“My race farts,” Mells says.
“Aw, Mells, you’re killing me,” Pardo-En says.
“Listen to me,” Erisia says. “The council has never been quick to go to war. If anything, they’ve been overly cautious about avoiding it. They’re not going to drop everything and send Vanguardians to your world over this, not when we have the Black End to worry about. Gretch is one obnoxious, surly, hyper-aggressive voice on the council. Don’t give him more credit than he’s due. All right?”
Hye’s right. I know hye is, and hye’s saying the same things Commander Do said, but it just won’t sink in. I can’t let go of this.
“Come on, we’re getting you out of here,” Erisia says.
“I can’t,” I say. “I need to be here if Commander Do —”
“Commander Do can find you if she has any news.”
“It’s almost as if we have fancy technology that lets us communicate instantly with one another over long distances,” Pardo-En says.
“He is referring to our comlinks,” Mells says.
“Mells —”
“I know; I am killing you.”
Oh, these people. These wonderful, weird people.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Excellent,” Erisia says. “And I know the perfect place to blow off a little steam.”
TEN
We fly to Plaza North and land in the middle of a sparsely developed section composed of large, bland buildings that look like warehouses. As we walk toward one in particular, a squat building with a steeply slanted roof, I catch the dull roar of a large crowd whooping and hooting and cheering. We step inside and get swept up into a party in full swing. All around me are Vanguardians, in and out of uniform, drinking, holding loud conversations, dancing in small clusters...
“We get together like this at the end of every off period,” Erisia says, shouting to be heard over the din.
“Strictly speaking, these gathers are not encouraged by command,” Mells says. “Our leaders prefer social affairs that are quiet, orderly, disciplined...”
“Boring as hell,” Pardo-En says.
“Indeed. There is something to be said for occasionally indulging in rambunctious behavior.”
“Yeah, and that something is GIVE ME MOOOOORRRRE!” Pardo-En howls, and the crowd around him responds with an ear-splitting cheer before swallowing him up. Huh. Pardo-En’s a party animal. Didn’t expect that.
“Let’s get something to drink,” Erisia says. We worm through the crowd toward a table covered in bottles, pitchers, carafes, jugs, kegs, bowls and, no kidding, test tubes, the latter of which are filled with a bright yellow fluid that looks a little too much like urine (or Mountain Dew, which isn’t much better). Erisia hands me one of the vials because of course hye’s going to give me the most repulsive drink to sample.
“And this is...?” I say.
“I thought you didn’t want to know what anything you ate really was.” I frown. “It’s frescha juice. Completely natural, nothing weird or disgusting about it.”
“Will it get me drunk?”
“No, but if you want something intoxicating —”
Sara’s reassuring voice tells me it’s safe for human consumption, so I take the vial, pull out the stopper, and gulp it down. It’s pleasantly light and refreshing — nothing at all like urine or Mountain Dew.
Erisia hands me another and we move on, gently pushing our way through to the more-or-less center of party central, where the Vanguardians have rigged a waist-high platform, like a boxing ring minus the ropes. Two Vanguardians I don’t recognize, one of whom is built like a sumo wrestler and outweighs his opponent three times over, grapple with one another while their comrades cheer them on.
“This is a major reason why the higher-ups frown on these informal get-togethers,” Erisia says, “but as long as we don’t make a big deal about it, they turn a blind eye.”
“The first rule of Fight Club is: do not talk about Fight Club,” I say.
“Oh, hey, that’s good. We should use that.”
The audience erupts as the little guy seizes Sumo Joe in a funky half-nelson kind of hold and, as easily as he might toss a crumpled piece of paper, hurls Sumo Joe halfway across the ring. Holy crap. Sumo Joe bounces to a stop, tries to sit up, and flops onto his back. He waves a hand, signaling his surrender, and the crowd goes wild.
“Oh, very well done,” Mells says, clapping politely, like he’s watching golf rather than a cosmic WWE match. “Watching these contests can be quite educational.”
“Educational?” I say.
