Strike Page 4

  Diego leaned over the edge, grinning at him. “Couldn’t find a way to cheat today, pendejo1?”

  Yorick’s chest hurt during the whole trip back to the platform at the edge of the lord's mansion grounds. He met up with Rosia along the way, and she frowned and then rubbed a hand across his back. He carried extra guilt, knowing he’d been the last one remaining on the Blue team. She said nothing, and he wouldn’t have wanted her to say anything. She would try to convince him it wasn’t his fault, that they all shared a portion of the blame, but he didn’t want to hear consoling words right now.

  The Blues lost, and that meant one of their number would be removed from the team. Yeah, it happened sometimes, and more often during these daily summer battles, but it never stopped feeling like a kick to the stomach. That someone’s life would be voided because of the results of silly war games played at the whim of a lord.

  Standing on the grass before the platform, Diego and his Reds gloated, making a big show of returning their weapons to the Quartermaster. The older Red made kissy faces at Yorick and Hamon as he handed his chip in.

  Hamon gritted his teeth and lurched forward, but Yorick snatched his hand and kept him back. He shook his head at Hamon. If the Blues leader even made it onto the platform, he could count on the guards smacking him down with the butts of their rifles. Maybe even spending a day in the cages to learn his lesson.

  Standing at his podium, Lord Wybert cleared his throat. Today, instead of his usual jumpsuit, he was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt with a bright orange tie. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his voluminous hair before speaking.

  “Good morning and good harvest, guerreros. Excellent performance out there this morning. Some of you were more excellent than others, and I don’t have to tell you which was which. We’re going to find out in a moment. But that’s why we do this, isn’t it? It’s not just about being excellent; it’s about striving for it. So, without further ado…”

  The lord waved a hand toward the nearby screen as it flickered on, unveiling the scoreboard.

  Diego was at the top of the Red side. Hamon, as usual, at the top of the Blue side. But the only name that mattered was the last place name on the Blue board. Carlos, a redheaded kid who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Rarely spoke and had a small circle of friends. He had made the bottom of the leaderboard by only a single point. One lousy point.

  To Carlos, this would mean death. Or imprisonment, or whatever happened inside that mansion.

  When he saw his name highlighted as the last-place guerrero, Carlos hung his head but didn’t cry or protest. His face said he’d already grieved, had already given up. He ascended the platform and let the guards escort him off, never to be seen again.

  From across the podium, Diego put his hands up to the sides of his mouth to shout, “one down, nineteen more to go!”

  1 Pendejo: jerk

  Chapter Eight

  Yorick couldn’t get Carlos out of his head as he and Rosia strolled along a green path, away from the podium. No one knew what would happen to the kid inside the secretive walls of the mansion, only that they would never see him again.

  Yorick stopped at the edge of the fields, looking out at a hundred workers in straw hats and coveralls, picking fruit from vines. Singing their songs. Dabbing sweat from their brows. The sun rising to the east, highlighting a guard with a rifle, standing atop the massive wall. Guards also ringed the fields, stoic and watchful and as expressionless as machines.

  And above all, Yorick pictured Diego’s gloating face, his sinister chuckle as Carlos’ name appeared at the bottom of the leaderboard.

  Yorick sunk to his knees and then pulled his feet underneath him, into a seated position. The sense of futility enveloped him like the constricting squeeze of a snake. He didn’t think he could take another step, at this moment.

  “What is it?” Rosia said as she knelt next to him.

  “Everything. But, Diego, specifically.”

  “He’s a bully. But it’s not him, you know? It’s Wybert. He makes all of this happen. Diego is only taking advantage of the situation.”

  “It shouldn’t be allowed to happen.”

  She scooted over, sitting in front of him. Their eyes met. Although Rosia didn’t say it, he could see on her face the silent message she wanted him to know. She was saying, of course he shouldn’t. And I’ve been telling you for a couple years now we need to do something about it. Something permanent.

  “I know,” he said.

  “How much longer we let this go on is up to us.”

  Yorick swept a hand out over the fields, indicating the farmers. “Is it? Is anything up to us? What’s the point of all this? Why are they picking fruit?”

  “To sell to the First City of Denver.”

  “I know,” he said, feeling anger swell up inside him, “but why? Why do field serfs work the land while we play these pointless little war games every day? Why do we get extra meat and bigger rooms in the dorms while they’re worked to death out here every morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why is Carlos gone? It’s not his fault he was last in the rankings. It’s my fault. It’s the entire team’s fault. But he’s the one who will suffer for it.”

  Rosia bit her lip and squeezed his shoulder.

  An alarm sounded, and both of their heads swiveled to the east, toward the main gate. Two massive yellow lights strobed at each end of the gate as it opened. The giant metal halves separated and roared as they pulled back, revealing the outside world. At least, the sliver they were allowed to see. A strip of barren valley and a mountain beyond that. All he could verify with his own eyes.

  And it was all Yorick could ever remember seeing since life before the plantación might as well have been a dream.

  When the gate had opened far enough, a sleek, black car drove inside. Usually, trucks were the only vehicles entering or leaving the plantación. But, from time to time, these cars would arrive, meet with the lord, and then depart.

