The wall, p.8
The Wall, page 8
His father is short, so is his hair, which tells me he might be a tad anti-establishment. Most Lazurite men proudly flaunt their locks. He approaches me and holds out his hand proudly. “Welcome home son.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Sir?” He looks perplexed.
I screwed up already.
“Since when do you call me sir?” he responds, sounding offended.
I try to replicate Amos’s mannerisms. I tap my chin with my left index finger. “Military habit father.” He shrugs it off, but Amos’s brother not so much. He examines me up and down, my soul. I tug on my earlobe as Amos would, but I’m pretty sure I look awkward as I think I’m overdoing it. Just settle down.
“Brother,” he says coldly.
“Daniel,” I say with a smile and shake his hand. Did I see him twitch? His grip is harder than it needs to be for such an occasion.
“You really going to try your hand at the Canonization?” he asks like I’m a fool.
“Yes,” I reply simply, trying not to say too much.
“Never knew you had a death wish.”
“I think I have a fair chance.”
He guffaws. “Everyone here may be gob smacked by your latest accomplishments, but you’re still the little brat whose nose I used to bloody.”
“I remember,” I lie.
“She’s not that pretty.” He rolls his eyes, referring to the prize, Sarai.
Yes she is, fool.
Amos’s mother grabs my hands. “Your brother is right Amos, we thought you were dead once, don’t waltz into certain death. Be satisfied with what you are.”
I don’t respond. I just want this conversation to end before I get trapped into saying something that isn’t true.
“Please,” she begs. “I can’t mourn you again.”
I need to talk like them, act like them. “If you will excuse me, I’m proper knackered from my trip, I must rest now.”
His father looks irritated. “Surely you’ll come for tea?”
“Another time,” I lie.
Amos’s brother eyes me suspiciously as I’m escorted into a military Jeep bound for orientation. Perhaps he is right. Maybe I do have a death wish. What chance does an untrained Dreck from The Middle have? I feign optimism, and it helps. Would Cephas have really sent me if he didn’t believe I had a chance? Or is this a last chance ploy from a desperate old man?
Damn. His name is Derrick. Not Daniel.
My parents’ executioner paces in the middle of the massive coliseum, his hands folded behind his back. The sun bounces off his shiny head. “Welcome to the last Canonization of the century,” Renatus bellows. “As you well know, this year’s winner will not only lead my third army, but they will have the privilege of taking my daughter’s hand in marriage.” I wince at the thought. It takes everything I have not to fling my ricochet at his exposed jugular. But what good would it do? He would head back to The Mountain, and I would be executed.
In the middle of the coliseum juts two massive towers. Each are over twenty stories high, both painted gold and made of steel. Renatus pans the crowd of about a hundred hopefuls, mostly soldiers trained from birth, but some intellectuals, some hopefuls, others just dreamers. I am somewhere in the middle.
“Behind me stands Sophocles’ Towers,” he explains. Sophocles? I wonder if he means The Riddle of the Sphinx in Oedipus Rex, written by Sophocles. My interest is piqued.
Renatus turns on his heel and crisply marches towards the towers. “Inside you will find a bounteous amount of challenges, puzzles, feats of strength. Your body and your intellect will be tested. The man who is to lead my armies and take my only daughter as his bride must prove his intelligence along with his fortitude. Brute strength will only get you so far. Is it one of you?”
My challengers size up one another. Next to me is a kid no older than nineteen. His hands and legs shake. Anxious eyes border on terror; it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here. I hold out my hand, “I’m Amos.”
He turns to me, his soft, trembling, hand barely clasps mine, “I’m . . . my name . . . my name is Kenan, I . . . I know who you are,” he stutters. He has the body of an accountant or a politician, not a warrior. I wonder if his stutter is spawned from fear or if he suffers from a speech impediment. His thick black hair is shorter than most, which could just be preference, or it could be a small silent gesture of defiance against Zion’s tyranny. Either way, the boy has, no doubt, been forced into this by his parents. I turn back to the towers and wonder what kind of demented game awaits us inside. Renatus loves the sport of it all, so it is probably his design, it usually is. Months and outrageous sums of money are spent planning and preparing for this event. Soon thousands will be seated in these stands watching us battle for our lives. It is Rome all over again.
