Outlive (The Baggers Trilogy, #1) (12 page)

             
Baggs continued to walk around the room until Jodi returned with breakfast on polished silver trays. A young man followed her in, also carrying trays of food and coffee. Baggs couldn’t believe all they brought. The lobster and eggs looked delicious, as did the sliced fruit. Baggs saw pineapple, and his mouth watered at the thought of getting to have it a second time. The doughnuts were still hot with glazed sugar glistening atop them. The coffee was in three silver thermoses that sat along side delicate cups with different patterns on them. There were cups of cold milk, cups of sugar, and cups of cream that could be added to the coffee. There was a bottle of orange juice, and dew-covered glasses of ice water.

             
“What’s that?” Baggs asked, pointing to a pile of steaming croissants wrapped around hot ham and melted cheese.

             
“Pigs in a blanket,” Jodi told him. Her eyes shifted nervously to Tartuga, who was a shadow, typing on his computer in front of the large, bright windows. “Mr. Tartuga, your breakfast is here,” she called.

             
“Go ahead and eat, Baggs. I’ll be down in a second. You can read the books, you know. They’re not just for looking at. Wash your hands first; they’re still bloody. Use one of the wipes Jodi brought.”

             
“Okay, thank you,” Baggs said; he opened up one of the packets of wipes and cleaned his hands off. The smell of alcohol stung his nose.

             
Jodi looked quizzically at Baggs’s bloodied shoulder beneath his ripped shirt and then left the room.

             
Baggs’s mouth was watering heavily as he took a seat in front of the mounds of food. He poured himself a cup of coffee, which was dark black and gave off a rich aroma. He took a small sip and moaned quietly to himself. He used to be a daily coffee drinker, but hadn’t had a cup in a few years because he didn’t have enough money to buy such things. This was undoubtedly the best cup of coffee Baggs had ever had. He piled one of the small tea plates with pigs in a blanket, lobster and eggs, doughnuts, and fruit. He draped a napkin over the top of his pants, which were already dirty enough that spilling food on them wouldn’t change their appearance much, but he felt the napkin in his lap would be polite, anyways.

             
Tartuga continued to type at his desk, and Baggs was partially thankful for this. He wouldn’t have been able to talk much with all this food before him. The food was just as good as it looked—he saved his pineapple for last, and was pleased to find that this fruit was much sweeter than the fruit he had eaten the night before. He stirred creamer into his coffee and drank it slowly, savoring the taste in his mouth. He ate until his stomach protruded. He thought to himself,
If Tartuga thinks I’m big now, he should see me after a couple weeks of eating proper portions.
When food was more plentiful, Baggs could weigh a dense two hundred and fifty pounds.

When Baggs was finished with the pineapple, he pushed his plate away and cleaned off his hands with his napkin. He stood up and walked around the room, looking for a book to enjoy while Tartuga finished the lengthy email to the emperor. He picked
Under the Dome
by Stephen King. He had read the novel twice already, and he sat down at the table and opened the book in the middle, wanting to start from a random spot. He poured himself a third cup of coffee—his brain was buzzing with caffeine by this time—and began to read.

             
He read four or five pages before stopping, and looking around him, taking in where he was. It was incredible to Baggs that some people lived like this—assistants to take their orders, prime food brought when they asked, an office stocked with thousands of books you’ve never read—when people were literally starving to death. The accommodations were enjoyable—there was no arguing that—but were they enjoyable enough to justify others starving? Baggs thought of Maggie’s ribs.
Surely not.

             
Baggs poured himself a cup of orange juice and read for a few more minutes before Tartuga stood up and began to make his way to the breakfast table. Baggs was almost upset at being interrupted—he was getting into the story.

             
“Good?” Tartuga asked. He took one doughnut and a cup of coffee. Baggs guessed that whatever wasn’t eaten was simply thrown away.

             
“Amazing. It was wonderful.”

             
“What was it we were talking about, again?” Tartuga asked through a mouthful of doughnut.

             
“You were saying that you thought there might be an opening in Outlive for me.”

             
Tartuga smiled. “Yes. Yes, that was it.”

             
“But all the spots are filled. I don’t understand. Are you going to have me sign up for the next season?”

             
Tartuga shook his head.

             
Surely he’s not thinking of letting me be a gladiator,
Baggs thought. Becoming a gladiator would be just as dangerous—if not more—than being a competitor in Outlive, but his family would be sent five or six times as many CreditCoins. Gladiators were all male, and some of the best athletes in New Rome. The most popular among them were paid millions of CreditCoins per deathly appearance.

             
“Do you think that I’ll be able to sign up for
this
season of Outlive?” Baggs asked.

             
“Yes. I do.”

             
“I’m confused.”

             
Tartuga nodded. “Naturally. There’s a lot of confusing political things when you get high up in the pecking order.” He smiled more. Baggs thought that Tartuga had a secret that he wanted to tell. Baggs was very observant of trends with people. People often called him
intuitive.
He had taken special note of Tartuga’s office.
Why have such a big office with so many chairs?
he had asked himself.
To show it off. And that’s why he ordered all this food. That’s why he wears such nice suits. He likes to show other people what he’s got—he likes to brag. Now, he’s trying to show off by letting me know that he has high up connections. He knows something that he doesn’t want to flat out tell me. But he wants me to know he knows.

             
Baggs sipped his coffee. “There’s something you don’t feel comfortable telling me.”

