For the first time ever, Shason gets in line without his dad. Michael stands behind the railing half a room back. He hates lines. There have been a lot over the years. The broken man blinks hard to hold back his tears.
The lobby overwhelms. Along one wall, booths line the space between exit gates. Vendors shout over the commotion, peddling tickets, bets, or apparel. Down the middle, auto-tellers cycle through the queues as if in fast-forward. They flash and glimmer whenever somebody makes a selection. It’s a lightshow. On the opposite wall, the entrance doors slide open and close tirelessly. Windows stretch to the ceiling above them. They reflect a skyline of buildings, booms, and the occasional piloted craft. The air inside changes often. One breeze smells of popcorn and hotdogs. The next, burnt exhaust.
As the room bustles, Shason shuffles the paperwork in his hand and then checks on his dad. The two wait in the sign-up area just off the lobby. The ceiling hangs lower here. The lines are long but moving fast. Michael tries not to fidget. It doesn’t work. The man needs some sleep. And a shower. Even dressed in his cleanest jump-suit, the mech-hand sticks out. His hair’s too ratty, too matted. By comparison, he looks grungy. Most others here sport some sort of tie-dye updo or stylized wig.
“I got this,” Shason whispers, tapping his chest.
His dad nods back. “I know you do.”
At the counter, a few clerks handle the registers while a few more busy themselves behind them. They take calls, pass bets, or switch out with somebody doing something else to run something somewhere else. On the wall over them, the night’s events scroll across a giant holoboard. Times and odds, trend graphs and advertisements all pan on laser-lit ticker.
Tonight was big, the first triple-feature of the dry season. There was a Mech-Tech tournament in the arena, a hip-hop concert on the main stage, and a diverse circuit of animal races inside the stadium. For the headline this evening, Faye Entertainment claimed to host the first ever Camoralet steeplechases.
Shason sighs, glancing around sign-up. Security guards dot the perimeter. The one beside the counter catches the boy eyeing the place. The young officer looks away casually enough, but Shason still tenses. Three horns span the man’s forehead. He grinds them to stubs to match his crew cut. His flesh is rough like stone but hued a soft violet.
Some religions called them Halflian. Others, Halfling. They were rare. The young security guard was half Lith, half Araphinese. The Lith side gave him his build and tough flesh. The Araphinese had the horns and purple tint. Lith people were somewhat common in Aros's larger cities. Araphinese, less so.
There’s a clunk. Directly ahead, a shorter woman kicks the base of the counter and triggers a booster step. Shason flinches. Outfitted in boots, gloves, and suspenders, the jockey hops up, slings her bag over her shoulder, and leans against the counter. Curls spill around her collar. Of rich purple, they contrast the leafy tint of her skin.
“What’s the over-under on the flea tonight?” she asks the teller.
“Three,” he answers. Without looking up, the bony Ottowin pivots from his handheld to his desktop. He towers over his workspace, hunkering on an elbow to use the keyboard. Rows of braids line his scalp. Sometimes he fiddles with the hooks at the end. “You betting on the fights again, Darla?”
“Probably not.” She chuckles, untangling her curls from her bag’s strap. “But the higher the flea, the slower the races, right?”
The clerk snorts. It sounds sarcastic. Before he checks her in, the woman flings her hair to one side and catches Shason checking her out. The boy averts immediately. The holoboard flashes a reminder then: half hour to first bell. Darla smirks. He overhears it, blushes. Despite the boy’s natural copper color, his cheeks redden.
“You know what I heard,” Darla continues with the teller. The guy hums along. “I heard that Janinan rider was actually smuggled in. You’d swear those bluezies just dying to be green.”
The clerk laughs. It’s more sarcasm. After logging her in, he hands her a lanyard with a key dangling from it. She knocks on the counter to thank him then hops off the step and leaves. The booster retracts itself. When Shason reaches the counter, the teller straightens up. Heightwise he stands at about the kid’s nose. Widthwise it’s not even close. The name tag on his button-up reads Hazeek.
“Welcome to the Archaotic,” he says. “What can I do you for, big man?”
Without a word, Shason sets down his sign-up sheet, then the cash for the buy-in, then his ID. His hands tremble as he slides them forward. The teller plucks the card first, tilting it into the holographic glow. He doesn’t look long. Under the counter, his other hand slides to the button for the silent alarm.
“Yeah, my man…” He trails off. It rumbles like a low growl. “I’m not sure what to do with this.” He sets it back on the cash. “You’re not old enough. I mean, couldn’t you at least try slipping me a fake?”
The boy swallows. “I’m an adult.”
The clerk splutters his lips.
“I am,” Shason adds, clearing his throat. “On my home-moon.”
The guy suddenly frowns. He looks as unamused as he is unconvinced.
