Starzel, p.15
Starzel, page 15
My guard, ole droopy eye, snarls through a curled upper lip and tight jaw. Then he looks at the group and says something that they all nod in definitive agreement. All at once they turn and in a single file through the front doors and out of sight.
WHEN DR. PELOSI FINISHED speaking with the last of the emergency team, she and her small dog stood watching as the ambulance doors closed. The ambulance fires up the ignition crystals and the lights flash in a travel cadence. The siren sounds and then the vehicle pulls onto the road and soon vanishes from sight as it rounds the west corner of the school. She turns to face the group of new students.
“Why is there only five of you? Who is missing?”
“I’m here,” I say as I walk over to join the five.
“One hell of a first day, boys. One hell of a fucking day. This virus is spreading around the world and seems to be getting worse by the hour.” She picks up the small black, curly-haired dog and holds it in her right arm, stroking its head with her left. “Except, of course, China tells the world they have it under control. They always lie and can’t be trusted.” Her head nods with a visual demonstration and a certain confirmation of her own words.
“It’s are there,” I interrupt her speech.
“What?” she snarls at me. “What are you saying?” Her head oscillates in negative.
“A moment ago you asked them, ‘Why is there only five of you,’ and I’m explaining to you that you meant to say, ‘Why—are—there only five of you. You understand, of course, ‘is’ would” would be singular and ‘are’ would be the plural. Since there—are—six of us you meant to inquire in the plural.”
With a silent clap of her hands, she holds them tight as she rolls her eyes. When she decided the best next response would be to ignore me. Placing her pet back on the ground, she stands and tosses her hands away to dismiss my comment. “At this time in the indoctrination for you new students, we would normally have introduced you to your potential mistresses and then we would escort you to your rooms inside the dormitory. However, given the chaos and unfortunate events of horrible deaths and general fear of helplessness, I trust each of you can find your way.
“Through those doors,” she points at the double doors where the guards were standing, discussing and conversing several minutes ago. “Down the hall, you will find the rooms. Your name is on the lintel. Dinner is at seven o’clock. Everyone must arrive promptly and on time.” She walks toward the street and down the long walkway, side by side with her dog.
“Can you tell me? I mean, is the plague virus killing women because of what you said on the bus? That we have altered the Universe duality code?” He asks after the other four new students are in their rooms and we stand outside the door to his room.
“The virus seems to attach to the lungs and throat,” I say. “It isn’t gender specific at all. I’m sure just as many men are dying as women. They aren’t going to care about men dying in this country so you’re not getting all the true facts. But genetically there are no differences between the sexes for a virus to target one over the other. The major evolutionary difference in humankind is the development of qualia in some brains. About sixty percent of people have three energy centers located inside their brain which gives them four additional senses. Unfortunate as it is to Earthlings, the very rich and the very powerful are not evolved. They lack qualia. The virus isn’t attacking along these genetic differences either.”
“What do you mean, Earthlings?” his face contorts quizzical.
“Here’s your room,” I say. “We will talk later. I need a shower and I’m tired for now. Okay?”
“Before you shower, can you tell me one thing? How would I know if I’m evolved? How can I tell if I have qualia?” he asks.
“Easy to identify, difficult to give qualia room to grow the three senses. But if you can feel the emotion from the beauty of a flower, or experience the intensity of a brilliant sunset. If you can know the joy and let yourself melt into the comfort of a mattress. You have eight, not five senses.”
After a few steps away from him I hear his door close and the hall feels empty. Quiet, with few artificial lights spaced far apart the sound of my steps in the dark echoes. When I reach the room, I run my fingertips over the engraved lintel. “Eulǝr,” I say aloud as I direct my eye on the cornea reader and the door opens.
__Activate Defense Systems__
__emergency protocols engaged__
The automatic Syganoid system is indicated in my HUD as I enter the room. Two of the indoctrination guards are inside. One grabs my arm and throws me to the floor. Before the first message appears in my HUD display his knee comes down across the back of my neck.
