Life's Legacy

By Rebekah Raymond

A monster lives inside Arkem Ryder.  

  

Growing up in his infamous parents' shadows, Arkem never felt good enough for the life he was supposed to lead. Trained as a soldier, his natural talents blossom. Suddenly he is watched by his fellow vigilantes, admired by the young women in his classes, and praised by his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tesmur Publishing
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781775278023

Book preview

Celebrations

My seventeenth birthday arrived, and with it a new sense of responsibility on my part. It was the age of majority, when children became adults. At seventeen, they made decisions on whether to stay at the school and what path their futures would take. I was in no hurry to leave my childhood home; I had no specialty training to fall back on, save that which I had learned at my parents’ knees.

I had been born at the school. It contained all that I needed: the comfort of a family, education within the dozens of classrooms, food and clothing, and friendship among the three hundred or more students. I rejected the notion that I should have a space of my own attached to my parents’ suite. I wanted to be with the other boys at the boarding school. I lived with them, slept in the bunks of twelve to a room, then six, and now three as our ages progressed.

The girls had the same setup—their living arrangements overseen by my mother. Whatever else we needed was available to us always. There were rooms for recreation, gyms, fields to frolic in, entertainment provided, and opportunities to better ourselves in abundance.

My mother made light of my special event. I could tell it was to shield herself from the knowledge that I might leave her, that I would grow up and spread my metaphorical wings. I had never been away from the complex. I knew she wanted to keep it that way.

I had always thought this odd, this hesitation of hers to see me live my life away from here. Other students visited their families, went on cautious annual excursions, and discovered the world via regulated outings. I stayed behind. My mother wanted me to experience everything, but in this matter, she was adamant, as though paralyzed by the fear that an inevitable darkness was looming. That it would seal my fate on the concrete outside the tall steel walls of the complex.

The clock in my parents’ suite struck seven. As I blew out the celebratory candles on my small cake, my parents glanced at each other. My father took in a deep breath. Arkem, he began, have you thought of what you will do now?

He held the serving knife out to my mother. She stiffened. She always did when he gave her a blade. She took it hesitantly, moving to cut the dessert.

You mean, have I decided if I’ll leave? I shrugged. I don’t know, Dad. I have some schooling left, but I never trained for any specific field. I’m not good at any one thing. I think I should stick around, see if anything stands out. I accepted a plate from my mother and set it down. Maybe I’ll be useful.

My mother’s back straightened, lips pursed. I had hit a nerve; I wasn’t sure what. The woman was quiet. She stared at my father, trading an unspoken dialogue with him. He met her eyes.

Arkem, my dad began again, his voice gaining the authoritative measure it always possessed. Your instructors tell me you are doing extremely well in your training.

My stomach roiled. I expected his next words.

We have agreed to try you out in the field, to appoint you to a team.

The words were barely out when I jumped up, hollering a cheer out loud. I threw my arms around my father, spinning him. My mother squeaked out in protest; she and I didn’t do physical contact, though I never asked why. My father’s shock at my outward reaction passed. They both started to chuckle.

He laughed. Put me down, Arkem.

Come eat your dessert, my mother added, swatting at my shoulder with her free hand. I was surprised, realizing I had lifted my father off the ground entirely. It only emphasized how much I had grown; how much stronger I had gotten than I had thought.

I lowered my head and grinned, my excitement scarcely contained. When can I start?

My father laughed again, a full-bellied, constricted sound. He reached for the knife. As his large hand enveloped my mother’s, she stiffened. Her eyes darted to his. I’d always wondered why they often held these secret looks between them that spoke in volumes of hidden intrigue. I made a mental note to ask my father one day. To approach my mother would do nothing; she didn’t divulge personal information.

He placed the knife on the table. My father cleared his throat. There is something else. He said it softer, his back still to me. I straightened, hearing the commander’s tone in his speech. I realized for the first time that I was a half foot over my mother in height.

I thought you might assist me with school doings. It would mean working closely with me and coordinating with the teams, the other factions. His tone was more authoritative. My muscles tightened. I stood at attention as he doled official orders out.

My mother watched my reaction, her lips thin. What was it about their military tasks that caused her so much discomfort? What made her so unsure of my contribution?

You want me to become your attaché? I inquired, trying to contain my excitement. I’d learn about the school, its goals and connections, the covert operations it carried out. I would need to meet with other commanders, travel outside when talks occurred.

This position would mean hard work. Diligence, late nights, difficult decisions.

It meant my father would groom me to take over one day. He was perhaps starting to think of his retirement as he made his way closer to his sixties.

