SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  I’ve pushed his button and he’s pissed.

  I roll the events back in my mind as he continues his silent rant, trying to figure out where exactly I crossed that line. Of course, throwing water in his face was definitely over the top. But that wasn’t his breaking point. It was before that. And that’s why he poured the water out.

  Finally, his fingers shut up. Then he opens the gate, points at me, frowns at me, hisses his silent words at me with his fingers, and then he points upward.

  Finally.

  I push past him, go up, and if I think that he might feed me, or give me a drink of water, or do anything other than instruct me to jump rope, I’m mistaken.

  I jump rope and watch Cort van Breda dance with his. One foot, two foot, skip, skip, skip. Figure eight, straddle, cross, scissor, scissor, spin. He does things with that rope that I can’t even begin to describe.

  He does have a rhythm, I will give him that. And watching him really isn’t that boring. In fact, there is no way to not watch him. And it’s not because he’s the only thing on the platform. There are at least a dozen gulls getting up to things. And one huge albatross is wandering around poking his beak at the door leading to the kitchen, like he’s thinking about grabbing some breakfast.

  Nice try, buddy. If anyone’s getting breakfast around here it’s me. I’ll fight you for it.

  But even with all that distracting me, Cort has my full attention.

  We don’t jump for long. Not like the other day. He stops, walks over and takes my rope, then drops them both into a pile near the kitchen door. He chases the albatross until it unceremoniously steps off the platform and glides away in the wind.

  Then he turns back to me, his steel-gray eyes burning into mine. I feel very small when I become the center of his attention.

  He snaps his fingers and points. And then I follow him down the line of containers until we stop in front of a green one. He opens it up to reveal—well, I don’t fucking know what that thing is. It’s a metal-frame contraption. And it’s holding a huge punching bag on a chain.

  The whole thing is on wheels and under his direction, I maneuver inside the container and get behind it so we can push it out. There are dozens of punching bags stacked in the back of the container, but I don’t have time to think about that, because Cort and I are taking this one over where the other bag is hanging from the ceiling beam.

  He pretty much does everything else and I realize this thing is a crane used to hang heavy bags. It lifts the bag up, then Cort climbs up the contraption, slides the bag’s chain onto a hook, and then hops off and lowers the crane.

  For a moment my stomach sinks. Because I’m thinking he’s gonna make me do this. This is my punishment. He’s going to make me hang punching bags all day.

  But when we push the crane back to the container, he slides it inside and closes the door. Then he opens another container, drags out a mat, and positions it underneath the new bag.

  Then he looks at me and smiles. And that’s when I realize my punishment is going to be way worse than hanging bags.

  He walks over to the new bag and then demonstrates a few punches and kicks and points to it.

  I huff. Right. But I’m too hungry to argue. If I piss him off today and he decides not to feed me, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s been a long time since someone starved me. I’m not used to it anymore. In fact, I might have let myself go over the years. I might’ve forgotten what it was like to be a girl in this world I live in.

  I might’ve gotten… soft.

  I can’t afford to be soft. Not then, not now, not ever if I want to survive. So I suck it up and start kicking and punching.

  Cort watches me for a little bit, his arms crossed over his skull-covered chest, his gray eyes mostly looking at my hands and feet and not so much my face.

  I’m expecting him to correct me because I have no idea what I’m doing and this is painfully obvious, but he doesn’t. He watches, then he walks over to his bag and begins his own workout. Which looks nothing like the one I’m doing.

  I slowly position myself so that I can watch him as he goes through his moves and still keep punching and kicking my bag.

  This is when I realize I’m doing it all wrong.

  I squint and try to decipher his punches. He’s got a combination of them. Hooks or whatever. I’m not sure what they’re called. But I copy him. Not hitting the bag hard, because that actually hurts. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to have gloves on. Or tape or something. My knuckles are bright red after only a few minutes. So I don’t put a lot of effort into the force. Instead, I just concentrate on the form.

