Psion Delta (Psion series #3)

by Jacob Gowans

  Seeing Katie, he looked to his guards and sputtered out, “Is that Carpenter?”

  He grabbed his gut as he laughed a mottled, wheezing sound. The guards offered no reaction, but Katie watched her opponent, sizing him up, trying to find weaknesses in the way he stood and moved his arms. No one had taught her these things. It came to her as naturally as breathing and blinking.

  “Let’s move, Red Cap,” the guard ordered, giving the man a light shove.

  “But—but!” The man called Red Cap continued to spout out questions as they walked to the grounds, but all of them were ignored.

  The scene at the yard shocked Katie. Large spotlights shone down from the walls and from setups on the backs of trucks. Over three dozen guards were in attendance along with another ten or more men in various states of business dress standing farther away. She would never have guessed the fights drew such a large attendance, or that the corruption ran so deep. She had never met the warden, but she was almost certain he was one of the men in suits near the back. Once she and Red Cap entered the circle of armed guards, the betting began. Several of the bettors inspected Katie with obvious skepticism, and she could not blame them—not with her lithe, wiry frame.

  “Two rules,” Schuller hissed into her ear. “An act of submission stops the fight. A blown whistle stops the fight. Other than that . . . remember what I told you.”

  Red Cap seemed to have overcome his initial shock at fighting a woman. His confident, crooked smile on his thin red face perfectly matched his flaming hair. Katie returned a calculated nervous expression while keeping an eye on the way he shifted his weight and held his arms at his side. By the time the bets finished and Katie and Red Cap were asked to face each other, she knew exactly how she could beat him.

  The guards placed them about a meter apart. The positioning reminded Katie of the mixed-martial-arts matches she had glimpsed on television when she was a girl. A whistle blew in the back of the crowd and the fight commenced.

  Cheers rose from the guards and even some of the suits, almost all for Red Cap. Katie received a few, too. Red Cap made the first move, immediately giving himself away as a man with no formal combat training. Though Katie had none herself, she almost laughed as he charged at her. She’d hoped they would be starting her with someone more difficult than this after seeing what she had done to the men in the shower.

  After intentionally missing him with a front kick, Katie let him run full into her and knock her onto her back. Red Cap was quick to get on top of her, his fists raining onto her face. Katie felt very little of it. She rolled over onto her knees but Red Cap grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She reacted by bringing her left arm back and twisting his wrist until he had to let go. When his hand released her hair, several strands of her locks stuck between his small fingers.

  He tried to jump on her back and use his weight advantage to keep her down. Katie easily outmaneuvered him. After letting him get a few more hits on her back and skull, she scrambled away and kicked him directly in the forehead. His head jerked back, and for a moment she was afraid she had indeed killed him. He collapsed in the grass, face buried in the dirt, but his back rose and fell. He was out cold.

  Crap.

  A few cheers rang out, but the groans of disappointment were louder. Money changed hands and cuffs found their way onto Katie’s wrists before she had time to realize the fight was over. One of the men in suits came forward with a stethoscope and listened to Red Cap’s breathing. Then he squeezed a small plastic bottle into Red Cap’s nose. Katie watched Red Cap stir and mutter several incoherent sentences until Schuller led her away from the yard.

  “I told you to go easy,” he muttered while leading her along roughly.

  “I did,” she hissed back.

  “The fight lasted less than five minutes.”

  “I tried—it was an accident! What am I supposed to do when you give me someone so stupid and bullish?”

  “You can start by losing your next fight.”

  Katie let out a string of curse words telling Schuller exactly what he could do with that idea.

  Schuller’s blue eyes behind thin frames glared back at her angrily.

  “No.” She stopped and faced Schuller. “I’m not going to lose.”

  “You’re going to be a quiet favorite now because you are a novelty. If you don’t lose, I’ll pull you from the fights.”

  Katie puffed violently through her nose. Schuller said no more to her, and when the cuffs came off, she kicked her bed and the wall until the rage dissipated. Things were not going to be as simple as she’d believed.