Something rings behind him. On the back wall, one of the dial-boards lights up and begins printing out a slip. Another bellhop swoops in to rip it off. She holds it up. A hover-drone snatches it from there. Lastly the woman pulls a lever and declares, “Flea’s at four!”
The news passes through the lines like a pleasant surprise.
“My man.” Hazeek leans forward and drops his voice. “For one, this is Aros. Not LiNC. We don’t have to honor that here, you feel me?”
Shason doesn’t reply. Or move.
“For two.” He smacks the form and spins it. “This is a Mech-Tech League Solos’ Contract.” He taps the header. “And you’re too big for a suit. So either you came on the wrong night, or you’re planning on free-fighting a literal boxing bot.”
Shason winces but remains still. “I’ll be fine.”
The teller hangs his head. “Look, kid. We get you big guys in here all the time, and you know, I’ll admit it, sometimes one of y’all does alright.” He emphasizes with a head-bob. “But don’t get it twisted. It’s never worth it. Yeah, the payday’s astral, but rehab’s always worse.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Once more, the clerk frowns. His shoulders droop. “Yo, these things are strong. And the pilots don’t pull punches either.” Some of his words falter. “It’s not even the power, though. It’s the speed.”
Regardless of the warning, Shason stays calm. Unmoved. Hunched at the counter, he almost seems bored. “I’ll be fine.”
The clerk grunts, spinning around in protest. Overhead, the bottom corner of the holoboard switches feeds. Live, it flashes to the arena where the camera circles over a massive hedron cage. The faces are pentagons. Inside, two motorcyclists ride wheelies around two Faye models. The bikers are leatherclad and helmeted. The ladies wear bikinis. Between them, ropes and chains connect the riders’ necks and handlebars to the women’s wrists and ankles.
After a second, the teller returns and posts up hard at the register. “Okay, fool.” He folds his arms. “Convince me then, right now, that I’m not about to send some kid to his coffin.”
The bellhop a lane over startles. She mostly finds it funny, but it’s in an uneasy way. For Shason, a look of confusion quickly follows his shock.
“Well,” he says, stutters. “I guess I could maybe get beat, but—” He glances back at his dad. Michael lifts and squares his shoulders to remind his son to do the same. He listens. “If I am beat, I’ll know it way before anyone gets that kind of hit on me. At worse, I’ll tap out by two. If I don’t—” He pauses again, leaning forward to whisper. “I’ll be fine.”
This time, Hazeek cracks. With one eye cocked, he sizes up the kid: shoulder to shoulder, gut to haircut. He judges his hair the longest. A dollop of cheap product gives it a shine. The thick tufts lay like a dirty rag. Ultimately Hazeek laughs. He hunkers back at his keyboard and begins typing a moment later. The interface clatters. The system whirs.
“Alright, my man.” He peeks at his watch. “Let’s see what we can do.”
The money goes first. The tray jingles when the register opens and shuts. Next comes the paperwork. The clerk splits his attention between the sheet and Shason’s ID. It all appears to go smoothly, until there’s a buzz. The guy curses under his breath then picks up the phone and dials out. The one-touch rotary takes longer to click back than to get an answer.
“Yo.” He pins the receiver to his ear. His piercings clink. “What’s the stat on Ronny? I have a walk-on who needs a slot. Can we shuffle someone?”
The other end wavers, responding with a twang in their voice.
“Yeah, but he ran a half-round late last week.” Hazeek swipes through the documents on his screen. “Kick him back a fight. He won’t care. I can lug the walk-on myself. All y’all have to do is clear it with Ludik.”
It feels like an afterthought, but once the operator replies, Hazeek mutes himself to ask Shason, “You’re good right away, yeah?”
The boy, of course, nods.
“You don’t need to change or anything? Shoes? Jersey? Mask?”
Shason shrugs then shakes his head. In a burlap tank and denim, he has nothing else. “No. I’m good.”
“Cool.”
While the clerk and operator talk, Shason turns to his dad and gives him a thumbs-up. It’s shaky. Michael tries his best to smile. The wrinkles deepen, yet weaken.
Over the intercom, an announcement chimes in. The lobby echoes. One of the charter busses is parked wrong. The metro also calls for final pre-show boarding.
“Noted,” Hazeek says. “We’ll be quick.” With the phone still pinned to his ear, he stows the forms under the counter, hands Shason back his ID, then flags down another bellhop to take over. “Nah, I get it. We’ll be ready.” He bobs along. “Oh, and put a dezdy down on him for me… No, not a dezteen. A dezdy... Man, I know that’s a week’s pay.”
After his replacement arrives, Hazeek hangs up, snatches his lanyard, then spins out of his station. He waves for Shason to follow. Frantically, the boy stuffs his ID back into his pocket. He tries to keep up, waving for his dad to follow. Hazeek weaves the bellhops. Shason dodges the lines. Michael skirts the onlookers.