—disengage protocols—
—disengage defense systems—
As I scramble to keep the biomechanical systems hidden, the second guard zip-ties my hands behind my back and then binds my ankles together.
__defence systems deactivated__
__emergency protocols paused__
—disengage protocols—
__would you like to view the diagnostics report__
“Don’t go too tight. They want him undamaged for the event. You know how much he wants to beat him legit and shit. Take it easy.” The guard tells his counterpart as he kneels his entire body weight across the back of my neck.
—no report—
—acknowledge disengage protocols—
__there are Syganoids nearby__
__would you like to communicate with nearby Syganoids__
—yes—
—open communication with nearby Syganoids—
__there are no Syganoids nearby__
“Hogtied is what the man asked for. Get his feet tied to his hands. They won’t allow us into the arena if he ain’t hogtied.” They join in a laugh fest as my feet and hands are bound together. A hood over my head brings blackness and a ballgag sinched tight, a taste of vinegar and chlorine, causing me to drool, unable to swallow my saliva. I’m hoisted upward as one of them on each side of my body takes an arm and a leg.
Perhaps I should have allowed the emergency protocols and executed extreme prejudice. I’m growing more exhausted by the never-ending interruptions to my mission by these humans. I could succeed as a humanoid against these simple people. There is a slight chance of success. But what is wrong with my cybernetics and biomechanics? Would I even be able to trust my systems? I feel fine and I sense no cause for alarm, but now . . . there is evidence of some damage. Did the arresting officer’s blow to my head do some harm?
WHEN HE PULLED THE hood off, my eyes open to see the familiar face of the indoctrination guard. Ole droop eye himself. We’re nose to nose and his contorted face expresses a wide twisted smile from ear to mid-cheek bone. His teeth bent from left to right in a mismatch off two full teeth from bottom to top. “I knew you weren’t right for the School of Romance,” he spits the words through an enthusiastic, near hysteric laughter. “You’re a fighter with huge muscles and a generous frame. Hell, boy. If I were into men, I’d want you to fuck me up the ass. Do you want to fuck me up the ass? Do yuh?”
His massive fingers work at the buckle behind my head to release the ball gag he looks up from his kneeling position over the top of me to speak to the other guards. “Hell, I think he wants to fuck all of us up the ass.”
My jaw aches and sharp pains shoot through my teeth and chin as the gag is plucked out and I try to close my mouth. The six of them laugh and engage in a battle of wits over who would go first in the lineup, and which would enjoy it the most. As their macho banter went on I tried to see the surroundings to get an idea of where they had brought me.
“Listen up, big guy,” he says to me with his face again pressed nose to nose with mine. “I’m going to cut you free and stand you up. You are going to be on your best behavior. But if you decide to go rogue and try to escape. Well, we will eat you alive. Literally, eat you bite for bite and let you watch as we chew every mouthful.”
When I stand and catch my balance, “You will be.”
“Shit no way! What did you just say?” One of the five says to me.
“The man said to me, ‘You are going to be on your best behavior.’ But he meant to say, ‘You will be on your best behavior. It’s impossible and therefore meaningless to say, “You are going to be. One can only be or not so it is correct to say you will be on your best behavior.”
“Fuck this arena bullshit I’m going to kill him right now,” one of the other guards says as the five hold him back away from me. “He’s not worth the wasted words. I’ll take care of him but let me do it in the ring. Where you guys can collect credits and earn off my ratings. Remember we’re just eight thousand points from earning that side of beef. Think bout how long it's been since you tasted real meat.”
As the men get their perspective they form a small circle around me. One of them hands me a container and he says, “Drink this.” Then my indoctrination guard says, “This can go two ways. One, best for you. You take the carton and drink. It’s just protein to give you energy and strength. Nothing else. I promise. I want you healthy and strong when we fight. I want to beat you fair so you’ll know when you take your last breath that it was me that won. Second, which may go bad for all of us. We stuff a tube down your throat and into your belly and we force-feed you. Last time he tried it, the tube punctured the guy's throat and he ended up bleeding to death in the cage.”
