Members’ Authority
By
Victor Elmalih
Copyright 2016 Victor Elmalih
Prologue
Changes took place! The year of 2050 swept in like a tornado bringing with it famine and overpopulation. In its wake, destructive changes left shattered remains of established social structures looking like bombed-out skeletons of forgotten and unstable buildings. Many governments in dismay and disarray implemented martial law, wielding their military like a medieval blacksmith, forcing its citizens into a form and shape of tyranny in the vague hope of stemming worldwide violence.
Bangor could care less—even if he did know of it, which he didn’t. Bangor didn’t know anything about the happenings in the rest of the world. He and his people lived on an isolated island, savages in the eyes of the rest of the world, ignorant and simple. Still, he knew one thing for certain.
His son was dead.
The island chieftain hadn’t moved from this spot on the beach for two days. His mind swam with grief and exhaustion. His people from the nearby village, Dayaks, had erected a grass shelter to shade him from the sun. When the tide came in, the water lapped at his knees, shifting the clay toys—all that remained of his son’s presence. He would mechanically return them to their original locations, over and over again.
A komodo dragon had killed and eaten his son while he had played alone on the beach.
There could be no other explanation. Twenty years ago, the island of Celebes didn’t even have an indigenous presence of the fearsome creatures, but with the change in climate, the large lizards had somehow migrated to the island. Their thick hides resisted the primitive weapons the tribesmen used to try and slay the animals—not without a ferocious fight anyway. So the tribe had settled into an uneasy cohabitation with the lizards, trying to avoid them at all opportunities.
But now one of the lizards had killed his ten-year-old boy. Eaten him. Somewhere in the stomach of one of those creatures, the remains of his boy were being slowly digested. He wanted that dragon. He wanted it dead. He wanted to bury his son.
Except, he couldn’t.
Five years ago, an oil company had supposedly purchased the island, setting up a giant oil rig right off shore. Bangor had but to turn his head and see it. The huge platform defied all efforts of the sea to pitch it from the hell it had from which it had sprung forth. He didn’t understand this…this land purchase. Didn’t the land belong to everyone? But these oil people had forbidden the hunting and killing of the large lizards, and they had killed one of Bangor’s hunters for violation of the order. He didn’t understand it.
But his son had died right in view of the oil platform, and no one there had done a thing to help. That was something Bangor did know—if not understand—and it filled him with rage.
The soft crunch of sand announced a visitor. Part of the landscape was blotted out as his unwelcome visitor came to stand in front of him, squatting down to look the chieftain in the face. “Bangor, I am sorry about your son.”
The large chieftain lifted his sunburned head, the craggy lines of his face deepening as he focused on the white man standing before him. “Manari. Go. I do not want to see your face here.”
Manari sighed and sat down in the damp sand. “No doubt you want to be alone. But you have been out here for two days, Bangor. Simul is not coming back.”
“Leave, outlander!” Bangor’s large meaty fist curled dangerously.
The white man shook his head. “You know what will happen if you attack me, Bangor. My men will slaughter your villagers.” He leaned forward. “You fancy yourself an important man. And you are, I suppose in a small way. Your palace may be fine for you, but it is a pathetic hovel in the eyes of the rest of the world. Wake up, you fool. The world has grown around you while you have languished in barbarianism.” He stabbed a finger in Bangor’s face. “I rule here now, so don’t make me take that silly headdress off of you and drag your sorry carcass out to our oil platform.”
“Your words are vile,” Bangor spat. “Only your guns allow you to rule. But it doesn’t mean you have what it take up there.” The chieftain pointed to Manari’s head.
The white man colored at the insult, but forced himself to relax. “We can bandy insults all day, Bangor, but I am not here to burden you in your hour—or days—of grief. I am here to offer you a way to find your son’s remains.”
Bangor’s eyes shifted. “You will let us hunt the beasts?”
“Nothing so simple, sorry. Oh, don’t get me wrong. They will be hunted and we will find your son, only you and your tribe will not be the hunters.”
Bangor’s eyes narrowed. “Who then?”
Manari shrugged. “I have no idea. Developments outside of your isolated little island here have created something of an interesting situation. A technology has been created to identify violent offenders before they commit crimes.” The man’s brown eyes narrowed underneath his cowboy style hat. “It’s a good thing I already work for this government, isn’t it?”
Bangor said nothing.
Clearing his throat, the white man continued. “Anyway, the technology also presents a problem. What do we do with all these people we catch? Holding them in a prison is too much of a strain on national resources. Indeed, a population cannot sustain such a thing. The Romans knew that unless a population could be entertained, they would rebel against the government. They came up with gladiators. They probably had it right. So, we’re going to help you, Bangor. We are going to bring hunters instead of gladiators. Your island will become famous—for the whole world will be watching what happens here. The winner will be the one who finds and kills the Komodo dragon that murdered your son.”
A light sprang into Bangor’s eyes. He did not understand what this man was talking about, but if he could bury his son, he would suffer any injustice.
“When?” he croaked through cracked lips.
“Soon,” the white man replied, smiling. “We are gathering the first…er…volunteers as we speak.”
In terms of the island, Celebes, Bangor was a very rich man. He lived in the only mansion on the island—a remnant of a different age and built by another white man, long since dead. The rest of the people lived in huts or clay brick houses and were by necessity fishermen. Bangor’s dealing with the white man had taught him one thing: nothing came without a price. “What must I do?” he asked, licking his cracked lips.
Manari shrugged, a gesture reminiscent of his Italian ancestry. “Nothing, my friend. Absolutely nothing. Just stay out of our way and we’ll find your son for you.” Straightening up, the foreigner looked out across the ocean to the oil platform squatting like some monstrous sea creature in the distance. “People will be coming and going in the next week or two, but when the hunters arrive, I expect your people to stay in their village. No one leaves. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
Bangor nodded forlornly. “Find my son, white man.”
The other shrugged. “That is up to the hunters.”