Murder of Crows (Book One of The Icarus Trilogy) (6 page)

Now Jenkins was living on a real scientific marvel.  Overpopulation and pollution had gotten so bad that even the mass casualties involved with the Moonfall didn’t really help the problem.  Humans still needed someplace to go but had never fixed the problems involved with interstellar travel.  As a result the scientists had turned their eyes to the Kuiper Belt.  The asteroids were close enough that travel wouldn’t be too much of a problem; just a few years there and back.  The scientists figured they could drag a bunch of asteroids into orbit, add our trash, give them an atmosphere, use some scientific voodoo and turn them into little planets.  To a degree, Earth’s ecosystem had to be sacrificed to make these new homes but it was a gamble humanity was willing to make.

It had worked, surprisingly.  A Trade Union had been formed and funded the creation of eight reformed asteroids, built from the ground up for specific purposes.  Gaia, Zion and Midgard were the first; purely for residential purposes.  Then came Osmos and Demeter, which the scientists had forged into agricultural phenomena.  While each world did its best to support itself, these two were meant to feed the entire system.  The scientists were almost magicians when considering those two planets; the gravity was different and would allow plants and animals to grow ever larger.  No one could blame the Trade Union for making the first five asteroids, but then they built asteroids like Elysia and Solaria; resort planets for the rich.  The Trade Union didn’t mind sacrificing more and more of the Earth if the wealthy could be accommodated for on these new planets.

The poor weren’t too happy about that, but their opinions didn’t matter; there was no voice without money and by that time the governments had given up their voice.  The planets belonged to the Trade Union; the people were just allowed to live there.  The lower class and freedom-concerned citizens would have been upset but then the Trade Union built Eris.  It wasn’t too long before the people lined up to give their support.  No one even called it Eris; they just called it by the name of their favorite television show.  It was War World to them.

Jenkins kicked a stray can as he made his way up the pathway.  It helped distract him from the thoughts flooding his brain.  The young soldier kicked the can again, but this time he sent the piece of trash flying off the path by a few meters.  He sighed as he looked up and saw the Crow’s barracks; a massive complex built for everything that the soldiers needed. Jenkins could see the Crows crimson and black banner flying over the barracks and wondered how long he would have to be on this asteroid.  He wondered if he would ever make it back home to New Chicago.  For now he would just have to deal with this new home he had chosen for himself.

It was strange to see the Crows’ barracks from the outside.  He had spent a few nights staring out from the structure to see his former planet.  Now Earth dwarfed the barracks, giving Jenkins a new perspective.  He could also see the ruins of the moon to the other side of the building; it was a sight he never thought he’d witness just three months ago.  Jenkins thought about all his plans for when he was released from this prison.  He thought about the kind of luck it would take to leave Eris behind.  He realized he had never had that kind of luck.  That maybe Warner had been right.

Jenkins didn’t hurt as much as he expected he would.  He rolled off of his bed and started putting on clothes.  The strain caused the pain to return, but it was a lesser torture after a night’s rest.  He bit his lip to distract himself from the pain in his legs.  It was sharper; he could focus on that instead.

The young soldier looked around the barren room and sighed.  The Commission didn’t bother to give anything special to their gladiators.  He had a small bed, an empty desk and a chair.  If he ever wanted to write something, he could, but Jenkins couldn’t see that happening.  The young Crow had never tried to foster any talents with the written word.  He looked out the window nearby and saw a grey sky.  It wasn’t something he wanted to look at when he was experiencing the aches of resurrection.

With great pains he limped towards the mess hall.  Jenkins didn’t have a strong appetite yet, his stomach was still quite small in comparison to his last stomach, but he needed something to make it through the day.  He stared at the doorway and tried to gather his courage.  Every one of his teammates would be sitting along the benches just past that door.  Jenkins imagined some would be sympathetic but expected most would be indifferent to his plight.  He didn’t understand why he was so nervous, but it was happening all the same.  The young soldier took a breath and pushed through the door.

