The rats skittered quietly over the damp concrete. Brandon heard the soft taps of the guards gloves against the keypad, the tinny beeps accompanying each button rang through the abandoned jail. He ground his teeth together quietly. So. They had come for him at last.
Safro noticed the shrill clank of his metal-toed boots against the smooth floor; felt the handle of the slay-rifle. But a soldier’s main weapon, if caught off-guard, was fear. Gut-wrenching, paralyzing fear. Intimidation was key. He reached the proper cell door. A simple retinal scan, a code or two, and the barred doorseal slid open noiselessly. The prisoner was there, sitting quietly on the steel bench. The bars from the adjuring cells cast a striped pattern over his face. The prisoner stared coolly out of his smoky-blue eyes. The defiant ones were always tough to break. Good thing he already had a pair of stun-cuffs on.
“Okay,” said Safro quietly. “What I want you to do is move over here by me. Now.” He reached into his left pocket and pulled out a keypad. Pressed the button. The man jerked in reflex to the electric shock influenced by the cuffs. His matted jet-black hair fell in front of his piercing eyes. But he didn’t move.
“I said now, you fucking Jew,” Safro hissed as he reached out with his slay-rifle and pressed the knife-like edge against his throat. “While I would prefer to watch the lions rip you apart, I feel no hesitation to killing you right here, right now.” The captive hesitated for a second, then walked slowly down the corridor, with the rifle-head jammed into his back as motivation.
The stadium-shaped arena was crammed with spectators. Only half had to be forced and bribed to view the great trial. The floor was dirt. Plain, humble dirt. It contrasted greatly with the futuristic metal of the bleachers, the holocams broadcasting every move of the gladiators, and the podium. The podium. Here sat the ruler of the entire world; The United Continents of Earth. Emperor Trent Gengtop.
He appeared at the opposite side of the arena, flanked by about 20 armed guards. His imposing ice blue eyes were flattering to his chiseled face, and his carefully-styled blond hair only upped the image. His tailored black three-piece suit gave him a certain business look that came with the suit. Around his neck hung a version of the UCE seal; a golden disk representing the Earth and a silver sword thrust through it. World domination. He strode across the dirt floor, repelling all the grime surrounding him. The people in the stands were lumped in that category. The guards surrounding him really didn’t have much of a job. No one dared to throw a single scrap of metal in Trent Gengtop’s direction. The fear was suffocating.
He swaggered up the broad steps surrounding the throne. The massive chair seemed to have been sculpted out of a single piece of silver. Silver was the rarest metal in the world, now. Trillions of credit vouchers must have gone into that single piece of art. Trent sat down in the throne for a moment, then stood up and raised his arms up over his head. Cheers erupted from the walls. Those who did not shout with joy at the sight of their leader were shot. Trent sat down again. The dome grew silent. He motioned to his Primary Adviser with one gloved finger. The man adjusted his vocal booster and said:
“NOW. THE TRIAL BEGINS.” The voice reverbed and bounced off the various speakers positioned strategically about the stadium. The deafing blaring, ear-splitting voice. One couldn’t help but be afraid.
The voice, again, a mere whisper now, in his ear. Brandon could feel his hot breath and the slay-rifle jammed forcefully into his back for emphasis.
“Now, what I want you to do is go out there, kneel by the stairs, and beg for mercy. Try to entertain the holoviewers. I get a raise, if you do.” His voice lowered to a hiss. “Whatever you do, don’t forget who you’re talking to. Get moving.” The guard took the butt of his rifle and slammed it into his shoulder. Brandon sprawled out on the hard dirt, his breath knocked out of him, his shoulder blade shoved out of it’s proper socket. The guard kicked his foot out of the doorway, and mashed the ‘close’ button. The doorseal slammed home, trapping Brandon inside the Dome. Trapped in hell.
Brandon lay there on the cold, damp packed dirt, panting desperately. He couldn’t seem to get a decent breath of air. The sun peeking in the circular hole in the roof was both blinding after the long weeks in the cell, yet refreshing, somehow. Liberating. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, just to rest. Then, a sound, screaming over the loudspeakers.
“WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE RISE AND IDENTIFY YOURSELF?” The defendant. That was he. Brandon staggered to his feet. Wiped off the spot of blood lingering at his swollen lip. And walked with all the dignity a dying man has over to the throne.
The black volcanic rock molded into stairs towered up above him, double Brandon’s height. He glanced up the staircase at the man.
Emperor Trent Gengtop glanced over the crowd. And he felt proud. This was Trent’s day. Trent’s time. All his life, he had been told that you can’t change people., no matter how hard you try. Well, that was simply the way you look at things. After all, if you remove the few bad apples from the bunch, you have a nice, ripe, bunch of produce. Just extinguish the flickering sparks of defiance, and you have the ideal society. Trent glanced at his people. Then at the sniveling thing at the base of his throne. It should be no problem to throw a couple of drops of water at this spark. It won’t last long. Trent pressed the ‘on’ button located in his pocket. He breathed in deeply. Felt the intense pride. And spoke.
“My people. Today we have an inquisition of the utmost importance. The fate of a people rests on his shoulders. The fate of an entire race.” Trent smiled a grin of perfect teeth. “ So don’t screw it up.” He paced in front of the holovision cameras, thinking of his next move. Than he calmly sat down in his throne.
