The Wall, page 14
As I walk towards my command center to study maps and upcoming attack plans, a wiry man with a flat nose and narrow chin in his thirties approaches.
“Sir Amos?”
“Yes soldier.”
“My name is Darius. I’m a lead scout for reconnaissance.”
“What can I do for you Darius?”
He slowly pulls down the front of his shirt to reveal the smallest of tattoos. I peer at it closely. It is a pelican.
“Cephas sends his regards,” he whispers.
Darius is part of The Defiance and my contact. He sneaked across The Wall two years ago and has integrated himself into Renatus’s army. After I won the Canonization, he asked for a transfer here. He will be my go-between for any communications between me and my uncle. For just a minute I relish my role of prince and commander. Darius reminds me why I’m here.
“Is there anything you have for me?” Darius asks.
“No. Not yet,” I reply.
“Nothing?” A look of skepticism washes over him.
“It’s too early,” I tell him. I’m not yet privy to useful information to pass along. At this point I’m more concerned with gaining the soldier’s trust.
I spend the next week training my soldiers to use guns, spears, swords, knives, clubs. I’m teaching them under the guise that one day The Defiance will have exoarmor.
But I’m really training them to fight against their own army.
My first patrol is two days away. Meanwhile, we have been slurping up every indulgence Zion has to offer. Sarai and I have just returned from fishing off her father’s one-hundred-and-twenty-foot yacht. As we change in our quarters, her chefs prepare our fresh caught tuna and mahi-mahi. She wraps her arms around me, her fingers tracing the humps on my spine.
“Let’s just eat in here tonight,” she says seductively.
“Your father, he is expecting my presence.”
“‘Expecting your presence’? Don’t you sound all regal?” she says in jest. “Next are you going to ask if we should nosh?”
I’m starting to sound like them.
After a small pout, Sarai slips her slender frame into a black glittering dress fit for a princess. I don what I think they call a tuxedo, but with red and gold stripes. I oddly find myself liking our attire as uncomfortable as it is. The gold cuff links, the expensive watch tattooed with diamonds. Polished Berluti handmade shoes. I have to remind myself its elitist snobbery. That many of my people back in The Middle don’t even own shoes.
Thirty minutes later we dine. Tastes and textures I didn’t know existed. Someone plays Mozart on the grand piano behind me. Crystal. China. Silver. Unwarranted extravagance. But my taste buds do not complain as the chefs are truly talented. My unrefined palette gulps down what is Napa’s finest. There are some delicacies on the table I don’t recognize.
“Did your third army receive you well?” Renatus asks, licking his greasy lips as he ingests something slimy.
“I believe so. We had a good week.”
“And your captains? You have them selected?”
“Most of them.” I had one change his mind.
“You are moving fast. I like that,” he smiles. The glare from the chandelier that beams onto his shiny bald head is almost as bright as his shoes. “Just be certain you can rely on them.”
He pokes a thin sliver of fish with his fork and holds it up. “Do you know what this is?”
I shake my head.
“Fugu, better known as Puffer fish. A rare delicacy, but dangerous. Its skin contains a toxin a thousand times greater than cyanide. If not prepared correctly it can kill you instantly.”
I make a mental note not to have any.
Renatus continues. “Be sure you can trust your captains as much as I trust my chefs!”
“I plan on testing their war readiness. We are planning a low-level patrol in two days.”
“Good. I take it you are finding your accommodations more than sufficient?”
“Very much so.”
Renatus peers at his jubilant daughter who is rubbing my leg underneath the table. “I see you two are getting along?”
“Yes father,” Sarai replies still staring at me.
The haunting music drowns out any thoughts of back home. The guilt of knowing my people are starving and my soldiers are hungry while we leave plates half full is slowly dissipating. I’m beginning to find the Lazurite way of life to my liking, and it worries me. What worries me more is that in two days I’m tasked to hunt down my own.
I walk a fine line of gaining Renatus’s trust and serving The Defiance and their cause. I take another sip of wine and look to Sarai; she is whom I choose to serve, right now, at this moment, she is my cause.
Is there still room in my heart for my uncle’s?
After a three-day caravan and four-day march, we setup a base camp in Reservation 17 on the other side of The Wall. It is south of Reservation 9, my hometown and Defiance headquarters, and just north of former New Mexico. I purposely steered clear of any known Defiance hot spots. I’m hoping for a quiet week. If we encounter The Defiance they will most likely hide or run from an army of this size, or resort to guerrilla warfare tactics and just prick and prong us from our flanks while disappearing back into the woods. I also sent Darius out ahead of me to warn any Defiance of our presence. Besides, this is a training mission, and I will not order a full-scale attack. Instead, we will set up a defensive posture as I don’t want to be attacked either. It’s weird being back inside The Middle. It hasn’t been that long but it feels like ages ago since I left.
My men light fires and setup tents, though there is not enough for everyone. So, I decide to sleep outside and shiver with a third of my army who will also bear the elements. Food being sparse, I too will have only a half ration for supper. I wonder why Renatus doesn’t supply us the way he should. Is it a test? Or is he and his cronies slowly bankrupting Zion? Maybe paradise isn’t as solvent as he has others to believe. Or maybe he is just being plain sadistic. I have also heard rumors that the good stuff goes to his elite first army, and we get the scraps.