Jenkins was wrong.  It took only a few seconds after he entered before all eyes were on him.  The only one who kept his gaze from the newborn soldier was Carver; he just kept eating his powdered eggs.  Everybody else was looking over their comrade for some sign, some action.  They wanted something from him, but Jenkins didn’t have a clue.  He felt compelled to say something, but Jenkins had nothing to say.  He had no grand words; his mind was blank.

Thankfully the moment passed.  Jenkins’ appearance was nothing more than a curiosity and most were satisfied after a glance.  Cortes went back to sullenly poking at his sausage; Norris smiled as he played with his oatmeal.  It was business as usual, after all.  Everyone died during the games.

Jenkins stood for a moment before heading to the food line.  He grabbed a modest amount of eggs and some toast and picked up his tray.  The young soldier had lost the desire to fill his stomach, but he had to make some show of normalcy.  Jenkins now knew why Warner had acted up so much the other day.  Even if death was commonplace, Warner wanted it to be acknowledged.  The convict had
wanted
Jenkins to talk to him.  Warner had wanted to fight; he didn’t want his death to mean nothing.

Jenkins could sympathize.  He had died and no one had cared.

He noticed there was an empty spot on the bench next to Roberts and felt relieved.  Roberts had looked out for him before.  Jenkins was older, but Roberts had almost become a mentor to the inexperienced soldier.  Jenkins walked over to the boy soldier and cleared his throat.

“So, uh, do you mind if I sit here?” he asked.  The eternity it took for Roberts to acknowledge him made Jenkins uncomfortable.  He was about to speak up again when Roberts wiped his mouth with his napkin and grunted.

“Don’t see why not.”  He hadn’t even looked at Jenkins, which made the soldier feel even more awkward.  There was just indifference; no hospitality.  The newborn soldier sat down beside his supposed mentor and picked up the fork from his tray.  Jenkins looked at the food and then looked at the fork.  The powdered eggs were unappetizing at best and he had not recovered his appetite after finding his seat.  Jenkins couldn’t bring himself to put any of his food into his mouth.

“The first time is always the worst.”  Jenkins looked up to see the source of the statement.  Roberts hadn’t shifted his gaze from his own tray, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed Jenkins’ behavior.  He felt bad for the new Crow.  Jenkins looked at him and seemed like a dog being called in from the rain.

“Really?”  Even the tone of his voice gave life to the comparison.  The recruit’s face was filled with hope.  Roberts wanted to lie to him and let him avoid the truth for a bit longer, but hope never helped anyone on Eris.  The boy soldier sighed and looked at his own eggs.  They really did look disgusting.

“No, not really.”

-

Warner groaned as he woke up for the second time that day.  His body was still sore from the last resurrection and it bothered him.  He hated having to wake up like this.  He hated that he had been so close to getting out but now the dream was gone.  The convict sighed and realized that it was foolish to hope for it in the first place.  When Warner realized that he had gone positive on his debts he should have just quit and gotten off planet, but he got greedy.  It made him angry, but it was his own damn fault.  It had nothing to do with the new kid.

He swung his feet around and planted them on the ground in his room.  He waited for a moment gathering his reserves but pushed himself onto his feet soon enough.   He looked ahead at the crack in the wall.  It wasn’t the product of one bout of rage; the wall had undergone a continued assault over the last few years.  Warner struck out with his fist and felt the wall sink in.  The pain resonated through his arm but faded after a moment or two.  Warner inspected his knuckles and saw that two of them were already bleeding.  He huffed as he realized that the clone’s hands would never be as strong as the hands from his original body.

Warner trudged over to his desk and sat down in his chair.  He rifled through the papers sitting on top and found the list of scribbled-out names of friends, colleagues and former cellmates.  It would be rather incriminating if people still cared about the former convict, but Warner kept the list around so that he could remember his former life.

He set the sheet of paper aside and grabbed a blank page.  He had been diagnosed with anger issues and his last therapist had suggested keeping a journal.  Warner had left the man bleeding after a month of visits but the journal had become habit-forming.  He could pour out his feelings and his mindless anger into the words on the page.  If he had kept track of them all it would probably be a short book by now, but Warner didn’t care about that.  The journal was just a way to express himself.