From the check-in area, traffic flows directly into the main terminal. Wall to wall, it’s packed. Shops and smaller venues line the long corridor. More holoboards hang from the ceiling. The displays scroll with the arrivals and departures of the metro below. West goes to the arena. East goes to the tracks. For the concertgoers they ride a separate rail system into the crater a level below.
“Why are we rushing?” Michael shouts.
Hazeek shouts back, “Gotta catch the shuttle.”
People from all over lived, worked, and vacationed at the Archaotic. Lith loved the fights. Pitkanoria and Pollarim celebrated the races. Ottowon gambled. The place never slept. It couldn’t. Too many moons with too many day-night cycles.
In the middle of the terminal, a lofty fountain stands as a centerpiece. It rises among a spiral of saucers. At this hour, the suns illuminate the glass ceiling and throw rainbows out of the haze. Near the bottom basin, a spritz wafts in the air.
Hazeek cuts across here. Shason trails by a step. His dad, by two more. They get a few looks and comments, but Shason isn’t short on, “Excuse me. Sorry.”
Past the fountain, Hazeek hooks for the escalators. Several sets crisscross the floors. People trickle in and out well enough, but the guys take the stairs down. Shason bumps into an elderly gentlemen coming up the wrong way. He tips his hat to apologize.
Alongside the stairwell, windows run floor to ceiling like the lobby. The lights of Crater City shine beyond. The landscape resembles a huge quarry. The cliffs are steep. The steps are wide. Hotels and skyscrapers line the top rim. Casinos and multiplexes dominate the lower levels. Dozens of spotlights cross then uncross above.
Back inside, Hazeek reaches the turnstiles on the ground floor. He swipes his lanyard to clear everybody. Shason struggles to squeeze through. A prong jams his hip. As they race across the platform, some people gawk. A street performer mocks them. Dressed in a jester outfit, he dances along the far wall with a marionette of himself.
The shuttles wait ahead. On the tracks, two railcars sit side by side. One’s westbound. One’s east. Slender and sleek, the bullet-trains idle. Green lights flash around their undercarriages.
The guys make it by a sliver. Shason holds the door for his dad. They all stumble aboard like tourists. When things settle, laughter passes through the cabin. A group of jockeys on the neighboring shuttle even snicker.
Single-file, the three hobble to the bigger booths in the back. Michael takes the corner. Hazeek sits across. Shason stands beside it and holds onto the overhead bar.
“Alright, we got some time now,” Hazeek says. With his phone, he lounges in his seat and holds it like he needs glasses. “I did get you the first fight.” He chuckles. “So it’s not a lot of time.”
“The first?” Michael sits up.
Shason nudges him. “Dad, it’s cool.”
The engines begin to burr. Above them, the magnetics engage. A warning blinks across the windows. “Departing,”
Instead of lowering his phone, Hazeek peeks around it to talk. “I’ll explain in a bit. Still gotta mallet out the kinks.”
“Kinks?” Michael—
Shason nudges him again.
Before the train departs, the conductor comes over the loudspeaker. It’s something about lost luggage. During, the jockeys in the other train-car catch Shason’s attention. A Pollarim team of four sits around the front booth. Each is a different shade of green with hair of various purples. The men’s are gelled up. The women’s are let down. The one at the window plays with hers. The lush curls jostle over her shoulder. Leant on an elbow, she meets Shason’s gaze through the window and smiles, waving with just her fingers.
He has to squint, but once he recognizes her, his face lights up. The name hits instantly: Darla. He can’t help but smile back. And blush a little.
The trains go their separate ways right after. Shason turns to watch. Darla doesn’t. The car zips into the tube like a waterslide. Everybody sways. Junctions flash by and pulse green. They exit the tunnel in the same breath. Outside, the rails hang by suspension, running along the ridge of the crater like a bridge. Every building among the Archaotic protrudes off a cliff. By design, the metro appears to float. Windows in the floor overlook the main stage below. A hotel and parking garage sandwich it from adjacent blocks. Headlights speckle the roadways between.
“My man?” Hazeek slaps Shason’s arm then gestures to his phone. “What do you weigh? I think I entered it wrong.”
Shason adjusts his grip then leans in. “Um, sixty-one, about.”
“What?” Hazeek yips. Half furrowed, he slumps in his seat more and scrutinizes the kid. Another train rushes past behind him. “Nah, man. For real? That’s like, what my dog weighs.”
Shason and his dad giggle.
“I mean, he’s a big boy, but still.”
