Read Online Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) by Joel Ohman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joel Ohman
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worse, they were sacrificed for the pleasure of a roaring crowd of spectators. His gut twisted, stirring to life the ever-present rage he tried to keep concealed. He pressed his eyes together tightly, thinking of Alec’s cherubic, grinning face. He could keep it under control.
At least until he reached Meritorium.
Then, his actions would flame bright indeed—people would pay attention; he would demand their attention—and bring retribution to Orson’s father and everyone who followed the System that had zeroed Alec and the many other innocents. Charley opened his eyes to watch a knurl of smoke, feathered in sprouting curlicues, dance in the air, before blooming and then dissipating.
If he couldn’t control his anger, he likely wouldn’t last much longer.
Charley stood up, tossed a stick into the fire, and then walked off to get some space from the others and look for a quiet place to sharpen his blades.
If not the right thing, he hoped he might at least be remembered for doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.
His weapons probably wouldn’t be needed in the hunt tomorrow, if all they were doing were capturing combos alive, although they would likely still need to kill something for food at some point. Either way, though, Charley needed his blades ready.
For Meritorium.
***
Orson rose early, sneaking out before the others. He made his way to a copse of cork oak trees towering like timeless guards over the camp’s eastern quarter, the still dawn sky hinting at the light to come. He passed by the camp’s night watchman sitting cross-legged on the ground, sinewy forearms resting lightly on knees, eyes alert and watching Orson while remaining expressionless. Orson nodded briefly without stopping.
Finding a small stream of barely moving water, Orson crouched down with his pocket blade and began to shave, alternating between scraping the razor-sharp blade across his cheeks and eyeing his reflection in the gleaming blade’s edge. Shaping his dark scruff into a Van Dyke beard that set off his dark flowing mane of hair, Orson admired his reflection for perhaps a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary for grooming.
He sat back on a rock, thinking. He didn’t know how to describe it exactly, but ever since their excursion into the Bramble he had felt … strange. Not himself. He twirled his blade absentmindedly. The fog of the last few days was lifting, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was wrong. His head twitched to one side quickly, a nervous tic he had never noticed before. He frowned. Sheathing his pocketknife, he bent down and splashed more cold water on his face. Orson wasn’t so much nervous about Meritorium itself; he wasn’t one to shrink back from violent confrontations, and Meritorium seemed to promise plenty of those, but there was one confrontation he was not anxious for.
His father.
Orson’s relationship with his father was strained. Thinking of him, he subconsciously reached for the assurance of his sheathed blade. He knew that Charley wanted to kill his father, and when it came right down to it he wanted his father dead, too. Orson thought back to when he was a little boy. He remembered learning from his father that his own sick mother must be put out of the gates, simply so the citizens could see his father’s commitment to the System. It had forever changed Orson’s feelings for his father into something dark: a twisting of love and hate, forever intertwined. It was now hard to know where one began and the other ended.
To hate was one thing, but could he bring himself to actually murder his own father? Orson shuddered. He was many things; he had carried out atrocities in Meritropolis that would cause many a weaker man to shrink back, but those were all for the greater good, weren’t they? Charley and this ragtag band of revolutionaries could say what they wanted, but as Commander of Meritropolis Orson had maintained order, kept them from starving, and
At least until he reached Meritorium.
Then, his actions would flame bright indeed—people would pay attention; he would demand their attention—and bring retribution to Orson’s father and everyone who followed the System that had zeroed Alec and the many other innocents. Charley opened his eyes to watch a knurl of smoke, feathered in sprouting curlicues, dance in the air, before blooming and then dissipating.
If he couldn’t control his anger, he likely wouldn’t last much longer.
Charley stood up, tossed a stick into the fire, and then walked off to get some space from the others and look for a quiet place to sharpen his blades.
If not the right thing, he hoped he might at least be remembered for doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.
His weapons probably wouldn’t be needed in the hunt tomorrow, if all they were doing were capturing combos alive, although they would likely still need to kill something for food at some point. Either way, though, Charley needed his blades ready.
For Meritorium.
***
Orson rose early, sneaking out before the others. He made his way to a copse of cork oak trees towering like timeless guards over the camp’s eastern quarter, the still dawn sky hinting at the light to come. He passed by the camp’s night watchman sitting cross-legged on the ground, sinewy forearms resting lightly on knees, eyes alert and watching Orson while remaining expressionless. Orson nodded briefly without stopping.
Finding a small stream of barely moving water, Orson crouched down with his pocket blade and began to shave, alternating between scraping the razor-sharp blade across his cheeks and eyeing his reflection in the gleaming blade’s edge. Shaping his dark scruff into a Van Dyke beard that set off his dark flowing mane of hair, Orson admired his reflection for perhaps a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary for grooming.
He sat back on a rock, thinking. He didn’t know how to describe it exactly, but ever since their excursion into the Bramble he had felt … strange. Not himself. He twirled his blade absentmindedly. The fog of the last few days was lifting, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was wrong. His head twitched to one side quickly, a nervous tic he had never noticed before. He frowned. Sheathing his pocketknife, he bent down and splashed more cold water on his face. Orson wasn’t so much nervous about Meritorium itself; he wasn’t one to shrink back from violent confrontations, and Meritorium seemed to promise plenty of those, but there was one confrontation he was not anxious for.
His father.
Orson’s relationship with his father was strained. Thinking of him, he subconsciously reached for the assurance of his sheathed blade. He knew that Charley wanted to kill his father, and when it came right down to it he wanted his father dead, too. Orson thought back to when he was a little boy. He remembered learning from his father that his own sick mother must be put out of the gates, simply so the citizens could see his father’s commitment to the System. It had forever changed Orson’s feelings for his father into something dark: a twisting of love and hate, forever intertwined. It was now hard to know where one began and the other ended.
To hate was one thing, but could he bring himself to actually murder his own father? Orson shuddered. He was many things; he had carried out atrocities in Meritropolis that would cause many a weaker man to shrink back, but those were all for the greater good, weren’t they? Charley and this ragtag band of revolutionaries could say what they wanted, but as Commander of Meritropolis Orson had maintained order, kept them from starving, and
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