“These matches are strictly hand-to-hand affairs, no powers allowed, and that provides us with an opportunity to see hundreds of different styles of martial arts in action. You can learn a great deal about a given race’s strengths and weaknesses by observing how they fight. You can glean insights into their philosophies regarding combat.”
“Leave it to Mells to take a fun night out and turn it into an exercise in deep thinking,” Pardo-En says, rejoining us. He takes a pull off a glass jug the size of a bowling ball and lets out a belch. “That’s why we keep you around.”
“I thought it was for my sparkling wit and effervescent personality,” Mells says, and for the first time all day, I laugh out loud.
“That too, buddy,” Pardo-En says, “that too.”
My good mood disappears as quickly as it came when Grafton Grun climbs up onto the platform. He throws his hands in the air and soaks in the roar that rises up. Arrogant ass, basking in a victory he hasn’t even claimed yet.
“Ah, here we go,” Pardo-En says. “Grun always puts on a good show.”
“Whenever he gets an opponent, that is,” Erisia adds. “There aren’t a lot of people who — Carrie? What are you doing?”
I’m stepping up is what I’m doing. I’m so damned sick of smug bullies like Grun and Gretch throwing their weight around and acting like they’re untouchable. Get ready to be touched, asshat.
I climb onto the platform, and the cheering and chatter fall to whisper levels. It spikes again when Gaartiin, acting as the announcer, introduces me — Fargirl of Earth — as Grun’s opponent for the night. A Vanguardian appears at my side and hands me a pair of boots and elbow-length sparring gloves made of a thin but dense foam rubbery material.
Grun slips into his sparring gear, his eyes locked on me. I return his glare with equal intensity and squat down like an Olympic sprinter at the starting line. Come on, Grun, be as predictable as I think you are.
“This is such a bad idea,” Erisia says somewhere behind me.
“Yeah,” Pardo-En agrees. “Isn’t it great?”
Once he’s padded up, Grun throws his arms up again to coax a cheer from the people behind me, then from the audience to his right, and then to the people behind him. That’s what I was waiting for.
I charge, and the audience goes insane. Grun turns at the last second and catches a gut full of me coming at him full speed. The impact sends a jolt of hot pain radiating out from my shoulder.
For a moment, we’re both airborne, my momentum carrying us off the platform. We crash to the floor, nearly mowing down the front row of spectators in the process. I scramble to get on top of Grun and drive my fist into his face again and again, blind rage fueling me. I’m no Natalie or Matt, but I threw enough punches during my youth hockey days to know how to make them count. Grun throws his arms up in front of his face. I keep hammering away. I pound on him until I have to stop because I can barely breathe. Gasping, croaking, my fist falls one last time with all the force of a kitten pawing a ball of yarn.
Grun snaps both fists out, catching me in the mouth. A second double punch to the gut guarantees I’m not going to get a breath in for the rest of this fight — but hey, look on the bright side, Carrie: this fight isn’t going to last very long, because you are once again (say it with me now) in way over your head. Grun’s a knowledgeable hand-to-hand fighter; I’m so not.
Grun shoves me
off, gets up, grabs me by the back of my shirt like he’s scruffing a cat, and drags me back onto the platform. He leaves me on my hands and knees and circles me like a shark, slowly and deliberately. I start to stand up, and Grun knocks me back down, flattening me with a palm-heel strike. I feel my left eye start to swell shut. I try to rise again, and he puts me back down, my head bouncing off the platform. I can’t tell if the ringing in my ears is from the beating he’s giving me or from the crowd.
He’s toying with me, which pisses me off big time, but it also gives me a moment to think. Grun’s not going to let me up, but I can’t do jack squat here on the floor, so how do I change that? What would Natalie do?
I brace myself and wait for Grun to move into range. I kick out a leg, catching Grun across the shins. The plan was to take him off his feet with a leg sweep, but all I did was send him hopping away, hissing in pain. Still, it gives me the opening I need to get on my feet. I jump up, move in, and throw a wild haymaker that barely connects; my fist skips off the tip of his chin. He lands a solid return punch to my nose, and suddenly, my entire face is on fire. My eyes water so badly I can’t see a thing, certainly not well enough to effectively block Grun’s attacks. Fists pepper me up and down. A stiff kick lashes me across the side, right across the floating ribs. Grun is totally owning me, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.
