Revolution Two

Our story continues with an introduction to the soldier Vincent Carson, who will find out whether he has been promoted to Sphere, the elite soldiers in Giasel.

Someone had stolen Vincent Carson’s razor.

Swearing, he knocked out the contents of the medicine cabinet, even though he knew he hadn’t put it in there. He had placed it in the basket on the back of the toilet, hidden underneath spare rolls of paper and a magazine detailing women in compromised positions. He’d had the thing there for months without it being disturbed. Now, with the bathroom disheveled, he leaned against the bowl of the toilet and cursed. It was gone. It had cost him four hundred Coins, was sharp enough to shear thorns. He’d been saving it for today, and it was gone.

He pulled his old razor out from the shower and made quick work of shaving. He wasn’t scowling at himself in the mirror, but it appeared that he was: he had a strong, belligerent jawline that he found misleading, severely arched eyebrows, and dark hair that he could never seem to get out of his eyes. He didn’t get the quite the close shave he’d been anticipating, but at least he looked civilized again.

As he was smoothing the area around his jawline, his roommate stepped inside. Clad in a towel, James Stephen grunted a “Good morning” vaguely in his direction. Vincent squinted in the reflection.

“Nice shave you have there.”

“Thanks. Can you believe I found a good razor lying around?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Previous tenant must have left it.”

Vincent waited until James was in the shower, and steam had filled the bathroom along with his atrocious off-key singing. He flushed the toilet, enjoying his yelp of discomfort as cold water came out of the showerhead. Vincent wouldn’t have minded it acid rained on him instead.

He decided to skip breakfast �" it was better to do this on an empty stomach. Even as he could smell the mouthwatering scents of bacon sizzling in his neighbor’s apartment, he made himself dodge his kitchen to get dressed in the finest suit he owned �" not to mention the most expensive thing he owned, next to the razor that had been christened on his roommate’s face.

As he opened his apartment door, a wall of sound broke over him. Clusters of well-dressed, cleanly shaven men stood together, smoking cigars or finishing a hasty breakfast. One door to the left, Vincent found old Harrison Nerve, odd in an ensemble of pink frilly apron, rumpled checkered shirt, and crooked bowtie, standing in the doorway, glaring at everyone under his bushy brows.

“Noise wake you?” Vincent asked.

“Shore did,” Nerve grumbled. “Ain’t no need to make all dis noise so goddamn early.” He sized Vincent up. “Where you all off to, looking so sharp?”

“The Cocoon,” Vincent answered, fastening his cuff links. “The Sphere are selected today.”

Nerve bobbed his head. “Good, good �" always good to get some new blood in der. Could’ve been in Sphere m’self, don’t you know �" wasn’t for me. Hope the bes’ for you, Vinnie �" yer a good man.”

Vincent couldn’t picture the eccentric Harrison Nerve trading in the luxury of staying in his apartment and writing newspaper articles in his odd wardrobe for the rigid life that Vincent led, but he let it go.

He set off with a wave for the elevator. “Appreciate it.”  He waits for a moment by the doors before they opened.

“Vinnie!”

Vincent looked up. Two of his friends from childhood in the academy waited for him there �" Ernest Childs, a man with a scar from forehead to the corner of his mouth who seldom smiled, and Milton Everett, who had the same nervous twitch he had fifteen years ago. Milton adjusted his monocle: it had fallen out in his excitement.

“Isn’t this so exciting?” Milton squeaked, looking between them. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night.”

Ernest let out a wide yawn. “Idunnowhadesavetobeso�"”

“Excuse me?” said Vincent.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I don’t know why it has to be so early. Haven’t even had a good breakfast yet.”

“They’ll feed us at the Cocoon,” piped up Milton. “Best food you’ll ever taste, I swear.”

“How many times does this make it for you?” Vincent asked.

“Five,” he replied proudly. “Fifth time’s the charm, I can feel it.  It’s your first journey to the Cocoon for the both of you, isn’t it?”

