A Mutiny of Marauders

by Daniel Coleman

  George Alleyne, previously same name, from Oranjestad, Aruba. Legionnaire. One year on the island, 31 years old. Former bodyguard and bouncer. It went on to say that George had no criminal history and no family on Hollow Island. He was a Level 3 Jennie, star rating 1.

  Unfortunately there was nothing in the bio about George’s endowment or weakness, so Nash had no idea what he was going up against except the sure knowledge that the man was a trained, professional fighter. Maybe they’d draw Rock, Paper, Scissors from the bowl.

  On second thought, Nash wouldn’t mind some sort of fight. He’d fought bigger men before and this competition was most likely a safe way to tussle without risking his life.

  “Ladies and lads, Jennies and gentlemen!” The announcer spun as she called out, sending her impressive voice off in a 360. She was more animated than Nash had seen her all night. “Golly, have we got a gambit for you!”

  That brought even more eyes to the center of the amphitheater. Not just the eyes of the people at the event—Nash was sure all of the eyes of the cameras would be trained on their little competition. Livi had said Troy Fest was for Hollow Island residents and not for the outside, but Nash was pretty sure if they could use footage to fuel the Ranger/Legionnaire rivalry, or on any other channel of the hollows, they would do so.

  “Who do we have in this corner?” cried the announcer, leaning toward the Legionnaire. The man said something and the announcer boomed, “The legendary Legionnaire George Alleyne!” She leant an ear to Nash and waited for a response as the crowd clapped and hooted.

  So was Nash supposed to come up with his own fancy nickname? In nearly two weeks on Hollow Island, he’d earned plenty of them—Mongoose, White Hat, Pinky, Boy Ranger. Every eye within a kilometer was focused on him, waiting for him to speak.

  “Nash,” he said.

  “And in this corner,” the announcer called out. “The rowdy Ranger, Knee-knocking Nash!”

  Significantly fewer people clapped for Nash. As the closest thing to a police force on the island, Rangers faced animosity from a large portion of the population. It was up to him to either strike a blow in the Rangers v. Legionnaires debate, or embarrass himself and his Caste in front of Livi and the rest of the world. Nash just wanted things to move along so he could find out what he would be doing to prove his “manliness.”

  The announcer walked over to the stand with the large wooden bowl sitting on it. Maybe one of the possibilities was something that would give an edge to a Brazilian jiu-jitsu trained fighter of ambiguous belt level. If Nash had to guess, he’d say he had the skills of a brown belt, but he’d never had the money to test for belts.

  However, the announcer didn’t reach into the bowl. Instead, she bent and pulled a separate bowl out. This one was pewter.

  “A more critical contest for our jubilant Jennies, our militant modifieds,” called the announcer.

  A different set of options for Jennies. That would have been nice to know before agreeing to do this. There was probably no chance of pulling standing long jump or thumb wrestling out of the pewter bowl.

  The announcer tossed the bowl like she would a bowl of popcorn, sending flat wood chips into the air then catching them. When she was pleased that the options were mixed, she set the bowl down and spun in a circle saying, “What will fickle fate find for these friendly foes?”

  His eye caught George’s ever so briefly and something passed between them, but Nash couldn’t say what. The Legionnaire had a supremely smug look on his face. Nash wondered if it had been there the whole time or if he was missing something.

  As the announcer reached into the bowl, Nash could have sworn he saw something palmed in her hand. The woman made a show of stirring the contents of the bowl and looking the other direction. She pulled out her hand, gripping a single piece of wood, like a broken off Popsicle stick.

  “For your perusing pleasure, His Honored Highness presents—” the announcer read what was on the stick, “—Wall Box!”

  Wall box? Must be some sort of Hollow Island, or even Troy specific game; it didn’t even sound familiar.

  The crowd had heard of it. They erupted louder than Nash had heard all evening.

