Damned

By T.E. Shanan

It took 200 years for the United States to successfully divide itself, and when it did, 16 states seceded from the union to form their own empire. The staple of the empire’s brand of meritocracy and justice is its criminal justice system where convicts are moved for life to the reservoirs, borders and dams, where they provide free labor, energy production, and a placebo against the Empire’s fear of being re-absorbed by the US. Endless paths lead to being dammed, with only one way out earned at the annual Pardon Games.

Young Felix Noble watches the rebel aunt she admires win Pitz and ultimate glory in the games. Pitz, or Mayan ball, is the national pastime. It captures the imagination and heart of the nation, especially young Felix. Felix, an only child in one of the oldest and most venerated families in the empire, is fresh off a heart-wrenching loss in the high school national Pitz competition. While hesitant to follow all her aunt’s footsteps, she wants to carve out a place in history by capturing the prestigious and celebrated Historian’s Apprentice position held by her aunt years ago. She sets her sights on moving to the capital to develop her passion for history, but soon discovers how tightly politicians and historians are intertwined.
Throughout the story, Felix is driven to succeed, but her sheltered life may be a disadvantage when navigating a spider’s web of family and national politics. Her family and friendships might be the only thing keeping her safe, while manipulative people and a past she does not know work against her.
Feisty, fresh and funky Felix sets out on a journey of self-discovery to make a place in the world and history. But it’s the winners who write history. Will she be one of them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. Shanan
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301444663

T.E. Shanan

T.E. Shanan graduated Columbia College, Columbia University in May 2007 with a Bachelors of Arts in Economics and Latino Studies. Shanan resides in New York with a green-eyed cat, Treyon, and works in finance. Shanan’s number one priority in life is family and firmly believes that writing allows flexibility to show appreciation for family members and their unique characteristics more. As an avid reader, Shanan appreciates a good story.Currently, Shanan works in finance in New York City and is proud to claim New York as home. Damned is Shanan’s first novel and the first of many more, including the remaining Empire Saga books.

Book preview

DAMNED

By

T.E. Shanan

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

T.E. Shanan on Smashwords

COVER ART BY:

T.E. Shanan

Damned (Empire Saga #1)

Copyright © 2012 by T.E. Shanan

ISBN: 9781301444663

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Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Mature Themes

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Acknowledgements

Many thanks Nunnie, PaPa, Mamma, and my Great-Aunt Polly. I feel your presence and your constant, non-wavering faith cheering me onwards. I would never have attempted many things, including writing, without you and your Pom-Poms. Also, thank you to my brother, The IGive, and my parents who have offered their support and have allowed me to practice my writing skills on them throughout the years. Lastly, thank you to my coworkers for your feedback and for listening to my rambling madness in the midst of productive workdays.

This story came from a dream I had several years ago. I have always been comfortable with a short story, but was too intimidated to try for a novel until I discovered Storybook Pro writing software, which allowed me to tackle this work of character and plot-driven madness. As they say, the devil’s in the details and I would have to say he spent quite a bit of time in mine.

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I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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DAMNED

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Part 1: Damned - Part 1

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Prologue

It’s the winners who write history. I could not think how many times I heard that statement in fifteen years. If I won the day, I would be writing my name into history, writing the only dream I could remember in a decade into reality. I was graduating this year, and I refused to lose my last opportunity to achieve the status of a great Mayan ball player in the national imagination.

My heart drummed in time to the band entertaining the crowd in the background. I stood below a wide block of paint just below center court. Two teammates were on either side of me, positioned close to the easy sloping walls on either side where stone goalposts were situated at the top. I looked around the entire court and stadium for a moment, taking in the cheers and the panoramic view of the crowd stretching endlessly around me to the ceiling far above. Excepting moments like this, I could barely hear them. They were loud as an earthquake, but they barely registered as whispers when the ball was in play. Ironically, I could always make out my teammates voices, grumbles, and grunts.