While Hazeek wraps up the registry, the train brakes and pulls into the entry tunnel. Here the junctions flash blue. The station welcomes them with a ding. As soon as the doors open, Hazeek leads them out. Shason bumps at least a dozen people getting on and off. He forgets to duck under the doorframe, too.
The arena terminal hits with the musk of sweat and two kinds of oil: motor and coconut. The crowds are younger, louder, racier. The fashions range from jerseys and pant-suits to leather lace and fishnets. Shason tries not to ogle the models.
The guys jog across the platform with little problem. The escalators on the other hand, clog. The stairs barely move faster. Spotlights slice in and out of the windows. Day loses more by the minute.
Upstairs, kiosks and smaller booths outnumber the shops. Music booms from tall speakers scattered throughout the corridor. Some people dance. Others drink. Sellers yell. Buyers yell back.
With his arm, Hazeek plows through everybody. Shason tries to follow, but doesn’t do well. He clips a display rack, hip-checks a hotdog cart, trips over a woman’s dress. The boyfriend cusses at him for it.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The three end up slipping into a pocket nook behind security. It’s unattended, but the screen beside the door shows, “Locked.” Hazeek covers the pad to key in access. From there, they navigate a maze of utility walkways and staff halls. The farther they go, the nosier it gets. Around one turn, an athlete practices his war-cry. Around another, a fighter hammers a rivet into the knee of her suit. “Piece of shit.” She spits. The third corner brings them to a backstage area. Scaffolding and tarp divide the space into a T. The bleachers thunder only a floor above. For the fighters, a platform sits at the intersection of the hallways. It hides from the arena by a set of blackout curtains. The edges flicker with the photography inside.
Hazeek leads them all to a station beside the platform. Reflective tape marks a plot for the contestants. A podium centers it. In the top, a screen displays the night’s updates. Office supplies and extras clutter the shelves below. Hazeek goes there first. Shason and his dad wait by the wall. Stagehands flow through the intersection like shadows.
“This is too much, too fast,” Michael says. The music competes. Gasping, he props himself against the scaffolding and rests his head on his wrist. “Shouldn’t there be at least a run-through or something?”
“It’s fine.” Shason places a hand on his dad’s shoulder. They hold the wall together. Michael catches his breath. The boy stretches his calves. “I know this part already. I watched the streams, remember?”
Michael grimaces. “I know, but still.” More tears roll down his cheeks. “We should’ve had her back by now. It never should’ve gotten to this. If I would’ve just taken the job.”
“Dad.” Shason drops to a knee and wraps his arm around him. Knelt, the son’s only a tad shorter. They huddle forehead to forehead. “We’re not smugglers. You said no, because I said no, remember?”
Michael shuts his eyes and stifles a cough. Shason hugs him tighter.
“I got this,” he whispers as he wipes away his own tears. “All we need is a few fights. If I get even one knockout, we launch by next orbit.” He repeats himself, slower. “Next orbit, Dad. I’m done watching mom cross our sky. Let’s go home.”
Michael begins to sob. Nonetheless he agrees.
When Hazeek finishes at the podium, the guys come off the wall. Everybody meets in the middle. Shason kicks out his legs. Michael straightens his jump-suit. Hazeek claps then clasps his hands.
“Alright, my man.” He interlaces his fingers and bobs with them. It’s unclear if it’s a nervous tic, a dance, or a prayer. “You’re set. They’ll announce you in a bit. Someone will be here soon for hair and makeup.” He signals to the stage. “Be up there when that’s done.”
“Got it,” Shason says. “Thank you.”
Hazeek sighs then shrugs it off. “We’ll see, my man. Anyway, after those curtains open, it’s one-hundred percent you. Whoever you want to be, be. The flea’s high tonight, so focus on the knockout, not the pin. These people don’t care for pretty. You feel me?”
Michael squirms.
Shason doesn’t. “Got it.”
Before Hazeek continues, one of the stagehands swoops out of the tarps and passes him a small box. He grins at her. She grins at him. They exchange whispers. Dressed in black, the willowy woman nearly disappears between the bursts of arena-light. The dark purples of her hair and skin blur. Her stubby horns get lost in the poof of her bangs.
Once the woman leaves, Hazeek opens the box and pulls out two skinny wristwatches. Diodes array the outsides. A monitor acts as the timepiece. They dangle like yarn but snap on like magnets.
“These track your vitals,” Hazeek says, digging back into the box. The second thing out is a miniature earbud and hook-piece. These he gives to Michael. He puts them in without question. “They also double as communicators, but you gotta have it by your ear to hear.”
While he explains, Shason inspects his new trinkets. He lifts and rotates his arms to see everything. The lights around the band blink in sequence: blue, purple, yellow, red. The screen reads off his heart rate, chemical levels, and cellular statuses. Not that he understands any of it.