  Wall Box sounded like some sort of jumping or leaping event. A crossfit exercise or punching a fixed target. That didn’t sound too bad. He glanced at Livi, who had moved closer to the center of the amphitheater, but not up in the front row or anything. While she loved acting up for the people on the outside, she tended to keep a low profile on the island, as hard as that was looking so beautiful and rich in her fine gowns. Her eyes seemed slightly wide from where Nash was standing, and she wore an amused smirk.

  Once again, Nash had the feeling he had climbed in deeper than he had planned.

  “Do our courageous contestants comprehend the contest?” The announcer pointed at George, who nodded sharply. He resembled a hawk who had his eyes on a helpless piece of prey. The announcer pointed at Nash.

  “No,” said Nash, shaking his head. “Never heard of it.”

  Roars of laughter and amusement replaced the cheers of those within hearing range. Nash noticed that much of the crowd was relocating to his left. A wall stood at the edge of the stage, only about two meters high. It was a little taller than him, so that made it almost six and a half feet, he corrected himself, still not used to the units of measurement used here. Everyone was taking up places where they could see one side of the wall.

  “Step right up, step right over,” called the announcer, signaling Nash to the wall he’d been looking at. In a dramatic fashion, like she was introducing an MMA fight she said, “One fighter!” she pointed to a line about two feet in front of the wall, “stands feet fixed on the line. The other fighter!” she pointed excitedly at the wall, “stands with his back to the wall, feet firmly planted. The fighter with his back to the wall places a punch to his opponent’s face. Then the fighters switch spots. The contest continues until one! you walk away, or two! you touch the ground.”

  A punch in the face contest, then, with two small alterations. First, a wall so the puncher couldn’t step into a punch, thus reducing the power behind his fist. Second, a line so the one being punched had to stand square and take it.

  Nash had seen guys do contests like this at a couple of MMA gyms over the years. Even a pair of girls once. Nash had never been dumb enough to agree to it … until now. He wasn’t about to back out, though. He could take a punch; it was the resulting brain damage that had always prevented him from contests like this.

  Even if he wasn’t curious about trying his jaw against the Legionnaire’s, as well as committed to the crowd, he wouldn’t back down in front of his new partner.

  “Who punches first?” asked Nash.

  “The illustrious Legionnaire was first to come forward, so he picks.” The announcer shot a hand out toward George and waited for him to pick. Only an idiot would punch second in this game. More and more Nash felt like he was being set up. Maybe not him specifically, but anyone dumb enough to go up against a Legionnaire in an unknown and possibly fixed contest.

  “Ladies first,” said the Legionnaire.

  Nash wanted to punch first, as George was offering, but not at the cost of taking the insult. He walked to the line and stood on it, facing the wall. “Okay then. Go ahead.”

  The members of the audience close enough to hear reacted sharply with laughs and taunts at the Legionnaire for his backfired burn.

  “No,” said George, “I was saying …” He turned to the announcer. “I meant he should punch first. Like he’s a lady.” His fellow Legionnaires were not amused. If this wasn’t an organized event, Nash felt like he’d be surrounded by George’s friends right now.

  Nash noticed a familiar face among them. Gurpreet Flower had immigrated on the same day as Nash. They’d chatted on the ferry and gotten off the boat together. Imagined or not, Nash felt something like kinship with him.

  The announcer directed Nash to the wall. Nash had already deflected the insult so he wa
s happy to have first shot. He took the spot, smirking at George the whole time.

  “In a minute I’ll show you with my fist who the lady is,” said George, cracking his knuckles.

  Livi was probably out of the range of hearing for a normal person, but Nash had learned during their time together that all of her senses were enhanced. When he glanced at her, she rolled her eyes. She hated poorly executed humor as much as she hated sexist jokes.

  Smiling like he knew something Nash didn’t, George stepped up to the line.

  Nash made a fist and rolled his shoulder to loosen up.

  George said, “Sure you don’t want to use the other hand? That one looks a little light.” He wiggled one pinky in the air. “Oops. Light on the other hand too.”

  “It’s not about how hard you can hit,” said Nash. “It’s about how hard you can get hit and stay standing.”

  George’s face wrinkled as he thought through the comment.

