Legacy

by Travis Brett

  Damn, are all of Gavin’s men mutants of some kind? he wondered as the thug got close enough for Roman to see his oversize, bent nose. Do they feel some sort of kinship to him?

  The thug climbed the bleachers, shuffling along their aisle. Irritated spectators grumbled as they made space for him. Roman saw that he was unarmed and he let out the breath he had been holding.

  Gavin looked ready to murder the thug for blocking his view of the fight, but nevertheless leaned forward to let him whisper in his ear.

  “I’ll come now,” Gavin said, before turning to Roman. “I’m terribly sorry, my good man and my fair lady, but I have business to attend to. I hope you don’t forget my offer. You know I’m good for it.”

  Roman watched Gavin leave. “We’re following him.”

  Ruby nodded. “Leaving mid-fight isn’t like Gavin. Although there’s not much left, anyway. You owe me ten credits.”

  “Huh? But—” Roman turned back to the fight. Somehow Rusty had his opponent pinned against the floor. Blood poured from the larger boy’s face and one of his legs was broken. Rusty let out a whoop of victory as the guards encircled him. The referee stepped forward and swiftly injected him in the neck before leaping backwards.

  The defeated fighter’s screams of pain were loud enough to be heard over the crowd. Roman wondered if the boy’s leg would ever heal enough to walk on. Hopefully not.

  Turning back to see Gavin already halfway down the bleachers, Roman set chase.

  07

  The cage door slammed behind Sparks. With an ominous click, the padlock fastened close.

  He bounced from foot to foot, blood pumping, alive with anticipation. Now that he stood in the arena, the aches in his ribs and shoulder were distant concerns. This was his element. Mole was going to learn that. Painfully.

  The square room was nearly twenty yards from wall to wall, with the cage in the middle taking up most of the space. The wooden floor was worn, splintered, and, right under Sparks’ feet, bloodstained. He scowled through the steel bars at the spectators. They didn’t cheer or shout, but instead watched him and Mole with calculating gazes. More than a few looked openly dismayed at Sparks’ bruised appearance. This was the worst type of crowd. They didn’t appreciate the beauty of a fight, all they cared about was the outcome — whether their bets had been profitable or not.

  Four thugs patrolled just outside the cage. Sparks waved at the nearest one, an older man with eyes too close together. “Wanna come in and join? There’s always room for one more.”

  The thug responded by pointing his crossbow at Sparks’ chest.

  “Hey, kid.” Caleb appeared, sticking his head through the bars, or trying to, at least. His skull was far too big. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “That bastard happened.” Sparks nodded his head towards Mole, who was conferring with his own master at the opposite end of the cage. “He found out I’m working for Roman. Thinks I’m a fucking traitor.” Sparks spat. “The shit-talker is going to try kill me.”

  Caleb’s face went pale.

  Sparks laughed. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t stand a–”

  He cut himself short when he saw Mole holding a pen-knife.

  “Uh . . . Caleb,” he said. “Why is he armed?”

  “I changed the stakes.”

  Sparks groaned. He should have guessed Caleb would get greedy. An Adrenalite’s owner could choose to make a pit fight unfair, either by making it two fighters against one or by arming one of the combatants. Owners would do this so that the odds would be stacked against their fighter, meaning there would be a higher profit if they still managed to win. Normally, Sparks would take it as a compliment that Caleb believed he could win even at a disadvantage, but right now, that was little comfort.

  “Damn it, Caleb. My life is on the line here.”

  “Well I didn’t know that, did I?”

  “I appreciate your faith in me. But also, I really don’t.”

  Mole grinned at Sparks from across the arena. He twirled the knife between his fingers. You’re dead, he mouthed.

  Sparks responded with an upright middle finger.

  “Listen,” Caleb said. “I’ll cancel the fight. You’re too injured for it. We lose our reputation, and won’t be able to arrange any other fights, ever. But we couldn’t anyway if you die here.”

  Sparks felt ashamed at the idea of refusing a fight. It would be worse than losing. “No. I’ll fight. And I’ll win.”

