Ascension Page 3

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, finally dripping from the tip of his nose onto his finger. He slid open the chilling drawer under his desk and pulled the cold bottle from it. He took a deep drink, reveling in the liquid coursing through his body, refreshing every last inch.

  Halgren took a hard look at the bottle, condensation already forming on its surface. He glanced from the bottle to the shard still on his desk and back to the bottle again. A smile crookedly twisted its way across his face followed by a subtle chuckle. Self-defense.

  He reached across his desk and held the com button down. “Culligan, this is Halgren, location check.”

  He released the button and waited a moment. “Culligan reporting, sir. I’m at the arena.”

  “Have all the residents reported back from their stations?”

  “I don’t know that, sir. I can find out.”

  Halgren rolled his eyes. “That’s not necessary, Private. Is Armay in the arena?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m looking right at him, with his son, like always.”

  “It’s damn hot out there, Culligan. Think those kids would like a treat?”

  “If it’s cold, I think you could give them piss and they’d drink it.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Halgren pushed from his desk and approached the safe on his back wall. A few punches on the console and a hand scan gained him access. Inside were various personal items, but those weren’t what he was looking for. He carefully removed his effects and reached for the black box in the back.

  Opening it, he searched the contents. Cash money, false identification documents, a small hand gun, and… the vial. If the cash and the fake IDs couldn’t get someone out of there before an enemy caught up to them, the vial would do the trick. Drink its contents and they’d fall asleep and never wake up. Drink just a little, and they’d be in the infirmary with one hell of a hangover.

  He didn’t need to kill Armay, but he needed to separate him from his son. A symbolic drink to bury the hatchet on a cold day might do the trick, assuming Armay didn’t see through the ruse. Why would he? Armay vastly underestimated him. Without Armay standing over Oryan’s shoulder, it created an opening and an alibi.

  “Self-defense,” he muttered behind his grin as he slipped the vial in his pocket and tucked the rest of the contents back into the safe.

  ***

  When Oryan opened his eyes, there was no sunlight to greet him. Only the slightly lighter shade of gray outside told him dawn was indeed approaching. If the morning horn had sounded, he missed it. He glanced across his room to the place where his father slept. As usual, Armay had risen first.

  “Do you ever sleep?” Oryan asked, still feeling the peace of the night before.

  There was no answer. Oryan was not alarmed, but as he listened for any noises that would indicate he wasn’t alone, he became painfully aware that the only thing he could hear was the steady drumming of the rain. He got up, not bothering to put on his shirt, and headed to the only other room in the house. It, too, was empty. The morning horn split the silence, and Oryan jumped at the sound he was so accustomed to.

  “Dad?” he said, feeling the peace in his heart vanish—replaced by an icy fear that gripped him like nothing he had felt before. In twelve years, Armay had always been there.

  “Dad?” he spoke again, this time a bit louder.

  There was a shuffle from outside, and Oryan’s heart lifted slightly. He looked up and saw not his father, but one of the guards. Oryan recognized him immediately. Several years earlier, there had been a small riot amongst the slaves at the gates. The guards rushed in to regain control, and one was badly injured. Calmly, Armay had waded into the chaos, retrieved the guard’s broken body, and taken him to safety. From that day on, he treated both Oryan and Armay with favoritism that bordered on affection.

  “Your dad’s at the infirmary,” Culligan said, raising a hand to answer the question in Oryan’s eyes. “He’s fine. He must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him. He called for the medic late last night and was sent to the infirmary for observation. I just left there. He said to tell you he’ll be home when you get back from detail.”

  Oryan’s heart left his throat, but the uneasiness remained strong in his chest. Armay was all right—that should have alleviated the stress. Yet, the anxiety permeated him, like the steady rain pooling on the ground as quickly as it was falling from the sky.

  As he left his home, Culligan tried to strike up a conversation, but aside from courteous acknowledgements, Oryan said nothing. He could not even remember saying goodbye when they parted ways at the kitchen.

