Page 146 of Light Leech

“What–”

A gong cut me off. The man who had acted like a captain of our boat sat in front of me and turned his attention to the source of the sound with the rest of us.

A chrome-faced Eunuch had struck the gong but now stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The gong stood on a pedestal next to Zhou’s violet dais. He sat atop the light-laced throne with two seats a step below him on each side. To the left sat another talk-show host–not Lyler–whose lack of humor was compensated by his undocumented “philanthropic“ ventures that kept him among the elite despite his condescension to anyone who wasn’t a Violet citizen. I couldn’t recall his name, never wanting to memorize it, but his face was connected to every Violet–sustained “charity” that never fixed the problems it pledged to resolve. Next to him sat Selara Goman, a child actor-turned-musician, who was owned by Reef’s rival company Dorse. A few years ago her drastic change in appearance that most attributed to facial reconstruction or mere age led many to believe that she was a clone, replaced after her past accusations against some of the Violet elites who were likely in the seats near her.

On the far right sat Brian Bryan, a former neuronet pastor who forsook his faith to find the cure to aging without the use of cybernetic implants. Though he had no visible implants, many argued that most of his subdermal makeup was nothing but cybernetic. His biological age was somewhere in the fifties, though he looked about twenty years younger with an off-putting complexion. He had defeated aging in some way, but he looked like one of the artificial humans used in advertising to avoid paying actors. His affect was as bland as his pale skin tone and his personality was nonexistent.

Among these controversial elites sat Naoma on the inner right. A Eunoch stood behind her, though I couldn’t tell if it was to protect her or keep her under watch.

Our eyes locked. Her face was expressionless.

Please. Anything.

Nothing.

Zhou clapped once and the few still chatting after the gong went silent. His voice amplified around the gigantic chamber of a room. I wondered if I could find a way to tap into the speakers like he has once my neurospace rebooted. What could I say that mattered? These were all Violet elites who had tossed their sacrifices into a red lake for want, near naked entertainment?

“Thank you all for coming!” Zhou bowed to the audience, though he remained on his throne. “Without you and your fan donations, none of this would be possible. Glory to us, for we are the light!”

“Glory to us, for we are the light!” the crowd repeated.

“Donation boards, please,” Zhou said. A large cuboid hologram appeared above the lake, each side the same list of names and companies and their “donation“ count. Lyler was somewhere in the middle with five donations. Brian Bryan was a few steps above him in third place with seven. The top two spots were taken by Selara and the other talk show host who sat next to Zhou. Naoma’s name was not among the top ten. Was I her only donation? If so, why did Zhou seat her next to him? I received no answer, only another strike to the gong that caused the people on my boat to scramble. Everyone took their oars and moved the boat in line with the other five. I tried my best to row along with them but couldn’t help feeling lost when they all seemed to understand our predicament.

“Row!” The man before me screamed as the countdown neared ten. We moved the boat into the right slot but were too far forward and struggled to push back between two boats who were just as delayed. I gave it my all, feeling the worn wood slide in my hands as I struck water instead of the other boat after a few failed attempts.

Five seconds.

We leaned in sync with all our might to slide into position then stop before moving too far back.

Two.

The boat to our right was the only one not in line. They screamed for a miracle, but one would not come in this godless communion.

Zero.

The boat was two feet out of line.

One of the Eunuchs next to Zhou connected to the sound system. “Surveillance reveals that fan number three five two, devotee of Yerry Timer, is responsible for his team’s delay.”

A violet light shot struck the delayed rower from a turret on the island in the middle of the lake. As soon as it fired, it retracted back into the sand. The light struck his groin, not piercing as any typical shot would, but charged the light lines around his briefs. As if drained of all innards, the rower collapsed from his protestations. The light filled the small orb that had been connected to his briefs and flew into a basin in the center of the island. All that was left of him was shed skin, not even the inner substance to make him a jelly fiend, and the briefs with extinguished light lines.

The crowd cheered, save for a tall, silver-haired man who left the arena in fury. I recognized Yerry Timer from his corporate-driven self-help books that were given out to most new employees for major corporations, such as Haven Health. His philosophy had turned a few people I knew at Haven into corporate concepts, rather than humans, who couldn’t talk without trying to sell you something, including themselves. I hated to look down on anyone after their death, but if most of the rowers were fans lured into this because of their devotion to false idols, there were better people to save than a Yerry Timer worshipper.

The Eunuch stood until the audience quieted. He bowed, glanced at Zhou for a bow of approval, then stuck the gong.

“Row!” The boat captains shouted. I shoved my oar into the red water and focused on the man before me, who directed us without any argument from the others. Had I missed some debrief or assigning of positions? No one else had an inkling of confusion in their determined countenances, then again, I doubted any of them were sedated before Zhou himself.

The crack of oars smacking oars and other boats cut out the excitement of the crowd. After a few seconds of struggle, every boat had enough space to move and the race commenced. The frontmost man stood and began pounding on the mounted drum, which I had missed upon entering, to keep the rhythm of our rowing in sync.

Each pull brought me closer to exhaustion, which I thought I had already reached prior to the race. With my Bite to sustain me, I wondered how drained the others were. Was it the middle of the night or had a new day already arrived. Red water splashed around us as large waves moved towards us. I couldn’t see how they were being generated, but the indoor lake had turned into a small portion of the ocean amidst a storm. I tasted a drop on my shoulder out of curiosity. Fruity, sour, and as I presumed, alcoholic.

Why were we racing boats on a lake of wine? This was the largest display of wasted lumens I had ever seen, all for glamor, glory, and some sick form of entertainment. I looked around, squinting one eye as wine splashed in my face, and felt somewhat reassured to see that there were no new missing slots on the other boats. I hadn’t the faintest idea what had happened. It would be best to not look for sense in this. The words “Glory to us, for we are the light” that Zhou and his celebrities had shouted filled me with hatred and fueled each stroke.

The drummer beat faster as we fell into fourth place after the first curve. I rowed in sync, but some of the others fell behind. We were exhausting ourselves before the first lap. The drummer looked like one of us. No one knew what they were doing, which made it all the more entertaining for the elites.

We were out of sync and drifted further back from the third boat. If my Bite didn’t give me a physical advantage as a rower, I would have moved the drummer out of the way and led the rhythm myself.

Our captain must have sensed the lack of unity that I had. He called for the drummer to restart, bringing us to an idle drift for a moment. He shouted for the drummer to resume but called out each strike with a “drum!” We crept up towards the third boat as we reached the second curve of the oval and passed them as we pulled back into the straight.