Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) (6 page)

I part my lips to answer, but Nine’s voice cuts me off. “A dictum is a decree, a formal order.”

“So what does Battle by Dictum mean?” My eyes travel down the lustrous surface of the table and settle on the distorted reflection of Five’s golden locks, her dainty nose perfectly straight amid the delicate features of her face.

I can feel Nine’s stare burning a hole through my forehead. “It means this particular battle will have rules of its own, completely separate from the standard regulations.”

“How can we prepare if we don’t know what we’ll be fighting against?”

I turn to look at Five, only to see Seven standing a short distance away. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. His black armor, fitted perfectly to his body, stands out amid the white surroundings. I can’t seem to hold back the hollow muscle inside my chest as it contracts and dilates faster and faster against my ribcage. Seven’s eyes fall on me, soft and anxious. I wonder if he can feel the emptiness inside of me, eating every bit of my sanity away, right along with any hope of relief. His long, white hair is interweaved together, plaited securely one layer on top of another to form an intricate braid. The threads twist together from the top of his skull to about shoulder length, where some kind of knot secures it in place, letting the rest of his hair fall loose down his back.

My eyes return to Five. “We prepare by being ready for anything and everything they can throw at us. Standard regulations may not apply, but when you are in that field the only rule that really matters is survival. No matter the cost.”

I lift my eyes again. Seven’s blue oceans pierce through me, but they seem glossed over with an almost imperceptible barrier. I’ve seen it before. He isn’t Seven now, not really. He may look like himself, but his true self is currently hiding, hibernating behind the eyes of a perfect soldier, emotionless and detached from everything and everyone. I tear my eyes away just as one of the physical assessors calls me from the medical room.

I stand up and walk in his direction. The assessor immediately takes me in, probing my body with his fingers, tracing the integrated plate beeping under the skin at my wrist, and examining every muscle in my body. I follow his hand as he presses his fingertips against my knuckles, massaging my hands and forearms, and looking for any signs of imperfection. The integrated plate beeps again, lighting the circuit fluorescent white against my pale skin. Lines, circles, squares, all making intricate paths around each other inside the rectangular tag inserted into my muscle tissue.

I am not sure what the plate tells the assessor, but he is frowning. His hand moves up my arm and shoulder, pressing harder and harder as it moves down my back. He presses along the side of my waist and I cringe back, exuding a grunt too loud for my liking. The pain from his touch spreads through my torso, blurring the edges of my vision. The assessor releases me, presses his own wrist plate, and closes his eyes. I can feel my eyebrows sinking, wrinkling in annoyance as I watch his eyelids flutter relentlessly. I’ve seen Seven do this before, he is talking to someone. I take my time, watching his crooked nose, full lips, and angular jaw. His eyelids stop moving just before his eyes open to fall on me.

“Take a seat.” The assessor walks to the wall and begins to move his fingertips over it as if he were writing a secret message. His white uniform would blend perfectly with the colorless surroundings behind him if it weren’t for the consecutive black stripes running down his long sleeves.

The wall lights up to show a fluorescent pattern just like the one trapped inside my wrist. I lean back, aghast. The wall is actually moving, just like the floor in the bathing hall, bending on itself to create a flat table. Several items break through the surface, as if the wall had spat them out. My stomach curls and knots at the sight of the new tag, resting untouched on the counter. The strands of hair hanging loosely against my back begin to lift of their own accord and I freeze. The unseen force tugs, twists, and pulls, plaiting one lock on top of the other. I swallow the eerie sensation spreading through my limbs, as I always do whenever an assessor with the ability to move objects with his mind plays with my hair. I feel like a doll, a child, a little girl surrounded by ghosts.

The assessor walks back to where I sit, observing the tips of the last few threads knotting together. His iridescent green eyes turn their attention to the last unopened compartment on the wall, and the door slides away as if he had personally pushed it opened. My chest contracts in anticipation as the black suit comes into view. Cold fingers pry the skin at my hips, making me turn around. One of the physicians assigned to our unit, a woman with a round face, iridescent hazel eyes, and long hair tied into a ponytail, lifts my top and slips her hand into the side of my waist, stroking each rib with her thumb. My legs wobble as the pain shoots through my spine again.

The physician nods to the assessor and he approaches. “This will hurt,” he says. A second later a splintering sound reverberates inside my ears, together with the sound of my own screams. “Stay still.” His commanding tone ricochets off my mind and my muscles take control, flinching away from his touch.

“Thirteen.” Seven’s voice enters my eardrums and my body responds, freezing immediately.

My limbs shake out of control, but the pain begins to subside, gradually being replaced by the warm touch of the physician. Her palm rests against my skin, healing the rib the assessor broke with his mind. My ragged breathing steadies, and only after I regain complete control of myself do I realize my fingers are wrapped tightly around the physician’s other arm.

Her hazel eyes meet mine, twinkling in understanding. “Your rib hadn’t been healed properly. We also need to replace your plaque. The fact that it didn’t notify us of your rib’s condition means it isn’t working properly.”

I clench my teeth together, remembering my first experience with the insertion of the plaque. I had just arrived at the training facility, almost a year ago to the date. Each new recruit had taken her turn, sitting in a very similar room, while one assessor tore her skin open only by thinking of it, pressed the integrated circuit into the tissue underneath, and sealed the wound closed. I shake my head and the dreadful memory vanishes.