“One more thing.” Hazeek chucks the box onto the podium. He then claps and clasps his hands again. “Don’t rush the presentation. You got a stage, a catwalk, and then a staredown to consider. The referee will direct some of it, but don’t ignore the audience. Rules are loose, so stay alert.”
Michael grabs his son’s hand. Shason squeezes back.
“What about my dad?” he asks. “Doesn’t the family get a balcony?”
“Already arranged.” Hazeek cracks his knuckles. “It’s carba-treatment the rest of the weekend. In the gallery we got a buffet, open bar, chair-side service.” He checks his watch. Then flinches. “Oh damn, we gotta go.”
Shason swallows. So does his dad.
Beyond the curtains, the crowd erupts as the announcer bellows, “Ludik Shadakka!” The photography pops off like fireworks. A prickle creeps up Shason’s neck. He can hear the rumble of his opponent’s suit thrusters.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Hazeek says. Somber, he returns to his phone and taps through confirmation. “No one’s ever died on my recommendation. Don’t be the first.”
Michael cringes then huddles closer.
Shason hardly moves. “I’ll be fine.”
Inside the arena, the music hits with something heavy. Torches along the catwalk ignite to introduce it. The light, and some of the heat, wash into backstage.
With one final look, Hazeek manages to smirk. He and Shason share a nod goodbye. Shason and his dad share a hug.
“For mom,” they say within their embrace. “For the tribe.”
They pat backs, sniffle, bump foreheads. Afterward Hazeek leads Michael down the side hallway. The shabby mech-hand slows around the bend, tapping his arm, then his temple, then his chest to say goodbye. His son reciprocates.
“I got this,” he whispers.
By the time Shason turns to the stage, the two models from the broadcast step onto it. They emerge from the curtains. Another woman, a director with a full headset and scouter, joins them on the stage promptly. Shason doesn’t see where she comes from.
The coordinator gives each woman a robe then sends them off. “Great job, ladies.”
The women wrap themselves and use the far stairs to walk down. “Thank you,” they say in unison.
The boy tries not to stare. Rather, he breathes deep and bobs with the music. When the coordinator calls him over, he hurries the best he can. It’s jerky. Although she’s soft-spoken, her tone, outfit, and hairstyle speak business. The stony texture of her skin reminds him of the security guard. Parts of her face twinkle. Natural studs grow around her eyebrows and cheekbones. They sparkle a shade of blue lighter than her skin.
First she points to the stage and tells him to sit at the edge. He obeys. His feet touch. Next the stout woman stands behind him, unhooks a spray bottle from her belt, and holds it out for him to see.
“May I?” she asks, jiggling the trigger. “In case you sweat?”
He nods. The mist tickles his nape. Her fingers claw then caress, scrunch then tousle. He shuts his eyes while she tugs his head about.
“May I ask you something?” She swaps the bottle for a comb and begins pecking at his raggedy tufts. “You’re not from Dion, are you?”
Shason chuckles and sits up straighter. “No. Diita, but we get confused a lot. Sibling moons and all.”
She chuckles along. “I knew it. The system has you down wrong. Your odds are off.”
He furls his brow, glances back. “Yeah? What does that mean?”
Before she answers, she jumps off the stage and swings to his front. The comb finds her belt. Her brush and concealer leave it. Shason almost sneezes as she dabs the bristles into the powder.
“Probably nothing if they catch it.” She blots his cheeks and forehead. “If not, there could be some big winners.”
“Oh yeah?” He simpers to himself. “You got me winning this?”
She smacks him for wrinkling his face. He apologizes and relaxes. Without a yes or no, she rifles through her prep-work, switching the brush for a scissors, then the scissors for a tweezers. She snips around his ears, plucks his eyebrows. “I worked at an elderly home years back. We had one of you. Real stubborn.” Now she’s the one to simper. “I’m betting you’ll be fine.”
Shason slaps his knee. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
In reality, the Veka and Dionese didn’t look that alike. But then, Shason was only half Veka. His dad’s Disran side tamed his copper skin-tones, which gave him a Dionese color. The crucial difference was… Dionese were common. The Veka weren’t.
Once the coordinator finishes, she yanks Shason to his feet then carts him onto the stage. A strip of dull tape marks where to stand. The curtains hang at arm’s reach. In the narrow gap between, the flames and flashes of photography rage. Chills pour over Shason’s shoulders. The announcer rallies the crowd.
“Don’t rush,” the coordinator shouts from offstage. He jumps. “And don’t forget the camera. Viewers at home want a show, too.”
He holds a stiff thumbs-up at his hip. It quivers.
“Good luck.”
As she whisks back into the darkness, the announcer bellows, “Shason Ulgakin!” The curtains rip open. The spotlight blinds. Cheers wallop his ears. Hands flail and flounder from both sides of the guardrail. The stadium dazzles, wild with glow-sticks, lightning ribbon, and scroller boards.