It meant carving a place for myself within the school and finding my niche.

It meant freedom.

Training

The next day, my father requested my presence after class. He handed me a tablet loaded with files. Earlier personnel and student profiles were jammed into the memory bank. At my questioning look, he shrugged.

The first step to being my attaché is to detect all risks to both the school and our missions. Start with these older files. Go through them. Make notes on any people who raise flags with their connections, motives, or hazardous behaviours. He gestured to one of the wingback chairs across the room in his office. Positioned toward the fireplace, across from the bookcases and first editions like Jules Verne, it gave me privacy as I worked and afford some secrecy to my presence should someone else arrive for the headmaster.

I nodded, disappointed at the task. I took the tablet and headed to the chair. For hours, I plodded through the files, investigating students and potential staff. I sorted through personalities and relationships, read up on family ties, made conclusions on people I would never meet.

On the right side of the screen, I made notes on those who required further investigation, listing reasons I would not allow them entry to the school. Later, a dark shadow crossed over me. I looked up, surprised to discover the day was over. Only a light evening haze came through the windows. I blinked twice to dispel the soreness in my eyes.

My father took the tablet from my hands, scrolling through the document.

This one—Milo Garisson. You noted he should not have entry into the school. He handed it back. Why?

I rotated my shoulders to work out the stiffness. His uncle was his primary caregiver since he was two. He was a convicted criminal. They have untraditional lives, moving often, living in places a child should not be. From the charges on his uncle, I can only assume he was exposing his nephew to his shady doings, for a very long time.

I saw a faint amusement on my father’s lips. And? he urged.

I shrugged. I knew he would not be good for the school, in any capacity.

My father said nothing. He put the tablet on the side table and laughed, pulling me upright, slapping me on the shoulder.

When I showed up at my parents’ suite for dinner, I overheard my father’s deep voice coming from the bathroom. You should have heard him, Seleah. He was so calm, his answers so intuitive. I know this was the right choice, taking him on. Pride oozed from him. While I should not have done it, I kept the door shut, standing with my ear pressed close. I remained in the hall.

Don’t put too much pressure on him right away, love, my mother said. This is a big responsibility you’re laying at his feet. You wouldn’t want him to get overwhelmed.

He paused. What is wrong, Seleah? I heard my father come out into their main quarters, his tone clearer. You were the one who encouraged me to hire him. Why are you backpedalling?

She sighed—an outpouring of anguish, more than a lifetime’s worth. It was an odd thought to have, that one sound should hold so much within it, and yet, the thoughts I had felt exact.

I’m not sure, Tomlin. I just...I know we decided not to tell him everything, but your attaché should have all your knowledge. We’re doing an injustice by keeping this secret...

I heard a rustle. I moved to put my eye against the tiny slit of an opening. My father brought his hands to my mother’s shoulders, dragging his large palms down her bare arms. It was rare, seeing my mother with any skin exposed. Behind her was a sweater she would no doubt don when I made myself known. Scars littered her arms, collections of white and pink faded marks, a testament to some violent past I was never privy to.

My father moved closer. She shuddered. He put his fingers under her chin to lift her face to his and bent down for a tender kiss.

I glanced aside, knowing this was beyond a breach of privacy. My cheeks flushed at the intrusion.

I thought of what my mother said. I pondered my mother’s hiding of her skin, her aversion to discussing the past. My mind wandered to the excuses my mother made why we couldn’t spar, though many of those times she was in the middle of a joust with someone else. I thought back to seeing her come with us to the school pool, never having her join us in the water.

She was nurturing with the other students, but hesitant and withdrawn from me. Her nature was carefree in those moments I caught her and my father together, but she stiffened with resumed caution when I was near.

What was it that made her so different around me?

Perhaps I had been adopted.

I shook my head at the notion—we had too many features that looked alike for me not to be theirs. Every so often they took a shining to a single child. Right before me, it was a serious Latino boy named Benji. They treated him like family, and he held no bloodline with them.

Maybe it was a secret about her past. Perhaps she wasn’t the good, noble soldier the others praised her to be.

I shivered as I spied on my parents. My mother set her arms around my father’s neck, their lips never breaking apart. Their inseparable bond grew ever closer.

Early, are we?

I jumped, spinning to view the elderly woman’s greying hair and soft face only inches from mine. I gulped.

Doc Cathy, I squeaked, clearing my throat. What are you doing here?