You can’t help but give Renatus your full attention, his cadence is soothing, his words inviting, his gestures charismatic. Most evil is veiled under such traits.
“What if no one wins?” a young soldier from the crowd yells out.
Renatus paces and nods. “Interesting question young man. Have you forgotten this is Zion! You are Lazurites! That kind of pessimistic thinking isn’t what made us great. I can already tell by your question that you have no chance. So, I will do you a favor and spare you. You may leave soldier.”
He just sits there confused as if Renatus is joking.
“Leave!”
He finally does. And although he probably wouldn’t have survived, I feel bad for the kid who must face his parents and explain why he was ousted, shaming his family.
The Lazurite way.
Well, one down.
“For the one cunning enough to survive Sophocles’ Tower and its mystery, you will face one last crucible, a final audition if you will.” Renatus purses his lips and feigns a long pause for effect. You can tell he has been waiting for this moment for some time. Concrete doors lethargically slide open. The feint sound of drums can be heard from somewhere inside the dark walls. I feel as if something terrible is about to be unleashed. Kenan’s legs shake uncontrollably as he senses it too. Renatus makes no attempt to hide his jubilance. From the open doors emerges a mountain of a man. His legs like redwood trees. His arms like concrete pillars. He is seven foot one. He is dashing and stalwart. His blond hair long like Samson. His eyes a lake of fire, his breath like brimstone. He is the harbinger of death. The usher of pain. A chaperon of destruction. His resume of slaughter is unmatched.
He is Legion.
CHAPTER SIX
We nosh at the communal mess hall. The food isn’t great, but it’s better than the dry tasteless bars I’m used to consuming in The Middle. I examine the Lazurites around me. Most have perfect table manners. Gone is the bravado that was displayed at the coliseum before the arrival of Legion. Now some display the quietness of veiled fear. Kenan sits across from me, his eyes in his lap as he slowly eats; it is obvious he is used to much finer fare. He is not a wordy fellow, which for the moment is fine by me, as I too was rattled by Legion. My mind is filled with trepidation as I wonder what I’m doing here? Perhaps I should return to Reservation 9 and go back to peddling contraband for Boaz? Has my uncle really pinned all his hopes on me? How dare he lay such a burden upon my shoulders. My defeat and demise is more than likely in this grotesque competition; it will be the end of The Defiance and with it my father’s legacy. If Silas were alive would he have sent me?
But then thoughts of Sarai flood my mind, and I drown in them. Who would I be if I let her be forced to marry someone else in this room? Some barbarian. Although I doubt she would go along with it, and even if she did surely she would make the poor chaps life miserable. Chap? Listen to me, I’m already sounding like a Lazurite. I set my food aside as the mere thought of it makes me nauseous.
Our orientation was wrapped up by a pudgy administrator with oily olive hair. For the next week we are to live in the bowels of the coliseum where we can train, study, become acclimated to the weapons we will be using along with simulators on what we might find inside the towers. The administrator marches in, I wonder how he keeps his balance, his feet are the size of a child. “Listen up, now would be a good time to choose a bunkmate, tomorrow will be a long day.”
I glance up at Kenan and he just nods. I am relieved as he doesn’t exude that pompous, prideful confidence of most Lazurites. I peer around and notice most have already shrugged off the fear of Legion. They smugly expect to succeed. Those growing up privileged aren’t allowed to experience failure. Suffering is where pride and arrogance go to die. This is where I have the advantage being the only Dreck in the room. Suffering is our birthright.
Two hours later I rest my head on a sliver of cotton that’s disguised as a pillow. The bed is rock hard, the room is four concrete walls with no windows, not as bad as my place back home though. I peer across the room where Kenan lies in his bed, his thin blanket flutters as he appears to be shaking underneath. Is he cold or scared? Most likely both.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“You know who I am. What’s your story mate?”