“Mr. Leeds!”, Brandon jerked up his throbbing head with a spear of pain. He was up there.
“Will you answer my questions truthfully and swiftly?” Brandon cast his eyes over the platoon of guards with their rifles leveled at his heart.
“Sure. Why not?” Trent glared at him.
“Are you not the leader of a certain... religion?” Brandon glared up at him with his now-steely eyes.
“Our leader is God.” Trent features hardened. This was going to be hard.
"You know what I mean!” Trent’s voice rose to a crescendo. “Tell me the truth!”
“That is the truth.”
“Of what religion do you belong to?”
“I think that you know.” Trent was getting frustrated. He decided to take a different approach. He needed to corner his prey. Be it literal or mentally. Or both. Trent leaned over from where he was sitting and took up his Sword. A thin, dueling sword, it was mainly used as a prop when threatening people. But sometimes things got a little out of hand. His hand tightened around the grip. Trent Gengtop rose from his throne, weapon in hand. The blade glittered in the setting sun. He slowly stepped down the black staircase. Any one watching would’ve though that he was fighting a crippling disorder; the way he walked down those steps. But he was reveling in the moment. His first step into abolishing all kinds of religion. His mother would have been so proud. She always said to stand up for what you believe in. And here he was. Trent crossed the packed dirt to where Brandon was standing. That man certainly did look a mess! Blood all over his face, the guards certainly did what he wanted. stole a look into the crowds. He saw Leeds’s family, standing with the others. Look at your leader now!, Trent ran the words through his mind. ‘He’s not so powerful anymore!’. He suddenly realized that he had been thinking aloud. And didn’t feel a bit ashamed. He turned back to Leeds. He noted the greasy hair, the dirty clothes, the ragged, tired eyes. Then, Trent saw the subtle glint of gold underneath the collar of his jumpsuit. He drew his sword, and moved towards the prisoner. Brandon didn’t waver his stare. Trent carefully slid the blade underneath the gold chain and pulled gently so that the pendant was visible. He squinted at it.
“What’s with this necklace, my dear? And what an interesting medallion. What is it, a star?” Brandon’s eyes reverted to the Star of David balanced on the sword tip. He remembered back to when he had gotten it. He was thirteen, and it was his Bar Mitzvah. Only his family and closest friends had gathered in the damp basement that it was held in. Uncle Jake and Uncle Adam had been standing watch outside, armed with clubs. Whenever Hv’s or tanks rumbled by, they had to stop singing the songs and dancing; so no one would see them celebrating. Everyone had been afraid that night. Any religious ceremonies were frowned upon then, even if it was innocently celebrating a boy’s manhood. His mother and father had given him the necklace. Brandon had blocked out of his boyhood mind just how they had gotten the money to buy the gold, and he still did. He still did...
“Hey!” Brandon looked up to see Trent’s face a couple inches away from his own. He repressed an urge to scream. “I’m talking to you, and I don’t like being IGNORED!” Trent’s voice amplifier was up as high as it could go by the end of this speech. “Now I’m asking you a question! Are you aware of the fact that Judaism, along with all other religions except Gengtopism are outlawed! ARE YOU?!”, he screamed. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. Trent leaned over to Brandon’s ear and murmured:
“I might, however, drop all charges concerned and not feed you to the lions if you do me just one, little itsy-bitsy favor.” Brandon looked at the Emperor. He felt the sword slide in-between the necklace and his skin again. Trent than sliced the blade sharply downward, snapping the frail, old links connecting the chain. The broken links and the pendant flew off of Brandon’s neck and clattered to the ground in a puff of dust. There the gold of the medallion shone like the star it was. Brandon twitched his arms to catch it, than he remembered the stun-cuffs. He stared sadly at the flashes of precious metal lying in the dirt.
“Now.” Trent slid the sword back into it’s scabbard as he muttered instructions. “What I want you to do is to step on it. Hey, don’t be so ornery. Of course, you don’t have to mean it. And you can apologize afterward. But if you don’t do this... favor for me, you die, your family dies, and your race dies.” Brandon stared at the gleaming light on a chain at his feet. He turned, and looked at his family. Trent Gengtop. The barred door at the opposite edge of the stadium containing the lions. Hungry lions. His Star of David. The HoloVision cameras focused on his face. And it was right about than and there that Trent made his fatal mistake. He whispered in Brandon’s ear.
“After all, Leeds; what’s more important: a piece of scrap metal or a million people?” Brandon looked up sharply. He stared at Trent so fiercely it forced the emperor to back up a step. Than Brandon turned, and spat in the Emperor’s carefully made up face. Trent’s eyes had never been so wide. He had never been so shocked. All his life he had been feared by his teachers, always been the figure of awe with his peers. And when he had big plans to conquer the world, he had met surprisingly little resistance. He reached one hand up to his face, and just stared at Brandon with big, rounded eyes, a mouth frozen in shock, and his complexion as white as a sheet. And at that moment, every single person that was in the stadium, and the three billion watching on holovision, saw right through the facade that Trent Gengtop had so carefully built up around him over the years and saw a weak man that had just been deprived of the thing he needed most. Something had just triumphed over fear.
The crowd rose as one, and left the stadium. They had not been dismissed.