This was stupid. Everything I’ve done today has been stupid. Everything I’ve done since I said yes to Commander Do, yes I’ll take you at face value and come along with you to the other side of the universe to fight in a war that’s none of my business, has been so incredibly stupid and selfish.
A surge of adrenaline powers my final desperate attempt to rally. I throw a blind uppercut that catches Grun right under the chin. He rocks on his heels, staggers back a step, and gawks at me. He wasn’t expecting that. Hell, neither was I, to be fair. Grun snarls at me and charges, his fist cocked. I throw an arm up to block the punch, but he muscles through it and drops me to my knees.
I try to get up. He hits me again. I barely feel it. I start to rise. Grun knocks me down.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet again, but it’s not my doing. Grun has me by the shirt, and that’s the only thing keeping me upright. He sneers and pulls back to put his fist clean through my head. Go on, then. Finish it. You think I’m scared of anything you can do to me? Ha. You’re an amateur, pal. Do your worst.
Grun blinks at me, his expression softening. He releases me, backs away, and lays one hand over his fist and holds it high — the same gesture he made after our first encounter in the mess hall — at which point the audience goes absolutely berserk. Grun parades around the perimeter of the platform, hands overhead. What just happened?
An arm slides under mine, catching me as I teeter on my heels. “That was astounding. I swear to Tethroth, I am utterly in love with you,” Pardo-En says.
“Carrie? Can you hear me?” Erisia says. “Are you all right?”
“What happened?” I say, my words mushy and garbled, like I’m speaking through a mouth of mashed potatoes — thick, wet, bloody mashed potatoes.
“Grun stayed his hand,” Mells says.
Oh, okay. Sure, he stayed his hand. Makes sense. I’m totally in the loop now, thanks.
“He chose not to deliver a finishing blow,” he explains. “He saw that you were willing to die rather than yield the fight, so he chose to stay his hand. It is a sign of deep respect.”
“Oh, we’re friends now. Great,” I say. “Erisia?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve had enough relaxation for one night.”
Hye smiles. “Yeah. Me too.”
***
I don’t remember Erisia, Mells, and Pardo-En taking me to the medical center. I mean at all. One minute I’m in the middle of the sparring ring, the next I’m lying on an examination table and Dr. Forre is hovering over me, cataloging my impressive collection of injuries.
“Broken nose, two cracked ribs, quite a few loose teeth, a little internal bleeding for variety,” he says. “Grafton Grun must have been having an off night.”
“This was him on an off night?” I mumble through swollen lips.
“He’s sent me worse, but don’t worry; once Commander Dorr arrives, you’ll be in much greater misery.”
“Come on, Dr. Forre, do you have to report this to the commander?” Erisia says, pleading on my behalf.
“You know I do, cadet — and I already did, so don’t waste my time or yours pestering me about it. Excuse me.”
Dr. Forre gently pushes Erisia and the others back so he can go to work on me. The first thing he does is reset my nose, which I take in stride with dignity and grace — which is to say, I scream bloody murder. Matt had his nose broken once. He said getting it popped back into place hurt a million times worse than getting it broken and oh my God was he right. Dr. Forre holds my face steady in one of his tiny little hands and passes over it a device like a TV remote. It projects a blue light onto my smashed face, bathing it in a soothing, pricking warmth.
“The loose teeth, cadet,” Dr. Forre says. “Shall I pull them out so the new ones can grow in unobstructed?”
“My species doesn’t re-grow lost teeth,” I say.
“It doesn’t?” Pardo-En says, scandalized. “What do you do, then?”
“We have dentists.”
Pardo-En shakes his head. “How your species lasted this long...”
Dr. Forre is running his little lightbox over my jaw when Commander Dorr arrives. I’d say he looks disappointed, but that’s really just his face.
“Doctor,” he says.
“Commander. It seems your cadet here overindulged in comradery.”
“I can see that. And who do I have to thank for her injuries?”
“Cadet Grun.”
