Ripples

Chapter One

There were a myriad threads upon which the fate of the Galaxy hung. Some of them were momentous events, others were just tiny everyday decisions. Illyna never learned that the fact that she chose to make her provisions a day earlier, and left with Aharon, Javan and Tamar into the wilderness half an hour earlier was one such event.

When she reached the feet of the mountains, she did not find an exhausted boy and corpses of the alien raiders that occasionally plagued her world. Instead, she saw the child fight.

Though she had witnessed many a gladiator in the grip of the Nails, the savage beauty of combat that she saw on that day was something that gripped her heart. The slender figures moved like dancers, and yet, they could not avoid the savagery of the little boy. His screams were terrible—they gripped her heart in an almost inexplicable way. Despite the almost physical pain the howls of pain and fury caused her, she did not dare interfere. There was something about the way he fought that took her breath away and rooted her in place.

Only when all the aggressors were dead and the child had collapsed, did Illyna leave her hiding place, Tamar and Javan on her heels. Her approach was hesitant, but she did not intend to leave the boy behind.

She approached slowly, her heartbeat and the rustling of grass being crumpled under her feet preternaturally loud in her ears. Though she knew better, she could not help but to imagine the bloody, torn figures picking their broken bodies up and striking her down. There was something eerie, wrong about how they were built: almost human, but entirely alien at the same time. Their blood sparkled in the sun, like jewels, and the smell was also subtly wrong, missing the familiar coppery tang.

She picked her way between the corpses and torn limbs until she found the boy. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. Scabbed gashes covered his cheeks and forehead, with deeper wounds marring his oddly muscular body. Up close, he also looked alien, though in a different way: his proportions were those of a toddler, but at the same time his body was corded with the hard muscle of a gladiator. Illyna had thought him to be six, judging by his size, but now her guess appeared to be absurd.

But Illyna followed her impulse and knelt down to inspect the small body before her. Most of the wounds did not appear fresh at all—had she not seen them being inflicted moments ago, the slaver would have judged them to be a week old or even older.

"He's going to fetch a nice price," Tamar said. "Skilled fighter, heals bloody fast…"

With a start, Illyna looked to her companion. She was right—a find like this would be a sin to waste. She had needs, Javan had his mother and Tamar her children to think of.

Before her, the boy started stirring. The movements were slight, quite like those of a dreaming child. Not wanting to wake him, Illyna turned to Javan and raised her hands. She grabbed her wrist, indicating he should fetch the irons. The boy was dangerous, and it was best if he came bound, least he tried to escape.

Or kill them.

Combat.

The world of a gladiator was combat: true in the red sands, and practice to prepare for it. It was all the boy knew. His first memory was of violence, of pain—causing it and receiving it. Bitter irony tinged his thoughts now—his fondest memory was of a moment when he had nearly died, of a thousand lacerations and their sting, of being stabbed and cut… After that, he did not remember being free. Though the concept brought a set of other, more abstract associations. In the end what mattered was that: life was pain and freedom was the choice between fighting through the agony, or letting it consume you.

Now, the only freedom he had was the freedom to die. Still, even so, he could choose better than those he fought with and slept among. Unlike them, he did not know the kiss of the Nails. They did not buzz in his mind, driving him towards violence. His ferocity was already unquestioned. His strength prodigious. And his age did not matter.

He was Angron, the child-gladiator.

Almost without conscious thought, he twisted out of the way of the other gladiator. She towered over him—she towered almost everyone. Veins stood out on her arms and neck as she heaved her heavy mace, but she was too slow. Before she could take another swing, he had kicked her legs out from under her.

He had been carefully not to break them—it was growing more difficult not to cause permanent harm with every day. Still, the gladiatrix toppled over like a felled tree, a string of curses mixed with pained hisses leaving her mouth, as he retreated to the side of the arena, just as he had been taught. This was only a sparring, with no audience that would demand blood. He'd have ample opportunity to break bones and spill vital fluids on another day.