Felix! Lee called out to me. He was the quickest chubby boy I knew, and could run faster than half the people on our team of seven for short distances. I saw the problem instantly. It was impossible to know whether or not the ball went into backcourt from here. Lee was hesitant to rush over in case it was an illegal rush. He did not want to get called for off sides this deep into the game. He was one of our better players. I’d hate for him to be sidelined from the game for a minimum of five minutes during crunch time in the Empire National Pitz Finals. Each team had five players on the court at a time. Fouls we could afford. One good man down in a tied game was too risky, so I shook my head indicating my decision.

Only the Pardon Games, where our nation’s criminals competed to earn their freedom, rivaled the national tournament. My school was competing against the Alamo Private University Stars. We were the home team, literally. If I could have seen faces at all, I would have recognized several neighbors, teachers, and classmates in the stands. The President of the Empire sat with his family somewhere in the crowd enjoying the game. Beta had never hosted a national tournament. The demand to watch two high school teams play sold out the Beta, Orion Comets’ stands and they were a professional team! The game was airing live on national television and would be one of the most watched programs tonight. It did not get any bigger than this.

Minus the addition of elbow, knee and shin guards, plus the required head guards, we were dressed like any normal high school volleyball team. We moved around the court like some combination of soccer and volleyball players, except no one kicks a Pitz ball, ironically named a Kick. But we were much more than that. The entire nation rallied behind this sport in a way that was second only to baseball in the United States.

The white jersey, though sweaty, shimmered against my amber skin. It called attention to the navy number four printed on the back. Four had been my aunt’s number when she played. I wore the number hoping it would bring me luck or loan her insane skills to me. Mario, to my left just below the slopes, stood akimbo. The jersey complemented his darker complexion well. The red and yellow jerseys for APU were atrocious. I saw red knowing how close they were. We should not have been tied, in my opinion.

It was a good thing I told Lee not to rush. It appeared the referee had his hand on a flag as he watched our exchange waiting for our move. He was itching to make the call. I turned back to watch our Stanchion opponents try to create a scoring opportunity, but saw the referee pout from the corner of my eye. Amidst everything, I was so amused I smiled at him.

Just as quickly I turned back to the game, doing a backbend as an out of control, rocketing Kick whizzed by where my nose used to be. Bollinger, a junior and my unofficial lieutenant, caught it. To my dismay, he passed to Shelton on my other side. Shelton was a privileged prick, who thought too much of himself. He was average in every way, except in his own imagination and trust fund. No surprise there; he was a Trench. All Trenches were wealthy and they were prouder than anyone ought to be that they were Uppers.

Shelton! Here! I was wide open. I just needed the ball. Mario and I rotated toward the goal nearest Shelton running up the slopes. He passed. Flying figs! I swore as I read the ball’s trajectory. I was going to make him and the entire team pay for that with fifty suicides before and after practice when we reconvened following the Pardon Games. Shelton sent the ball further up the slope to Mario. Mario was not a bad player, but neither Mario nor Shelton could zero in on the hoop with the killer instinct I possessed. We needed a score. Right! Pass right! I directed him to pass, but his eyes were fastened to the hoop. This game was too close. I wanted the ball. Mario bopped the Kick with his hips toward the goal post but he was wide off the mark, hitting the outer ring of stone. It ricocheted high into the air out of bounds. Boys! I never would have missed that shot.

I was the only girl on the court. There were two girls between either team, including the Alamo reserve riding the bench next to our two reserve players, which included my best friend, Virgil. Oftentimes, it was hard for girls to compete with the boys on coed teams. Strength was an integral part of the game. No girl had an advantage in that area; however, it was not too hard a hurdle to overcome with determination. Overcompensating with accuracy did not hinder anyone. For that reason, I was the best player on our team and I worked hard enough to earn the right to captain it. I had impeccable ball placement and only a fool would tell anyone otherwise. On the court I was fearless.

I had nothing to fear in a regulation game anyway. No one could deliver punishment like the kind I had received over the years honing my skills in the inner city with my cousins while dragging my reluctant best friend with me. Private schools in our area were not known for Mayan ball players. The best players were found in the dilapidated inner city streets. They played on makeshift courts, turning decrepit skate parks with rusting basketball hoops welded to the high ramps into the most intense tournaments to be found. Going where most self-respecting Uppers would never go, I learned from some of the best players the streets could offer over the years and used the knowledge to whip my pitiful team into shape.