“Sure it’s only protein?” I ask.
“Drink it down. All of it,” he says.
“The first fight this evening is some stupid kid on a vengeance quest. It won’t last long,” he says. “Then it’s our turn. When we get in there and the fight starts I’m not going to do anything at all. I’m a gonna stand in the center of dat cage. You get five free punches. Do your best and hit me with everything you got in that massive body and those big arms of yours. But know this. After the fifth time, you bring all that hate and anger through your fist, and if I’m still alive I’m going to beat you to death. In my mind, I see a future where my friends win real food from our war. After this fight, my eleventh in the ring, I’ll get awarded nine and a half thousand credits.” His eyes pierced mine and glowed with certainty and desire.
With the protein drink carton held to my lips, I waited for him to finish talking. Then I poured into my mouth the last of the liquid, saccharin-rich watered-down chocolate chalk drink. Crunched the carton in my hand and licked my lips.
“Not bad at all. I have had one sandwich and a can of Nestea and nothing else all day.” Sharing a glance at all six of them, “Thanks, guys. That hit the spot.”
Through the door at the far side of the damp, concentrated smell from years of sweat and no air circulation room, he pulls me by the arm. Up fifteen concrete stairs, we trek with the other five well-battled men close behind. With every step, we go higher and the sounds from the crowded arena grow louder. At the top of the flight, my eyes are momentarily blinded by the intense white light of many spotlights sweeping through the interior. They reveal the women, some seated and some standing in rows of terraced seats that surround the cage at the center of the arena. Billboards of multiple colored lights display the lineup of scheduled fights and the multiples of odds and payouts. These billboards display data for the spectator's gambling desires. The interior of the building is enormous and the distant seats at the top are visible though the faces are unrecognizable.
“Welcome Ladies!” The raspy voice of a woman announces over the amplified speakers drowning out the crowd. “Misandry Arena is proud to announce we have a sold-out arena for this evening's entertainment. Fifty-eight thousand in attendance and we promise you a brutal and bloody evening of man-on-man war in the cage.” The crowd jumps to their feet and cheers at the announcement. Chanting begins at one side of the arena and spreads to a roar that vibrates the concrete floor under my feet.
“WE HATE MEN . . . WE HATE MEN . . . WE HATE MEN!"
As the tension in the arena reached its peak, a unique sight caught my attention. Seated at the announcer's booth was a rather regal-looking cat, sitting nonchalantly on a plush cushion. The announcer, a stern-looking woman with a headset, affectionately scratched behind the cat's ears between her announcements, as if the feline was her trusted companion.
My gaze then drifted to the audience, and amidst the sea of cheering spectators, I noticed a few people with their loyal canine companions. Some dogs were resting beside their owners, while others couldn't contain their excitement and wagged their tails, barking.
In another section of the stands, a young girl held a small terrier on her lap. The little dog barked, caught up in the tense atmosphere. Its owner, however, looked at me with a worried expression, as if wishing me luck and safety.
THE ANNOUNCER WAITED for the chanting to diminish to a murmuring roar before she continues. “The first war is ready.” The spotlights swing around to illuminate the cage and two intense beams of light shine on each of the first two men standing toe to toe at the center of the cage. I recognize the smaller of the two men. It’s the guy I met in the holding cell after my arrest yesterday morning.
“He wears the sun yellow sandpiper shorts and ‘staying alive’ Bee Gee's t-shirt. His mother had her nose broken by the bully who towers over him wearing bright white cargo shorts, black sketcher hightops, and no shirt.
"Look at his bare chest, shoulders, and the size of those big guns, ladies!” The women scream in a frenzy of enthusiasm and a group in the seats begins a chant that soon, once again, resounds from one end of the arena to the other.