The boy can’t stop gawking. Goosebumps coat his arms, neck, and scalp. He giggles. Then grins. Like a showman, he raises his arms until they’re high and wide. To his own surprise, he even hollers.
Nobody sees it directly, but the diodes around his wristbands blip orange. Translation: unknown. Up in the production room, the system flags it. The intern who’s working the station doesn’t recognize the code, unfortunately. She clicks into the database to cross-reference it with Dion, but the difference isn’t enough for her to note it.
She dismisses it without report.
It was a joke among producers to assign the interns to Wristband Analytics. Chemical was the most boring. Coolest thing to happen was a drug bust, but the system caught those. Inside the production room, the processor sat off in the front corner. The operator had to lean back to see any of the live feeds.
While Shason revels, a drone drops in and hovers at his eyeline. The camera frames him with the steel archways over the stage. Sparklers spray around the rim. The spectacle plays in living rooms, restaurant bars, and select theaters across Aros. Rooftops on the Archaotic itself host several screens for overfill. On two planets, four moons, and six mega-structures, the program transmits. Millions tune in.
For one man, he sits alone in a dim studio apartment, staring at the flat-screen in his wall. The breath whistles through his nostrils. Chopsticks lie on the couch beside him. The piece of Keet’si tuna once between them no longer remains between. It dots the crotch of his jeans with a dollop of signature sauce. His mouth still hangs open.
“Well, hello, hello.”
Through his kitchen window, a sign for the grill-house below shines in. The fluorescence tints half his face red. The sharp shadows along his cheek and jaw look to soften the more he watches.
In surround-sound and high-definition, the bulky kid hops off the stage and begins down the catwalk. His burlap tank and denim shorts seem baggy for a fighter. He bounces too much, too. From guardrail to guardrail, fan to fan, Shason zigzags, grabbing hands, slapping palms, bumping fists. He nods to those he can’t reach, points to those he can’t see.
One guy pats his arm. “Dude, your biceps are like my head!”
He flexes.
An older fan tries to grab his wrist. “Come here, boy. Mama needs her protein.”
He shakes her off.
Another simply shrieks in his face. She smells of alcohol.
At the end of the catwalk, the hedron cage looms like a castle with a moat. An empty channel circles the ring. Hundreds of nozzles cover the floor and walls to extinguish any stray flames. Fireproof glass borders the outside. Many fans smush their faces against the panes.
After Shason reaches the moat, the gate unlatches. The pins clank. The pistons hiss. Like a drawbridge, a strip in the under-panel splits from the rest of the mesh and lowers. It clunks against the catwalk when the heads meet. The hatch makes for an alien entrance. It daunts, but it’s the only doorframe Shason doesn’t have to duck. It closes behind him with the opposite: hiss, clank, latch.
Inside, the young Veka joins two others. One’s in a checker-print uniform. One’s in a full-body battle-suit. A helmet and visor hide his face. The referee directs the boy to his mark near the center. His opponent steps up without hesitation. The shifts and sheers of the suit’s disk joints reverberate. The steel floor clangors under-boot. He stomps twice before testing his hand thrusters. They spurt in brisk cones.
“Alright, gentlemen,” the referee says. Big, broad, beer-bellied, the Dionese man hobbles into the middle. Albeit older the guy does bear a resemblance to the boy. His color is more rust-like; his texture, a little rougher. For hair, the man buzzes it. His goatee and mustache are the same earthen browns. With tribal tattoos over much of his body, he looks intimidating. “You lose by pin, knockout, or surrender.” He tallies them on his fingers. “Pin’s in six. Knockout’s ten. Watch for changes. All adjustments will show up there.”
Abruptly he swings and points behind him. A leaderboard hangs between balconies. Odds, scores, and times display alongside each fighter’s key vitals. An ad for Keet’si Cuisine flashes in the corner.
Shason has to squint.
“If I so much as bark,” the referee says. “You back off. There are five, five-minute rounds to start. But keep an eye on those numbers, gentlemen.” He uses his thumb to point at the board again. “Any questions?”
Shason shakes his head. The man in the battle-suit copies. His visor reflects a bubbled version of the boy and the bars behind him.
“You go at the bell. You stop at the bell,” the referee tells them. “Remember, there’s nobody ringside. If you need something, ping out. Otherwise, keep it clean, keep it raw, and don’t forget to bleed.” He whoops then pretends to chop something between them. “Now let’s do this!”