I tried to smile, to make my voyeurism carefree, but the woman had known me far too long—from the second I had drawn my first breath. She had been the doctor to deliver me. With a disappointed frown, she raised her eyelids, wrinkled but framing blue eyes that were ever holding a youthful spark.

"Your parents invited me to dinner. What were you doing?" She jabbed me in the stomach as she spoke. Inside the suite, the conversation halted. I swore, the cracked-open door and my position painting a dismal picture of what I had been up to.

I grinned at the older woman. Would you believe I was waiting for you and your dazzling smile? It was a compliment my father used toward the woman once. It was worth a try.

The eighty-year-old doctor rolled her eyes. I swear, Arkem Ryder, you’re becoming more and more like your father every day. He used to pull cheesy lines like that all the time. Always with that insufferably charming smile.

This stroked my ego, my deflated confidence amongst the girls getting a bit of a boost. Really? I looked over my shoulder as the door swung open. Father. Mother. I turned, nodding in greeting. I reduced my grin to a respectful smile as I squeezed by them out of Doc Cathy’s ever-analytical glance.

Doctor. My father offered his arm. She leaned onto it as he pulled her into the room.

I had noticed how much Cathy had matured, but at her age and with the amount she worked, it was no wonder. With the average lifespan only seventy-five to ninety, the dear woman—who had been a maternal influence on both my parents and a grandmother to me—was on borrowed time. Over the past ten years, her golden-blonde hair had gone white, her body settled in ways that occurred as one advanced. Her joints were visibly sore, her back hunched over when she walked, her fingers growing thin, curling.

My mother stared in my direction, glazed over in her look she so often used on others, the pupils so intense my soul itself unveiled its secrets. I glanced away.

Arkem, I’m surprised at you. My father stepped close, using his current height to look down on me. Spying on us, at your age. Honestly... He shook his head.

I wanted to argue, to justify the act with some valid excuse. I had none. Cathy would say something. Her loyalty was to her headmaster and commander foremost. What are you keeping from me?

The man glanced at his wife, silence dominating the space. I turned and watched her, noting that she wore her buttoned sweater to cover her scars now. She hugged it close as she shook her head. Apparently, it wasn’t time to show these things they were hiding, despite my father’s pride in my work or my desperate act to gain information from them.

I ignored my father’s hand as it came down on my shoulder to convince me otherwise. I stood at attention for my mother, now my captain. I clicked my heels once in response to her denial and spun, exiting the quarters to get supper with my young comrades.

I was cold to my parents after that night.

My mother maintained her silence, my father supporting her as he always did. He was the superior in career, but she controlled his actions in life. While gender equality should exist, he was in her thrall.

I was such a fool then, thinking either of them had a choice in the matter.

I still worked for my father, being groomed for a position I wasn’t sure I wanted. But I thought I had a good decade before he considered retiring. I was misguided; the timeframe judged by years and age instead of our true nature. One more thing they kept from me—another secret to lock away in my mother’s nightmarish thoughts.

Assigned to a team, I dressed in grey-black garb, followed my orders with alacrity and earned respect from the captains. As the days turned into weeks and then months, I became less the commander’s son and more a soldier.

So like them: hardened, betrayed, irrevocably scarred.

Growth

By my eighteenth birthday , they seasoned me to travel with the teams on the dangerous missions. I focused on more cardio and exercises to build my upper body strength to get stronger, faster, better.

The result was rippling muscles on my arms and across my chest, my stomach ribbed and shoulders wide. I had grown to my full height, equalling my father, able to look the six-foot-four man in the eyes.

The change had not gone unnoticed.

The girls in my classes ogled me, their eyes trailing my way for once. I had my dark blond hair buzzed—easier to keep maintained while on missions—and my entire body enjoyed my healthier diet and exercise routine. I personally didn’t see the change until a female student, a soldier, grabbed my hand and pulled me around a hallway corner after training. She planted her lips on mine.

Just kiss me, Arkem.

My body responded eagerly, lips and tongue wrestling hers, scalp tingling from her fingernails grating through my hair. I groaned when her belly pressed against my hips.

But it wasn’t right. I barely knew the soldier. We had never spoken outside of a mission and even then... I opened my eyes through the embrace and, staring at the girl, broke away from the savage visual of carnal enjoyment.

She stared back and licked her kiss-swollen mouth. In a flurry of images, I saw her view of me—a sturdy specimen of a suitor, with security, wealth, and physical strength aiding my case. In her eyes, I rivalled my father’s looks, handsome and strong willed. She intended to bed me, to keep me as her own and pin me as her life mate and partner. She wanted me to father her children and grow old with her as I took over the school and watched over our own offspring. I saw her intentions and, for a young man like me, they were frightening.

