by Grace Hudson
The plans spread before him were a source of constant frustration. The Implant Markers needed an upgrade. Many of the Officers were under the mistaken impression that the Implant Markers were somehow linked to the insignia on the Internees’ uniforms. The fact was, the insignia were personally entered by hand, and mainly by Wilcox himself. Each Internee’s Beth number was typed in and saved around the time of birth. All numbers began with 259 and ended with another three digit number, now in the two hundreds. The number of Internees was actually around a few hundred. There had been perhaps a few hundred that had come before, all expired now. And there would be new Internees, but the process of birthing was a maddeningly slow one, the whole process was too damn slow for Wilcox’s liking.
The fundamental problem, Wilcox decided, was the ratio of Officers to Internees. There were only fifty or so, with twenty Operators to take care of the running of the Epsilon Games, surveillance and rations duty. Various Internees were scheduled for duties, taking up the slack from the shortfall in personnel. There simply weren’t enough to go around. Weapons were in short supply, but the Internees were subservient, and dutiful, just as he had engineered them. The ‘beauty pill’ took care of unwanted birthing, and it had the added bonus of taming the nature of the Internees, making them docile. Unfortunately, it was only effective on some of the Internees, others were entirely unaffected, making them somewhat more difficult to control. Hormones, always problems with the hormones, so unpredictable, so… Chaotic. Still, the threat of Zeta Circuit and the Kappa work duties kept the majority in line.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come.” Wilcox smoothed the plans on the desk, fixing the ends in place with heavy weights made from quartz, a resource plentiful in the surrounding territories. What he most needed was a source of more diverse metals, and skilled labor, perhaps even a facility in which to forge them.
Officer Cerberus stood in the doorway, squinting in his usual manner.
“Five more recommendations for Zeta, Sir.”
“Show me.”
Cerberus handed over the scrawled list of numbers. Wilcox brought each up on the Beth Register, pleasing faces staring out from the screen.
“This one?”
“Attempted escape, brought back by the beacon.”
“And this one?”
“Bit an Officer. This one has shown aptitude in the Games Ring, however this Internee prefers to fight both in and out of the ring.”
Wilcox brought up the next face on the screen.
“Self harm. Scars.” Wilcox’s mouth twitched downwards in disdain.
The next face appeared, hopeful eyes pleading through the screen.
“This one… Will not eat. This has gone on for many months. This Internee will be expired before long, it’s unpleasant for the Officers, there have been many complaints.”
The final face flickered on the screen, power draining to a trickle from the nightly generators. Wilcox sighed, clenching his fist on the table.
“The panels? How did they charge today?”
“Not so well, this weather has not been conducive for optimum charge. Also, the panels are very old. We can only hope to repair them.” The power kicked back in, illuminating the screen once more.
“This will not do, you must make sure they run at optimum efficiency.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well?” Wilcox waved a hand in the general direction of the screen.
“This one doesn’t speak. Hasn’t spoken since three months ago.”
Wilcox looked at him expectantly.
“I asked around. Officer Seph chose her sometime around that time, said she wasn’t very good.”
“And that’s it? She doesn’t speak?”
“That’s it.”
“Send all to Zeta except the last one. We don’t need them to speak, we need them to serve. It would be preferable if more were like this one.” He tapped the screen with the back of his knuckles.
“Yes Sir.”
“That will be all.” He waved his hand towards the door, returning to his plans. The insignia needed an upgrade, he needed to connect them somehow with the Implant Markers. The Y numbers were set around the time of birth, give or take a few days, and from that point on, the insignia was basically a simple chronograph, much like a timepiece, increasing in number each 365 days, from zero to twenty-six.
Wilcox banged the table in frustration, pushing the plans to the side. The intermittent Ward Beacon used too much power as it was, it would be preferable to have the ability to control each Internee directly through the Implant Markers, rather than using a rudimentary system of sound and electricity. The body scanning device, a relic left over from before the war, could only be used for one to two minutes at a time, lest it drained the remaining power to the entire facility. However, the piped music was a more successful experiment, using subliminal theta technology to induce sleep waves. It was a simple system, a phonograph, a single classical record, the only music he could find. It was bland, inoffensive, precisely what had been required for his purposes. The regular, rhythmic beeping of the five cycles per second was created by an makeshift automated Morse code transmitter. So far, the experiment had been effective for coercing sleep in the Internee population.
Wilcox scrolled through the Beth Register again, one of his more pleasurable activities, settling on one with big blue eyes and auburn hair.
Yes, this one would do. This one would do nicely.
He flipped off his screen.
“Guard Officer!”
– 9 –
The training room was longer than it was wide, various weapons lining the walls. 201 passed the row of weapons, gleaming and polished to a modest shine. None of these weapons were really clean, 201 noticed. Sometimes it was a trace of blood, a speck, a stray hair of red or blonde, a dull brown stain near the hilt where the blood would never fully be removed.
232 rushed past her, hair swishing in a long plait down her back as she lunged for the sword rack.
“Ha! Mine!” she cried, gripping a straight sword with a flat, broad blade.
