Lord Meldz had officially left the leadership of Waver Town to Drane and Jillian. Lord Meldz occasionally stayed at the manor to discuss invasion strategy and plan raids. More often than not, Drane and Jillian rode to an undisclosed Driston camp with other war leaders to coordinate the ongoing invasion.
Soon after Phel took over his market steward role, Sir Drane noticed his transaction skills and promoted him to house steward of the stone manor, located at the heart of the town.
Phel enjoyed the change in scenery and work. He enjoyed the proximity to Jillian and Drane. “One step closer to an opportunity,” he reminded himself.
Each week’s goods were bought, sold, and bartered in the market. Phel kept a detailed inventory of all the supplies coming in from the raids, raised on the farms, and imported from Driston. He calculated values for everything and cataloged what Sir Drane allotted to his men as compensation for their duties. As the weeks went by, Phel used his interactions at the mansion to learn to read and write the Driston warrior language, which was used in secret communications and official documents. Phel secretly read messages sent back to the land of Driston to practice his new skills. He was careful not to get caught.
The massive human that was Sir Drane squashed most daily humiliation by his appointment to household steward. Phel now had a place in Drane’s home as an honored pet. Still a prisoner but now a useful slave, the once-humiliated knight was no longer mocked as openly or as often in the streets. Phel still avoided meeting the little girl in the pink dress, though; she had a way of verbally reminding him of his inferiority.
The warriors of Driston did less raiding in the winter months and instead used the time to train. The clash of sharp swords and fierce axes against one another and wooden targets resounded around the center of the village. The warrior training took many forms, but the most common was a frequent large-group gathering in the public area in front of the stone manor. Warriors fenced off against one or more foes to impress combat skill into one another. All sorts of weapons sprawled along tables around the designated fighting areas. To Phel, who was familiar with the more regimented training of the Sonz, the Driston training techniques seemed discombobulated and ineffective, but he watched these warriors fight and forced himself to try and learn their secrets. Slowly, like learning a new language, he saw rhythm and pecking order in the madness. A few rules stood out as he watched the men and women fighting one another:
1. You never killed or mangled a fellow warrior in training enough to make them ineffective in battle, or else you were beaten to a pulp by the others.
2. You trained to master only one weapon and become proficient with the others. This weapon was your art form.
3. You deferred to those more highly trained than you until you proved yourself the more masterful.
Spring came around, and the warriors trained less and less. They went out on raids more often. One afternoon Sir Drane was out in the yard, barking orders at his burly, ponytailed blacksmith. The training tables were weighed down by weapons. No one else was in the yard. Phel, struck by curiosity, picked a sword up to see how the odd curved weapon felt. It handled well in his hands, which were strong from the many hours of lifting and hauling shit buckets. His hands tensed on the wooden handle of the simple practice blade, and he felt a surging desire to wield a weapon again. It had been months since he had touched one. While no one watched, he swung it at an invisible opponent. He looked around before continuing; as part of his slavery, he was not allowed to touch any weapon—it was death to touch a blade. But Drane was discussing weapon repairs inside the blacksmith barn, so he continued. He closed his eyes and gripped the blade tighter, lost in the movement—the dance of death. It felt so good to hold the sword and remember his training. He lost himself to his memories of the previous years of training as a Sonz knight, daydreaming and swinging the sword. He did not notice Drane walk over and watch.
“Do you want to die, you Sonz pig?” Drane drawled through his hairy face. The man spat his typical tobacco chew, its black wetness splashing on the stone pavers. Phel froze in fear. He had broken the law. He was a dead man. His first reaction was to defend himself and fight. But an urge of desire rushed through his being, and he declared, “I want to train to be a Driston warrior.” The words spilled out before he could fall on the ground and beg forgiveness.
The Creator watched over Phel in that moment, because Sir Drane picked up a sword and said, “You will never master our ways, but I certainly can use a practice dummy while the men are out raiding or inside repairing weapons.” The grizzly face smiled very broadly, a black tooth centered in his mouth. “I am stuck here today, so…”
That one day changed everything. Two days later, Phel’s practice wounds stopped bleeding temporarily as he timidly applied an herb poultice.
“By the Creator, what happened to you?” Cledwyn asked as he tossed the mud-and-blood-caked rags bandages into the fire.
“Drane beat me badly.”
“I can see that.”
“He said I can train with the warriors.”
“It looks like he tied you to a pole and pounded every bit of your body with a club.”
“I am a practice dummy.” Phel smirked painfully. “I am allowed to hold weapons again, Cled.”
Over the next few weeks, Phel split his time tallying numbers as steward and taking beatings as the low man on the training totem hierarchy. He was broken and sore, too uncomfortable to sleep most nights, but getting stronger and quicker and more adept. He had loved the sword and favored it when training with the Sonz, so he chose the sword as his art form during the training duals. He relearned how to fight to keep himself alive against the Driston warriors’ brutal assaults.
“Swing—show me a sword form of the Sonz. I’ve been much baffled by the long flat sword your kind favors.”