A thin slave-child passed him a cup of water. Though he did not feel particular thirst, he accepted it. There was no reason for him not to, and he didn't want his masters to realize he was more resilient to thirst than the other gladiators. Let them think he needed as many breaks as they did. He sipped the tepid liquid, and watched his brothers and sisters practice their own skills. He smelled blood around him and heard clang of weapons, and screams of his brothers and sisters. The water tasted of copper.

The sands would drink well today, despite the lack of screaming audience.

Angron's fist balled over the cup, causing it crumple and crack as if were made from a much less durable material than metal. That his brothers and sisters would die for the enjoyment of others caused his choler to rise, and only with the greatest effort could he stop himself from mindlessly lashing out. If he did, it would change little…

No. Once he did lash out, it would have to be a beginning of a new era, not a futile gesture of an angry child.

The world Ala'ra had known for the five years of her life had started crumbling shortly after her birthday. Her father and mother both looked different—strained and nervous, when they thought she couldn't see them. Her nanny had disappeared, as well as a number of servants. The food had become simpler.

She had heard the name Angron murmured with fear, and she caught snatches of conversations where the words "revolt" were falling freely and frequently. Though she was young and did not understand what exactly was eating away her security, she knew there was something terrible lurking in the shadows. Her dreams were filled with blood-covered monsters, and shadows coming to life for weeks before all fell apart.

Her mother woke her up early in the morning, and when Ala'ra complained she wanted to sleep gave her a brittle smile that made the girl want cry. She smelled smoke, and heard a shouting coming from outside. She whimpered and sniffled, "I'm scared!"

For a moment, she found herself in a tight embrace. Then, once she was calm again, her mother withdrew. Behind her, her father was standing. His smile was equally false.

"You will be safe, love," he said. "Bad people… want to hurt us, and that's why we have to hide you. Once everything is okay and the bad people are gone, we will come back for you."

"Eunike will take you with her," her mother said, placing her be-ringed plump hand on the meaty shoulder of the cook. "You will play pretend with her—everybody has to think you're her niece."

Ala'ra looked at the woman, who offered her another fake smile. There was fear in all the adults, coiled like a small animal wanting to bolt.

"I don't want to!" Ala'ra protested. She wanted things to be like they were. She wanted her nanny back. The world should not refuse to accommodate to her—it had before, hadn't it?

"Eunike, please," she heard her mother whisper.

The large woman gathered her into her arms. She smelled of soap and food mostly, with a hint of sweat. Unlike her nanny or her mother. There was no perfume on her.

Ala'ra kicked her and bit her arm, but the strong arms never let her go, as she was carried out. The last glimpse she had of her parents was her mother turning away and her father hiding his face in his hands.

Somebody always started a fire. Angron had come to expect it. There was something cleansing about it—the flames took all away, leaving only ashes. This time, though, he was quite certain it had been accident. There was always something that could be knocked over.

He wasn't sure why it annoyed him—was it the waste of resources, or was it simply that as much as he would never reject his brothers and sisters, they would always remain unruly? Or perhaps, it was the fact that he no longer simply led them? That he had people who had never bled on the red sands under his command, and though they were willing to fight his war, they still had no proven themselves?

Still, the fire was a symptom of a larger, underlying problem. He had the hearts of his army: he knew they'd follow him to the death, but he had little control over it, once he let it loose. And this would not do, if he wanted to achieve something. In fact, he should not call them an army at all. They were a mob, and sheer charisma, or the righteousness of their cause would not teach them control.

There was a crack, as the mansion started falling apart. The flames had finally damaged its structure, and the roof had collapsed. Soon, more would follow, until only the blackened walls would remain.

Angron gnashed his teeth. The paperskins that called it home did not deserve a grand funeral pyre like this. Next time, he would lead an army. Next time, the true reckoning would start.

The former rulers of Nuceria stood before Angron. Once, they would have watched him bleed and for them, but today, he was the master, and their fates were in his hands. He wondered if they feared what they had taught him. Certainly, they knew terror—he smelled it in their sweat, heard in their breathing and saw it in their eyes.

Their regime was over, and they were all that remained of the cancer that was eating the world that had born them. Without them, the planet would have a future. There would be no slaves. There would be no Nails. The red sands would dry out.