I don’t think the crowd had ever been so large. I could barely make out my parents in the stands. I certainly could not hear their cheers over the roaring crowd and music. My pulse was louder than all of it. Only five minutes remained in the game. We were tied at one. Checking the scoreboard swiftly, I noted we still had an advantage in fouls. I took my time setting up at the boundary line. I was too full of nervous energy which I attempted to shake off before performing the overhead throw across court to the other team.

Shoot! I did not put my usual spin on the Kick. It flew straight as the crow flies across court smacking a boy on the other team in the chest. Unfortunately, without the spin, the ball was easy to control. The game was closer than I preferred. I would hate to be the cause of an easy score. I did not have the team to create quick and easy scoring opportunities. Lee and Bollinger were the only players on their toes; the others were flatfoot and tired after several days of play to get here. The two bench subs were hopeless at this level of competition. Virgil refused to play after Regionals.

Garden-Oceanview Private University had never made it out of Regionals. Matter-of-fact, I was a freshman on the team the first time the Gladiators almost qualified for Regionals four years ago. I shocked the captain at that time with my abilities and we missed playoffs by a hair. Since then, I have been captain, building up the team with the strongest players I could find in school, progressing each year, and building the team toward this game.

While the other girls at school primped and worked hard to get boyfriends while dreaming of the national heartthrob, Ethan Shields—our president’s, playboy son—my efforts went into playing Pitz. I desired to be the best player I could be. No, I wanted to be more than that. I wanted to be the player my aunt had been, sometime more. At this moment, I was sweating my lifeblood away, leaving the droplets on the court where my dreams lay. I had no time to think of boys unless they were on a Pitz court. Even then, I only examined them with my large, cat-like, chestnut eyes to determine how to best them at their own game. After all, Pitz was considered a man’s game, despite Mayan ball being a coed sport. They were not interested in me anyway.

One of the Stars failed at his attempt to perform an advanced block to keep the ball from flying through the air. He was trying to prevent the exact thing that was about to happen, but he ended up sitting on the floor for his efforts. Lee! Top right, I commanded signaling it would land below the slopes. I knew exactly where the ball was going and I needed Lee to feed the ball to me, since the other dopes were up to their own agenda. I accelerated past Bollinger, nearly losing my footing on the slope. Correcting instantly, I turned the near fall into a handspring placing me in optimal position in front of the goal. Lee typically had trouble with sets, but this one was perfect. I kicked my leg up, turning sideways, connecting to the ball with my hip, and I popped it though the hole with a single touch.

Grabbing a spare Kick on the sidelines, I ran to the edge of the court to serve to my opponents. On the way, I waved my arms in the air to rally the roaring crowd. They were jubilant after the score putting us in the lead. My efforts brought the atmosphere closer to a fever pitch.

Sidetracked, I thought of the president’s son while putting a wicked spin on the ball when I threw it across court. Girls at school had been lapping Ethan’s sweat like ice water since middle school. Personally, I did not understand what made him so special. They could call him a golden-haired Adonis all they wanted; he was just another boy to me. The girls at school claimed such a statement was sacrilegious. Apparently, the statement warranted the ire of the entire female population at my school. When I said things like this, Virgil only laughed, One day you’ll discover there is a world outside of Pitz. I wasn’t certain I wanted to be introduced to such a world.

As quickly as I scored moments ago, APU answered my score, tying the game. It felt like a dagger to my chest. Time beat away like a drum roll. My heart pumped oxygen rich blood between the ticks on the game clock while the countdown continued. There was still time for another score and we were about to get the ball back. Forty seconds remained. Where had time been siphoned off to? I wanted to pluck a few tiny hairs from my hand to feel the sting when the follicle came out pulling my brain back into focus, back into the game, away from distraction.

APU’s captain threw the ball into play. Mario rotated up to catch it. I was already rotating behind him to run up the slopes toward the hoop. I don’t know whether it was nervous energy or he was plain tired but he forgot Pitz 101: Always Cradle the Ball. Dread curdled in my stomach when it flew across the court all too close to the goal. It bounced once. I prayed it would bounce again before anyone could reach it. We would get it back then. But one of the Stars arrived just in time for the easy score. Before they could set up to inbound the ball to us, I called timeout. Old Coach Kinsey must’ve fallen asleep again.