Warner had started to control himself better as the journal went on.  Over the years since the therapist had suggested it he had developed a nice writing style for himself.  He enjoyed drawing the words and using different styles for different moods.  When he found himself in the black his words had taken on an airy quality.  After that last death the words had seemed to scream off the page.

Now he was writing the words and they seemed muddy.  They fell into the page and seemed to sink into the background.  Warner could only continue for a few minutes before he realized that he just wasn’t going to be able to write.  He looked at the words he’d spilled onto the page and snarled in disgust.  He threw the page off to the side and cleared the top of the desk with one sweep of his arm.  He breathed hard for a moment before collecting himself.  There was no reason to be angry at a few pieces of paper.

He decided he wanted to eat.  He had missed the alarm for breakfast and decided to lie in his bed, but lunch would be ready about this time.  It would be a suitable distraction and maybe in an hour or so he would be able to sit back down at his journal.  Warner exited his room and walked down the hallway.  He wanted to hit something; he wanted to hurt someone.  Joseph Warner was already in a foul mood and the day was just starting.

Warner was thinking violent thoughts when he saw the new kid in front of him.  Before Jenkins could notice, the convict slowed his pace and watched the newborn Crow.  The convict’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the scuffle in the mess hall.  His blood started pumping faster and Warner thought about tearing off the boy’s arm and stuffing it down his own throat.

He realized halfway through the fantasy that it wasn’t actually giving him any satisfaction.  Warner still held a grudge for the last death, but he didn’t wish outright harm against the new soldier.  Carver had been right in the mess hall; Jenkins was not at fault.  The new soldier was merely a distraction and an excuse for Warner’s mistakes.  Warner growled at himself for his own incompetence. 

The veteran soldier wondered if he would ever escape this eternal prison.  Warner had killed quite a few people to overcome his debts; more than he had thought possible.  He had even enjoyed quite a few of them, but now that he thought about it he realized he didn’t appreciate the bloodshed as much as he used to.  Warner remembered the days before he had come to the asteroid; each cold-blooded kill was a mark of respect.  Now it was all hollow.

Warner thought about the Commission and how it had ruined everything.  Not only was he trapped in the system but now he couldn’t even enjoy his bloodlust.  He shook his head and wondered if there was any way he could take revenge on them.  The Commission, a sub-committee of War World Entertainment, was largely untouchable.  They regulated the games and the different outposts of civilization on Eris.  Warner set himself in a fantasy where he escaped the battlefield and caused havoc in the support cities just to screw with the Commission’s bottom line.  It almost made him smile.

Jenkins looked back over his shoulder and noticed the convict behind him.  It made the young soldier nervous to see the veteran so close and he increased his pace.  Warner noticed the rookie’s behavior and grunted.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Jenkins.  But I appreciate the respect.”  Warner grinned on the inside at the statement.  He might not hold the same anger towards the new recruit, but he felt warm inside being able to throw his weight around.  He loved to intimidate people when he could.

                -

Warner felt the skin around his knuckles and tried to resist wincing.  His hands stung from where the skin had been worn off, but Warner wanted to feel what he had done to himself.  His touch was delicate, but he didn’t resist letting his fingers glide against the injuries.  It was a pleasant sting.

It was something else to focus on.  He had gotten a good meal in after following Jenkins to the mess hall and afterwards he’d had a satisfactory workout in the yard.  The convict was starting to feel happy about what he had accomplished but afterwards the void had set in.  Warner hated to read or to watch too much television and he still wasn’t in the writing mood.  He knew that if he was left to his own devices he would just start thinking about the Commission again and about all the things that made his life so unfair.

So he started to punch the walls again.  Warner liked to start out by punching some of the concrete walls in the training yard to get the pain going.  He loved to have the small abrasions over his knuckles so that when he started to get into it in earnest he would leave behind bloody prints.  It made him feel more powerful and in control.  He was so much man that it didn’t matter if his body couldn’t take it.