  Her next fight came four weeks later. During that time, word spread among the inmates that a female had joined the ranks of the fighters. She spent the majority of those weeks ignoring the catcalls and taunts of other inmates. It wasn’t difficult. She was too busy mulling over her own fight with Red Cap and pondering over what she would do when the next one came.

  Win or lose?

  At breakfast, taped under her plate, she received the name of her opponent: Hervins. Apparently he’d gotten her name, too. That same hour, she started hearing a new voice eerily haunting the concourse. “Carrrrpenterrrr!” his voice sang. “Hey Carpenter! They say you’re a girl, but I bet you’re really just a fat chump who needs to see how a real man fights. . . and I’m ready for ya. I’m readeeeee!”

  Then from somewhere farther down the hall came a response: “Hervins, you sore you lost last time?”

  “Guards said I won fairrrrr and sssssquare!” He laughed like a hyena and all went quiet for a time. It wasn’t an hour later before the jeering renewed.

  By the time lunch came through her bean slot, Katie had made her decision. Hervins was going to lose.

  The scene on the grounds hadn’t changed much since her first fight. If anything, more guards and suits had gathered to watch than the last time. She amused herself by pretending that they all wanted to see if she’d win again. It wasn’t Schuller who escorted Katie out this time, and she was grateful to not have to listen to his constant instructions. She now had a plan and it rested on one key idea: entertain. Schuller was in the crowd, standing out in his Elite uniform and massive size. His blue eyes, framed in glasses, locked onto her and followed her through the yard.

  Bet on me or lose your money.

  From a glimpse, Katie saw Hervins was bigger and stronger than Red Cap. His dark smirk also told her much about his confidence, but she wasn’t worried. Her transformation had given her greater strength than what her body would normally allow. For now, she resumed acting the part of the scared nineteen-year-old girl who would emerge from her fragile cocoon during the fight and give Hervins the beating of his life. All eyes were on her as they took their places. Hervins leered at her, his twisted lips forming a kiss, then rubbed his groin lewdly.

  The whistle blew. More voices cheered Katie’s name this time than before, but Hervins seemed to have the lion’s share of the crowd’s support. Hervins sent a vicious punch to her face, which Katie allowed, knocking her back. She did not feel the pain, but the swelling was immediately noticeable under her eye. Oohs came from the crowd as she hit the ground hard. Hervins rushed to force her into submission, but she kicked one of his legs out from under him and barely missed a follow-up kick to his groin.

  Hervins landed on top of her, trying to land blows to her head. Katie pounded away at his ribs with drum punches, back and forth, back and forth. She knew she could not show off all her strength without invoking pity for her opponent, so she allowed him to get in a few blows. He groaned as two of his ribs cracked on each side, and his blows to her face grew more and more pathetic. She heaved him off and stood.

  Entertain them. Entertain them.

  Her face was sore and puffy. Blood oozed down her cheek, feeling cold and hot at the same time. Hervins was much slower to get up. His air of superiority had vanished. Breaths came in great gasps, each accompanied with strained expressions of anguish. As she walked toward him, he reacted by ci
rcling, shuffling his feet somewhat clumsily. Katie mused over how long he would hold out before submitting to a girl.

  More cheers for her decorated the air, filling it like confetti at a carnival. She darted in, and Hervins jerked back, then countered. Katie sidestepped the punch, grabbed his wrist, and spun him around. Once he was in her clutches, she wrapped her left arm around his neck to steady his head and dodged two missile-like drum punches—the last of Hervins’ ammunition. Then she began to hammer at his face with her free fist.

  The crowd of men, supposedly her superiors, reached a feverous roar as they watched her strike over and over again at the helpless man. Even after the bones in her hand broke she continued to punch until finally the whistle blew and she let go of Hervins so he could fall to the ground, a bruised mess. For the coup de grace she turned to the nearest suit, showed him her best nineteen-year-old smile, and winked. The men went crazy, and Katie knew she would be back, probably even sooner next time.