For the most part, Kenan has kept quiet, but the men under his command follow orders not overtly showing ambivalence to the elite who was shamed as a coward during the games. He takes a page out of my book and hands his tent over to his second in command. His men take notice. The conscripted are usually the lowest rank and they are traditionally forced to cook. Some of them traverse through the sea of dirty and parched troops and pour them water. An elite Lazurite soldier, one who probably has aspirations for the Canonization one day, snatches the entire jug of water from a conscript then shoves him to the ground before spitting on him. The elite believe they are the top tier in this caste and see conscripts as mere peasants. I immediately jump to my feet and approach the elite. As he turns to me I sweep his leg, he lands on his side, and I rest my boot on the back of his neck.
“What’s your name soldier?” I demand, gritting my teeth.
“Jarrod, son of Senator Raza.” He spits out as if that will help his cause. As if I should be impressed.
“I don’t care if you’re a son of Renatus, no one soldier is better than another.” I peer over at the crowd gathering and raise my voice. “In my army, no man will be judged or gain merit based on where they are from, their blood line, or who their father is, is that clear? Every man here will cook, every man here will clean. How you treat what you consider the least of these, is how you treat me.” The last line is something my father used to say.
I see nods around me and smiles from the conscripted. Jarrod says nothing as my boot applies more pressure, “Is that clear soldier?”
“Yes sir.”
I remove my boot and help him up. I then grab two jugs of water and pour Jarrod a cup. “Now drink, then get some rest.”
I walk the line of men, pouring them water. I stop at a man who must be in his fifties, rail thin for a Lazurite, obviously conscripted.
“What’s your name?”
“Samuel,” he hacks, pulling his long pearly white bristly hair into a ponytail.
“How old are you Samuel?”
“Sixty-one.” Teeth missing, again not very Zion like.
“You married?”
“Yes sir.”
“Amos, call me Amos. For how long soldier?”
“Married at eighteen, so forty-three years,” he says proudly, but also sadly.
“Forty-three days for me,” I say with a wink. “We’ll talk later mate. I think my cup could be filled with some of your wisdom.”
He peers up at me stunned wondering, Who is this Lazurite prince actually talking to me, asking me personal questions? Asking for my advice! I bend and whisper into his ear, “When we return, you can take your leave. I will put in for an honorable discharge at full pay.”
As I walk away, he staggers to his feet. “Sir Amos, my wife is dead. I think I’ll stay and fight for you.”
“Don’t fight for me, fight with me.”
The tough old bird gives me a resolute nod before plopping back down and lighting up a smoke. I pour my troops fresh water for the next hour before lying under the winking stars next to my new comrades. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of the red beacons attached to the trash pallets being air dropped into my homeland and find it hard to believe that not too long ago I made my living rummaging through Zion’s litter. I have noticed a few of my other captains have given up their tents to the men underneath them. Whether it is sincere or they are just trying to impress me, I’m not sure. But either way, my example is starting to catch on. I try not to be too optimistic as giving up a tent is a far cry from getting them to fight against Zion and their own people. I need a miracle. I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve is possible: Gaining Renatus’s trust, the third army’s loyalty, doing my job for Zion, and keeping casualties to a minimum for not only The Defiance and my people, but also for my army, most of which are just boys, barely eighteen. As I close my eyes I pray for God to send me a solution to the impossible.
At 2:34 in the morning, one arrives.
“Wake up Amos! Wake up!” Kenan bellows in my ear. I pop up to the sound of men flaying about, confused, and scrambling for their weapons.
“What’s going on?” I ask calmly.
“There!” Kenan points to an ancient military Jeep, it has extra steel armor welded to the front, back, and sides. It smashes through our horses and Jeeps, heading straight for me.
“Suicide bomber,” I yell, grabbing my ricochet. Sons of Levi no doubt. My men, finally gaining their bearings, fire their plasma rifles at the incoming Jeep, which does little to slow it. I have no shot with my ricochet.
“Pulse-grenades!” I order.
As it gets closer, I stand my ground. I don’t want my troops to see me run. One of the soldiers tosses a pulse-grenade, its shock wave tosses the Jeep into the air and when it lands on its side, whoever is driving, detonates its payload; the Jeep is lined with TNT. The massive explosion sends me hurtling to the ground. Pieces of dirt, shrapnel, metal, and earth rain down like hail, pelting my back. I pull myself up as the black acrid smoke clears. I see at least twenty of my men lying dead. Pieces of them scattered like a spilled box of toothpicks. I shake in anger and shock. I can smell burned flesh and singed hair. It reminds me of the bombing at the bazaar, and I wonder if I’m cut out for this sort of thing.
“Now what sir?” Kenan asks.
I have to regain my composure. I must act, I must think. This isn’t The Defiance. These are tactics The Sons of Levi employ. Besides, Cephas knew I would be here. Then I hear screams from my left flank. Arrows fly from the forest and impale four more of my third army.