  When he moves on to kicks, I do the same thing. I watch him and notice something important. Most of the time he’s not connecting with his foot, but with his knee. I try to copy him again. And maybe it’s far from perfect, but by the time he steps away from the bag, I have better form than I had when I started a few hours ago.

  He pays no attention to me at all. His gaze is directed towards the sky, distracted by something. I use this moment to study him. His body is slick with sweat, his breath still coming out quick and with effort from his workout. He runs his fingers over his head and turns to me. I have an urge to smile until I see the look on his face.

  And then I hear the helicopter.

  I whirl around, looking for it. But Cort has me by the arm and he’s tugging me across the platform towards the stairs. He’s not careful as he leads me back down to the prison level, and when I realize he’s going to lock me in again, I decide this is my limit.

  No! I scream it inside my head. I don’t want to be left down here. I spent a lot of calories this morning. I need food!

  He shoves me hard enough to make me stumble and fall, then he locks the gate and disappears back up the stairs.

  Now the helicopter is loud. Directly above us. It lands, but the rotors don’t wind down.

  I wait, wondering what this could mean. Did someone come for me? Is it Lazar? Did Ring of Fire decide that I won the fight and I don’t have to be here with Cort?

  Oh, I hope so. Please, please, please.

  And when I see Cort’s father, Udulf, appear at the top of the stairs, I become even more hopeful. It’s true. I won that fight. I am not the Sick Heart’s prize. I’m going to get on that helicopter and fly away from here and I’m never going to see Cort van Breda again.

  But then I read the expression on Udulf’s face. It’s an expression I recognize. It’s an expression I know well because I grew up with a man who looked at me that same way once upon a time.

  And this is when I realize my rescue fantasy is just that. A fantasy.

  Because Udulf is looking at me like I’m his prize.

  Like I’m his slave.

  Like he is going to take me off this rig, but I definitely won’t like what happens next.

  CHAPTER TEN - CORT

  Fuck him.

  I sign that right in Udulf’s face. Fuck you.

  I’ve made it twenty-two years in his hellhole. I’m at the end now. I’ve earned this. And he’s going to come here and tell me he’s taking Anya for himself?

  Fuck you. I flash my fingers in his face.

  “Stop it.” He bats my hands away, snarling. “Use your voice, Cort. I’m tired of these games.”

  He’s tired of the games? This motherfucker invented the game. He’s pissed because I found a new way to play and my success forced him to play along. He would never admit to knowing sign language in public because it is the language of slaves and then everyone would know he learned it to talk to me.

  But he does know it. He understands every fucking word I sign.

  “Where is she?”

  I point to the lower levels, then flash, You’re not taking her. She’s mine.

  He scoffs. “You don’t even like girls.”

  That’s not even true. I like girls just fine. And I’m keeping this one because she’s my last fucking prize and I want her secrets. I want to know what’s going on inside that h
ead of hers. I want to open her up and see what’s inside.

  He’s not getting her. And anyway, I sign, She’s too old for you.

  His chuckle comes out with his words. “That’s not what I want her for.”

  Then what does he want her for? Not to have sex with. He and his ilk—they are some seriously sick fucks. Anya’s sex slave days have been over for quite a long time now.

  This is intriguing, now that I think about it. Because Lazar kept her around too. Why? And now my father wants her for himself. Why?

  What is so interesting about Anya Bokori that these two powerful men care where she is and who she’s with?

  Why did Lazar keep her for so long, only to offer her up as a sacrifice at the fights?

  Why is Udulf here? He hasn’t come out to the Rock in more than a decade. Why now? Why this girl?

  He’s walking down the steps towards the lower levels. He pauses at the training room. Not one bag. Two. But then he keeps going, clutching the dubious metal railing as he descends. Those expensive shoes of his are worse than being barefoot on the slick algae-covered metal steps. So he holds on tight.