  She was wrong.

  That night, she visited the infirmary where a doctor put her hand in a cast while four guards watched over her. When she returned to her cell, Schuller was inside sitting on her cot, waiting. Leaving her arms and legs shackled, the other guards left and closed the cell door behind them. Katie kept her eyes trained on Schuller, blinking as little as possible. She wanted him to know that she did not fear him.

  “I like you on your knees. It’s where you belong.” The agony that hit her was nothing short of hell. Schuller seemed determined to let her know how much pain could flow from her collar. Indeterminable time and unquantifiable pain was all she knew. When it was over, Schuller got down onto the floor beside her. The cloth of his pants over his knees soaked up her urine as he whispered, “I will never forget this.”

  Katie watched him leave. Neither will I.

  It took six weeks for her bones to fully heal after defeating Hervins. Two weeks after the doctors gave her approval to fight, Katie fought again and won. A few weeks later, she won a fourth time. The fights continued to come as she cemented her reputation as an attractive and entertaining combatant. She measured time now by the length of days and weeks between fights. In this way the months and years went by.

  Gradually, the world of prison fighting unfolded itself to her. As Schuller had predicted, Katie did not use her wins for pleasurable company. For her first three wins she asked for larger portions of food for the week. They came. Then she got more creative, gradually asking for better favors. For the fourth and fifth wins she asked for a manicure and a makeover. The guards teased her, but they complied. She knew it was only a matter of time before she could ask for something that would give her an opportunity at freedom. So long as she stayed watchful, vigilant, and remembered that it wasn’t about the fights, but the escape, her chance would arise.

  After her twelfth win, talk began of arranging a title bout. For her twelfth victory, she was granted a shave of her legs and armpits by one of the nurses in the infirmary. Katie decided she would ask for shaves after every couple of fights so she could be near a razor blade regularly. Katie looked forward to the fights more than anything she had ever known. The thrill of a crowd’s voice and hands making noise in support of her, no matter how small the crowd, compared to nothing. They worshipped her, even if for only a few moments—that was the ultimate euphoria. Even blood bursting from skin and bones yielding to her will did not bring her the same satisfaction that the crowd did.

  A little over two years after the day she arrived at the Ultramax prison, Katie got her shot at the prison’s top dog. From what she picked up from guards and other inmates, she’d beaten roughly a third of the pool of fighters. In only two of them had she been seriously challenged. Yet no one seemed to think she had a chance at beating the champion. All they said was, “You deserve a shot.”

  Leviathan.

  That was what they called him. Levi Nathan Buckner was his real name. He rarely fought now because he had never been contested since his incarceration at Ultramax. It did not matter to Katie. She wanted a chance—she needed to beat him. In her mind she associated winning the title with the perfect chance to escape because somehow the two euphoric moments were intertwined. She did not delude herself into thinking that they would let her walk if she won, but somehow . . . if one happened, so would the other.

  Even in an isolated prison cell, she sensed the excitement growing among inmates and guards. A battle between two supposedly unbeatable forces billowed on the horizon like a pair of massive thunderstorms vying for one location. Eating became a chore that she did solely to maintain her strength. She slept fitfully and dreamt about nothing but the fight.

  Mental images of Leviathan metamorphosed in her mind, starting as a colossal man and evolving into a monstrous beast that towered over her like an ancient mountain. She reminded herself that no one could be so impossibly large, so he transformed again, this time into a beastlike creature covered in fur and claws.

  She refused to open her bean hole that day. Several of the inmates she’d beaten kept up a steady stream of vulgar threats about what Leviathan would do to her body once he killed her. Sometimes the inmates whose cells were too far away telephoned their taunts and messages across the prison via other inmates. No word nor message came from Leviathan. Perhaps he wasn’t near enough to taunt her directly. She didn’t know why, but she found it very curious.