“But wait, ladies. You haven’t heard the worst of it. When the ambulance took his mother to the hospital where she could have her face repaired, she caught the virus. A few hours later she died a brutal coughing death while he held her, helpless in his arms. Tonight he promises to kill in revenge, the man who he says killed his mother!”
While the crowd provides the predictable exuberance I scan the cage. Its imposing presence casts an outline of gloom over the rows of onlookers. The chain-linked fence, with its unyielding bars and intricate mesh, symbolizes my confinement, leaving no room for escape. The cold, unforgiving floor of solid concrete serves as a stark reminder of the harsh reality I'm about to face. Above the circular cage, the glinting razor wire coils like a sinister crown, a menacing barrier that traps me inside and shatters any hope of freedom. Inside the suffocating space, the cage becomes a tangible manifestation of my struggle against time and the continual decline of humanity, a visual representation of the overwhelming odds stacked against me. Every bar, every strand of razor wire, echoes the relentless fight for survival.
“Go on then. Kill that goddamned man!”
The announcer screams the start of the fight. In a flash of lights and the sound of a rumble gong-like crash, the referees exit the cage, and the cage lights go off and then flicker back on again with more luminous intensity. The small guy throws his arms around the big guy and bullrushes him to the edge of the cage. They slam into the fence and bounce off. The small guy lost his balance and falls onto his back. Wasting no time, the big guy kicks the small guy in the ribs. Repeated again and six more times. Then rounds the body to do the same on his other side. When the big guy stops kicking his opponent, he walks to the center of the cage, panting for air, he raises his hands over his head to show the women a champion.
They chant back to him ‘KILL HIM, KILL HIM, KILL HIM!’
After a moment of hesitation, the big guy drops his arms and returns to the still-breathing but otherwise lifeless man, lying on the floor. Settling onto one knee he gathers the little guy up and manhandles him over his left shoulder and then hoists him up as he stands. With the little guy now slung over his shoulder, the big man starts to climb the cage fence. Wedging the toes of his shoes into the narrow gaps of the chain link matrix and three-finger grips he works his way higher and higher up the fence wall.
The women chant, ‘CLIMB, CLIMB, CLIMB . . . When he reaches the top, he pushes and forces the little guy's back into the razor wire.
Pain-filled screams confirm the little guy is still alive. Then the big guy takes a firm grip on the fence with his left hand and digs his shoes in as deep as he can for support. With his right arm free of the climb he lifts the little guy to push him upward. The razor wires cut deeper into the flesh and muscle. Blood rains down as the screams of horrible pain burst from the center of his being. When the little guy's head and right arm popped through the top of the wire, the big guy pushed him away and toward the center of the cage. The blood pours down and his limp body dangles lifeless. The big guy climbs down but before he can reach the bottom, the razor wire cuts through the little guy, under the weight of it and the deep sliced body flops to the cage floor into a pool of his own blood.
“Fucking great war! How about that ladies!” The announcer laughs with excitement over her blaring loudspeakers. She pets her cat as she makes the announcement. “Our cleanup crew has their hands full after that one.” She continues to laugh and adds a couple ‘boo yahs’ in celebration.
The lights grow dim inside the cage. They sweep the audience again as the camera crews and television spokeswomen recreate and discuss what took place in the first fight. The men I thought were referees enter the cage to gather the body and escort the victor out.
“I’ll provide these fine ladies with an even better show once you and I get inside that cage,” he shouts in my ear. The smell of his breath is horrible, a pungent miasma that could wilt even the hardiest of flowers.
“Life has no sacred value to you humans. You’re nothing but barely conscious animals.” I say. The taste of the chocolate chalk drink lingered in my mouth.
While he never stops smiling as he watches the clean-up crew scouring the now-darkened cage, I see the indicator in my HUD glowing in the upper left corner.
—accept the communication—