  If the ’copter wasn’t above us on the roof, I’d push him over the edge, jump in after him, cut his throat, and wait for the sharks. Then I’d watch. I’d watch until they ate every last bit of him.

  Take a deep breath, Cort. You’re almost there. You are two days into your final sentence on the Rock, then you have one more round of training, and you’re out.

  Obligations fulfilled. Free.

  I barely understand the meaning of the word. But Rainer, Maart, and Evard are part of the deal and we’ll figure it out. That’s all I know. Once we’re fucking free, we’ll figure out how to deal with it.

  Udulf stops at the landing and looks down the steps. Anya is waiting at the gate, clutching the chain link tightly, and for a moment her face has the look of hope on it. But she must recognize my father’s expression and come to a sobering realization, because that look of hope turns into despair.

  Udulf just stares at her. I can’t see his face because I’m behind him, but this is abnormal behavior.

  What is it about this girl?

  Udulf turns abruptly. “Open the gate. I’m taking her with me.”

  I glance down at Anya and watch her panic in real time.

  My head shakes out a no. And then my fingers tell him to fuck himself.

  He’s so lucky. So lucky he and I have never been somewhere alone together. His mercs didn’t follow him down here, but they’re on that helicopter. My father goes nowhere without his bodyguards. And he certainly doesn’t take meetings with me without them.

  “Cort.” He sounds tired as he turns to face me. “Just… open the gate.”

  It’s not gonna happen. I point to my chest with one hand and sign the word for ‘mine’ with the other. Then I jog back up the stairs to finish this conversation in private.

  “None of them are yours,” he calls after me. “They are all mine.”

  It’s mostly true. He’s taken every single woman I’ve won in these fights. Oh, he wants me to fuck them. I always have to fuck them. Because he wants them pregnant with my seed inside their bellies so he can breed more little fighters just like me.

  But this wasn’t just any win. This wasn’t just another fight.

  It was my last fight. My last prize.

  I exit the stairwell on the training level and walk to the middle of the room. By the time I turn, Udulf is just reaching the landing. I sign to him, She’s mine.

  He doesn’t follow me onto the mat. “You really want to fight this battle?”

  I nod.

  “Why?”

  Why do you? I sign.

  “Because what’s yours is mine. You paid for three extra people, Cort. Not four. She’s not going with you. You know this. And you’re not getting off this rig for months. You still owe me that.”

  He’s stalling. I can tell. But why?

  She’s mine.

  “This is the hill you will die on?”

  I scoff. Try it.

  He huffs a laugh. His eyes dart upward, towards the top level where the helicopter waits. “You would lose.”

  I might. I might not. But one thing’s for sure. I would take him out with me.

  He runs his fingers through his hair and I know I’ve won. He only does that when he’s internally negotiating. “Tell me why. If you tell me why, then I’ll leave her here. But I will collect her at base camp when you return.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Did he give in too quickly? Did he not bring enough backup to fight this war with me today? Or do I just scare him?

  I would like for it to be the last one. But I don’t know. I try hard to scare people. That’s why I do the things I do during the fights. Fear is everything in our world.

  But I am not so full of myself to believe that Udulf is really afraid of me. He’s never been afraid of me, even when he should’ve been. If he were afraid of me, those mercs would be down here with him. They would have automatic weapons trained on my chest.

  Udulf laughs. “This is a problem for you? Is it a secret, Sick Heart?”

  Fuck you. I think it, but I don’t sign it. He’s gotten more silent words out of me today than he deserves. And I just want him gone. So I tell him what he expects to hear. I want to fuck her.

  Udulf laughs. “Since when?”

  Twenty-eight more days, I sign.

  “Oh. Until Maart comes.” He draws in a deep breath as he considers my answer. Does he believe me?

  Maybe.

  He thinks Maart and I are lovers. We’re not. We fuck. But I fuck a lot of people. He’s no one special. Not in that regard, anyway.

