IV. Sins of the Father

IV

Sins of the Father
The Progeny

 

  Adamm Landry Jr. placed his platter of rare foods and his highball glass of synthalc to the side as he stood and leaned over the front railing of his hovering section of seats. Despite his desire to see how his boys were doing with his own eyes rather than a view screen, he immediately regretted his decision. He knew the tiny pod he had to himself compensated automatically for sudden shifts in gravity and balance, but his stomach was not quite so sophisticated.

 

      He had more than one reason to feel queasy tonight. The sight of blood had always nauseated him and his Army was already down to six Soldiers; the Pacific Kingdom had seven and a half, if you considered the injured member of their forces. The blood had been flowing freely so far. Not that he was surprised. Even if he had been a great Coach, which he wasn’t, even if his Army had been better equipped, which they weren’t, and even if their enemies hadn’t been from one of the richest States, which they were, he knew how these things worked.

 

The general populace was under the impression that it was a fair fight, but his father had worked at the highest levels of War. More often than not, invisible strings were being pulled by powerful people to make things happen exactly how they wanted, but he wasn’t aware of any friends in high places that his Army had. Thinking about it made him sick to his stomach.

 

      The anxiety he felt for the men battling below him certainly wasn’t helping. They were one of the most determined, if under-equipped, units he had ever had the honor of Coaching. Yet, for all intents and purposes, they were already dead. The thought saddened him as he stuffed a coveted piece of garlic bread into his eager mouth.

 

      He took note of the people floating around him. As a Coach, he was given an excellent strategic point of view, but these others had clearly paid a great deal of money to be in his section of the seating. He saw only the rich and famous about him, each enjoying the same basic rush of pleasure from viewing other people being pitted against each other for sport.

 

The ICEW marketed the War as an event that everyone should see, regardless of age, economic standing or State allegiance. Out there among the crowd, there was one small pod reserved specifically for those of low income who were drawn in a lottery. It was an event that was broadcasted in every State, a chance for the common man to see what only the wealthy could afford. He imagined them begging and pining for a chance at seats that would give them a long-distance view of his Soldiers dying.  He hated them for it, even as he acknowledged silently that they didn’t know any better.

 

      He himself was just a bit player in all of this. As much as he loathed those who loved the Hendecagon, it had become his livelihood. He was hired on as a Coach less for his prowess in War and more for his name recognition and affordable salary. He was nothing like his father, the original Adamm Landry. States had shelled out untold amounts of money to persuade and convince him into training their men. He had been a figure that spanned across State lines and the ICEW had declared a day of mourning upon his passing.  Long cremated and spread over the Hendecagon grounds with honors, his father was still a constant presence that both cowed and dominated him.

 

Throughout his life, he had been told by complete strangers how he was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps and become one of the greatest Coaches of all time. His father had beamed proudly in these conversations, an expression he never witnessed away from the adoring crowds. Adamm reached for a large pastry that had some sort of cocoa glaze and tried to out-eat his unease and memories.

 

      Adamm watched on both his view screen and with his own high-powered binoculars as the Rockie forces formed up in a configuration he had taught them in the third week of training. Though they had still not come to respect him and he in turn had not believed in them, they had at least cared enough about their own lives to try and retain helpful military strategy.

 

They moved through a large grove of trees in a loose but structured formation that allowed for horizontals awareness while moving them swiftly over the terrain. He smiled proudly at their execution of his strategy, but then melted into a grimace when he spotted the opposing Army setting up an ambush just ahead.

 

      He thought back to an early memory of him and his father that had taken place in the ruins of some forgotten city littered with half-constructed skyscrapers and billboards full of lights that had lost their power source long ago. His father had brought him there more times than he could count to run him through strategies, maneuvers and tactics. They had toiled days at a time to haul and position large pieces of debris into a scale-sized Hendecagon all around them. He still remembered the way his father had looked around at the makeshift arena: already on to the next step without a trace of satisfaction or pride. His father had not been one to dwell on anything.

 

      The senior Adamm Landry, a legend in his own right even then, had drilled him on scenario after scenario. They would use pieces of junk from around the deserted wasteland to represent the eleven Soldiers of both Armies. Scout, strike, fall back, flank, counter. The words had washed over him, rarely sticking, but his father pressed him harder each day to learn and be trained.

 

 Their long days of training ended late at night more often than not, both of them exhausted and frustrated. He knew his father had resented him for his incompetence, but he had always been confused by the unthinking insistence his father had on trying. This was before he knew words like bloodline, reputation and legacy. Adamm poured himself two fingers out of a nearby bottle, telling himself that the drink would settle his stomach. He did everything in his power to forget the word failure existed.

 

      The real-life situation playing out before him mirrored one of the training exercises he had run during his days in the city ruins. He had had six Soldiers to his father’s eight, a common occurrence in their sparring. He had moved his pieces into a formation perfect for the circumstances of the battle. His turn completed, he had moved to the edge of the arena for his father’s turn, confident in his position. The disappointment in his father’s eyes had told him everything about his opinion on the strategy that Adamm had employed.

 

      The result of the exercise had been a slaughter, just as this one would undoubtedly be. Adamm thumbed one of his many commemorative medals pinned to his chest nervously, hoping against hope for a different outcome while knowing there wouldn’t be. His father had been a living legend for a reason. He had always known exactly what would happen inside those eleven walls.

 

He recalled how his father had become a widely-advertised example for how the implementation of the Hendecagon was a humane way to wage war. The slogan had been: “What generals once did with thousands, he does with less than a dozen.” He’d always wondered if his father truly felt like he was a peaceful person for his efforts. If he bought into the commercials and the posters or if he had lain awake at night like Adamm did now with the faces of his Soldiers swimming before his eyes.

 

There had been countless interviews and press conferences. Adamm Landry Senior had insisted on doing what he could to try and support the ICEW. He had called it “Not biting the hand that feeds.” Adamm Junior, the heir apparent, had stood by his father’s side at each and every one. Now, regardless of his father’s current departed state, the still-living Adamm would never be able to forget or forgive.

 

      He watched the Pacific Kingdom Soldiers begin to mow down the men he had come to know and respect. For the hundredth time, he reaffirmed with a passion that he hated the Hendecagon. For all of its exalted virtues and universal acceptance in civilized society, despite knowing the terrible alternatives, all he could do was silently rage at the carnage unfolding before him.

 

     He felt his father gazing over his shoulder at his son’s most recent failure. With gravel and scorn, the original Adamm Landry simply commanded, “Again.”

      Adamm sat down, defeated, and guiltily reached for a blood red cherry pie.