Empty Space

by Alan Black

  York undid the top of his uniform coveralls, separating them at the waist. Since this was catch as catch can, he didn’t want to give an opponent something extra to grab onto. He would have stripped down to his skivvies, but he wasn’t sure what the mores were for being mostly naked at a family event. He shoved the blouse into the small bag with the pistol and holster, unworried about wrinkles, since the material wouldn’t wrinkle or hold dirt and sweat no matter how hard he tried.

  The referee was a small young woman. She held a stun baton. Turning it on and listening to the powerful electric buzz was all of the warning and instructions she gave the contestants about proper fight behavior. “Get at it,” she said.

  The young man rushed across the ring swinging a wild, roundhouse punch at York’s head. Someone untrained might have been tempted to duck under the whiffer, but York could see the punch was a feint. The wild punch was meant to miss. The young man’s other fist was coming up in a jawbreaking uppercut, aimed to knockout anyone foolish enough to duck under the haymaker.

  York didn’t duck. He grabbed the youth’s fist with both hands and yanked hard, pulling him in close, letting the uppercut glance harmlessly off his shoulder. He twisted the arm. Slipping behind the man and reaching up, York wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and head. Six and a half seconds of squeezing and the man went slack. York eased him to the ground, stepped back and leaned against the ropes.

  He’d expected more and was disappointed. His hope had been to get into a real scrap. He wanted a hard fight where he might be able to break someone. None of these people had done him any hurt, so he wasn’t in the mood to kill any of them. Someone … somewhere … yes, but not these people. Still, if someone was willing to get into a little tussle just for the fun of it, at least they could’ve made it interesting for him.

  It’d been a while since he’d meted out any warranted justice. York wasn’t exactly getting antsy from it, besides his options for removing someone from this life were limited. He didn’t like Commander Blaque, the man was a useless drunk and he didn’t know Commander Paul enough to hate him. He didn’t have any reason to plan their demise. He didn’t like the slavers who were operating in the area, but he didn’t hate them, they had never done anything to him personally. There was Balderano’s dog pack from the Gambion. Other than Blade Balderano and Bartol Samdon, he didn’t so much hate them as he understood them and didn’t like what he understood. However, he hadn’t decided to do anything about them, Balderano and Samdon notwithstanding, or what method to use. He’d worked on a plan for Samdon to have an accident back on the Gambion, but the timing had never been right. York was patient, if nothing else.

  These freestyle wrestling matches weren’t like planning someone’s accidental death. York knew planning was an important part of his particular skill set. He admitted, if only to himself, he enjoyed the planning part as much as the execution of the plan. The fight’s specific design was to be a rough and tumble contest, on the other hand, there was minimal planning. A sheet on the scoreboard clearly explained the rules. No biting, no weapons, and a match lasted until someone quit or was unable to continue. No rests, no breaks, no mulligans. A round lasted until a contestant couldn’t or wouldn’t continue and then the winner moved on to fight the winner of another contest, until only one person remained in each weight class. There were two weight classes for women and three for men.

  The referee glanced down at the unconscious youth and pointed to York as the winner. That was that. A volunteer medic checked the young man and signaled for his friends to drag him out of the ring. A beep from York’s dataport signaled his next round was supposed to start within minutes. His second fight was in the same ring as his first.

  His next contestant climbed slowly into the ring. His face was already showing discolored blotches from his first match, with a trickle of blood coming from a fat lip. The man had won or he wouldn’t be here, but his facial damage made it obvious it must have been a hard fought contest. He was as tall as York and appeared to weigh twice what York did. In fact, York was startled when the announcer read the man’s weight to the crowd. The fat man weighed much more than twice as much as York. York realized there must be some thick muscles hidden beneath the mounds of wobbly fat.

  The crowd surrounding the ring was almost all locals who were divided evenly as to whether they liked the fat man or not. Whether he was liked or not, what was abundantly clear was that everyone recognized him on sight. York lost the man’s name in the crowd’s mixed applause and boos. The man offered a knuckle bump when the referee said, “Come on, boys. I ain’t got all day.”