  Caleb wasn’t listening. “I’ll go and—”

  “I said I’ll fight,” Sparks said more forcefully.

  “What? No way. If he kills you—”

  “He won’t.”

  “But—”

  Sparks bared his teeth at Caleb. “I’m a pit fighter. This is what I do. So stand back, shut up, and watch me show this bastard just how much he fucked up when he threatened me.”

  Caleb frowned. “You sure about this?”

  “Completely.”

  “Well . . . Don’t die, okay?”

  “Don’t worry, I’d hate to disappoint your wallet.”

  Caleb looked like he had something more to say, but he stepped back from the bars and one of the thugs took his place, holding an activation needle. Sparks held his arm out. The needle was cold, and the thug wasn’t gentle as he pushed the needle through the skin, but Sparks didn’t pull away.

  He came alive.

  A wave of heat swelled from his chest and washed over his entire body, warmer than the sun on a hot day. Every inch of his skin burned with raw energy. His hair stood on end, awake, alert. It was like he had been completely numb before, and only now could he feel his own body. It wanted to move. It needed to.

  He jumped forward, energy pulsing through him with a rhythm somehow both irregular and musical. It was his rhythm.

  Mole advanced, grinning, knife raised, the front of his shirt glowing blue.

  Sparks beckoned him forward. “Come here and I’ll feed that knife down your throat.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Sparks leapt forward and lashed out with a punch aimed at the gut. Mole spun to the left. He was fast. Sparks blocked a low kick with his shin, never letting his eye leave the knife.

  His arm still ached and didn’t move as fast as it normally would. But it was functional enough. Besides, he wouldn’t need his full strength to beat Mole.

  He feinted two quick jabs, then spat in Mole’s face.

  Mole recoiled. Sparks took the opportunity and booted him in the thigh. He lunged to the right, then reversed the movement. He threw two quick punches, striking in sync with the pulse inside his chest. Mole retreated a step.

  “Not so tough now, are you?” Sparks mocked. “Not without your two buddies.”

  “Shut up,” Mole hissed through clenched teeth.

  “As you wish.” Sparks pressed his advantage. Kick, left-handed punch, two right jabs. He gained another step forward. He laughed as he spun, every limb in constant, exhilarating motion. Scoring another sharp hit on Mole’s left side, he sped up his attacks.

  Mole scowled.

  Sparks winked.

  And Mole’s foot slammed into his hip. Sparks stumbled back, off balance. His foot slipped on a loose floorboard, and he fought to regain his posture. The glint of the knife soared towards his neck. He threw up his right arm to block and a fire erupted in his shoulder joint, like an ember caught between the bones — his arm locked in place, unable to move.

  Panic flooded through him as the blade sliced across his bicep. Blood sprayed against his chest and sharp spikes of pain ran up his arm. He cried out, fighting to block out the pain. He couldn’t let it distract him.

  There was a crunch in his lower ribs; his recent bruises flared into painful existence again. Mole’s fist pulled back, then struck another blow. Sparks lurched backwards, head spinning.

  Mole just laughed. The sound of it grated against Sparks reeling senses.

  Sparks grabbed his bleeding arm with his other and gave
it a violent tug. There was a click in his shoulder, a burst of pain, and now he could move it again. The cut wasn’t too deep, as far as Sparks could see through the blood.

  Mole advanced steadily, still laughing.

  He goaded me into being overconfident, Sparks realized as he backpedaled. The boy moved fast for his size. Faster than he had in the fight in the holding room.

  Sparks dropped into a defensive stance. He had to finish this before he lost too much blood.

  Mole kept coming. “Got no smart words now, do ya? You little—”

  Sparks charged. The pounding in his chest beat frantically and he lashed out in swift blows to match it. His wound sprayed blood with each swing. He dodged under a knife thrust — blade passing just inches from his head — and landed his own punch to Mole’s gut.

  Mole retaliated quicker than Sparks anticipated. Grabbing him just under the armpit, Mole hurled Sparks upwards.