“My . . . my . . . father . . . he . . . is a senator,” Kenan stutters.
“And you don’t want to be here?” I guess.
He hesitates to answer.
“We’re mates now, you can be honest with me. If I’m being truthful, I almost pissed myself when I saw Legion in the flesh.”
“My father, he . . . he forced me. I’m . . . I’m supposed to make . . . make my family proud. But I’m not brave . . . brave like you, Amos. I’m scared.”
“You would be a fool not to be. I’m scared too, but showing up while afraid is the definition of courage.” I sound like my father. I miss him. I even miss Jude. My uncle? Not yet.
“Do . . . do you think you have a chance?”
“As much as the next guy I suppose. We both do.”
“It’s bloody tosh if you ask me.”
I notice as he gets more comfortable his stutter subsides. And he is correct, it is nonsense, the entire spectacle is. But I’m not here for the glory or the accolades; I’m here for Sarai. For me it’s more than personal, and I’m hoping that gives me the edge. Kenan went on to tell me how his family lost almost everything in the second BitTender crash of 2085 and that their family name is still propped up by the legend of his two brothers who both died fighting Drecks like myself. One of them even won this absurd contest five years ago. His father is sending a sheep to slaughter to bolster the family name. Are all Lazurites as ruthless as Renatus?
I roll over and think about my parents and how they met with Renatus under false pretenses, that they were to enter into peace talks, but once their convoy arrived, they were murdered. My father’s weakness was that he was too trustworthy. Much like me, my mother was the skeptic of the family and had tried to talk Silas out of the meeting. So did my uncle. They were both convinced it was a trap, but my father was convinced it was worth it if it meant there was the slightest chance at peace. Therefore, his sacrifice would not be in vain, he told me. Renatus doesn’t know the meaning of the word sacrifice. If history has taught me anything, without sacrifice there is no peace. Without death there is no penance.
I shake the painful past from my head, like a dog shaking water from its fur, and force myself into the present. Images of Legion submerge my brain. This giant was the most feared and fierce of Zion warriors. He would slay not individuals, but swaths of men in battle. He had no desire for power or wealth, only a blood lust. Rumor has it Legion was orphaned at a young age, fending for himself in Zion’s back alleys, fighting full grown men for money at the age of twelve. Slaying elites at fifteen. Renatus took him under his wing, trained him, honed him into the killing machine he now is. Sent him to school so he could learn to read and write. That he was non-verbal until Renatus acted as his father. Tomorrow I will visit the archives and view old footage of his battles and try to discover a weakness if any. He is Goliath.
I am David without a slingshot.
Cephas watches the yellow sun turn orange as it sets behind the mountain. He is perched atop his favorite rock, his Bible in his lap. By himself with nature is when he feels closest to God. No draggers to be heard or helldusters to be seen. Just the wind at his sore back and the last of the day’s sun upon his leathered face. He is an impatient man who would rather be doing anything else other than waiting. But wait he does for Asher and the Canonization. Waiting on Jude and his techs who are still trying to hack into the exoarmor suit. All in God’s timing he tells his people. He wishes he could heed his own advice. He is beginning to second guess his plan and wonders if it is his or the Almighty’s? Sometimes to tell the difference one had to simply be quiet and wait.
“What are you doing?” Jude sidles up behind him.
“You scared the wits out of me boy! What do you think I’m doing?” Cephas isn’t in the mood for Jude’s sarcasm.
“I don’t know? Talking to yourself again?”
“What do you want Jude?”
Jude holds up the exoarmor suit that Asher had brought them before he left. “Techs think they made a breakthrough.”
Cephas now interested, stands. “Has it been tested?”
“Not yet. I thought you would want to see it, if you’re not too busy watching the grass grow or the sun die.”
“Perhaps you should put it on for the initial trial?” Cephas pushes his tongue deep into his wide wrinkled cheek.
Jude cackles and hangs the exoarmor suit on a branch of a nearby pine tree. “You want the honors?”