  York took the knuckle bump and ducked as the man jabbed a fist at York’s face. A quick duck and York let the jab slip over his head. He responded with four quick punches deep into the man’s gut. He had never fought a fat man before; all of his training had been against other students, cadets and instructors. They were all fit. This man was not. He grinned when York’s punches had little effect. Punching him was like striking a pillow laying over concrete.

  York spun and sent a heel flying towards the man’s head. For a fat man he was fast. He deflected the kick and drove a fist into York’s inner thigh. York used the momentum of the punch to spin out of the man’s reach, slip behind him, wrap his arms around the fat man’s head, and squeeze. Rather than waiting six and a half seconds to pass out, the man leaned forward yanking York’s feet off the ground.

  The fat man leapt into the air, crashing down on his back, crushing York between the hard pack ground and his massive weight. York felt his breath rush out of his body as if the air had grown suddenly afraid of his lungs. The crash was enough to break his strangle hold. Rather than gasp for air, he grasped the fat man’s ears and twisted. The man responded by grabbing York’s ankle and yanking it upward while continuing to press his body weight down.

  An elbow jammed York hard in the ribs. He was pinned under the fat man’s bulk and if he couldn’t get out from under him, his leg would soon be twisted beyond the manufacturers design specification or he would be pounded into submission. He got his arms between him and the man. Bench press! He threw the man off him, thankful he had spent time pumping free weights in a heavy gravity gym.

  The fat man rolled to his feet as quickly as York with a surprised look on his face. He nodded his approval to York acknowledging that few men could have pushed out from under his bulk. He ducked his head, spread his arms, and bull-rushed York attempting to wrap him up and drive him to the ground again.

  York dismissed his first thought. He wanted to drive an uppercut punch to the man’s face stopping the drive. He remembered the man’s face coming into the ring showed he could take more than one punch and still win. Instead of hitting him, York dove over him, rolling to the ground and spinning back to face the man. Before the fat man could turn, York grabbed him like a bale of hay, one hand on his neck and one hand at the base of his spine. With a grunt, York lifted with his legs and hoisted the fat man into the air. Pushing up, he straightened his arms, raising the man’s face to the sky. Pushing against this bulk wasn’t as easy as lifting this much weight in the gym. He could easily lift this much, but metal weights didn’t wiggle.

  York let go and stepped back, the fat man crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. For the first time he could hear the crowd cheering. Rather than step back as he would have done at the Yards to give an opponent time to regain his feet, he dropped to ground at the man’s head. Still flat on his back, the fat man reached up to grab him, but York wrapped both hands around one of the man’s wrists, braced his feet on his opponent’s shoulders, and pulled. He released the fat man’s arm when he heard a juicy pop. The fat man screamed and tapped the ground in submission.

  Rolling to his feet, York stepped back leaning against the ropes. He wasn’t tired or even out of breath, but the man had been a challenge to defeat. This was better than beating the young man, so much more satisfying, but still something was missing. Yet, he still didn’t have any desire to kil
l this man. He had fought an honest contest.

  The fat man quit screaming when the medic injected a painkiller into his shoulder and popped the bone back in place. The injured man rolled to his feet. He offered another knuckle bump to York and left the ring, calling for beer. York had won round two.

  York wasn’t sure how many more rounds he had to fight. He could look at his dataport or walk over and check the scoreboard, either would give him the contest standings and his next opponent, but guessing was just too much fun. He doubted he’d won the final contest, he remembered at least a dozen men had signed up in his weight class. His dataport beeped and directed him to another ring for his next match. He grabbed his small bag and slipped between the ring ropes not bothering to put on his uniform blouse.

  Fugget intercepted him on the way. “Whoooeee! I haven’t ever seen anyone get Baird to tap out. Man, I heard that shoulder pop out of place from where I was standing.”

  “Baird was the fat man?”