             
Tartuga shrugged, but his smile grew.

             
Baggs remained silent for a moment, just staring at Tartuga. After a few seconds, Tartuga gave a clue. “As you know, contestants for Outlive are divided up into different teams. Each team has an owner—usually someone very powerful.
Very
powerful. Do you kind of see where I’m going with this?”

             
Baggs thought for a moment. “I honestly don’t.”

             
Tartuga smiled giddily and rocked left and right in his chair. He looked very boyish, even though he was graying and held a position of such authority that he had Emperor Daman’s private email.
That’s another thing,
Baggs thought.
He could have just said, ‘I have to send an email,’ but instead he let me know that the email was to the most powerful person in New Rome, possibly the world—Emperor Daman. He likes to show off.

             
Tartuga started to talk again: “When you have so many powerful people playing a game, the game isn’t always what it seems. I know I’m not making myself clear, but, uhhhh, it’s not in my best interest to make myself clear.”

             
“I’m not supposed to know what you know.”

             
Tartuga nodded, but said happily, “I didn’t say that, Baggs! But, if you were to be drawn to that conclusion, so be it. You believe that there is something that I’m not supposed to tell you. But you’re a smart guy, aren’t you? I can tell. I know a smart man when I see one. And, as a smart man, if you were to deduce what’s going on from events around you, that’s not my fault. And it’s not like you would tell, right?”

             
“Of course not. Even if I did, who would believe me?”

             
Tartuga took another bite of doughnut. “Exactly! You’re exactly right!” Tartuga paused, chewing thoughtfully.

             
“You were saying that the owners are powerful people. And when powerful people play the game, ‘the game isn’t always what it seems.’ I’ve heard that the competitors assigned to each team are chosen at random. Am I right in guessing that perhaps it’s not as random as the average Outlive viewer is led to believe?”

             
Tartuga made a funny clucking noise. “Mmmmhhh, no. Not exactly. Not at all, actually. A computer chooses the contestants from a pool. We have a certain number that we can put into the computer, and then the program randomly assigns them to different owners.”

             
Baggs sipped on his coffee some more.

             
Tartuga made the clucking noise again before continuing. “However, there are certain circumstances in which contestants have to be replaced. Because, as you know, contestants are sometimes chosen two weeks before the event—accidents happen. Some of the contestants are old, and some have pre-existing medical conditions. It’s not unheard of for one of them to die while waiting. And, as you also are probably aware, a lot of money exchanges hands during the Outlive contests. Owners of good teams are handsomely awarded. And there’s a lot of outside betting, too. It wouldn’t be fair for one team to enter the Colosseum a man short simply because of some awful tragedy.”

             
Tartuga was almost bouncing in his chair. He took another doughnut—one of the cream filled ones—and began to chew on it. Baggs didn’t respond to what Tartuga had just said, and so the man gave even more information.

             
“And, if such a tragedy does befall some poor soon-to-be contestant, I’m the one in charge of replacing them. The rules state that I’m supposed to wait for the first person to come into the Outlive office, and that person replaces the dead one. But—here we enter the realm of the hypothetical, Baggs—imagine, for instance, that one of the owners isn’t particularly pleased with one of his randomly assigned participants—an old woman, say. It would be incredible, then, if the old woman died at one o’clock today and you walked into the Outlive office fifteen minutes after she passed.”

             
Baggs nodded. “But I came in at seven in the morning. And, there were no openings, then.”

             
Tartuga laughed loudly and then half smiled, half showed Baggs his teeth. He spoke through a closed jaw. “I think you are mistaken. I think that you came in at fifteen past one—exactly a quarter of an hour after Regina Eldridge, the most senior participant on Byron Turner’s team, passed.”

             
Baggs was horror struck.
They’re going to kill someone so that I can enter! My God!

             
Tartuga shrugged. “That’s the way luck goes. Outlive is a game of luck—you have thirty teams, all with an equal chance of having good athletes on them, competing together in the Colosseum. How could you possibly strategize that? There is a short period of training, of course, however everyone is training just as hard around the league—all the participants train like their lives depend upon it, because they literally do. But, like I said earlier, when you have men and women competing such as the owners in Outlive, things aren’t always what they seem to be. Men and women like that don’t get to the top because of
luck
, Baggs. I’m here to tell you that luck isn’t real.”

             
Baggs lowered his voice: “But why would you do it? Why would you want to help Byron Turner’s team out by sending me there, in place of this Eldridge lady?”

             
Tartuga laughed harshly. “I don’t! Are you crazy? I don’t want to help anyone! She simply died, and then you walked into the office fifteen minutes later. If you keep mixing up the facts, Mr. Baggers, you’re going to start to worry me. You might get unlucky, too, understand?”

             
Baggs nodded. He almost wanted to walk out, but he didn’t think that would be an option anymore. He knew too much. It made him sick to think that he would be replacing someone who was killed.

             
“What time did you enter the office, Mr. Baggers? I forgot.”

             
“Fifteen passed one.”

             
“Exactly,” said Tartuga. He finished his doughnut. “But you’re a thinking man, Baggs. You like to think in hypotheticals. So let us entertain a hypothetical. Do you know who Byron Turner is?”

             
“A councilman.”

             
“Yes! He’s very high up! And people who are very high up can do other people favors, if they feel like it.”

             
“I see,” said Baggs.