“It shall be done.” Phel picked up a double-edged straight blade. His feet spread out; he balanced the blade on his palm and attacked directly, swinging the sword above his head. Drane’s axes rose to parry the attack. Phel transitioned in midstep, dancing in a circle and striking like lightning. The sword swept under the defensive axes; Phel hit Drane’s left leg with the flat side of the blade. Thud. The bear’s feet gave out from under him. Drane toppled.
Phel stood at attention. Drane dusted himself off, growled, and then laughed. “Yes, show me that form. By the art, you dogs have some sinister tricks up your sleeves.”
“The essence of the form begins with a feint,” Phel lectured. The two went over the form. Drane was a fast learner. The two sparred into the evening.
“Dog, join me at table tonight.”
Phel panted, “Upgraded me from a pig?”
Drane also panted, “We have more to discuss.”
“You mean you have more you want to steal.”
“Don’t push it.”
Phel could not believe the miracle. He had been invited to the table of Sir Drane. The manor dining room was warmed by a massive log fire. They broke bread, dipping it into a mulled rabbit stew, and an unlikely friendship formed. Meals have a way of bringing cultures together. This was the first of many such meals.
“Drane, why do you eat with the scum of the earth?” Jillian asked as she entered the room, discussing strategy with a fellow female warrior named Felina. Felina’s scalp was shaved on the right side. Her raven-black hair hung in a braid on her left side. She nodded agreement with Jillian’s analysis of the situation.
“Bastard knight,” Felina mumbled.
“Leave him be, ladies,” Drane barked between chunks of bread. “I’m celebrating my loss in combat to our Sonz dog. He has showed me a new sword form today.”
“We will eat in the kitchen tonight.” Jillian and Felina stomped past them.
“What is your name, dog?” Drane asked.
“Phel.” The ale was getting to him. A lightheaded sensation made him drop his normal guard.
“And from where does Phel dog hail?”
“I was born a ca
rpenter’s son, in the poor district of the capital of Alexoria.”
“Well met. A carpenter’s son has taught the warrior something.”
“Well met, Sir Drane. To your legend.”
“May it ever grow.” Drane and Phel drank deeply of the ale.
Hours later, Phel walked out the front door glad. Something had changed for the better.
“Sonz scum. Pour me more ale.” A gaggle of warriors on the porch beckoned him. Ale dripped down their drunken chins and smoke issued from large rolls of tobacco in their hands.
“No,” Phel answered, still confident from his dinning with Drane.
“What?” The warriors advanced on Phel. He attempted to slip past them, but they blocked his path. They spat on him and kicked him to the ground.
A door slammed behind them, shaking its frame as it burst open. “Enough. Let him pass,” Drane’s growl warned. The warriors withdrew.
That night Phel watched the arcing moon as it passed over his head as he strolled through Waver Town. “By the light of the moon,” he whispered, a drunken peace filling him. For the first time in months, he felt at ease with himself. He continued to watch the moon between the gaps in the thatched barn roof above his bunk. He still believed in much of the Sonz way and in his Creator, but now he also believed there was some validity to the Moonz way of life. He was taking on more and more of the Driston warrior way.
Chapter 18
Lab Coats
Quarter 1, Day 9
“Nnect” flashed across the 3D projection image screen again and again. David rubbed his brand arm habitually, sighed contently, and dwelled on his wonderful blue-blooded inheritance.
“May the power of my company infuse me with energy this day,” David prayed fervently. The Nnect logo was an assurance, a lifeline. David stared at it blankly, mesmerized by the changing reflection of the blue digital letters that marched down his bare arm. Squeezing his arm muscles tightly made the blue-patterned skin dance in a similar pattern to the letters on the screen. He smiled as pleasure and comfort trickled through him from his brand input.
“Nnect means to connect,” David whispered. He pondered this as he sat stiffly, waiting for instructions that would change his life forever. David had been summoned by the CEO’s office. The flashy lounge he now sat in was at the special assignments corporate sector of the Nnect campus. Nnect means to connect, he thought again.
“You’re a damn effective corporate puppet,” his manager had whined jealously as David had left his cubicle that morning. “I love pulling your task strings. Too bad I’m losing you for an undisclosed time.”
“Not my choice, boss, but thanks for the encouragement.” David had replied, smiling at the compliment. Praise affirmed his identity.
David waited in the lobby. His fingers moved rebelliously away from the comforting touch of the brand to his right arm. “By the stock! Why can’t I remove this atrocity?” David had kept the illegal armband hidden from sight under a long sleeve for days. “Thank the stock we only have to keep our left arm bare.” The armband looked exactly like the CEOs’ bands. It frightened him; he wondered if the pending call to come speak to the CEO meant that the managers knew of his sin.
Touching the invasive band turned his thoughts negative. I am a poor connector. I am only mediocre at work. David thought about the many poor connections he had in his life. “Connection?” he murmured. To combat the growing weed of internal fruitlessness, he said unconvincingly, “Screw human connections. Life is for saving and not wasting time.” Nevertheless, he hurriedly tried to compose a mental list of the most fulfilling connections he had with others. The list was incredibly short.
Nnect means to connect.