"You need us," one of the paperskins said. He tried to keep his voice firm, but it faltered nevertheless—the plea for mercy was there, even if it was meant to disguised as a statement. "Without us, there will be anarchy. Chaos. Let us live, and we will help you bring order back."

His first instinct was to smash the wretch's head. How dare he beg for his life? How dare he call his injustice order?

And yet, he reined his choler. It was no easy task—deep in his bones, he knew what he had been bred to kill, and violence came naturally to him, just as breathing. But he was more than this. For those that called him their liberator, he was a symbol. If he showed no self control, neither would they. If he'd strike now, when he had promised justice, he'd be shatter what he had been striving for. There could be no true freedom, if one could not speak.

As he pushed his anger away, he weighed the words of the high rider.

They needed their skills. That was true—his brothers and sisters would forever remain trained killers. Those that had joined later came from the hives, and the farms, but at best, they were factoria-overseers. They had no idea about economy, or politics.

But did this mean they had to keep the bastards alive? There were other ways to learn—ways that not involve trusting people, who knew they would die once they had nothing left to teach.

"I'd risk chaos, rather than trust you," he growled. "You were slavers. You watched us die, and none of you ever tried to bring and end to it. We had to do it on our own. And now, we will rule ourselves without you. We will do what you were never fit to do."

Those he led may have had no knowledge of governing a world, but he did. Just like secrets of machines, chemistry and physics had all been locked in his mind and waited to be used, so were thousands of political theories. And what he knew, he could teach.

"That's your justice, you over-grown bastard?" the woman next to the first speaker shrieked. She had been an officer, judging by her dirty and torn uniform. Angron let her speak, his hand up to stall any attempts at violence. The fact that she had enough courage to insult him, deserved some credit. "That's why we should have had Nails put in your brain too! I hope you all burn! I hope you will see everything fall apart!"

"You will all die," Angron replied. "I care little if you think I'm unfair, but know this—this world will neither wither, not burn in your absence. It will become something you would never have imagined. And you will never see it."

For the first time, since the proceeding had started, he smiled. "We will build a world order that is not built on the blood of the innocent."

"What about all the innocent you butchered? About our children who never did anyone any harm? About those who never watched a fight and who spent their days protesting in the streets? This new empire of yours is built on their blood, just as it is on ours." The officer's tirade ended when she took a step forward, only for a gladiator's sword to bar her way.

Angron's smile faltered. Had he not thought the same at times? When did justice end, and vengeance start? But then, he knew the answers to those words—he had answered his own doubts many times.

"If we had not acted, nothing would have changed," he said. "Perhaps, one day, you'd all have had an epiphany and changed your ways. But before that more blood would have been spilled. Or perhaps it would have kept on flowing forever. But this ends today. There never was another choice we could have made."

"That was what we said, when we decided Blood and Circuses was the only way to keep the peace. You are no better than we are and soon you will learn that," the first speaker joined. His voice had grown stronger, and there was something in the expressions of his companions that showed they weren't feeling as powerless as before. This was something they understood, what they had been trained to do. Likely, they had read books and written them on how right they were.

"Say whatever makes you feel better about yourself," Angron spat.

"It's us versus them," the officer hissed spitefully. "Always. And it always justifies blood. You think you break the cycle? Think again. Politics is about friends and foes and the one who is the most ruthless wins. You won. But don't think you are better. You beat us at our game."

Angron snorted. Again, he had to fight himself to stay calm. Did they truly think those words could make him reconsider? Or perhaps they wanted to goad him, to strike them and show himself to be a savage? In that case he would disappoint them.

"Those are your rules, not mine. You might claim to know me, but you don't. Only the future will show if I am better than you. And that is a future you will not see. Go to your deaths with that knowledge. You will never see how wrong you were and how guilty that makes you."

AN

I finally managed to get around rewriting Ripples. I've been thinking about it ever since ADB wrote it wasn't possible to take out the Butcher's Nails without killing Angron, and while I could have decided "screw that" and kept on writing, it didn't really feel right, given that the idea was more to stick to canon while changing things, if that makes any sense.

So, instead, I decided to simply have Angron never get the Nails, while still being a gladiator. Which, quite naturally changed his story a lot.