  His pinkies—one taken by the Snake and one blown off by John Wayne—had miraculously started growing back. After the injuries, he had nothing there, now he had a nub on each hand, about half of the first finger segment. And it had happened with no surgery, no antibiotics, not so much as a Band-Aid. Oh, how he loved his endowment.

  The announcer held one hand in the air. “Count with me, crowd! Three! Two! One!”

  Nash’s gaze bounced to Livi, saw a look in her eye he’d never seen—admiration and pride.

  He felt like he could turn around and punch a hole in the wall. His fist flew and Nash knew it was a solid shot to the jaw before it even landed—right on the button, as one of his trainers used to say. It was the instantaneous moment in a fight when time stood still and you knew the tide was turning. Nash’s opponent was about to feel the full impact of a quiet man’s fury.

  A series of snaps and grating sounds clattered from the point of contact and a recoil shot up Nash’s arm like hitting a light post with an aluminum bat. Pain flared in Nash’s hand and if he didn’t know better, he’d say he just punched a moving Mack truck.

  The sounds of breaking bones hadn’t come from George’s jaw. Those snaps, crackles, and pops had come from Nash’s fingers and hand. When the stars cleared from his vision, Nash checked to see if he’d punched the right direction because whatever he’d hit felt more like solid brick than a face.

  George’s smug grin had been joined by a cocky tip of his head to the side. The man had steel implants in his jaw or something. The crowd as a whole cheered, but those close enough to see Nash’s facial expression were laughing along with the Legionnaires. Nash forced calm onto his face. There was no way he was winning this contest, but he wouldn’t go down looking like a boy trying to do a man’s job.

  “Told you I’d show you who would be the one laughing,” said George as Nash stepped forward to trade places with him. “And look. It’s me who’s laughing.”

  Nash wasn’t in the mood for it and his tongue ran free. “Does your ass ever get jealous of the shit that pours out of your mouth?” asked Nash.

  George opened his mouth to respond, but closed it and thought for a second before saying, “I’m about to pour my fist into your mouth.”

  The throbbing in Nash’s hand felt louder than anything the Legionnaire said or any of the taunts from the crowd. Nash resisted the urge to shake out his hand and tuck it under his other arm. Taking his place on the line in front of the wall, he spared a glance down. The hand was already swollen to twice its normal size. It was useless. The contest was over. Even if he could heal in seconds, which he couldn’t, breaking his hand against George’s rock jaw again would never result in a win.

  As soon as Nash took a punch, it could end. He’d just stand and take one, then call off the contest and leave with his head up. And just maybe the Legionnaire had a glass hand to go with his iron jaw.

  “The Legionnaire took his lashing!” called the announcer. “Count with me, crowd! Three! Two! One!”

  Nash braced himself, but made his body loose enough to twist when the punch came in order to absorb some of the power behind it.

  “Stand up,” Nash whispered to himself.

  George gave him a wink. “Lay down, Ranger. Time for bed.”

  It’s just a fist, Nash told himself as the Legionnaire swung. I’ve been hit by fists lots of—

  2

  Point for You

  << Hollow Island Law #2: No Escalation

  Level 2 and Level 3 Jennies must remain on the east half of the Island (the Hot side.)

  Unmodified individuals and Level 1 Jennies may travel the island with no regard for Hot and Cold sides of Hollow Island.

  - Excerpt from the Five Laws section of the Hollow Island recruitment website >>

  Nash heard someone calling his name. His head was throbbing and his right hand was pounding. No, it was the opposite—head pounding, hand throbbing.

  A hand patted him on the cheek that hadn’t been hit with a sledgehammer.

  “You with me, partner?” A woman’s voice. A woman with an exotic accent.

  Nash blinked open his eyes and looked into the faces of half a dozen people. Only one of them looked familiar. Livi. A Vamp. His teammate? No. Partner, she had said that.

  Some of the other faces looking down over him began to make sense. The smiling contest announcer. Smug, stone-handed George Alleyne.

  “My turn,” said Nash, pushing up off the ground, but only making it to his knees before dizziness swam over him.