  Yorick and Rosia watched it drive along the dirt road toward the mansion, then park as a host of Wybert’s staff rushed out toward it. Clearly flustered.

  An unexpected visit? Or, had that been why Wybert dressed with a little more care this morning?

  When they opened the back doors of the car, a man and a woman emerged, both dressed in formal attire Yorick had never seen before. Black and white, form-fitting. Not a speck of dirt anywhere to be seen. These people were fancy. High society, probably from the First City.

  A moment later, Lord Wybert himself rushed out of the mansion, swiping a hand along his scalp to smooth his crazy hair. Big orange tie flapping, smacking and rattling around his belly as he jogged down the marble steps.

  Who were these well-dressed visitors?

  Yorick opened his mouth to ask Rosia what she thought about these newcomers, but before he could, the grass around them filled with the shuffling of feet. Boots incoming. Guards, a dozen in their armored gear, touting rifles with sniper scopes sitting atop the barrels.

  Rushing straight for Yorick and Rosia.

  “You!” shouted a sprinting guard. “You have broken the lord's law!”

  Panic gripped Yorick. He’d done nothing, as far as he knew. He tried to rise to his feet, but a warning shot sliced the air above him. Their bullets weren’t rubber. He could tell by the sound it had made as it screamed across the sky. Whatever he’d done, they were willing to kill him here and now because of it.

  Rosia tried to shuffle to her feet, but Yorick snatched her and pulled her close. He clutched her to him. Within a second, the circle of guards closed around them, and a dozen rifles were less than a meter from Yorick’s head. Rosia screamed as the guards’ shadows enveloped them.

  But, above her wail, Yorick heard one of the guards shouting the word thief.

  “The lord’s law is immutable and permanent!” bellowed a guard, reciting the standard text Yorick had heard in passing when others were caught doing someth
ing illegal. “Punishments for breaking the law are wholly at the lord's discretion, up to and including loss of privileges, time spent in the cages, and the final punishment of firing squad. Do you understand these consequences as I have listed them?”

  Yorick’s brain spun in circles. No, he didn’t understand. Didn’t know what he could have possibly done to bring about the full weight of the lord's elite personal guard.

  “Do you understand!” screamed the guard, spittle leaping from his lips.

  “No,” Yorick said, doing his best to remain calm, but failing miserably. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t deserve any consequences. What did I do?”

  For a moment, none of the guards spoke. Fingers wrapped around triggers. Yorick closed his eyes and opened his mouth to tell Rosia that he loved her, the last time he’d be able to do so.

  Then he remembered. After the last battle, as he approached the Quartermaster, he signed the sheet to turn in his control chip, but had slipped it into his pocket instead. He’d meant to drop it into the bucket, but he’d forgotten.

  They thought he was trying to steal a chip. He could feel the small indentation in his pocket, the chip sitting inert in the little pouch. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

  “Get away!” Rosia said, trying to free an arm to swipe away the noses of the rifles pointed at her head. The look on her face said she’d die trying to keep them at bay.

  Yorick pulled on her, forcing her to the ground. He tried his best to cover her body with his, so if they decided to shoot, the bullets might not pass through him. Rosia, stubborn as ever, tried to scramble free of his protection. He pressed to force her to the ground. After a moment, she gave up struggling against him.

  Secured, he released his grip on her and placed his hands on top of his head. “Don’t shoot! It was an accident. I have the chip in my pocket. Please, don’t shoot.”

  And he looked up, into the eyes of the nearest guard. The man growled down at him, “If I had the authority, I’d kill you little pieces of rubbish right now. Do you understand me?”

  Chapter Nine

  Yorick’s wrists hurt from the metal cuffs they’d slapped on him, but the marks had mostly faded since this morning. As he sat next to Rosia at the outdoor auditorium adjacent to the dorms, he kept a close eye on the nearby guards. They had only detained him for a few minutes. He’d talked his way out of any further punishment by convincing them he had truly taken the chip away with him by accident.

  No cages, no wall, allowed to return to normal activities.

  But they’d kept eyes on both him and Rosia for the rest of the day. He’d felt their stares at lunch, at the afternoon exercise in the gym, going to and leaving from the dorms.

  The whole situation had been curious, to say the least. What was on those chips? The guards seemed terrified about the prospect of him slipping away with one. If he weren’t a guerrero in good status, they probably would have shot him dead to recover the chip. A farm worker or cafeteria cook would have been killed on the spot.

  Aside from that mystery, the incident had helped him cement the belief Rosia had espoused: Wybert should be at the center of his anger, not Diego. Wybert commanded they fight in these daily battles. Wybert decided who became a guerrero, or went to work in the fields, or who washed dishes in the cafeteria. He determined the punishments doled out to those poor serfs who disobeyed the lord's law.

  The auditorium seating curved around the front of a wooden stage, sitting two meters off the ground. A large canopy above it protected the cast from any summer rainstorms. Seats radiated out from that stage, curving around it. The seats were wooden benches, uncomfortable and flimsy. There were about two hundred serfs in attendance. Rarely did so many of the plantación’s residents gather otherwise, but the summer night plays were a treat.