  Sparks’ neck crunched as he hit the roof. Icy shocks ran through his limbs. Then he was falling. The floor rushed up to meet him and knocked the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he rolled onto his side. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth.

  A shadow rushed at him from the left.

  On instinct, he grabbed the leg with both hands and twisted.

  Mole howled as his entire body spun, helpless to resist the motion. Balance lost, he fell to the ground. The knife spun away.

  Sparks crawled forward, clawing his way on top of Mole. He batted aside a punch, then pinned down Mole’s right wrist. The bastard writhed madly, his superior size and strength nearly throwing Sparks off, but Sparks grabbed Mole’s face and dug his fingers into his eyes. Mole screamed — a mad, rasping cry.

  “You thought you could beat me?” Sparks snarled. “You’re weak! You useless, piece of—”

  Mole’s grasping hand found Sparks’ shoulder, fingers tightening over the throbbing pain, and Sparks’ screamed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Pain. Burning pain.

  His world went black.

  Next thing he knew, he was being dragged along the ground, pulled by his wounded arm. A loose nail in the floorboards ripped a gash through his shirt, tearing across his back. Cursing, he fought to resist, but it was hopeless. Mole’s grip around his forearm was so tight Spark’s hand was going purple. With a kick to the stomach, Mole sent Sparks skidding across the floor. His back struck the bars, winding him again.

  Gasping, Sparks grabbed a bar and attempted to pull himself up. Before he could, Mole appeared above him. Sparks let go and tried to roll away, but Mole’s boot stomped down on his chest, locking him in place.

  “You fucking traitor,” Mole roared. The knife was back in his hand, its blade reflected his blue light.

  The pounding inside Sparks’ chest beat so fast he felt ready to explode. He gasped for air, barely able to breathe with Mole’s boot crushing his lungs. All around, the crowd howled, their words blending into a chant of madness. He thought he heard Caleb shouting. Something clattered against the floor to his left.

  Mole grinned as he raised the knife, preparing to plunge it down. Sparks looked away, to the side. There. Lying on the floor, just outside the cage, was a crossbow bolt.

  In one mad, frantic motion, Sparks reached out, grabbed the bolt and plunged it into Mole’s leg.

  He ripped the bolt out and stabbed again, then a third time. Blood spurted over him. Mole fell, screaming and clutching wildly at the wound. Sparks tried to pull the bolt out again, but the arrowhead caught in the muscle, stuck.

  He rolled onto Mole, ripped the knife out of his hand, and thrust it into Mole’s now open palm, pushing through the bone. Sparks let go when the blade was firmly lodged in the floor.

  “I’m—” Sparks punched Mole in the jaw.

  “—Not—” He hit him again.

  “—A—” He aimed for the nose this time.

  “—Traitor!”

  He ran his hand across his arm, scooping up blood, then smeared it over Mole’s face.

  I could kill him, Sparks thought. He deserves it. But instead, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled away. He had won. That was enough.

  The crowd fell silent. The only sound left was Mole’s howls of pain.

  Sparks slowly raised one fist, claiming his victory. The gesture felt hollow. His chest didn’t thrum with the usual pleasure of winning. He just felt relieved. And angry.

  Behind the bars stood the thug Sparks had first talked to, the one with the crossbow. He looked at Sparks with wide eyes, then to the bolt in Mole’s leg. His mouth hung open.

  “I think you dropped something,” Sparks said.

  Caleb appeared behind the thug. He winked at Sparks as he mouthed, You’re welcome.

  08

  The crowd began to file down the bleachers, some eager to collect their winnings, some to forget their losses with a drink. Roman pushed his way through them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw One-ear following.

  “We’ll split up,” Roman told Ruby. “Go get a fix on where Gavin’s going. I’ll lose our unsightly friend.”

  “You assume he won’t follow me? I’m the far more attractive of the two of us, after all.”

  “You underestimate my rough charm.”

  Roman changed direction and headed for the corner of the hall, where a handful of Gavin’s accountants were swamped with gamblers exchanging betting tokens for credits. Purposely, Roman brushed shoulders with a short man he passed, who cursed at him. Roman spun briefly to raise his middle finger at the man’s back.

