Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) (12 page)

Charley lifted his head to look at Ian. “But we are not Low Scores …”

“Well, it started first with the Low Scores, of course, then there was a movement to begin assigning scores to animal combos. That facilitated the buying and selling of beasts—all driven by the demand the Venatio generated, of course.” Ian paused to whisper an order to one of the many assistants and personal guards who always trailed in his wake. “But, like anything driven by the base desires of man, it soon wasn’t enough. There was more and more demand for the spectacle of the forbidden.”

“People wanted to see High Scores compete in the Venatio,” Charley said.

“Right, and more than that, house leaders wanted to own their own stable of High Scores to compete.”

“
House leaders?
”

“The people with money,” Orson said wryly, still looking at the ceiling.

“Right, money and property. Not many people are physically capable of competing, so owning a physically talented High Score is the next best thing.” Ian crossed his leg over his knee. “Not to mention, it’s what the crowd wants to see. Low Scores, High Scores, humans, animal combos—plus there’s demand for all kinds of props and other theatrics. Sometimes these weird aggressive plants even end up in the Venatio.”

“From the Bramble.”

“Yes.” Ian looked closer at the four of them. “You have some experience with the Bramble. I’m beginning to think this might turn out to be one of the better investments I’ve ever made.” He slapped his knees and stood up. “Well, just don’t disappoint me. Get some rest; I’ll be back later.”

Ian exited the safe house, trailed by a gaggle of people in his employ. Charley leaned back on his cot, processing the new information. Charley thought about the growing bloodlust—it seemed only a matter of time before the fickle crowd demanded house leaders compete in the Venatio for their entertainment. Didn’t Ian worry that he might be next? Charley considered: the danger of living for novelty and spectacle is that eventually everything fails to impress; one always craves something newer, more outrageous.

“Do you think we should ask him about Orson’s father? If he knows where he is or even
who
he is?” Hank asked, rolling over.

“He won’t know,” Orson said.

“Well—”

“But I know who will most definitely know,” Orson interrupted, not bothering to look over.

Charley, Hank, and even Grigor looked at Orson. The ex-commander continued to stare at the ceiling, as if transfixed, his eyes glassy.

“Umm, so are you going to tell us?” Hank pushed.

“Isn’t it obvious? The emperor will know; I guarantee it. Who do you think put him in charge? If we can get to this Emperor Titus, then we can find out where my father is.” Orson laughed bitterly. “We’ll ask him where the czar
is.”

“That’s what they call him—your father?” Charley asked.

“Yes.”

“Maybe he’s already in town?” Hank asked, a determined look on his face.

Orson paused a moment before speaking. “That’s doubtful.”

“He means that if his father were here, he would have come for him by now,” Charley said, watching Orson closely. “Is that right?”

For the first time, Orson looked over, taking renewed interest in his fellow captives. “Very astute, maybe your high Score is for more than just losing your temper and fighting.” He looked back up at the ceiling. “Yes, if my father were here, there’s not a chance four people with scores as high as ours could make it into the city without a personal visit from him, or at least an inquiry into our personal details. He’s very—” Orson unclasped his hands from behind his head and lazily drummed long, slender fingers lightly across his chest—“well, he’s very invested in the status of High Scores. The higher your Score, the more he’s interested.”

“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.

“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.”