Jude hands him a stolen plasma gun and Cephas takes aim.
“Maybe we should pray first?” Jude asserts, sounding serious for the first time today.
“I have been all day,” Cephas responds, then fires the plasma gun. The energy ray hits the middle of the suit dead on. Instead of absorbing the energy, the suit dissolves into lava-hot particles.
“Um . . . I guess it was just a breakthrough in theory,” Jude says, managing a smile.
Cephas peers to the heavens, “Theory isn’t going to win this war.”
“You think Asher is?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the whir of a helidrone. About a hundred yards in front of them. Cephas vaults up and begins to truck towards it.
“Where you going?” Jude asks baffled why Cephas is heading towards the drone.
“The suit!” he mutters back.
Before Cephas can reach the exoarmor suit a five-man Lazurite patrol appears.
“Cephas! Get back here!” Jude wails.
Cephas lumbers on until shots of plasma strike the trees, just missing his head and chest. He finally stops and turns, slogging back up the hill, wishing he would have exercised a bit more as a young man. He fires back at the patrol with his COLT 45, chafed that he is wasting his precious ammo. Jude bounds down the hill, whips out his crossbow, and lays down covering fire, just enough for Cephas to reach him.
“I brought the Jeep,” Jude tells him.
They weave in and out of the trees until they reach the dirt road at the bottom of the other side of the hill where Jude’s Jeep awaits. Plasma shots explode around them as they hop in and Jude fires up the engine. Minutes later they are out of range and in relative safety, although the helidrone is still in the area.
“We lost the suit!” Cephas says irately, wanting more testing to be done.
“Maybe if you ran a bit faster?”
Sleep is a distant memory. We are marched into the middle of the coliseum. Rubbing my eyes, I trudge more than march. It’s 5:30 a.m., and a stubborn morning chill lingers. Breakfast was divine—pancakes, sausage, and biscuits. At least for me and what I’m used to, I wonder what Lazurites usually eat? I heard a few complain that this morning’s grit wasn’t fit for a Dreck. This Dreck had seconds. The dour administrator impatiently taps his foot as we gather nearby.
“Good morning prospects. Today you are free to train and acclimate yourself to any weapons and simulators that you choose.”
Different sections of the arena host a multitude of weapons and targets. Other sections are partitioned off with balance beams and hanging cement boxes that twist and gyrate.
“Just don’t hurt yourself . . . yet,” the administrator says with a wry smile, exposing for the first time his ivory-white teeth.
“What about the towers?” I ask. “May we go inside them?”
“The towers will be locked until the Canonization begins,” the administrator answers. “What’s inside them will be a surprise. With that being said, I suggest you familiarize yourself with our simulators. I will say this, balance and agility will be useful, cognitive acumen a necessity.”
It is obvious that he is completely enjoying the cryptic nature of what he is telling us. The gaggle of hopefuls scatter to different stations. I walk over to the cement box suspended three feet off the ground by a large cable and nod to the operator. He lowers the box and swings the door open. I jump in and close the door behind me. A lone iridescent blue light illuminates cold concrete walls that are stained with blood. Above me, on the ceiling juts out about forty rubber spikes; I have to assume when we enter the real deal they will be steel. That explains the stale blood that streaks the walls. If three cups of coffee doesn’t finally wake me, this will. The box suddenly spins and gyrates. The floor quickly becomes the ceiling. I see that the point is to avoid the points. There is just enough room in between the faux spikes to place my palms; my feet are planted against the wall, the rubber nails inches from my face. The box performs a quick one-eighty, and my feet slide from the wall. I land on the rubber points, bending them over. If this was the real thing I would be dead.
Well, that was a confidence booster.
I exit the box, hiding the defeated look on my face.
“How . . . how was it?” Kenan asks.
“Not bad,” I lie. “Let’s go see what’s at the weapons station.”
We make our way to the western corner where prospects practice with spears, swords, scourges, and yes, to my delight, a ricochet. Kenan eyes the ricochet, “Your weapon of choice?”