  Kosco and Meacham escorted her to the grounds. The other inmates knew what was happening and showed their enthusiasm by banging on their cell doors with dinner spoons. As the guards led her down the concourse, the sound of tapping and shouting filled the air. When she reached the yard, Schuller stood at the gate waiting for her. Displaying a cold grin, he grabbed her shoulders and stared at her, then held her chin between his finger and thumb to examine her face.

  “I want to remember exactly how you looked before you fought Leviathan. You’re twenty-one now, right?”

  Katie didn’t answer. You know exactly how old I am.

  “I imagine no one ever told you that the guy waiting out there is an anomaly like you. Only instead of being a psychotic freak, he’s a genius. Remember that when he’s stomping your face into the ground.”

  Then the guards pushed her onward.

  Her heart beat faster with each step she took through the gates. Was it fear? Nervousness? Anxiety? She wasn’t certain which emotion she felt, but the foreign sensation was delicious to her brain that so rarely produced anything other than anger and bloodlust. She hadn’t felt so alive in years. Every movement she made reverberated through her body, compounding the energy building within her. When the guards opened the doors to the grounds, she was ready to explode.

  The yard was teeming with people. Katie wondered how such activities could be witnessed by so many people, but never reported. Some of the guards and suits were filming the fight, aided by the large spotlights on the guard towers. At least thirty inmates had been brought out to witness the fight, probably using their reward to attend. Each one was shackled and accompanied by an armed guard. She stared into dozens of faces as the sea of people parted to allow her passage.

  But all of these details became quite insignificant when she saw Leviathan.

  18.

  Akureyri

  Wednesday July 24, 2086

  After almost a week of training with Charlie Squadron, Sammy felt more assured that he’d made the right decision to graduate to Alpha. Everything he did, besides eating and sleeping, prepared him for the upcoming mission. No one in Charlie fought about who was a better gamer. No one cared about who was dating whom. Everyone around him was mature. The last time he’d prepped for a mission, he’d worried half the time why Jeffie was acting so strangely around him or whether Kobe would have his back if push came to shove. Now he didn’t have those distractions and he loved it.

  One trick he’d already learned at Alpha headquarters was how to use a gun ring. The gun ring was a small metal loop attached to the grip of a Psion’s guns that the middle fing
er slipped into like a second trigger ring. This second ring allowed the wielder of the gun to switch from shooting to blasting without having to holster a weapon. Anna had made him practice over and over, firing with his finger in the ring, then immediately going into hand blasts with the gun hanging over the backside of his hand, then flipping the gun back into firing mode. It was a delicate maneuver, but essential for a Psion who wanted to master hand-to-gun combat.

  The morning of departure, Al knocked on the door to Sammy’s unit. Sammy had finished dressing and packing his clothes. As instructed, he also brought an empty duffle bag for his gear.

  “Ready?” Al asked. “We gotta go now to keep schedule.”

  Sammy jumped down the steps and followed. “Where is it we’re going again?”

  “Outfitting,” Al said, leading Sammy across one of the courtyards in the housing center.

  “Yeah, I know that, but where’s outfitting?”

  “Downstairs.”

  Sammy thought Al was joking with him, so he played along. “Right. I guess I must have missed it on the way up.”

  Al laughed. “You didn’t miss it, Sammy. When I say downstairs, I mean way,” he pointed to the ground they walked on, “way, way downstairs.” They stopped in the middle of the courtyard where a simple shed stood. Sammy had always thought this was a storage facility for the grounds keepers.

  “Open,” Al said, and the door obeyed. Inside was a riding lawn mower. It took up the space of half the shed. On the other half was a small cement staircase that went up about four steps to a flat platform of steel flooring. Al stood on the steel platform and put his hand on a small panel attached to the wall. The panel lit up and scanned Al’s hand.

  “State your name and purpose,” a female voice requested from the panel.

  “Albert Hayman Byron. Outfitting for mission one-three-five-three-one.”