My lungs expand and collapse in preparation of the pain I know will soon follow. The assessor has already taken control of my forearm, and though he stands a few feet away from me, his mental grip holds my arm firmly in place. His mind begins to dig into my wrist, puncturing the layer of skin with the utmost care and precision. Every muscle in my body cringes in protest, tensing in panic. No blood drips out of the wound. The perfect coordination and control of the incision would almost be enough of a distraction from the throbbing pain, if it weren’t for my shaking limbs.

I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch the exposed plaque. My vision blurs and I bite down in an attempt to control the impulse to yank my arm back and dart away. I can feel the temptation sinking deeper, encircling my will. I won’t last much longer. My fingers clamp tighter around the physician’s arm, trembling uncontrollably. “Part of your muscle tissue healed around the existing plaque, and he will need to cut through that as well in order to replace it. But he is almost done.”

My legs wobble at the announcement and she has to steady me. I feel her free hand pressing against my back, though not in a comforting way. Her expressionless demeanor unsteadies me. How can she stand there perfectly poised, as if the assessor was simply drawing a picture on my arm?  The trembling in my body intensifies. I shut my eyes, breathing in slowly and shivering as beads of sweat roll down my neck.

I can’t help my teeth from clattering together at the heating sensation. The pain sears through every layer of tissue at my wrist, reaching an almost unbearable climax and then it starts to recede, numbing away with the healing touch from the physician. My breath catches as soon as any sensation of pain leaves my mind. I open my eyes then, freezing in place at the sight of the black armor enclosing my body. The physician is gone and the assessor is simply watching the wall as it flexes back into its original place. I turn my arm around, but my wrist hides beneath the dark suit. The physical assessor must have wrapped each section of my armor around me while the physician was healing the gash on my wrist. I press my fingers against the new addition to my suit. A white symbol drawn on my left arm. It looks like a letter ‘E’ lying down on its back with a dot on top.

“Thirteen.” Seven’s voice brings me back, turning my eyes in his direction.

His hand is wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword and though his eyes remain glossed over, I can almost feel his will breaking. I turn around and head back to the eating lounge, where the rest of the team has already assembled, all dressed in black, all ready for battle. The tables have been propped back up against the walls, leaving the room looking like a glossy and pristinely white shoebox. I take my position in the perfectly straight formation and wait.

Seven makes his way to us, pensive and at a very slow pace. He stops to face us, but doesn’t look up. “Our battle today will be regulated by dictum. You all know the rules that govern most battles and even though battles by dictum are also subject to standard rules, more or less, they have rules of their own.” His eyes find their way to me and for a split second I think I see regret in them, but before I can be completely certain, he looks away, hardening his façade into the commanding leader he is.

“Standard rules remain in full force.”  I ignore his unemotional tone as he lists the rules we have become so accustomed to fight by. “You shall not engage in combat with either unit leader in the arena. You shall not engage in combat with any member of your unit. You shall obey every direct order I give you without hesitation or questioning. You shall not engage the crowd until you prove yourself victorious at the end of the battle. In addition, rules by dictum are as follows. Entrance to the arena will not be subject to formation protocol. This means we are going in blind, entering the arena at random, without knowledge of what will be waiting for us on the other side. Every one of you will battle against the member of the opposing unit with your same identification number, as shown by the symbols on your left arms. You are allowed to engage in combat with other rivals only after defeating your matched opponent and only after the designated fighter matched to that rival has fallen. You are not allowed to work together in any extension. All confrontations will take place one-on-one.”

My forehead crinkles in frustration. “They can’t be serious.” Seven’s eyes snap to me, hard and unmoved. “They can’t be. We have always trained and fought as a team, how are we going to survive if we fight separately?”

He exhales, frustrated, either because of my interruption or something else, I can’t tell. “The rules are as they are. Any disregard thereof will result in your immediate disposal.” I open my mouth to respond, only to see him knit his eyebrows together, warning me. Something in his expression looks different, pleading with me to comply. I want to yell at him, demand for the leader who cares about us, not the one who punishes us and actually seems to enjoy the process. I can’t bring myself to do more than just stare at him.

He makes his way past us and we rotate our bodies to follow him. Several officials watch us march out of the hall, down the glossy corridor, and into our awaiting transport. Once inside, no one speaks, no one moves, no one responds to anything in particular. We are machines. Machines of war surrounded by silence. It is absolute. Unchanging. It binds our armors. It binds our minds. The space shuttle doesn't even creak in protest of our somber spirits. Instead it honors our fear, wrapping us inside its bowels and holding us close. We are its children. The children of death.

After what seems like endless hours in torturing stillness, the shuttle stops. Seven stands, rigid and commanding. We know the drill. We have done it many times before. Our bodies react to his action in hasty unison, standing erect and bashing the shielded end of our swords on the metal floor. The harmonious clank reverberates through the walls of our mother, acknowledging our commanding officer.

The shuttle doors open to a metal enclosure, our steel keeper before the battle. I’ve never seen the arena at the Markram Capital. There are no windows in the transport and only one door. Fighters call it the door of glory. I call it the door of hell. The shuttle leaves, taking the army officials with it and sealing the wall behind us. I turn to look at Seven and see his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword, asphyxiating the handle between his pale fingers.

I walk forward, stopping next to him, my eyes focused on the door before me. “Most people picture hell as a fiery inferno of darkness. But they are wrong. Hell is white, white as snow. Spotless. Stark. Incandescent. A sandy cage of crystal glass where strangers come to gloat at the monsters they have created.”