“232, I would never steal your sword. It is your weapon of choice. You know I would never let anyone else take it either, at least for training drills.”
“That is right, because if anyone did…” She reared back, unsheathing and swirling the sword gracefully. “They would never make that mistake again! I would expire them, swiftly!” 232 doubled back, arcing the blade around her head. “They must learn to fear…”
“232!” She froze, standing to attention. “What are you doing?”
232 turned to face Reno, the High Training Room Officer. His uniform was sleek black, thin leather armour detailing his chest and torso. He always stood straight, large shoulders squared, his shaved head catching the light.
“I said, what are you doing?”
“I was practising?” 232 ventured.
“No, 232. You were fooling around. A wonderful way to get oneself killed. A spatha is not to be toyed with.”
“But I had full control, I knew where my sword was placed at all times.”
Reno was silent, unmoving. The silence drew out for a little longer than expected and 201 stepped back, uncomfortable. Reno caught her eye for a moment, then moved his head, almost imperceptibly to fix on 232.
“Then why, perhaps you can answer this, was the sword unsheathed?” he spat the words out venomously, voice raising in intensity. A couple of Epsilon trainees faltered in their warm-up routine, turning to peer at 232.
“I thought…”
“No, 232. You did not think. That is the problem. The protective sheath is there for a reason. It is not just to protect you, it is to protect your fellow Epsilon trainees! This is a serious matter. You can get expired, quite easily I might add. This makes no difference to me one way or the other. I see it so often, you see, Fighters are expired all the time, but I would wager that it might matter to you. Do not make me regret my decision to consider your promotion to Fighter.�
��
232 hung her head, studying the floor intently as other Epsilon trainees looked on.
“Ten laps of the training room and forty push ups. Now. Do it!”
232 loped off in a slow jog, shaking her head.
“Faster 232. No dragging your feet!”
Reno shifted his eyes back to 201.
“You. Have you chosen your weapon?”
201 scanned the rows, finding her chosen sword, the one that had always felt most comfortable in her hand.
“This one.” She held it up, making sure the transparent sheath protector remained intact.
“Hmm. Fine choice.” He took it from her hand, raising it to the light and turning it to the side so the blade glinted with each movement. “A bastard sword. You can use this weapon with one hand, but also two, should you need that kind of flexibility. In the old times, they were known as ‘hand and a half swords’, lighter than their two-handed counterparts. Someone like you needs a sword light enough to wield, but strong enough to do damage. Your strength alone, perhaps, would not be enough. Maybe, with further training. But with this…” he mused, flipping it over and handing it back, hilt first. “Practice defensive drills. You cannot attack without first being able to defend. Now. Do it!”
201 turned her back to the wall, standing in ready position. She imagined her opponent, large and menacing as she swung towards her. 201 dropped to one knee, sword deftly raised to block the imaginary blow. She could almost see her opponent, vulnerable, unguarded at this moment. She smiled secretly to herself, swinging the blade in an arc, cutting her phantom opponent off at the knees.
“201! Do you not understand the meaning of the word ‘defensive’! One more trick like that one and you’ll be joining 232.” 201 glanced over at 232, hunched over, dripping with sweat, crouching and attempting to get in position for yet another bout of push ups.
He strode behind 201, dipping his head and lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You’re dead, by the way. Your opponent took the opportunity while your sword was lowered to cut you in half. You cannot afford yourself one reckless moment, for that is all you will get.” He strode off to attend to another Epsilon trainee, wielding her cutlass in a menacing fashion.
201 breathed in sharply and took to her drills with renewed focus. She imagined her opponent once more, sword piercing directly towards her chest. She swung the sword in an arc, curtailing any unnecessary effort at theatrics. She replicated the move, repeating and repeating until she found she could do it without effort.
“Good, 201. Keep it up.” Reno strode by, heading for a group of Epsilon trainees who had decided to scuffle instead of drill.
After training, 201 sat on the bench seats lining the farthest wall, fastening her boots under her Epsilon regulation red jumpsuit.
Reno stood before her, posture alert, arms resting by his sides.
“201, I have come to the decision that I cannot promote you to Fighter. Not yet. You have too much to learn. One thing I will say is this. You are a natural Fighter, a good one. But most certainly not one of the best. And you will be crushed if you try to challenge any of the foremost Fighters skilled through combat in the Epsilon Games Ring.”
201 looked up at Reno, untucking the cuff of her jumpsuit from inside her boots. She tried to hide her disappointment but judging by the look on Reno’s face, she had not succeeded.
“But you have something the others do not. The Fighters in rotation for the Games Circuit are made to fight, that is their way. But you have something else. You have this.” He pressed his finger firmly against her forehead, pressing again to make his point. “I did not need to read your intelligence rating to know this. You must know when to fight, and when not to fight.”
201 studied his face, leaning her back against the wall.
“So you have this. Use it. This is all I will say to you.” Reno was walking away before she had time to reply. Her forehead carried the press of his finger long after he was gone.