  Oryan got into the line for food, even though he was uncharacteristically not hungry. This added more discomfort to the already heavy weight on his heart, but just as he felt he might leave and go to the infirmary to see Armay, two friendly faces picked him out of the line.

  “You’re here late,” Willy said with a mouthful of food and a tray in his hands.

  The look of his friend, cheeks stuffed like a squirrel, made the pall vanish for a moment. “Couldn’t wait to sit down?” he chided as Willy stuffed even more food in his mouth.

  Willy tried to swallow and reply in kind, but even after three attempts, there was still an excess of food in his mouth.

  “He never can.” VanSkiver shook his head and sat down at the table closest to them.

  Willy, his mouth finally free of food, looked around Oryan as if he had lost something. “Where’s your Pop?” he asked.

  “Infirmary. Apparently, he got sick last night and didn’t want to wake me. I didn’t even know until this morning.”

  “You’re lucky,” Willy remarked as he overstuffed his cheek with food yet again. “Last time my mom was sick, she tried to tough it out. Puked all night long. Just the noise made me want to hurl.”

  The three of them laughed and continued their banter. They knew the horns would sound and herd them off to the trains, so they made the most of it.

  A taller, dark-headed boy with two of his friends walked toward them from the other side of the kitchen. VanSkiver noticed them coming, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. “Great, another ray of sun from an already beautiful day!”

  “That’s a good one!” Willy smiled.

  “I heard my dad say that once about my mom. It was a rough few days afterward.”

  Oryan saw the older boys coming. Maybe because he felt Oryan was there and would protect him, VanSkiver decided to start something he couldn’t hope to finish.

  “I didn’t realize they let the losers in this early.”

  “I see the freaks and the rejects all sit at the same table,” the dark-haired boy said as he shoved the back of Willy’s head.

  “Yes, I believe the asshole table is over there. Did you get lost?” VanSkiver fired back.

  “Watch your mouth, dick, or you’ll be wearing what’s left of your food.”

  “Still picking on the twelve year olds?” Willy came to VanSkiver’s defense. “Did you get tired of losing to the girls your own age?”

  The older boy’s eyes flashed red. The older boys picked on Oryan’s friends, but they didn’t dare make fun of him directly. He had blackened too many eyes and bruised too many egos for a direct assault.

  Oryan’s heightened senses heard even the slightest rustle of clothing. He could even hear the remnants of the older boy’s recent cold in each breath he took. Oryan took particular notice of his hands. He watched for any sign that they might start swinging.

  “Maybe next time, you should step up a level or two in the age brackets so you can see what I can do to a twelve-year-old.”

  Normally, Oryan remained quiet. His presence usually kept anything serious from happening, and he didn’t need any more attention than he already had, but this morning was different. Not having Armay there had already put him on edge. This was the only push he needed. The tension broke free, and he was out of his seat and over the table. He was a good head shorter than the other boy, who knew exactly what O
ryan was capable of.

  The instigator backed up a few paces before holding his ground. Fear flashed through his eyes, and he tried to cover it with bravado.

  “Why don’t we find out right now?” Oryan growled menacingly. With a quick glance at one of the other boys, he continued, “Or are you still too busy licking your wounds from last time?”

  The boy, anxious to avoid confrontation with Oryan, looked at Willy, who was standing at the table, wide-eyed. “We’ll talk again when you don’t have your dog here to defend you.” He looked back at Oryan who was still bristling with an untapped ferocity, looking for an excuse to be set free.

  The older boy nodded, acknowledging the threat, but continued to cover his fear. He backed away from Oryan. After a dozen paces, he turned on his heels, and they left the kitchen.

  For the first time, Oryan noticed Bridger not far off. Bridger was rarely here with them as his duty station took him out of the Quarter during the early morning hours. His dark eyes bent even more menacingly at Oryan. What unnerved Oryan most was that he stood completely still and completely silent. His hands were behind his back, and, without actually doing so, he seemed to be smiling the smile of someone who was hiding something.

