III. Gilded Glory

III

Gilded Glory
The Monarch

 

   Duke Gregree watched as the bloodied and unconscious man was dragged from his throne room toward the palace infirmary. He knew that if everybody’s eyes weren’t averted to the ground in subservience that they’d be leveled directly at him, but such was the benefit and burden of being a Royal. All eyes on him, all the time.

 

      Making his way back to his elaborate and technology-laden throne, he gingerly dipped his swelling right hand into the bucket of ice water that was already awaiting him. His servants knew him well. Relishing the moment and ensuring that everyone was aware of the fact that they were waiting on his word, he announced, “Resume the transmission!”

 

      The War appeared again on screen as it had before and he could feel the crowd of subjects in front of him all raise their eyes in unison to see what had occurred in the brief time the transmission had been interrupted. The Duke, however, couldn’t move on as quickly as the simple-minded. He was still internally raging about the premature death of Gabriel Henley by the hands of that fool with a knife that technicians had literally found and replicated from history books. Henley, that incompetent imbecile, who had held so much together and had had so much invested in him, was slowly moving towards room temperature without having done a single point of damage.

 

      Gregree knew that it was useless to dwell on the loss now, but he was a man with a hot temper and little incentive for self-control. He thought back to the training camp that had housed his elite Army out near Breckenridge Mountain, east of his seat of power in Field-of-Baker. They had been an impressive sight: the peak of physicality, the best in their various fields, trained with firearms through simulation training programs that were designed specifically to prepare future Soldiers for a War in the Hendecagon. An Army the Pacific Kingdom could rally behind and be proud of. The best the Deck had ever seen.

 

      And here they were, already down a man from the Offsetting. What had Committee Member Marshle told him the odds were of that, somewhere in the mid-twenties? With a scowl, he refocused his attention on the progress of the War.

 

      His Army was forming up behind a ridge. Like a finely-tuned machine, the authority shifted down to the next senior Soldier who was already barking out orders to the unit and drawing strategies in the dirt. Two of the fastest, Mareck and Himpton, darted out in opposite directions to scout out the enemy Army and surrounding terrain. Gregree was pleased by their speed and efficiency. Both of them had broken several camp records for obstacle course times and, as was the practice, their families had been duly rewarded for it.

 

      As the Soldiers set up trap zones and scouting posts high up in the trees, Gregree wondered what the Committee Member’s take on their performance so far was. The man was a powerful ally but remembering their meeting in his personal chambers three years ago still caused an involuntary tension of his entire being. It wasn’t often that the Duke was summoned anywhere, but when someone on the ICEW requested your presence, one only prayed that the personal jet you owned could get you there quickly enough to appease his sense of promptness.

 

      Their meeting couldn’t have lasted longer than a few minutes, yet it seemed to drag on immeasurably. He had found the open-flame torches to be disconcerting as he walked down the dark entry hallway, barbaric and primitive in their use, but if the Committee Member wanted an imposing environment, he had certainly succeeded. Everything about their short conversation had been calculated and precise, down even to the Duke’s preferred beverage that had been awaiting him as he sat down. The Committee Member’s olive green velvet robed had partially hidden his face, giving the discussion an inherent air of secrecy.

 

      The Committee Member’s near-whisper carried a cold authority that didn’t allow for questions. He had laid out his proposed plan in succinct and absolute terms: when the Duke should petition the Committee for a War declaration, whom it should be against, what Stakes should be proposed, everything.

 

“When the War is over,” the Committee Member had crooned “the Pacific Kingdom will gain entire new markets and you, Duke Gregree, shall be a hero to your people. Perhaps even monarchical.” Visions of ascending to the Throne-in-Anaheim as the King had flashed seductively before him. The sitting king was heirless, a last surviving victim of a pox that had stricken him and the already dwindled surviving members of his family. 

None of these facts escaped Dukes and Duchesses up and down the famed West Coast. While still a duke, he was on few people’s list for a possible ascendency. He had made far too many enemies and far too few friends. This was his chance. He had hurriedly given his assent to anything the Committee Member wished to do.

 

      The audience’s cheers broke him from his rumination. On the large screen before him, he saw two of his Soldiers retreating back into the woods from an open field, one nursing a noticeable limp. With a flick of his wrist, a holographic screen appeared above his left armrest and began the instant replay highlight. A clearly desperate Soldier from the Confederacy had charged across the Hendecagon himself, wielding nothing but a small two-headed axe and a primitive-looking pistol.

 

      A close-up shot of his face showed a look of fear and anger as primal as violence. He had at least made some efforts to remain unseen as he crossed the terrain, but once he reached the open field, the flight instinct must have taken over and he had broken into a dead sprint. About halfway across, he lunged forward and hit the ground hard. The camera view showed an over-the-shoulder shot of the Soldier nestled in a tree on the other side of the field, still peering into the scope affixed to the top of his long-range sniper rifle.

 

      Gregree wondered why the soldier didn’t finish off the clearly mortally-wounded but howling man. Then he saw the two figures jogging towards him from a nearby grove of trees. Graphics of their names and specialties appeared over their heads on the replay screen. These two had been ruthless in camp. Gregree smiled in anticipation.

 

      Fast forwarding through the jogging and obvious taunting the two figures had done, he pressed play when he saw a blur of motion. The fools had been overconfident and caught off guard by the wounded Soldier who had taken the opportunity to bury the axe into the nearby Pacific Kingdom Soldier’s leg. Gregree chuckled to himself before remembering another of his Soldiers had been wounded.

 

      The only thing that kept him from lashing out at a nearby servant was his interest in finishing the replay. Much to his delight, the two Pacific Kingdom Soldiers proceeded to shoot the man through the head before detaching it with the man’s own weapon. It was worth the injury to witness such a delightful display of dominance. His Soldiers had listened well. The War Events List specifically offered a bounty for every severed head and he aimed to collect.

 

      In one of the many transmissions between the Duke and the Committee Member since that first meeting, he had gathered the courage to ask him a question regarding the War Events List: why? At first he had feared the Committee Member’s wrath, but after a moment, he had received a response.

 

“We have learned, over the years, that the repression of violence can be more dangerous than violence itself. Without an outlet, a display, a release, the tension becomes uncontrollable. The List provides that release at a level that our society can assimilate and digest until the next War. We minimize violence with violence that is maximized and standardized.”

 

      Gregree shook his head in awed bewilderment. He yearned to be the Lord King over the Pacific Kingdom, but he wasn’t sure he could ever contend at the higher levels of the Committee. He still didn’t understand how things like the List and marketing campaigns and Stakes held things together; he only knew that they did. Creating more violence to counter it seemed self-defeating to him. However, as a particularly violent man, he decided to leave the mechanics of it to those more qualified than he and instead enjoy the War for exactly what it was: amusement.

 

Besides, with allies as cunning as Junior Committee Member Marshle, he wouldn’t have to worry too much about those higher levels. Shoving himself off his throne as the War waged on before him, he pushed aside a servant who stood too close and headed for the liquor table.

 

      If nothing else, he resolved that tonight would be a grand night. A night of feasting and drinking, royalty and rabble, bloodshed and bounties.