They both nodded. That was all the invitation Milton needed for going into full-flow about the lavish décor of the Cocoon:

“You wait until you see it,” he said, his monocle bobbing up and down. “It’s magnificent. The food is to die for, Vinnie �" they have lamb. Lamb! And I really shouldn’t have been surprised that all the good liquor goes wherever the Counselors are, but their bourbon is the smoothest in the city. They’ve got an enormous training arena, one entire floor of the Cocoon.”

“You’ve seen it?” asked Ernest.

“No,” Milton admitted, “but I’ve heard from the other soldiers. Full size track, and space enough for every soldier for each station. No more rusty equipment if we get in, gentlemen.”

Vincent remembered vividly of a splintered old barbell he encountered in the Fourth Circle.

“I even heard,” Milton went on, voice dropping conspiratorially, “that one of the soldiers got a chance to have his way with a Daughter who was out past curfew.”

“Bullshit,” Ernest said at once. “Their hideous companions wouldn’t allow it.”

Milton looked crestfallen that it hadn’t elicited a more dramatic response. “Believe what you will,” he said as the elevator pulled to a stop, “but the Cocoon’s as high as a man can reach. Anything’s possible there.”

 Literally speaking, he was correct. Above the glittering sweep of television displays in the shop windows, above the peaks of the Second Circle’s highest buildings, Vincent could see the Cocoon in the middle of the city, the might screw holding together the city, the motherboard of the Establishment. He had lived in all Circles but the First, and could see it from them all, floating never too far out of mind.

Traffic was in full flow at the early hour �" men were on their way to the corporate high rises, to the other Circles, to the grocer’s. A solid blur of metallic paint and exhaust pipes waited for them at the road. Milton puffed out his chest and attempted to hail down a vessel that was approaching, snapping his fingers as though it were a tardy waiter. It careened straight past him.

The black walls of the buildings came to life as they waited for a vessel, sweeping across the street, turning the black glass of storefronts into a video feed of a desolate sand-strewn outside. Explosives kicked up the sand, and soldiers in grey uniforms were knocked backwards off of their feet. Atop a red ribbon across the bottom of the screens, it read: Casualties: 539. Beside Vincent, Milton shook his head.

“When we will be able to get out there?” he said.

“Who wants to go there?” Ernest grunted. “We’re safe here.”

Vincent shook his head. “It’ll be anytime now.” The war had been raging for years now, on the coast across from Giasel. The Russians were coming and it was only a matter of time before the Counselors gave them the nod they needed to wipe them out.

A white coach hovered to a halt beside them on the street. Its doors melted into the frame and Ernest gestured Vincent on. “You’ve never been in a Cocoon vessel, have you?”

The interior was a smooth, white leather encased bench with room enough for four. Opposite the bench was a glossy screen. When the door slid back into place, a single word appeared on the screen, accompanied by a mechanical voice.

“Destination?”

“Cocoon.”

“Please insert identification cards now.”

They took turn pressing their cards into the blinking green slot. The screen processed the cards.

“Access not granted to the Cocoon. Additional security confirmation required.”

“That’ll be these,” said Milton, pulling a red card from his wallet.

The computer processed the cards, and the screen lit up in green light.

“Access granted to the Cocoon. Arrival estimated in twenty minutes.”

Vincent checked his watch. They would have plenty of time to find the place.

The vessel soared seamlessly past the little bakery on the corner, the clothing shop, both of the whorehouses in Circle Two, and finally past the titanium and iron gates.

Leaning across Vincent to see out the window, Pierre whistled as the gates opened. “Either of you ever seen the First?”

“Only photos.” Vincent craned his neck.

The photos had not done it justice. Blinding white reflected from every window, the televisions so bright he squinted. Vessels in various shades of opulence careened down the road, carrying men in stark white suits and hats. There was no neon here, but shops’ monikers were outlined in smaller television screens �" even the whorehouses looked presentable.

“For crying out loud,” grumbled Ernest, pointing to a man in a suit adorned with jewels. “I think we’re underdressed, gentlemen.”