  “Fat, but tough”

  York nodded, “I thought he was going to have me for lunch when he came slamming down on top of me. He hit so hard I tasted haggis again.”

  Fugget laughed, “Yeah, I probably should have warned you away from your third helping. Who’ve you got next?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting to be surprised.” The surprise happened before he got into the ring. It had little to do with who he had to wrestle. Someone stepped in front of him and jammed a flat hand across his chest. York almost slapped the hand away and punched the person before he recognized Sadie Brown. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, but her reaction to seeing him was a shock.

  “Who the hell are you to treat your friends this way? No letters, no calls and you never answered my mail. I thought you liked us.”

  “Sadie, I—”

  “You what?” she interrupted. “We sent you messages before you left the ship and even after, when you reached your station, but no responses, nothing. What the hell?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “That’s right, you didn’t,” she interrupted again. “You don’t be treating me or Harp that way.”

  York held his hands up in surrender. He looked at Fugget for help.

  Fugget shrugged back. “You’re on your own, Sixteen. I’m not going to get between any man and his ex-girlfriend.”

  Sadie snorted, “Girlfriend! The frak you say.” She realized her hand was still flat on his chest. She yanked it away as if burned. “He may be a fine looking man, but I got me a good man.” Her words didn’t sound as convincing as they were meant to be. She reached up to pat York on the chest again. “Damn. Ain’t you a bit distracting?”

  York said, “First, Sadie, this is Master Chief Fugget of the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City here on Liberty. Fugget, this is Mrs. Sadie Brown the wife of Lieutenant Senior Grade Harp Brown, navigation officer on the Gambion.”

  Fugget tipped an imaginary hat, “Ma’am.”

  Sadie laughed, “Don’t you ma’am me. If I ain’t Sadie to you then I ain’t nobody to you.”

  York said, “Sadie, second. I never got any messages from you. Not when I was still on the Gambion or when I got to my station. I sent you a dozen messages, but never got a response.”

  Sadie clouded up. “I’m going to have a serious talk with Harp. Someone is blocking our mail and that ain’t right. The only reason to block our mail is we’re budgers.”

  Fugget said, “Sadie, calling someone a budger on Liberty is unacceptable. I know you don’t know our customs, but please keep the word to yourself.

  York said, “Surely you have budg … persons needing government assistance on Liberty? It’s Republic law for all aligned planets.”

  Fugget said, “Of course it’s the law. But there are laws and there are laws. If a person can work and doesn’t, they can starve for all we care. If they can’t work, and there are always elderly and young children who can’t, they’re taken care of by family or by friends and communities.”

  Sadie said, “But the law—”

  Fugget laughed. “Is that like the law saying me and my missus have to have a permanent address so the government can find me whenever they want to look? I’ll be found when I want to be found. I’ll carry a gun if I need to. And when Mimi’s dear old Ma can’t take care of herself anymore, then she’ll move into our guest room. Of course, moving in with us is only in case the girls at her brothel don’t offer to take care of her first … hope, hope.” He crossed his fingers and glanced skyward, pleading with whatever deities were listening.

  Fugget asked, “Is it just your mail to Ensign Sixteen that isn’t reaching him or are other messages being blocked?”

  Sadie said, “No. I get stuff from my folks all the time. What does that matter?”

  York said, “Then it isn’t your mail that’s blocked. It’s mine.”

  Sadie said, “Why you and not me? We’re both …” She glanced and nodded in Fugget’s direction. “… you know.”

  York said, “You married Harp Brown from the upper class. He made his choice to marry below his station.” Fugget snorted, yet he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t marry up. I have the audacity to raise myself up and proclaim that they aren’t better than I am. I mean an upper class man can marry whomever he wants, that’s just bedroom politics, who’s going to complain whether Harp wants to sleep with another man, two women or someone from another class. That’s just sex. However, I’m pushing against that steel plated class ceiling and they don’t like it.”

  Fugget said, “I can fix your mail problem. Just send ‘em through me and I’ll reroute them. As a communications officer on Em.T-Sp8s, York can get anything to me as an official document because he’s the station’s reserve liaison officer. I can send anything I want to get around any filters on your ship.”