  We’re friends. Best friends. I love him, but more importantly, I like him. And he’s had my back since I was nine. He’s the only reason why I’m still fighting.

  I have been in thirty-five Ring of Fire fights. But the prizes were small at first. Extra protein for a year. New training equipment. Hot baths. Girls—not the girls I won in the fights, girls for camp. And boys too, also for camp. In fact, I already won Maart, Rainer, and Evard in fights before this. But that wasn’t their freedom. It was just the right to bring them to camp.

  But I fought for Maart again three years ago. His freedom is guaranteed, as long as I win mine. Rainer came next. Then Evard. And now me.

  Once I serve this last sentence and do the final training, we’re free.

  It’s so fucking close I can taste it. And Udulf knows this. So now he’s asking himself, Why? Why would Cort risk all that over this girl?

  I don’t know yet. I just know she’s worth something. Something more than I’ve paid for her, that’s for sure.

  But if this man, this pseudo-father, this master of mine wants to believe that I want Anya to ease my craving for Maart as I serve my last sentence, then fuck it. What do I care?

  Yes, I sign. I earned this.

  His mouth lifts up on one side in amusement. Then he takes one last look down the stairwell where Anya is surely waiting at the gate.

  She knows things. Lots of things. Or maybe just one thing—something very important. That’s why Lazar wanted her dead, but not just any kind of dead. He wanted to get something for her before he let her go.

  But what? The ship? That can’t be it. That ship is worth billions. No human on this earth is worth billions. Not even Udulf is as valuable as that ship.

  Even if that’s true, why did Lazar let her live this long? Why didn’t he kill her after he kicked her out of his bed?

  Slave girls in our world rarely make it past age eleven. Twelve-year-old girls are practically unheard of. They use them up and throw them away. And by throw them away I mean they kill them.

  They do the same with the boys. Even at the gym, even at camp—we are disposable. We fight, and we either win and live, or lose and die.

  That’s how our world works.

  I walk back over to him and pause. Waiting for him to make a decision.

  “You di
dn’t earn her, Cort.” Udulf and I have the same steel-gray eyes. I’ve always hated that about him because people really think he’s my father. I don’t know if he is. I don’t know who my real father was. I don’t think I ever knew that. All I have left of the time before Udulf is the Lectra dream.

  But I find myself praying at night sometimes. Praying that Udulf is not my father. Because if he is, he’s so much worse than even I understand.

  But those eyes…

  “Fine. Keep her until you get back to base camp. Then…” He lets out a breath. “Then I will pay you one last visit and I will collect her. But”—he points a finger in my face—“I need her alive. Do you understand me? I’ll wait you out and give you this… gift. You have been a good boy.” He places his hand alongside my cheek and a shudder of revulsion shoots through my body. Udulf mistakes it for… something else. He pats my cheek and continues. “But she had better come back to me alive, Cort. Do you understand me?”

  I brush his hand away and lift my chin up in response. It’s a yes, but not a nod. He didn’t earn a nod. He didn’t earn any of this today. He’s taking from me right now. He doesn’t belong here.

  “Calm down,” he says, tugging on his shirt collar as he looks off to his right where half a dozen albatrosses are gliding in circles barely ten feet away. “I’m going. I hate those fucking birds.” And he starts climbing the steps.

  All of this bothers me. He can read my mind these days.

  Like it or not, Udulf van Hauten knows me intimately.

  I follow him up and stand on the platform with my arms crossed, flanked by my giant white guardians as Udulf’s helicopter lifts off.

  I stay that way until it’s long out of sight. Then I walk back down the steps to get Anya. She’s waiting for me at the gate, her blue eyes locked with mine, filled with questions she will never ask.

  Why? Why don’t you talk?

  If it were something as simple as she saw too much, she’d be dead.

  That’s not it. That can’t be it. It’s something else and I need to know what that something else is.