He thought about his current storage unit neighbors; the faces of Uriah, the snake, Joston, the whining neighbor, Mary, the gorgeous apartment HR specialist, and others flashed in his mind’s eye. Uriah filled him with disgust. He was a worthless Spender. Joston was nice but nothing to take time to get to know. Women like Mary, the HR receptionist at his suite, kept him up at night, oftentimes wasting valuable sleep. He was too terrified to talk much to her.
“Convenience, it seems, is the key to connection,” he mused. He didn’t know many human-doings outside of his work and commute.
No satisfaction or rush of excitement came from the brand on his arm when he thought about his experiences with his storage mates. The most talkative person in his storage unit was Uriah, but he filled David with…“It’s as if the guy doesn’t even know I hate him.” He had shamed David with the Bathsheba incident. David’s brand emphasized the internal feeling of rage with a justified sense of self-righteous piety that grew as he noted how much more productive he was then that waste of a stock number. He shifted his thoughts from the internal rant about Uriah back to the matter at hand.
“Nnect means to connect,” the display in front of him intoned in a repeating commercial. Perfect human relationships were displayed on the screen, with manufactured faces of smiling and confident free people holding hands and running through some paradise park, probably in Freedom Purview.
nnect means to connect.
He considered his coworkers, Dan, Joe, May, Kendra, Ella, and others. He filtered through the short list of work associates that he interacted with on a daily basis. He was good at doing with them but not much else. “Well, work is life after all,” but still the pictures on the screen in front of him seemed more life giving than his work relationships. David tried as hard as he could to recall something about their personal lives—where they lived or what they liked to buy or something. Nothing came to his mind. He thought about all the successful projects they’d worked on together, such projects as Phones 101, graphic communication, and workout texters. Also, they had each shared in team-building huddles that they all wanted to earn enough to buy themselves. It was a unifying bond, right? Wasn’t it enough to satisfy him?
nnect means to connect.
He considered Meagan and Justin, the Storyworld and Adrenaline Junkie club presidents. He loved clubbing and shared a deep interweb connection with other clubbers. His profile like proved this. He continued to experience many online connection moments because of his clubbing. His profile image was filled with memories and selfie snaps from clubbing: bonding experiences. Wasn’t his passion for shared entertainment and his love for stories a substantial bond? Wasn’t this enough to placate and build him up? Something seemed to be missing.
Gayle. He thought for a moment about his most successful work endeavor. If I am honest with myself, Gayle is not completely pleased with the whole setup, but relationships were meant to grow into something great. That is what Mindmonks say. He hoped.
She had gone along with the poster-couple twist only because it meant she would not be thrown in rehab. She should be delighted with me, David thought as he stared at his image in the mirrorlike marble tiles. But she was only biding her time, he knew. Regardless of her feelings, he would not let her selfish temperament ruin their great success. “Damn that product and her pretty face,” David huffed to no one. David tried to force a smile. Guilt continued to gnaw at him.
Selfie’s voice shouted into the silence, making David start. “You’ve got to stop dwelling on stupid heartache and remember the number of freedoms you’ve got piled up. You’re missing the whole point of a productive relationship.”
David hopped backward off the lobby cushion, hitting his head hard on a shelf, startled at the sudden invasion into his personal space. He glanced around to see where Selfie was projecting itself from. David was not at his storage unit or at his office desk, so where was Selfie coming from? David did not have his cellular communication device, but he remembered…He said, “Who gave you permission to invade my personal life, Selfie? By the stock, who left you activated on my pen? I am mentally preparing for an interview of sorts.”
“I belong in all moments. Ever hear of omnipotence? Imagine me with you everywhere, my nondescript doppelgänger,” Selfie said from the Nnect-issued p
en that nestled in David’s jacket’s chest pocket. “It’s the Nnect default on your pen device. I’m turned on always.” The voice added with full disclosure, in a tone that sounded similar to the rushed clarifications after a long infomercial, “Unless you manually override this default setting, which is practically illegal, of course. The Selfie perfection team came up with that ingenious idea.” Selfie laughed to itself and displayed a figure with David’s freedom count on the virtual 3D projection before David could manually switch off the pen. David smiled. “Point made, Selfie. I will look at the positive side. Now go away—I am waiting for a new assignment.”
Gayle was the key had that unlocked this amazing work ascension. The reason he was floating in this chair, about to start his second special assignment. He was so nervous as he looked at the empty room around him. His stomach was knotted in anticipation, like tightly packed wads of paper being crushed by steel garbage disposal machines.
“Task at hand, Twenty-Three.” He calmed himself down by trying to think rationally. He assumed he would meet the task force of talented individuals who had competed against his group of RITE Upstarts. What a success this personal relationship endeavor has been, he thought. PPRE was successfully stealing back some of the market share from the highly addictive physical contact contracts that Orns sold. David was glad PPRE was helping the world by allowing safe human interactions and maintaining the physical safety right clause of every employee. It was pure genius. CEO Saul said so himself, and that was the greatest compliment David had ever earned. He felt a tingle of self-rewarding pleasure fill his being, emanating softly from his brand’s epicenter. He smiled, a goofy drugged expression on his face. Up the ladder. Gratitude was an important attitude for his mental health.
A Tale Of Doings Page 21