“I’m in no mood for jokes, doctor.”
“You never are,” Dr. Forre remarks, “but I’m not joking.”
Dorr looks to Mells for confirmation. He nods. Dorr grunts. “How bad is she?”
“Nothing life-threatening, certainly. I’ve already stimulated her natural healing processes on her nose and her teeth. Let me tend to her other injuries and I’d say she should be ready to resume training in, oh, a week? Or I could pop her in the regen tank for an hour or so and have her ready for duty tomorrow.”
Dorr considers me for a moment then says, “No. Cadet Hauser worked very hard to collect her injuries. Let her enjoy them.”
Dr. Forre frowns. “May I at least provide her with some medication to mitigate the pain?”
“Mild medication.”
“Commander, please,” Erisia says.
“This matter is between me, the doctor, and Cadet Hauser,” Dorr says. Erisia shuts right up and backs away. I don’t hold it against hyer. I sure don’t want hyer getting in trouble for my dumb decision. Dorr turns back to me. “You are confined to quarters during your convalescence. Your meals will be brought to you. You will return to active training duty after the next respite cycle. Is that understood, cadet?”
“Yessir,” I say.
His business here finished, Dorr strides out.
“I guess we’re about done,” Dr. Forre says with an exasperated sigh. “Let me give you your painkiller and I’ll send you on your way.”
“Thanks.” Dr. Forre fishes a mini-hypo unit out of his smock pocket, presses it to my exposed upper arm, and presses the but— “Ohh, hello...”
“Oh, did I give you a heavy dose instead of a mild dose? Oops. I should pay closer attention,” Dr. Forre says. “If you cadets would escort her back to her quarters?”
“It’s okay, I’m fine!” I chirp, jumping off the examination table and promptly collapsing to the floor because some jerk stole my skeleton, and now I’m all wibbly-wobbly. Oh, wow, the tile feels so cool and smooth. I like you, tile floor. We’re friends now. I’m going to stay here with you.
“Come on, up you get,” Erisia says. Hye and Mells and Pardo-En pick me up off my new bestest friend the floor and n
ow we’re outside and now we’re in the sky. Wait, we’re in the sky?! How are we — oh, no, wait, we can do that. I forgot we can do that.
Still pretty neat, though.
Oh, look, we’re back at the barracks. Now we’re in an elevator. Now we’re in front of a door. Now I’m in bed. Oh, hello, bed. I love you. You’re so comfy and beddy. But don’t tell tile floor, he’d get jealous.
“Get some rest,” Erisia says. “We’ll stop by after training tomorrow. Let us know if you need anything.”
“Yeah, okay, cool,” I say. Mells and Pardo-En file out. “Erisia?”
Hye pauses in the door. “Yeah?” I wave for hyer to come back. Hye leans over me. “What is it?”
For a moment, the drug-induced fog thins out. “I screwed up,” I say.
“You didn’t screw up, Carrie. I know you had a terrible day today. You had a bad day, you were wound up and stressed out and pissed off, you needed to take it out on someone and it —”
“I don’t mean that,” I say, my voice cracking. “I should never have come here.”
Erisia sits on the edge of my bed. “What do you mean?”
“Commander Do. She told me if I didn’t join the Vanguard she’d take my powers away. I panicked. I didn’t want to lose my powers.” The tears roll down my bruised, swollen face. “I couldn’t let that happen again. I didn’t want to be a normal girl, so I said yes. I said I wanted to help the Alliance but I didn’t, not really. I just didn’t want to be normal again. I’m so stupid.”
I’m not making any sense. Even all drugged up, I know I’m not making sense. Fortunately, Erisia understands me perfectly. Hye takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“You’re not stupid. And I don’t believe for one second you’re as selfish as you say you are,” hye says. “After all, you could have given up your astrarma at any time and gone home, but you didn’t. You chose to stay.”
I shrug. Or do I? I thought I did. Why is the room spinning?
“I feel very abstract,” I say.
“Sounds like the pain meds are kicking back in. Sleep now,” Erisia says. “See you tomorrow.”
Action Figures - Issue Seven: The Black End War Page 10