– 10 –
The following morning, the training room was filled with excitement, chatters echoing from each of the far corners of the room. The fight trainees gathered, eagerly anticipating the monthly Fighter selection through the Epsilon Chance Wheel. The wheel could assign one of the nominated fight trainees to the Epsilon Games Ring, it could promote any Epsilon Internee to the highest status of Alpha Field, but it could also relegate any Epsilon Internee to the scrapheap of Zeta Circuit.
Reno stood stoically, arms placed behind his back, legs slightly apart. He looked on, his blank face betraying nothing as Games Operator Farrenlowe stood before the Epsilon Wheel of Chance. The wheel was predominantly painted in Epsilon red, interspersed with blue, grey and green. He gestured dramatically at the gathered Epsilon fight trainees, cloak waving wildly as his voice roared through the training room.
“Before we begin, we will send our gratitude to Pinnacle Officer Wilcox and FERTS, for our daily provision and protection from those who would seek to strike against our Vassals, our Fighters and our Internees.”
“We send our gratitude to Pinnacle Officer Wilcox and FERTS,” the trainees replied somberly.
“Epsilon fight trainees. Potential Epsilon Fighters. Today may be the luckiest day of all. For today is the day we find out…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Who…”
“Will be the next Epsilon Fighters!” the trainees called back in unison. 201 looked around, puzzled. 232 winked at her.
“I forgot it’s your first time,” she whispered. “You’ll get used to it.”
“So, are you ready to make High Training Room Officer Reno proud?”
The trainees yelled and whistled.
“Are you ready to make Pinnacle Officer Wilcox proud?”
The trainees whooped and applauded.
“Are you ready to join the champions in the Epsilon Fight Ring?”
The training room exploded in cheers and shouts. 201 clapped enthusiastically, smiling over at 232.
He placed his hand in a small metal bucket, rummaging around.
“285!” He produced the selected number triumphantly, displaying it so all could see.
The Internees fell into silence. 285 shifted her stance, shrugging at her fellow trainees, eyes forward.
“Spin the wheel and let chance decide!” The Beta Internee, dressed immaculately in her white jumpsuit, smiled at the trainees, spinning the wheel with a flourish.
The wheel spun, ticking as it went. The trainees were silent, mesmerized by the rhythm. 201 could barely read the markings as they merged into one brownish shade, ticking and clicking.
Tick.
Fight
Click.
Fight
Tick.
Zeta Circuit
Click.
Fight
Click.
Alpha Field
Click…
Fight
The trainees cheered, hoisting 285 above them, her green eyes both startled and triumphant, light wispy brown hair bouncing with excitement.
“Ah… but what is a Fighter without…”
“A weapon!” the crowd shot back, 285 cheering heartily from her elevated perch.
The Beta Internee strode to a second wheel, the segments decked out in red and green. She gave it a good shove, the wheel taking off at a frantic pace.
Click.
bastard sword
Tick.
shotel
Click.
scimitar
Tick.
spatha
Click.
trident
285 cheered, the trident being her favored weapon, her first choice.
“285 is truly lucky,” 232 remarked. “I will cheer for her tomorrow night. I am on water duty.”
“I will hear the fight from the weapons room. Perhaps I will cheer silently, it is not regulation to make undue noise on weapons duty.” The other two Fighters were chosen with much excitement, the wheel spinning and twirling, clicking and ticking.
&
nbsp; That night, 201’s sleep was disturbed by a wheel that wouldn’t stop spinning, no matter how long it ran. The ticking was maddening, drowning out the soothing music piping through to her bed. The red and grey wheel spun in a loop, every word visible, instead of slowing it began spinning faster and faster, louder and louder.
Click.
Expired
Tick.
Expired
Click.
Expired
Tick.
Expired
Tick.
Expired
Tick. Click. Tick.
– 11 –
“All Fighters report to Games Circuit. All fight trainees to games supply. Menial internees report to designated posts”
201 hurried through the gathered Epsilon Internees and made her way to the weapons store room. She was alone this night, often there would be another Epsilon Internee on weapons duty to accompany her for the duration.
She sighed, picking up the trident, polishing the points with a foul smelling oil, careful to avoid the grips. Her hands were encased in protective mail gloves, ensuring she would not slip and earn herself a scar for her troubles.
She laid out the trident on the ready table, providing easy access for the fight attendees to carry the weapons into the Epsilon Games Ring.
Next, she selected a spatha, deftly slicking the blade with her stale-smelling cleaning rag. The spatha bore dents in its handle, this was not 232’s chosen weapon, she noted. The wood of the hilt was stained a dark brown, the tang of old blood assaulting her nostrils.
A dull cheer broke out from the Games Ring, both jarring and muted. It jolted 201, having worked many nights in the weapons store room, she had never grown accustomed to the violent cries snaking their way down the hall.
She huffed out a shaky breath, laying down the spatha next to the trident. She selected a scimitar next, then a bastard sword that looked deceptively like her chosen weapon. A darker wood on the hilt was the only telling sign that her own sword was not yet in play. She selected another spatha, three more scimitars, a shotel and another trident. Another roar erupted from the Games Ring as the fights were opened and the games officially commenced. She could hear Games Operator Farrenlowe’s familiar voice booming through the halls, goading the crowd into a frenzy.