  Oryan’s rage subsided, but the terrible sense of dread took its place.

  Willy and VanSkiver were now at his shoulders, smiling and patting him on the back.

  “That was brilliant!” Willy laughed.

  “Did you see them tuck their tails and run?” VanSkiver added.

  Oryan exhaled the fire out of his lungs. He closed his eyes and tried to slow the blood pumping through his veins. Armay taught him how to control emotional extremes, but this was so much more.

  When he opened his eyes to the rising sun, Willy and VanSkiver were urging him toward the door. The work detail horn sounded.

  He passed the aging concrete homes that lined the narrow streets. There was no color, save that of faded gray kissed with silver steel. Past the houses rose a line of tall, mostly bare trees which separated them from watchtowers filled with snipers who monitored his world constantly. Most days, he barely noticed. Today, he soaked in every detail.

  The break in the rain was short-lived. A streak of lightning lit up the sky, and the thunder boomed as a light rain began to fall. The cold water greeted Oryan’s face, cooling his fevered temper. The anxiety retreated, his shoulders dropped, and a slight smile slid across his lips.

  The peace was sadly momentary. With each step closer to his gate, the uncertainty returned. From the corner of his eye he noticed the scanner bulb glow red, indicating that a worker was headed through the wrong gate.

  Oryan looked to the guards on his left as they disappeared behind him. They were oblivious to the breach. Fifty feet in front of him, he could see the train station platform. A humid fog rose from the soaking ground, making the familiar structure ominous in the distance. He could see nothing suspicious, yet the fear closed in on him again. His eyes darted this way and that, sweat mingling with the cold rain.

  He left the perimeter fence, leaving the drab black and white world, yet it seemed that the outside world was more colorless than the one behind.

  Then, it happened.

  The sky unleashed its fury, and heavy sheets of rain began to fall. He could hear the torrent on each inch of ground except directly behind him where something was blocking it. Something large and fast was moving straight at him.

  Fear had been new; in a controlled environment, he felt only the anticipation of a fight. This, however, was true combat, and his instincts took over.

  His weight shifted to one foot as he pivoted hard to face his adversary. They would collide in less than a second, and he rotated his torso, avoiding the lunge and thrusting his fist soundly into the boy’s temple. His attacker’s head snapped sideways, the eyes going dull and the body limp as it splashed onto the muddy ground.

  The guards, desperately trying to reach the skirmish, were blocked by the stunned crowd still packed in for work detail. The torrential rain drowned out their shouts, giving the impression that even the elements wanted this fight to happen.

  The next attack was equally predictable to Oryan. From his left, the second boy came in. He was more cautious than the first, stopping short of his target, and threw all his strength into a single punch.

  Oryan let the boy’s fist slide past his face. He grabbed the boy’s wrist, rotated hard, and secured the arm near the shoulder with the other hand. He used the poorly aimed punch’s momentum to throw his victim over his shoulder and to the ground. He landed a swift elbow that sent the boy into unconsciousness.

  The third attack was a surprise. As Oryan stood, a flash of metal slashed through the rain and opened his chest. It was a long, deep wound that left its mark from shoulder to stomach. It stung, but he ignored it. Though the rain diluted the blood, his clothes ran dark crimson. The edge of the weapon was dull, probably hand-made. Like the clothing, Oryan’s flesh was ragged and frayed.

  His heart went cold. All the lessons of dignity and honor vanished in a flash of steel and blood. He no longer cared about mercy or forbearance. For the first time in his life, he only wanted revenge.

  As the second blow bore down on him, the guards’ horns and the clamoring people faded into silence. He stepped aside again, dodging the thrust coming for his chest. His grip was like a vice on the hand carrying the shard.

  For the first time, he realized who it was.