In the center of the glittering First Circle, an enormous steel pillar extended from the ground to the very summit of Giasel, the string holding the marionette upright. There were no windows, no discernible features other than the stretch of metal. It greatly reminded Vincent of video feeds he had sometimes glimpsed of tornadoes on the outside. He whistled.       

The vessel took them directly into the Cocoon, past three security gates at which they were asked to show their identification and passes into the Cocoon. In the basement, the vessel joined its pure white brethren and hovered slowly onto the ground.

“Destination arrived.”

The doors melted away, letting them step outside. Even the garage they’d parked in was swept and polished A guard in a white suit approached them, smiling. White must have been popular among the wealthy.

“Are you gentlemen here for the Sphere induction?” he asked, looking between them.

“Aye,” said Ernest, pulling a cigar out of his pocket.

The guard pursed his lips at the smoke twirling out of the cigar. “Names?”

“Ernest Childs.”

“Vincent Carson.”

“Milton Everett.”

Scratching the names off the list, the guard nodded in approval. “Allow me to escort you to the Courtroom. There is no smoking inside the Cocoon, Mr. Childs,” he added sharply to Ernest, who stomped it out with a scowl.

 The Cocoon was a series of narrow passages, candles lit on wall sconces, their flickering lights making shadows shrink and grow. There was a glass elevator in the middle of foyer, but the guard led them past it to an enormous, ballroom sized space, the field of tables dressed in red velvet. Half the tables filled, the three of them found one for themselves. No sooner had they sat was Ernest pouring wine for everyone.

“I knew it,” he said, smacking his lips. “I knew they kept the best s**t here.”

Vincent took a sip as he looked around �" it was fruity and rich, much unlike the watered down stuff he drank. It made sense that the best of everything was given first to the Counselors.

Other men in suits began to fill up the room. It still felt terribly out of context to see the same men who were capable of bending steel and killing their fellow men dolled up in fussy little suits and drinking with their pinkies out. The more men that filled up the tables and added their voices to the din, the less hopeful Vincent felt. Several times Vincent’s size, Dennis Hardy tucked into a third glass of wine at the next table over. Vincent recalled that he could throw a three hundred bag of sand further than any other man in their soldier class. If brute strength was what the Establishment wanted, he would be among the ones they’d have chosen. Bryan Close walked through with several companions in tow, stalking quietly at the rear of the group. He was a sly man, eyes constantly calculating the situation at hand, but he couldn’t handle the side effects of the Co-ops �" he’d be passed out for hours after a single injection.

James Stephens came through the door on Bryan’s heels, making a beeline for Vincent’s table.

“Kind of you to wait for me,” he said.

“Kind of you to nick my razor.”

“You can have it back. Got my face, pits, and dick all cleaned up.”

Much as he hated to admit it while watching his roommate drain the wine in two gulps, there was competition in James Stephens. Cretin though he was, the man knew his way around complex physical techniques, chemical protocol, and had a particular proclivity for forcing the truth out of the reluctant. He was built well for the job, like Vincent �" muscular but slender enough to not draw attention to himself in the hungering slums of the Fourth Circle.

Vincent fought to suppress a wave of panic rising in him. The more he looked around at his fellow soldiers, the more strikes he found against him. Most of the two hundred men here could handle the promotion.

“Twenty five openings isn’t looking too good, is it?” said James, belching. He nodded to Vincent’s glass. “Aren’t you going to drink?”

“No.”

“The wine’s good,” said Ernest, who was draining his second.

“I don’t need a drink.”

“It’ll take the edge off that nervous feeling you’ve got.” Beside him, Milton was wiping his hands on his pants leg.

“I’m not nervous.”

It wasn’t completely true, of course. When the lights dimmed, his stomach flipped to his mouth as the conversations hushed and several figures walked onto the stage. The first to approach the podium was a slight man with large glasses who Vincent thought may be called Harris.

“All rise for the Counselor,” he said in a high voice, stepping back from the microphone to face the left of the stage.

