven said slowly. He couldn’t determine if it was just his imagination or if the biggest of the four was glaring right at him. Sven hurriedly took a step away from Camilla, who was still pressed up so close he could almost feel her warm breath on his neck. Sven was certain he saw the cousins whisper something and motion to Camilla and then to him.
Renaldo craned his neck in the direction of shouting at the far side of the pen. “Well, let’s head over there with my cousins and see what’s going on. One of the guards said earlier that they would brief us this morning on what’s going to happen in the Venatio. Let’s go.”
Camilla touched Sven’s shoulder gently, almost a caress, and motioned to go. Sven gulped. “Okay.”
As they approached the four cousins, the largest immediately placed himself between Sven and Camilla. He dropped a thick, muscular arm around Sven’s shoulders as they walked toward the commotion. Sven had to fight not to sag under the weight. The cousin said something in quick staccato.
Camilla smiled. “He says you are very brave.”
Renaldo laughed. “Rico says you’re very brave for being loco demente.” Rico the cousin tightened his squeeze on Sven’s shoulders and spoke again quickly. Renaldo again translated: “But he says that he’s here now, so he hopes you won’t do anything else that’s crazy insane.” Rico smiled a crooked grin, revealing a snaggletooth jutting over his lip. He pulled Sven in closer and tilted his head slightly in Camilla’s direction. Sven smiled weakly in return.
Renaldo came to a stop at the cluster of Low Scores on one side of the pen. “Okay, let’s be quiet. It looks like one of the guards is maybe going to give an announcement.”
A tall, barrel-chested man stepped onto an upturned crate and lifted his hands for silence. The crowd grew quiet in anticipation. A stray thought tiptoed its way through Sven’s mind: what if he were to throw another rock and incite the crowd to charge?
Scanning the periphery, Sven could see dozens of men holding stout wooden poles. None looked particularly interested in the upcoming announcement, but rather ready to quell any disturbance. Another rock would have been a foolhardy course of action, especially coming from someone wearing hardly more than underpants. Sven was suddenly conscious of his lack of clothing and wondered what Camilla was thinking right now. He attempted to look at Camilla from the corner of his eye, and reddened when she caught his gaze and smiled. She looked back to the announcer, now lowering his hands.
Sven almost laughed out loud. Here he was, a human slave in an actual pen that should have been used for livestock, and all he could think about was what he was wearing—or more accurately, not wearing—and the pretty girl standing next to him. Loco demente, indeed.
“Many of you are wondering why you’re here,” the man’s voice boomed out. “We are not unsympathetic to your concerns. Many of you are wondering who the heck I am. Well, I am a representative of a conglomerate of Meritorium businesspeople who are investors in the upcoming Venatio. Put simply, you now belong to us.” Confused chatter and more than a little anger rippled throughout the crowd. Sven remained quiet, watching intently.
“I know, I know. Many of you are not from here and are quite likely confused and scared by this whole process; we understand. We will tell you everything you need to know for your role in the upcoming Venatio. In short: when you succeed, we succeed. When you succeed, you will be rewarded. When you fail—when you try to opt out, not participate, try to escape, anything at all—you will be punished.” He paused dramatically. “I hate to put it in so coarse a way: but we own you, all of you, and if you don’t stay in line, we can, and will, punish you.”
A teenage boy toward the front spit aggressively in the direction of the man. He looked like he was intending even more, until a solemn-faced guard with a wooden pole thwacked him in the hip and then stomach, so quickly the man’s speech was hardly interrupted. The boy sank to his knees, gasping for air. Seeing this, Sven swallowed, his mouth dry at the ridiculous plan that had just bubbled in his mind.
“Your job in the Venatio is simple: make the crowd happy. Entertain them with feats of bravery, strength, and ingenuity.” The man’s face, once serious, now showed a gleam of excitement. “This Venatio promises a plethora of dangerous wild animal combos and even some trained trick animal combos that haven’t been seen in quite some time. I can’t lie: you will be in peril from the moment you step into the amphitheater. But awe the crowd, and you just might live to see another day. Some of you might even earn back your freedom.”
The crowd murmured, their excitement palpable. Renaldo turned to his cousins and translated in a staccato of speech. Sven watched Rico closely as he broke out in a coarse laugh, followed by a stream of Spanish.
Sven looked at Camilla. “What’s he saying?”
She paused, and then leaned in, whispering into Sven’s ear. “He is saying that he will do very inappropriate things to certain family members of any guard who dares keep him from the arena where he can prove that he is a High Score.” She paused, gave a shy smile, and then shrugged. “Among other things.”
Sven swallowed, attempted a smile in return, and turned back to the man making the announcement.
The man nodded and made to step down from the crate, intending to leave. The crowd began to clamor for more information, and there were even some naked pleas for mercy. The man ignored it all. He turned back one last time, raised both hands like a brown-nosing politician, and gave a smile. “The Venatio begins tomorrow. Good day and good luck.”
Backing away with Renaldo, Camilla, and their cousins, Sven wished once again that Charley was here; he always knew what to do. Sven was already tired of pretending that he could act like Charley. Throwing that rock had exhausted his supply of bravery.
“So, Loco Demente,” Rico said in broken English, looping his arm once again around Sven’s shoulder, “what is plan for Venatio?”
Sven cleared his throat, startled. “Umm, what?”
“He wants to know what your plan is fo
r us in the Venatio; how we will survive?” Renaldo said.
“I, I don’t—”
“You must lead us and tell us what to do,” Camilla said softly, her large brown eyes earnestly imploring him.
Sven closed his eyes, dreading his earlier desire to be like Charley. Rico gave his shoulder a squeeze, popping his eyes open again. Sven looked from the thick muscles that stood out like taut ropes in Rico’s arms, to the other three cousins almost as big, then to Renaldo, and finally to Camilla. She wore a hopeful expression. Sven flashed his biggest smile. “No problemo. I have a plan.”
Huddling close together, Sven began to sketch out some ideas. Sporadically, Rico or another cousin would laugh uproariously, followed by a stream of rapid-fire Spanish. They appeared to relish the thought of violence, particularly toward the captors who had plucked them out of freedom. Sven intended to use that.
Rising, Sven’s battle plan having been communicated via translation from Renaldo and Camilla, Rico clapped Sven on the back, seeming to accept him as one of them. But Sven noticed that Rico continued to keep himself positioned between him and Camilla. The seven of them—still slaves, but now at least slaves with a plan—walked toward the food and hygiene packs that were being distributed throughout the pen.
They had a plan alright, but what Sven’s new friends didn’t realize was just how far-fetched it really was. But if it succeeded, Sven had to admit, they would most certainly get the crowd’s attention.
Sven picked up a pack of what appeared to be moldy bread, a crab apple, and a shirt. He put on the shirt, looked down, and sighed. If ever he would kill someone just for a pair of pants, now would be the time. He looked ridiculous; the shirt barely covered his stomach. He now found himself wearing a belly shirt and saggy little shorts, practically underwear, already stained from the filth of the pen.