  Sadie said, “I’m still going to have a talk with Harp. It’s illegal to stop any of my mail.”

  Fugget shrugged. “As I said, there are laws and there are laws.”

  York said, “I just got beeped again. I need to get to my next match.”

  Sadie asked, “You’re fighting in these brutal games?”

  York nodded as they walked toward the next ring. “It hasn’t been much in the way of fighting yet. Mostly just a little pushing and shoving, why?”

  Sadie sputtered, “It’s … it’s … well, it’s just barbaric.”

  Fugget laughed, “Thank you. Barbaric is exactly what we were going for.”

  York stepped into the ring, leaving Sadie and Fugget to continue their argument about freestyle wrestling matches. Rather than having crowds milling about watching the matches, this ring had bleachers and benches around the outside. Proper spectators were gathering in seats with enterprising vendors offering wares to the waiting watchers. He looked at the gathering crowd, many of them were the same faces he had seen from the earlier matches. They must’ve followed him. He smiled at the referee and stood waiting patiently for his opponent.

  The referee raised his hand calling for the crowd’s attention. He pointed at York. “Winner. Ray McGordon sends his regrets. He won his last match, but Riley Laird hurt him so bad he can’t continue. Let’s give both of those competitors a hand folks. The doctor says Ray could fight if he takes his medicine, but if he does, he can’t drink any more beer for the rest of the day. Those of you who know Ray, know why he chooses not to continue fighting.”

  York was disappointed. Then his dataport beeped, he knew he had another match coming up. The fat man was fun, but it was over before he was ready to quit. He was hoping for a tougher challenge this time, someone he could let loose on and do a little damage to or someone who might do a little more damage to him than knocking his wind away.

  He looked around the crowd. The mix was about half military and half civilian, with very little mixing between the groups. The one clear exception was Harp and Sadie Brown sitting with the Fuggets in the front row right behind York. Even where the military was sitting, there wasn’t any mixing
of the ranks. The military crowd was divided into three distinct clusters. York thought it might have been easier if the game’s designers had just put up signs. Single enlisted ratings sit here. Higher ranking enlisted with families sit here. Officers sit here.

  There were quite a few enlisted wearing liberty coats in the crowd. The lower and single ratings clustered shoulder to shoulder as if space was an unnecessary annoyance. The enlisted with family members also wore their liberty coats, some even providing such coats to their children. Family groupings sometimes allowed small gaps between some families and not between others. There were just a few officers from the Gambion. They were easy to spot in their more up-to-date civvie fashions. Locals were dressed in more of a come-as-you-are style while the military had dressed up in the latest fashion, taking advantage of a rare planetary liberty. Most of the senior officers had their wives and children clustered around them. York noticed the dog pack surrounding Kenna Altamont at the center of a pack of junior officers.

  He nodded to her. She stared back as if looking through him. Lieutenant Samdon had an arm wrapped possessively over her shoulders. The man leaned in and whispered in her ear. She nodded, went to fetch a beer and returned to his embrace.

  York wasn’t sure if he wanted Kenna for himself. The thought of having a girlfriend he had to touch and be touched by was somewhat revolting and somewhat exciting at the same time, whereas watching Samdon paw at Kenna turned his stomach. Samdon wasn’t in her league. York didn’t imagine himself to be either. However, Samdon was barely in the same league as sheep and York imagined a sheep would be offended at being pawed by such a troll. Kenna appeared to be there voluntarily, making it none of his concern.

  He hadn’t cooled off from his last fight and he hoped it wouldn’t take much longer for this opponent to get here. He certainly hoped the man would be tough enough to fight. He wasn’t disappointed when Ensign Senior Grade Blade Balderano slipped between the ropes to the cheers of the dog pack. Balderano’s reputation among the enlisted ratings didn’t garner him any ovations nor did he appear too popular with the locals who had been following his path up the freestyle wrestling scoreboards.