They rose from their chairs as one, forming the salute: two fingers against the temple. Vincent noted with annoyance that he could feel the sweat against his brow as Counselor Michael took the podium with a good natured clap on Harris’s shoulder. He was an immense man, with a chest so broad he stretched the fabric of his white Counselor’s robes, hair pulled back into a single long braid. He waved for them to take their seats again.

“The time has come, gentlemen,” the Counselor said, his voice low and rumbling. “No matter who among you is chosen today, you may all hold your heads high. You are the summit of your soldier class. You are the candidates chosen to apply for the rank of Sphere, the highest order of soldier in Giasel. Sphere soldiers are well known throughout Giasel as the strongest, the bravest, and all of you exemplify these characteristics.

“Today, twenty five of you will leave the lower soldier ranks forever,” he went on. “You will serve Giasel in utmost loyalty. You will not only bring enemies of the Establishment, but seek them out. You alone will be trusted to bring down the greatest threats of our great city. You will see places in Giasel no other has seen before.

“Every man sitting here today is an exceptional soldier,” he said, smiling at the tables. “But twenty-five have been selected as Sphere-material. If you should be chosen, you are strong, cunning, willful �" every quality desired in Giaselians.” The small man who had introduced him brought a velvet adorned cart beside the Counselor, a single envelope set upon it.

All the way from the back, Vincent could hear him rip into the envelope as clearly as if he had been in the front. The Counselor smiled as he read off the first name.

“Soldier Jack O’Connor.”

They all clapped as a man towards the middle of the room stood, grinning and shaking the hands of his tablemates. He ran up the stage, three stairs at a time, and shook the Counselor’s hand vigorously. Michael placed a black medallion around his neck and gestured for him to step at the rear of the stage.

“Harris Bryon.”

A man with a shaved head and thick black moustache stood, straightening his pinstriped suit as he calmly approached the stage and received his medallion.

As it went on, Vincent’s heart kept sinking. His applause grew shorter and shorter until the Counselor read off “Soldier Ernest Childs” from that list. Ernest stood up, flustered, and shook Vincent’s hand with his own sweaty palm. He tripped several times on the way to the stage and looked around in the line as though he did not know how he got there.

In the twenty-fourth place, James Stephens was called. He slammed the table with his fist, sending Milton’s wine streaking onto his suit. He leaned into Vincent’s ear, smirking.

“No hard feelings right, pal? I’ll send you a nice postcard.” With a sneer and a float in his step, he went to accept his medallion and honor.

One name left. Vincent looked around again, desperate. Any of them could receive the honor. Any one of them was man enough to wear the honor.

Counselor Michael straightened the paper.

“The final induction is Soldier Vincent Carson.”

The applause he received was mechanical �" it wasn’t worth pretending to be happy for those chosen. He could feel the daggers of their gazes as he passed them, as though he had stolen this from them. To his surprise, Counselor Michael spoke to him as he shook his hand.

“It’ll be good to work with you, Vincent,” he said gruffly. “You’ll do well.”

Vincent saluted him. “Thank you, Counselor.” The medallion was heavier than he thought it would be, swaying as he walked to stand beside James, whose smug smile had faded.

“No hard feelings indeed,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

“Gentlemen,” said Counselor Michael, waving a hand to the men assembled behind him. “Your new Sphere soldiers.”

The applause stilled quickly. Before the dinner could commence, the short man handed out small envelopes to the soldiers. The men along the line smirked at one another, smirks Vincent didn’t understand until he had ripped into his own envelope. Along with a letter of congratulations, there was also a black ticket with gold writing across its width: Admit One to the Pairing Ceremony �" Thank You for Your Contribution to Giasel.

Energy levels were low over dinner. Vincent, James, and Ernest returned to the table where Milton sat alone, cleaning his monocle best as he could with a wine soaked shirt. He seemed happy enough, shaking everyone’s hands when they returned.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Sorry, friend,” said Gregory, thumping him on the back, but he waved it away.

“Don’t worry about it. It only stung after the first two,” he said, tearing into his steak. “Maybe next year?”

Vincent raised his wineglass, spirits raised greatly with the medallion around his neck. “Next year,” he said, clinking glasses with him.