I have no idea why he did not retire. We only needed him to sign the paperwork before each game anyway. At least it allowed me to rule the team like a tyrant during practice. At times like this when my volcanic temper hovered near murderous, it was best no one try to soften my words or attempt to mollify my mood. I was going to knock heads together if I did not get my way. I was tempted to do it, regardless. Virgil was already trying to edge away. He knew I was normally mild-tempered; however, I blew my top with cause. All seven of us huddled on the sidelines. What are we doing? I spoke with confused, barely-restrained anger.

We’re tired, whined Shelton.

This is what we trained for. What do you mean you’re tired?

Just that. We’ve been playing back to back games for a month.

So you’re quitting? Or sabotaging? I asked. The reprimand was discernible from my tone. Honestly, I couldn’t give a flying fig if you have a bad case of diarrhea and crap all over the court for the nation to see! You are going to hold it together and get me the ball when I call for it. I will personally castrate anyone who attempts to do anything other than follow my lead at this point in the game. We’re down one. We need to tie. All the boys around me looked uncomfortable. We worked too hard to get here! I cried. "I’ve worked too hard!

We have the crowd on our side. Our school has never had a team in this position. We are making history at this moment. Beta has not had a championship team in over twenty years! We could not ask for a better time or circumstance to take control of this game and bring home a victory. The last championship game was in a different region, for heaven’s sake! What more can I say to motivate you to want to win? Is it too much to ask you to focus for a few seconds? I don’t think I had ever been this upset, even after one of my spats with Mother. What was wrong with these boys? Whoever said winning a national championship would be easy?

The girls at school should really be thanking me for playing Pitz. After all, I brought His Hotness to our humble city. They could meet him in the stands. Several probably had already. Of course, I would only be a hero if I managed to pull off the impossible and lead this team to victory. At Regionals, I had been crowned the best player in Orion this year; yet, only snickers awaited me if we lost this match.

The whistle blew. I cleared all thoughts from my head and let my instincts stretch their antennae around me. Bollinger Granite received the ball from the Alamo captain’s throw. Good. I could rely on his control. Time to feed the score. Bollinger passed the ball back to Lee with his thigh a little too forcefully. When the ball landed behind Lee, two APU Stars began to rush over. Panicking, he popped the ball toward the slopes.

The ball was too high! I knew it immediately. Unless I suddenly sprouted to 6’6" or grew wings I was going to have trouble keeping that ball from going out of bounds on the upper end of the slope, and we were out of time for anything more than one, maybe two touches.

I did not think. I did not hesitate. Adrenaline pumped through my veins like gasoline. I was in danger of combusting. I had thick, powerful legs that yielded fast sprint times. I would need every bit of edge that came with fast twitching muscles for this play. I ran like fire was lapping at my heels to get to that ball.

I was behind the ball, relative to the hoop. It would be better to have been in front of it. It would be too close to the hoop to get a better angle. If I were in front I could pop the ball a short distance down the slope to get under it without completely shifting my momentum. Being that I was behind the ball, I would have to attempt to sprain my ankle to make that play, assuming I had the time to do it. A complete reverse to get behind the ball would take time I did not have.

As the ball began to fly over my head, I stopped mid sprint to plant my feet and transfer my momentum into the highest jump I could achieve to get my head on that ball and bring it down. Provided I did get my head on it, placement would be a conundrum I needed to solve quickly.

I never felt so much desperation flow through my veins and race through my nervous system. Somehow this game had morphed into the symbolic representation of my life’s journey. A victory here would mean so much more than winning. It would be the right launching pad to the rest of my life, the life without Pitz Virgil hinted at. I could leave it behind...if I won.