  Oryan’s anger burned hotter when fueled by his need for absolution. Bridger dropped the weapon and shrieked as Oryan broke the bones in his hand.

  Moving incredibly fast, Oryan spun into the blow and across the inside of Bridger’s arm. With a sickening twist and a strike from beneath, his enemy’s elbow shattered, and his shoulder was removed from its socket.

  Oryan’s boot came down with a crunch on the front of Bridger’s knee, snapping tendon, bone, and muscle, leaving the boy screaming in the mud. With his other hand, he found the weapon Bridger cut him with. He kneeled over him, pressing the crudely sharpened edge to his throat.

  There was a dragon lurking in Oryan’s heart. It was vicious and violent with a fury that would consume even the host. The dragon uncoiled and bristled as it was poised to tear loose. He could kill this boy now, but something unseen and unaccounted for held him back.

  Bridger was crying, looking at the unnatural angle of his leg, but his history of unwarranted violence toward Oryan soothed any feelings of guilt he might have entertained. Seconds ticked agonizingly by as Oryan’s quivering hand stayed at Bridger’s throat.

  Hands gripped his shoulders and more grabbed his waist as the guards finally arrived. He released Bridger’s arm, but his grip tightened around the blade as a third guard tried to pry his fingers loose.

  “Easy, son. It’s over. It’s over!” a voice whispered in his ear, drowning out the rain and the racing of his heart. “It’s over!” The voice was far away, but it was familiar and comforting. The dragon retreated, coiling into the recesses of his heart, and Oryan noticed the first twinge of pain.

  The sound of the chilling screams faded as the third attacker slipped into unconsciousness. Culligan whispered in Oryan’s ear. There was a look of concern mingled with shock in his eyes.

  The rage was gone, replaced by the shock of what he’d done. Oryan’s heart raced and longed to hear his father’s voice, but only the rain echoed in his ears.

  The guards were already forcing the crowd back into lines and onto the train platform. There was a dull murmur rising as the slaves whispered amongst themselves the details of what they witnessed.

  One man was at ease, completely apathetic to the violence of a younger boy discarding three older ones with proficiency and skill. The only thing better than watching it was knowing luck had nothing to do with his victory.

  Where Oryan saw only gloom, the Captain of the Guard saw an opportunity. Where guards saw a bad situation made worse, this man saw talent. Where onlookers saw bloodshed and violence, he
saw potential for profit.

  From Slavery to Bondage

  Oryan ran his fingers across the mended wound on his chest. As he traced the cut, it felt very professionally tended. He could feel the many small metal staples that held it closed as well as the surgical glue that acted as both a sterilizer and an extra mending agent. There was no smell of burnt flesh in the Quarter. All this was too curious.

  He was in a room unlike any he’d seen. Everything was a pristine shade of bright white. The smell of cleaners burned his nostrils. There were no windows. Oryan basked in the feel of controlled temperature.

  He sat up, the clean white sheet sliding from his body. The mattress was thin under his palm. A gown covered his front and back and tied at the sides. Goose bumps rose across his exposed skin.

  Oryan had heard of places like this. They were infirmaries but called something else. Armay had described them more than once and the care they had given to his wounded men when he was a general. Oryan thought them a place of fantasy, like many Armay described. To be in one made Oryan feel he had slipped into a dream.

  Voices floated through the door that snapped Oryan back from the euphoria of such a new experience. What had happened? How had he come here? He could remember the fight, being cut open and defending himself. He recalled grabbing the knife and wanting so badly to…

  He shivered from the cool air. The dragon stirred, but Oryan forced the memories down so it couldn’t breathe fire. Still, there had been something almost…liberating about it.

  Once he settled his brain, he began to understand the conversation outside. His heart raced as the conversation unfolded. They were talking about…him! He was sure of it.

  “Yes, I know you have paid good money for this one, but the hospital can only make so many exceptions; I can only make so many exceptions. Do you know what would happen to this place if they found out we were sheltering and giving this kind of care to slaves?”