  Onstage, a handful of actors were in the first act of a play named Old Faithful. The play, which Yorick and Rosia had seen twice already this summer, told the story of a battle in the caldera of a giant, long-dormant volcano. This area, which Yorick had never seen, was apparently only a few kilometers from the plantación. Lord Wybert often spoke with great pride about their proximity to the battle although it had happened long before he was born. Allegedly.

  While the actors on stage carried on, Rosia leaned over and whispered into Yorick’s ear. “This battle took place dozens of years ago?”

  Before answering, he flicked his eyes to a guard at the end of the row of seats. He wasn’t paying attention. “I think so.”

  “Then how was it King Nichol led the charge against the Frenchies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How old is the King of Denver?”

  Yorick bit his lip, sighed, and then rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s a play. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

  Rosia crossed her legs and drummed her thumbs against her knee, deep in thought.

  He knew it didn’t make sense. But wasn’t the purpose of this play to help them understand the world? To give them a glimpse into what was going on outside the walls and experience a piece of their history?

  Onstage, a farm worker was wearing a crown, carrying a fake sword, hoisted in the air. A dozen actors playing the king’s Royal Army soldados1 stood behind him. On the other side of the stage, a dozen more farm workers were dressed as Frenchies, descended from the north, wearing their heavy coats and hats. Must have been awfully hot in this real-life evening heat to wear such clothing. Yorick wondered if the actors received any special perks for partaking in the play. He didn’t know. None of the Blue team guerreros spent their evenings acting, so he had no one on the inside to consult.

  “As king,” the actor said, bellowing to send his voice across the seats in the outdoor theater, “my first duty is to my people! We won’t let these dirty Frenchies sully the good name of our lands!”

  The Frenchies crept toward him, brandishing broom handles that were supposed to stand in for… pitchforks, possibly? They knocked down the king's soldados and then encircled him. The “king” stepped up on a platform. “We must never forget this great pact we have made!” The king then swept his arms in a circle, and all the Frenchies tossed themselves back, swept away by the king’s powerful sword.

  Serfs in the crowd cheered and laughed at the hammy overacting of all these teenagers and young children clasping hands to their bellies, swooning, collapsing and flicking fingers out from their chests to simulate big fountains of blood. A good death onstage always pleased the audience.

  These plays were good. Not in terms of quality, but in terms of entertainment value. They gave the serfs something to look forward to. Was the history accurate? Probably not. A lot of what these plays taught contradicted facts presented in the contraband books Rosia and Yorick read in the evenings.

  For example, in the books, real Frenchies were from a place named France, and this place existed far away, separated by an ocean. In a land named Europe. But they had always been taught that Frenchies came from the northeast of this same land mass as interlopers, vanquished and driven back by the early leaders who held these lands.

  Ultimately, what did it matter? It’s not as if knowing the true history would change anything.

  Two rows ahead, someone in the audience stood. The teen shot a quick glance at Yorick and Rosia, and Yorick recognized him. A beefy farm worker with dark skin, scraggly wisps of beard, and ears jutting out far from his head. Named Tenney. While many of the farm workers were thick and muscular from working outside all day, Tenney was also tall, making him a giant among the residents of the plantación. He was larger than half the adult guards and younger than most of them. Yorick guessed he was nineteen, or maybe twenty.

  Tenney shot him another glance as he abandoned his seat and exited the row, then he walked to the row behind Yorick and slid into an empty seat directly behind him. He gave up his seat to move three rows back? Why would he do such a thing?

  Yorick didn’t have to wait long to find out. The beefy farm serf leaned forward, his m
outh only a few centimeters from the back of Yorick’s head.

  “I saw what they did to you this morning,” Tenney’s deep voice said, keeping his volume low. “Even with all your privilege, sometimes those putas2 won’t leave you alone, right?”

  Yorick turned his head a little, to study Tenney out of his peripheral. But he didn’t reply. They weren’t supposed to be friends. Weren’t supposed to know each other's names, even.

  “Did you try to steal the chip?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yorick whispered.

  Rosia pivoted in her seat. “What do you know about it?”

  “Those chips are important,” Tenney said. “Do you think you can actually steal one? Can you do it without getting caught next time?”

  Yorick cleared his throat. “We’re going to get in trouble. You should go back to your seat.”

  But, Tenney leaned even closer. “If you take get one of those chips, we can help.”

  “No,” Yorick said, although he desperately wanted to ask who “we” was. But, he couldn’t. This conversation had to stop, immediately. If any guard around the periphery noticed them talking, they’d all be pulled out of their seats. Getting into trouble twice in one day? Wybert wouldn’t make an exception next time.

  “Can you do it?” Tenney said.

  Rosia nudged her foot against Yorick’s shin. She flashed her eyes along the row, and Yorick turned his head to see scarred bully Diego eying the situation. A smarmy grin on his face.

  “You have to go, now,” Rosia said. “Not another word.”

  Tenney leaned back a moment, then stood from his chair. As he leaned forward to move along the aisle, he whispered once more into Yorick’s ear.

  “Get one of those chips, and we can do great things.”

  1 Soldado: soldier

  2 Putas: whores