I broke away as she leaped forward to plant another series of teenaged kisses on me. She stood on her toes and reached out with both hands to pull my head to hers.

Come on. I promise you’ll like it.

I placed my palms on her arms, keeping her at bay, and looked away. She wanted them on her naked body. I knew it was true.

Her eyes widened. Fingers clenched. I love you, Arkem. I’ve watched you for so long.

I had no wish to find commitment. I did not understand what genuine love was or what it could be, but this brief stolen affection was not it.

I shook my head. Sorry, I’ve got to go...

I turned and left the bewildered girl in the hallway, unsure of what had just happened but at least coming away with a fresh perspective of myself.

I threw myself into my training again, somehow disheartened by the event, disturbed by the willingness of her actions. If I had been any other guy, I had no doubt I would have pulled her into the nearest closet. Any other guy would have taken everything she offered and more...so why didn’t I?

With each day, the question festered, until I avoided the girls around me and my instructors questioned my diligence.

My captains put me to the test, not trusting the statistics of my instructors and technicians. Instead, they forced me to prove my abilities. Where the soldiers relied on their averages on the shooting range and takedowns on the gym mat, the captains made me target shoot from greater and greater distances. They watched me take on one opponent, then two, then three on the mat, and were relentless with their opportunities to succeed or fail on missions. They tested me in practical terms. After I conquered each task, I gained yet another responsibility.

I exhibited my excellent shot with a rifle as a backup shooter. I managed compassion as I aided youth from their hostage situations, helping the beaten ones to walk. I used my fighting abilities well, helping a fellow soldier under attack. I showed leadership, taking over for our incapacitated captain.

I didn’t expect to kill without weapons, although I always knew it was a possibility. The missions were nothing like in my parents’ day and age, the brutality and ruthlessness from the past replaced with cunning and practical exploits of today. At least, that’s what the other soldiers told me, having heard the stories of missions from their instructors, my parents included.

To me, they had said nothing, a fact I noticed.

Fight Club

The mission would be routine: a quick briefing, a planned departure, holsters with knives and pistols. We would secure the location and tie up the criminals for the state prison to pick up later. It was protocol. There would be little to no violence.

When we arrived, I followed the rear of the small group as we entered with guns drawn. A few soldiers secured the main room of the office building. The rest of us travelled past as we reached the back—the source of the alleged criminal activity. What we found wasn’t what we expected.

It was a lie.

We fanned out and watched in quiet fascination as the fight became something different, one man drawing a knife on the other. The less-advantaged fighter did not back off. One quick jab to the upper leg and the second man fell, his femoral artery gushing blood. The first grinned.

He displayed his muscular arms, turning and raising his biceps to the crowd of twenty men. The victor glanced at the faces before him, his smile wide as his opponent lay dying on the concrete behind him. The fighter looked past his companions.

He narrowed his eyes, his teeth flashing white in the hazy lighting of the back room. He pointed at me, by far the biggest of our group of soldiers and making the most impressive target for his invitations. Both of his hands were empty as he lowered them to his side, the knife absent.

I looked at my captain a few bodies away. The light from the ring reached him just enough that it caught the scrawled scar that marred his cheek, the slight film of his eye where it was rumoured he had taken a knife nick years ago. His buzzed auburn hair lit up, fiery, against the thin shaft of light. He shifted closer, brushing my shoulder with his as he lowered his head and spoke. Four minutes, that’s all we need, Ryder.

Captain Klein was short, but his voice, even when spoken softly, held an authority none of us could ignore.

I listened to him, still staring at the man stalking the ring like a caged tiger. Still staring at me.

You’ll need to be careful. This guy doesn’t play by the rules, I bet. But four minutes will give us the distraction we need, then we’re out of here.

I nodded and swallowed, never having advanced toward another person by invitation before unless in training.

The captain’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm. No bloodbath, Ryder. His fate is better left to the government prisons.

I bobbed my head once and stepped forward, the other fighters creating a path as I pushed past.

And here we have it, the man in the ring said, projecting his voice. The murmurs of the rest of the club swallowed the echoes of his words. We acknowledge the presence of the secret society of soldiers, the jacked-up resistance to our fellow man. The pointed punctuation of his words sent spit flying from his lips.

Again, he motioned for me to approach. I balled my fists and clenched my jaw, walking forward. I ducked through the cloth strips making up the perimeter of the ring.

The men around grumbled, hushed curses spat in my path.