  George the Legionnaire laughed. “Another punch and you’d be dead as the Reaper is going to be later tonight.”

  That brought a shock of recollections back. Nash had a purpose, and it went beyond playing silly games in the park.

  “Ladies and larks!” trumpeted the announcer. “We have a winner! The legendary, lead-fisted, lights-out Legionnaire George Alleyne!”

  The crowd cheered and it looked like they were dispersing back to the full circle of grass and the other scattered entertainments.

  “Help me up,” said Nash, holding his hands out for whoever would take them.

  Livi gave him a hand and he needed all the strength she could offer to make it to his feet. The circle of the amphitheater did a few laps around him, but eventually came to a stop. The drums inside his head and the rhythmic clamping of the vice on his hand didn’t come to stop.

  “It’s okay if you have hard feelings, sucker,” said the Legionnaire, slapping Nash on the back. “Sooner you learn not to mess with your superiors, the better.” He turned away and started walking toward his Legionnaire buddies.

  “George,” said Nash.

  He came to a stop and looked back with a sneer probably meant to imply that he didn’t want to talk to a steaming pile of crap.

  “You know what Rangers and Legionnaires have in common?”

  “What?” demanded George.

  “They both wanted to be Rangers when they grew up.”

  It took George a second to get the joke, and when he did, his eyes flashed with anger. “Well I’m grown up now and I’m better than any stupid metal eye who hits like a girl.”

  “Wanna know the difference between you and me?” asked Nash.

  “What?” said George, rolling his eyes, already prepared to not appreciate a joke.

  But Nash was done being set up and pushed around tonight. He picked his words carefully out of the fog. “I’m a free man. You are a peon, servant of the king. Can’t take a piss without permission. Can never cross the border to the Cold side. While you’re taking orders, I do what I want. ”

  “You worthless …” George came back around, fist pulled back, ready to pound Nash again.

  Two people rushed to intervene—Livi was between them before Nash even saw her move, fangs out, shaking one finger back and forth. “Nuh-uh-uh.” At times like these, her bravery and audacity were as attractive to Nash as anything she had going on physically.

  The other was a woman with long black hair who’d come forward out of the crowd. She had a gun in he
r hands, which marked her as a Ranger, and aimed it at George’s upper lip. “Not tonight, amigo.” Bright flame tattoos ran down her forearm and she spoke with a familiar Spanish accent.

  Before Nash could try to figure out how he knew the Ranger, the other Legionnaires closed quickly, surrounding the group, drawing swords. Nash drew his gun, jumping in to the standoff. The announcer was caught up in the parade of weapons, frozen, speechless for the first time.

  Livi was the first to speak. “You’re real tough, George, as long as you have an entire contubernium behind you.”

  Either she was speaking nonsense or Nash was hearing nonsense.

  “I’m real tough always,” said George. “You saw what I did to your little girlfriend.”

  “What?” said Livi as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “I said I just knocked out your little girlfriend so that means I’m tougher than him.”

  Her eyebrows dipped in the middle and she bent an ear toward him. “Huh?”

  “I said he’s your girlfriend. Because he’s weak? Like a woman?”

  “Come again,” said Livi.

  George looked around at his friends, obviously wondering why she couldn’t hear him.

  “She’s messing with you, George,” said another one of the Legionnaires.

  “You like making sexist jokes?” Livi asked George. “You probably think a woman’s place is in the kitchen.”

  “That’s right. Bake me a pie, bit—”

  Before he could get the word all the way out, Livi had both of her daggers to his throat crisscrossing each other. “Oh, lookie. I found my knives.”

  George’s eyeballs disappeared behind his lower lids as he tried to look down at the knives.

  Livi said, barely louder than a whisper, “You can take a punch because you’re a figging Neanderthal, but I don’t play fair.”

  “Fight’s over, amigos,” said the other Ranger cheerily. She lowered her gun to the Legionnaire’s crotch. “You got your shot, soldier. And you’ve scared him pissless, pretty lady. Time for everyone to put the weapons down.”