  Tan had taught Roman this technique for getting a quick glance behind you without a tail realizing you’re aware of him. He easily spotted One-ear through the tangle of people, barely two steps behind him.

  One-ear’s proximity made it impossible for Roman to simply lose him in the crowd. So Roman considered less conventional methods. He sized up the man in front of him: tall, shaved head, well-muscled arms. Perfect. Roman spied the bulge of a coin purse in the back pocket of the man’s baggy trousers. The tip of the bag was even protruding from the pocket. It practically begged to be stolen.

  Roman pick-pocketed the purse but made sure he was clumsy enough for his theft to be noticed, then he spun mid-step, bringing himself face-to-face with One-ear.

  “Catch.”

  He tossed the purse. One-ear caught it on instinct, his thick-set face curled up in confusion. Roman darted to the side, ducking low and vanishing into the crowd.

  “Hey, thief!” The bald man’s shout carried across the crowd. No doubt he had just turned around to find One-ear holding his wallet.

  Roman grinned when he heard the distinctive thump of fist against flesh — obviously, the bald man had decided to punch first, ask questions later.

  Now One-ear was out of the equation.

  Ruby was waiting for Roman at the exit. She stood on tiptoes to watch the commotion Roman had caused. “As ever, you are a master of subtlety.”

  “You can’t argue with results,” Roman responded as he followed the flow of people out into the evening air.

  The last hints of sunlight were fading. Thick shadows stretched out underneath the square grey buildings that formed the Haven. The crowd moved across the concrete courtyard, with several of Gavin’s men watching from its edges – the Haven was open to anyone during a pit fight, but most of its grounds were always off-limits.

  “He went this way.” Ruby pulled Roman out of the throng and along the wall. The floodlights directed at the courtyard weren’t turned on yet, leaving them plenty of shadows to move in.

  No one called out to them. They ducked around the corner of the hall and out of sight.

  “Over there.” Ruby motioned towards three dark figures disappearing into a tight gap between two buildings, a hundred yards away.

  “You suspect this may be a trap for us?” Ruby asked as they sprinted in pursuit.

  Roman shook his head. “If Gavin wanted to trap us, he wouldn’t need to use a ruse. He could have killed us the moment we entered the Ha
ven.”

  The floodlights burst into life. Blinded, Roman shielded his eyes from the brightness. He hoped like hell that no one was watching the square.

  “There goes our cover,” he said.

  The lights flickered, then died.

  Ruby grinned. “You were saying?”

  “Shut up.”

  They slipped into the shadows of the far building, creeping along its wall to reach the entrance of the alley Gavin had vanished in. Roman peeked around the corner. The passage ran for at least eighty yards. The buildings on either side were tall enough to hide the alley in darkness. Gavin and his two men were nearly through, only visible as black silhouettes. Roman and Ruby followed.

  The exit of the alley might as well have been the same the entrance, for all the difference in scenery. More plain, grey, dull buildings — more like cubed stones than something you could live in. The Ancients didn’t build this place for aesthetics, that was for sure. Gavin was already disappearing into the mouth of a different alley.

  They followed him and his thugs through half the compound, maintaining a safe distance and sticking to shadows where they could. Thankfully, Gavin never looked back. Roman stifled a curse when the floodlights burst into life again. This time, they remained stubbornly on.

  The Ministry of Science’s explanation for the power cuts was faulty generators. It didn’t surprise Roman; after all, everything else in the city was faulty. When he worked at the ministry he had asked about it, but everyone either knew nothing or told him it was classified. Even amongst themselves, the ministries weren’t known for sharing knowledge.

  Roman paused at a corner, peeking around to make sure the way was safe. He quickly pulled back when he saw it wasn’t.

  “Well,” he said, “now we know where most of Gavin’s men are.”

  Ruby frowned. “Shall we be running right now?”

  “Not yet.” Roman took another look.

  A mob of at least fifty men approached from across a large yard, red rags around their forearms. Gavin stood between them and Roman, arms crossed, waiting for his men.