Now, now, gents. Let’s be hospitable. The man lowered his voice as he did his arms. It is an honour to have the soldiers here. They represent the best fighters our country has to offer. They are a testament to our club’s strength and virility.

The men cheered.

He boasted of their many accomplishments, my gaze glassed over as our eyes met. I saw the onslaught of images his intentions portrayed; lies and acts of betrayal, rape and beatings of women, kills of the men he didn’t find suitable to their goals. In the images, I saw his involvement in smuggling drugs through their office, a guise for their criminal intent, persuading members to give up their most precious assets.

As my true vision returned to me, I paled, realizing what I had seen. I looked away from the man, glancing around the expanse of the room. My cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

The other soldiers made their way around the space and my sights rested on a small cluster of women, no...girls. They clumped together in the corner, terrified. Their wrists were bound. Cloth gags muffled their cries as they shook with fear, their tears streaming down their faces. These were not the prostitutes we had believed them to be. These girls were gifts to the club from the prospective members. All close to the age of majority and all related to the men before me.

A cracking at my side brought me back to the ring. It was my own joints in my fists. I swore they could all hear my heart thumping like a hammer against a nail.

My opponent laughed.

I observed my surroundings and confirmed what I had witnessed, adding fuel to the fire growing within my gut.

He laid out the rules for our fight: no weapons, no armour, no guidelines beyond that. I had to remove my extra bulk and my long-sleeve shirt to better display any wounds to the crowd. First one to drop and stay down lost. The loser would not leave with any breath in his lungs.

But I only needed four minutes. Surely that was plenty of time to make a good show and keep us both alive.

I stood at my full height, a good six inches above this bulky man whose muscles bulged with veins from weightlifting too much. His white tank top was splattered with blood from his last kill.

The victim was dragged away by two men, his life mopped up while my opponent was speaking. I unbuckled my waist and thigh holsters, throwing them to a fellow soldier outside the ring.

Damned if I lost my gun and knife to these scumbags.

I didn’t bother removing the small blade I concealed within the pant leg of my lower calf. I had my suspicions that this man’s rules were a suggestion, in which case I wanted to keep an advantage.

Watching my opponent pacing the ring before me, I bent on one knee, untying the laces of my boots. I removed my heavy footwear and socks. I ripped at the Velcro holding my ballistic vest on, letting the item fall to the ground. I kicked it away.

I unbuttoned my shirt, making a show of pulling the long sleeves off my arms, turning as I did to meet the eyes of my captain, checking the plan. Behind the crowd, he nodded again, but with a sombre look motioned to be careful.

I didn’t gesture back but pulled my shirt off in confirmation, throwing the cloth to the ground.

Turning to my opponent, my well-built torso now shirtless, the fighter yelled, lunging at me with his fists flying.

I stepped into his move, avoiding his punches and deflecting those that came close.

Among the crowd, I heard yells of encouragement. None for me, not that I expected any. If I had concentrated, I could have noticed the sound of the zip ties being cut from the hostages’ wrists, their sobs of thanks as the soldiers rescued them from their bonds.

In front of me, the fighter ducked low and jabbed out with his elbow. I spun, his skin grazing mine.

His momentum surged him forward into the cloth sides of the ring. I turned my back, raising my fists, ready now for a real fight. On the balls of my feet, I backed up, rotating my body as he advanced, circling him to get his back to where my team was removing the girls from the room one by one.

Determined to keep the man’s attention, I shot my arm out. My knuckles met my opponent’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

He reached up, rubbing his mouth, and spat a thick wad of blood and spittle onto the ground.

The crowd grew loud, beginning bets. The man hardened his gaze on me, hearing his followers turn their confidence my way. He gritted his teeth as he came at me again, exploding in pure strength and raw emotion. His hands flew toward my face, stomach, and chest, bare feet kicking out, hoping to find a heel in the sensitive fleshy part of my legs.

The safety of a man’s testicles was not a concern for a desperate man fighting for control of his reputation. No, he fought dirty. But I had trained in both hand-to-hand combat and martial arts from a young age. Even more unfortunate for him that my father had instructed me.

I avoided most of his hits, taking them on the torso. While my skin would be sore from a good jab, the muscles below them would absorb the brunt of it. Still, I kept my defensive position, my hands balled and drawn in front of my face to block.

The man showed no signs of exhaustion. I banked on his slowing reflexes, taking the offensive with an onslaught of moves of my own. My fists thrust out, always making contact and then returning to their blocking point, always elbows in tight as they had trained me. I thanked both my father and my instructors for forcing me to pursue boxing and other fighting