The crowd cheers. A fireball explodes above. As the bell chimes, the three of them disperse. The referee dive-rolls to safety. Shason braces himself. Ludik boosts into reverse. Before the chime fades, the competitors collide. Ludik rockets off the far wall and throws his shoulder. Shason pops back and drops his. Bare muscle to brute metal, they clash. Then glance. The ricochet launches Shason at an angle and sends his foe to the floor. The veteran has to catch himself on all fours. The newbie soars onward and slams high into the panel with the drawbridge. The whole cage thuds. He hits and sticks like putty. The audience cheers louder. Wedged in the corner of the hedron, Shason sits unharmed. He holds an overhead bar to better lean against the slant.
“You corrected?” he says. “Thought I might’ve had you.”
Ludik climbs to his feet then rotates his arm at the socket. Something clicks. Under the plate, tiny devices dial in to assess and repair. On the scoreboard, their odds tick a few points closer.
He taps his helmet to talk out. “You ain’t Dionny, are you, kid?” His voice drawls. The speaker box roughens it.
Shason hops down then shakes his arm at his side. It throbs some but lessens with the blood flow. “Nope. Diita-kith.”
Midword, Ludik guns it and heaves an elbow into Shason’s gut. He folds. Together they crash back into the cage wall. A few jabs bury under his ribcage. Shason lands his own on the protective plate over the suit’s stabilizer jets. It dents. Ludik boosts out on the next exchange. Once Shason gets up, the suit comes around again, spinning with a roundhouse kick to the head. Shason catches this one. By the ankle, he snatches the boot, wraps it under his armpit, then hammers at the sole. The thrusters roast his fist. It smokes, and stinks. Ludik punches at the kid’s skull to break free. When he finally escapes, he propels himself to the far corner with a boot that putters and sparks.
The audience cheers. It’s weaker than last time. Their odds tick closer yet.
“It’s like hitting rubber,” Ludik says, typing on his arm’s interface. Inside his boot, tiny devices trigger to assess and repair. “Never felt anything like it.”
Shason blows on his knuckles and rubs his head. Parts are singed. Parts are bruised. “Yeah, man. I’m spongier than I look.”
The suit nods and folds his arms. “Aye. You fireproof, too?”
Shason clenches then unclenches his fist. “Mostly.”
While they banter, a cage drone circles in for a view of the burn. It sizzles. The microphone picks up the audio. Half the crowd balks in disgust. Shason’s points trend higher.
After a few tweaks, Ludik jumps and hovers feet from the floor. The damaged boot fizzles, but holds well. With the dual-pack on his back, the other jets roar with plenty of power to compensate.
“So what’s your ritual, then?” He cuts the engines and drops. The floor clangs. “Every tribe has a combat ritual, right?”
Shason perks up. Another chill pours down his arms. The lights on his wrists flicker orange.
Up in the fighters’ balcony, Michael leans against the glass and grits his teeth. His earbud streams the audio inside the ring. Carba-treatment includes total-access. The rest of the lounge seems less interested. Instead, they mingle at the bar, the blackjack tables, and the slot machines.
Across town, the man with the stain in his jeans stands glued to the program. Like Michael, he also grits his teeth. The grill-house sign buzzes outside his window. Now at the television, the Aros native grips his drink and cusses.
“No, no, no.” He runs a hand through his hair. The stubble rustles. “He’s fishing, mate. Don’t take the minnow.”
On the bottom of his screen, a tab projects the stats like the leaderboard. The man scrolls through the vitals and tries to tap in, but it denies him. He’s out-of-range. His work clearance doesn’t give him access outside the building. He fusses, but then starts scouring the couch for his phone.
The picture zooms in on the young fighter during. Beads of sweat glisten across his brow. He doesn’t appear to ponder the offer very long. With his burnt hand, he soon shows his opponent a count of two fingers. Simultaneously Michael and the man across town curse.
“Two hits,” Shason says, wiggling the digits. Ludik smirks behind his visor. Nobody hears it. The com’s muted. “You hit me as hard as you can, and if I don’t stay down, then we fight.”
His voice box crackles. “That’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He laughs, typing in something else on his arm interface. “Why wouldn’t I take that?”
Shason laughs with him. “Exactly.”
The suit widens his stance then shrugs. “So just, yee-haw then?”
The boy takes a breath, stretches his neck, then squares himself as well. “Pretty much. Just have some dignity about it, yeah?”
He snorts. “Will do, kid.”
As clean as it is quick, Ludik boosts, spins, and connects the crook of his good boot with the side of Shason’s cranium. The impact hurls him into the cage walls. He skips. Flips. Skids down, starfish. Many in the crowd gasp. The diodes around his wristwatch blend from blue to purple, then to yellow. He comes to rest face-up, legs on the slant, back to the floor. The cage drone swoops in to film it. The referee rushes in to count.