“What do we do sir?” Kenan hollers again.
“They’re in the forest,” I say obviously, “Kenan, take fifty men to the west and ride around the outside of the trees.” I tell another captain to do the same but on the east side. I gather twenty of my own men, and we hop on horses, “I’ll meet you in the middle.”
“Perhaps you should stay, let your men take care of it,” Kenan stutters.
“I’ll meet you in the middle,” I respond firmly, wanting them to see that a true leader doesn’t lead from behind.
As we charge into the forest I wonder if I have a traitor in my midst, as how else would The Sons of Levi know I’d be here. It’s ironic to call someone else a traitor of Zion considering who I am.
I duck and charge forward. I’m in the front as I said I would be. Some Levites are on foot, some on horseback. Our horses mow down their foot soldiers as we begin to catch up to their riders. Arrows take out two riders to the left of me. Their lead rider, donning a contorted metal mask, stops on a dime and turns. He pulls an ax from his leather satchel and hurls it at me. I pull on the reins and my horse skids to a stop and rises on its hindquarters, chest in the air. The ax slices into its chest, it flops on its side sending me rolling to the ground. I pop up and fling my ricochet, sending it slicing through the air. It hits the back of the rider wearing the metal mask and the electrical current jolts him off of his horse. He is up in a hurry, his long and lengthy body taking massive strides through the forest, only stopping to hurl daggers at us.
“Take him alive!” I command my men.
I slide off my horse and scamper towards him, dodging the sharp knives. His feet get tangled in some underbrush and he falls to the ground. I arrive at the same time as some of my men. He flails to his feet, but he is surrounded.
“Take off the mask,” I order, having a good idea who it might be.
He obliges. It is the leader of The Sons of Levi, Dagger. I check his left arm and spot a Liberty Bell tattooed on his arm just to be sure. He spits in my face.
“Die you Lazurite cell pirate!”
My men handcuff him and start to beat him.
“Enough!” I yell wiping his bloody saliva from my face. “Where are the others?”
“You honestly think I would rat out my men? You Lazurite fascists are dumber than I thought.”
I motion to my men. “Take him.”
“Freedom will be ours!” Dagger screams as he is being dragged to a horse.
At what cost? I wonder, as he and his men have killed countless innocent woman and children in the name of freedom. He has the same endgame as me, but his methods lack morality. I fear his scorched-earth campaign will dislodge the seeds of freedom that have been delicately sowed into those who still wish for it. “Don’t trample the flowers while killing the weeds,” my father used to say.
I look to the sky and project a silent thank you. Dagger is my solution, my miracle. Renatus will be elated with his capture. I will have earned my men’s trust. I have served Zion without hurting The Defiance. One day I may be able to convince Dagger the error of his ways, and perhaps he will become an ally. But for now he is a terrorist heading to SeaPen.
And a part of me is happy for what he tried to do to Sarai.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Bloody brilliant mate!” Renatus congratulates me. “Your first mission and you have impressed me. I can’t tell you how long The Sons of Levi have been a thorn in my side, and Dagger is a barbarian of the purest sort.”
It has been so long since I have heard a compliment or have received accolades of any kind. Not since before the death of my father. Cephas would spoon feed them at best, usually with undertones on what you did wrong. For a kid, that’s chocolate with a squeeze of lemon. We stroll along the sandy beach in front of his palatial estate. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Proud of you son.”
He means it. I clear my throat and watch the ocean waves lap at my bare feet. The soles of my feet being scrubbed clean by the sand. “Thank you sir.”
He stares at me and can practically read my mind, it’s uncanny. “You have a look of man on the verge of a request,” he guesses correctly.
“Yes, yes I do. My men . . . they . . . our provisions are meager sir. Food is scarce, so are tents,” I say, unsure why I’m stuttering. I can sympathize with Kenan.
“Ah yes, ever since the BitTender crash Zion hasn’t been the funded paradise it was set out to be. This war has gone on far too long. But I will see to it that you have what you need for certain victory.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Renatus, please,” he insists and then stops. “Do you know why I put up The Wall?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
“My scientists had created a gift, something wonderful for all, but like all good things, this gift was abused, it wasn’t cherished. Second-life rights were supposed to be an insurance policy, a second chance. Instead, so many used it as a way to squander their first. A society bereft of morality. When one doesn’t fear death, what is cherished?”
For a moment I forget about his hypocrisy. He then pulls from his pocket a necklace with a dolphin pendant.
“This belonged to my son, Eleazar, before he drowned in these carnivorous waters. Treachery usually accompanies such beauty. He loved dolphins.”
I’m shocked. Renatus won’t even speak to Sarai about his Eleazar. Yet he confides in me. He covers his mouth and peers at the sand, his eyes are sad, even warm. For a moment I forget who he is.
“Eleazar was born with a rare chromosomal disorder. His seizures would scare the wits out of me. He was brave but wounded. Always wounded. One day when you have a child, you will understand that there is nothing you won’t do for them. Nothing.”
“The most beautiful things in life are the most delicate,” I respond with something I came up with, not just another one my father’s regurgitations. Renatus’s wiry hands pat my cheek.