I got my head on the ball, letting it contact the padding on my forehead and forcing the ball to plummet and hit the slope at the sharp angle away from the stone in front of me. I barely heard the crowd’s groan when I gave my all to reach this ball and bring it down. My toes barely touched the ground when I glanced at the clock. Two seconds. I planted my feet, twizzled and lunged my hip to pop the ball, hoping to bank it through the inner stone. I felt the ball slap the space where the soft fat of my rear met the hard muscle of my strong thighs.

The buzzer sounded. My eyes were glued to the ball as it traveled through the air. I had been breathing hard moments ago, but my breath and heart paused momentarily to watch and wait with me. If I missed, my dreams of meeting the team who would win our nation’s annual Pardon Games would be snatched away from me. If I missed, I would never see my name in lights on a billboard at the Pitz Memorial. I would lose my chance to be a hero, like my Aunt Evelin whose name and accomplishments echo throughout Beta, even now, twenty years after she sealed a victory on the stage where I was currently standing. In moments like this, I felt her shadow looming over me.

Go in, I prayed silently. Tie, please. I needed the tie. Get me to the tiebreaker so I can move on to become the national champion. I wanted to see my name in lights. The ball hit the inside of the stone and began to spin around the ring rapidly. The ball was still rotating around the stone. It circled destiny like a vulture while I teetered and tottered on the verge of tears, whimpering silently from the anxiety, waiting for the pendulum of fate to move in either direction. Please, I prayed. Please. Go through. Go...

Chapter 1: History

...Remember, it is the winners who write history. Thanks to them we have very rich and vivid accounts remaining from the Great Civil War which lasted two hundred years.  It’s absolutely amazing yet nearly impossible to imagine it took that long for the nation to divide itself successfully, my history teacher, Mrs. Anne Chaukery-Fields, lectured and quoted from the text alternately.  She had messy, chestnut brown hair with long bangs and a thick halo of hair covering her shoulders, which she kept loose, wavy, and wild.  She spoke passionately about history and was pretty in her own way, while being tall and skinny like a bean-pole. Her style of dress was hippyish, bohemian, and cool.  Her nails were different lengths and the polish was chipped.  When she wore lipstick, it was typically smudged and her large square glasses were almost always lopsided unless she wore her contact lenses.  In which case, she would blink out a lens during one of her more animated lectures.  For whatever reason, I liked her.

The war was decided mainly by the Battle of Cairo-Barlow Bottoms in Illinois and what was then known as Kentucky.

It was the last day of the fall block and my mood was foul after taking a heart-wrenching 3-2 loss at the Finals in the Empire National Pitz Tournament.  My life until that moment had been dedicated to leading my team to the championships and winning.  I wanted to see my name on the billboard at Tarf when they engraved the names of this year’s winning team from the Pardon Games.  Now, instead of being a hero around school, I heard, Felix Fumble! or Noble bows to the pressure epithets.  I was more sour than a lemon over losing of my last opportunity to make Pitz glory.  Only winning in the Games could be more exciting than winning nationals. But I would never play in the Games because only criminals competed. 

The United States still exists in part of its former glory just northeast and to the west of our borders, but those states successful in secession have shed their old identities and names and reformed as powerful little regions within the Stars and Stripes or SS Empire, she recapped.  We had already taken our fall finals and today was the last day before winter break.  Hopefully by the time we came back from break, no one would remember nationals. 

I certainly wanted to forget.  All my life, I had claimed three obsessions: Pitz, making history, and my Aunt Evelin, in that order.  I had hoped to make history taking Mayan ball to a new level at nationals, like my mother’s dark horse sister. Mother used to regale me with stories of Aunt Evelin. They were my favorite bedtime stories. Matter-of-fact, it was because of Aunt Evelin Mother met my father, rising from virtual poverty into one of the wealthiest families in the Empire. With the Nobles being so prominent, I would be almost a disgrace if I did not do something with myself.

Fortunately Mrs. Chaukery-Fields distracted me from my morbid thoughts as I became enraptured in her animated history lesson.  Sixteen states seceded on the basis of common core values and goals to build the new nation using merit and honor while splitting power equally between the regions and national government.  Each region maintains its own laws, security, currency, and finances.  Each region maintains its own branches of government and department of education. The entire class was rapidly taking notes, hanging on her every word, even though she had covered much of this material throughout the fall quarter.