Shason’s eyes stay closed. His nose bleeds. A message of critical pings into Michael’s earbud. He can’t help but snivel. He hides himself behind his hand, and the cocktail server on route swerves to avoid him. The wineglasses cling on her platter. More and more people gather in her section by the minute.
Miles away, the scene leaves the man in the studio apartment frozen. Bent over the side of his couch, he hangs upside-down with an arm underneath it. The upholstery has holes. Sometimes his phone falls through.
“You’re alright there, chap?” he whispers. “Little ding like that just starts the party, yeah?”
Off camera, the referee hollers the count: three, four, five. His hand passes across the top of the picture. Shason’s limp body centers the shot. The audio plays loudest from the apartment’s rear speakers.
“Six. Seven.”
By the eighth, Shason wakes and raises an arm. It’s wobbly. He blinks, groans, rubs his head. The audience celebrates. In the production room, somebody hits the button for the pyrotechnics, and another fireball explodes over the cage.
Shason stumbles getting up. “Okay,” he mutters. He fiddles with his hair to feather it. Some tufts clump with blood. “Good.” More diodes switch to orange. Each is a different shade. The intern at chemical nearly coughs up her energy drink. “One more,” he adds, staggering back to his mark. He whirls a finger overhead for encouragement.
The crowd obliges.
“You sure you’re okay, kid?” Ludik fidgets. The reflection in his helmet follows Shason across the floor. “You can always tap out. The take’s already good, kiddo.”
“Nah, man.” Shason puffs his cheeks and brushes it off with an arm-flap. “I’m just getting warmed up... Here—” He holds out a palm as if to say wait then taps his temple. “This time, hit me on the other side.” He winks and clacks his tongue. “Oh, and I’ll even turn around for you, so you can use your good boot again.”
While many in the crowd snicker, Shason waddles around to present his back. The bulbous slabs of his neck and shoulders shape it like a kite. Although nobody hears him, he hums a childhood tune as he turns himself about.
People continue to gather at the balcony windows above. The chatter grows. A group of Ottowin business-types stow their tablets to get a better look. Beside them, Michael slouches and cradles his stomach. It sours. For how sun-beaten the man is, he flushes pale. The arena turns rowdy when the fans begin to realize the newcomer isn’t joking. Shason barely braces himself. Back across town, the man with the stain in his crotch berates his television.
“Oy,” he yells. With his phone in hand, he stomps over the coffee table and confronts his screen. The person on the other line keeps talking. It’s a woman with a twang. She’s not happy. “Are you mental?” He smacks the screen. “I know you need the second, mate, but this isn’t Diita.”
“Benjamin.” The receiver screeches. He fumbles putting it back to his ear. The woman scoffs. “Are you drunk? Unless the queen-pin herself called, I’m not pulling an emergency stop for anything. The arena’s going nuts right now.”
He runs a hand over his beard. The stubble rustles. “Right, Love, but.” His tone changes so drastically the woman sputters her lips. “I swear, palm to Poisson, this chap’s more valuable outside the ring.”
“Outside?” she repeats, squawks. “Come on, Benny. Aren’t you supposed to represent cage fighters?”
Before he can respond, she hangs up. The click leaves him speechless, and breathing through his mouth. He tilts his head and squints thinking about that last bit.
Thereafter the television illuminates white. The shot captures Ludik from behind the boots. His boosters almost engulf the camera. Airborne, he drives another spin-kick into Shason’s skull. Jets spray from his heel on the release. Shason goes flying, cartwheeling. He careens into the low panel. He smashes into the upper. Like a pinball, he skips off the two facets then flops, plops back to the ring floor. He lands halfway from where he started. Face-down, he lies sprawled. Blood collects in a puddle at his cheek.
The referee hurries in. Most the arena falls silent. On his wrist, the diodes flicker between yellow and orange, then red. The intern reading the gauge gapes. Ludik walks away. Benjamin drops to his knees. Michael weeps.
Millions of miles away, a soft-featured, brunette-haired girl curls up on her computer chair, tucks a knee under her chin, and awes at the replay. “Gnarly.”
The referee calls the count. “One. Two. Three.” He motions over Shason as if already over a corpse. By four however, Shason jars awake and pounds the floor with his burnt fist. He dents the steel.
The crowd re-erupts. Ludik whips around. Benjamin cheers. In a scramble, the trim man shoots to his feet and slaps his pockets to check his things: keys, wallet, work badge. He panics. He doesn’t find his phone.
Because it's still in his hand.
“Not going to lie,” Shason grumbles, climbing to his feet. “That second hit was new to me.” As he holds his neck and winces, the drone passes by. He almost swats it. Wet with blood, sweat, and snot, he wipes his face on his tank then twist-cracks his spine. “Don’t get me wrong, it hurt. But you should’ve stopped at the first.”
The bell rings, ending round one.