The SS, or federal government, handles foreign affairs, the unified SS army, national laws, interstate and foreign travel, the prison or reservoir system and the library.  It also handles the Common Code; our Handbook of Community Responsibilities, which outlines military service laws and benefits; and the Codes of Morality and Ethics, she paused, noting a hyperactive hand cutting through the air.

Samantha Kissup, and she was exactly that, waved her hand into the air to be called on.  I was not keen on Samantha Kissup.  She was the loudest about my loss and over the years she had taken every opportunity to jab at me for something, notably my name, my skinniness, or the way my hair puffed when I sweat.  Why did the states become regions and give up their names and borders?

The professional brown nose made it obvious she missed a question on yesterday’s exam.  Mrs. Chaukery-Fields replied patiently, "Old names of states, counties and cities were traded in favor of names appropriately themed with the new empire.  Many old boundaries were redrawn in the favor of states with the largest roles in freeing states under US control.  This also came from necessity because the shells of wounded cities were too hot to rebuild in the aftermath; so, their people fled leaving many cities empty for a time.  States became regions and there were ten regions in all.

Orion was followed closely in size by Gemini and Leo, and its boundaries surrounded the national capital, Tarf, which stares bold-faced and proudly across the river to look the old nation in its eye, she continued.  "Tarf is unique in that it is the capital of both the nation and the Orion region.  As such, oftentimes, the governor of Orion is also the president of the nation.

Stanchion and Plaid are the largest regions and were as bold as gladiators during the war and reformation.  They created the seven fetters of crime for which the prison houses were divided.  The first prisoners were captured in the Great Civil War and they were bound based on their division and war crimes.

As she said this, the seven prison houses, their symbol and offenses appeared on the screens on the walls around and behind her.  With her fingers, she would move the notes into order and give them prominence, swiping the old notes around the walls away from the main monitor in the center.  The room had seven monitors.  She spent a few minutes describing each house, swiping left and right on the tablet at the lectern in front of her until the seven houses and her notes were each listed on the boards up front.  We copied the notes printed precariously in her otherwise messy handwriting.

House 1: The House of Roman Theatre

The first house is dedicated to those convicted of murder.  The symbol of this house is a double sword attached to a single hilt with each blade set on fire from the hilt. Slopes at 30 degrees.  One flame is blue for cold blood and one flame is red for passion. They are the trash of society and you will see them in their electro-chains and cuffs sweeping and washing streets, windows and buildings.

Swoosh.  She swiped to the next house, moving it to center screen, sending the other text-filled whiteboard screens sliding to the back of the classroom. They jiggled to a stop.

House 2: The House of the Cards

The symbol of this house is a bow and arrow with a fire at the head and wing fletchings.  Two serpents cross over the arrow.   The second house is for thieves.   They steal people’s money and possessions as robbers and burglars, but also their virtue and peace as rapists.  Rapists (regardless of whether murder was a part of the crime), Burglars and Robbers (who did not murder the victim) all steal something from someone.  For the sake of the Games they are invited to steal again!  Rapists are punished by castration and all are made to clean the sewers and septic systems, in chain-gangs, like the scum they are.  And since one man’s trash is another’s treasure, Burglars and Robbers collect and dispose of the nation’s garbage and recycling.

House 3:  The House of Judas

Their symbol is a Knife pinning a cloth to a cross leaning against a mountain. Anarchists are sent here as well as traitors, international spies and informants.  Foreign criminals who plot against the country are placed here.  Fighting fire with Fire, they must do the search and rescue operations with the fire department and assist with the disaster recovery effort after a major disaster, natural or otherwise.

Incidentally, this house was named for Boris Cards, the first inmate, a prisoner of war who was never returned to the US, but was prosecuted for war crimes including theft of personal property and rape, she said.  This was not an odd occurrence at the end of the war.  Only forty seven percent of POWs were returned.  They were returned either because of their status or their families claimed them, requesting their return through US envoys.  Anyone unspoken for was left in the care of the newly formed empire and moved to the reservoirs or left in the radioactive and damaged cities that have been dubbed as ‘The Wildes and Wilderness Annexx’ thanks