She went to the mess to get something to eat, bringing it back to her quarters so she could be alone. Her appetite was dull, but she forced herself to eat nonetheless. Contactor messages from Tom, Snow, and Eshel all wished her luck. She put her hair into tight braids, knotting and extensively pinning them to keep her long hair from hindering her. She attempted to read, but found that she’d scrolled through several pages of text without having any idea of what she’d read. Finally, she gathered her things, including her white competition uniform, and headed to the arena.
After checking the schedule three times to ensure she had the correct train, she boarded and sat down in one of the seats, putting her pack on her lap. The train was crowded that day as passengers continued to board, all heading to the arena to see the fights. But as Catherine glanced around, something seemed off. She noticed that the Derovians, usually talking and laughing amongst themselves, were quieter than usual, and their gazes showed that something had caught their attention.
Catherine looked over. Not too far away, two very tall figures wearing blue robes sat quietly, their hoods pulled up so one could barely see their faces. Korvali. While the Derovians stared at the Korvali, she realized the Korvali didn’t stare back at them. They stared at her. Catherine felt the hair on her arms stand up. She looked away from the two Korvali. But she never let them out of her peripheral vision for the entire ride.
It occurred to her that her pre-fight anxiety had made her jumpy, so she took a deep breath and relaxed. She reminded herself that while no Korvali ever came to Earth—the Space Corps forbade them to visit—it was not so unusual for them to occasionally come, always in pairs, to Derovia and Suna.
The train stopped and everyone stood up, the brightly dressed Derovians excitedly clamoring to get off the train. Catherine stood up as well and followed the crowd. When she glanced over her shoulder nervously, wondering if the hooded figures would follow her, they were gone.
At the arena, the organizers checked her in and sent her to the holding area, an underground network of plain concrete rooms where she spent an hour warming up. She visualized her opponent and all the maneuvers he could try on her, as she’d been taught.
“Catherine.”
She jumped. When she turned around, Yamamoto stood before her. She quickly bowed, and before she could remember her etiquette, she said, “I thought you didn’t like the CCs.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me you were competing?”
Embarrassed, she nodded.
“I cannot fulfill my role as mentor if you hide the truth from me.”
She looked down. “Sorry.”
“Do you feel prepared?”
“I did until about an hour ago…”
“That is okay. What do you fear most?”
She took a deep breath, looking down again. “Looking like a fool. Everyone thinks I’m going to get crushed out there.”
He put his finger under her chin and nudged it up until her eyes met his. “If you agreed with them, you wouldn’t be here.” He paused. “Be prepared for the unexpected. Your opponent may bend the rules, and get away with it because the crowds like it. Do not let it distract you. Also, Calyyt are not accustomed to fighting females, so you should expect a very poor welcome.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“Good luck,” he said, offering a slight bow. She bowed in return, and he left.
“Catherine Finnegan,” said a high, loud voice. She jumped again. This time it was the announcer, an older Derovian man with a big smile. Next to him stood a Calyyt, one of the fight organizers, who looked at her through slit-like eyes. He inhaled through his nasal orifice, as if sniffing her from a distance. The Calyyt communicated something in sign language. She looked at the Derovian announcer, who said, “Miss Finnegan, time for your scan.”
After being scanned for weapons and performance enhancing substances, Catherine proceeded to the waiting area. Her heart palpitated as she waited, until another Calyyt led her up the stairs. He stopped. She heard the Derovian announcer speaking in another language over the arena’s sound system. She understood nothing except “Space Corps” and her name. The Calyyt gave her a nudge, indicating for to proceed.
As she emerged from below and entered the circular ring, she squinted in the extremely bright light and headed to her side of the ring as the ref motioned her to. The massive crowd above and everything else around her was a blur. Her opponent was already there, in position on the other side of the ring. She held her head up to the point of arrogance, to counteract the pounding of her heart and the cold sweat developing in her armpits. Once on her side, she locked eyes with her opponent. She felt a knot in her stomach.
The Calyyt, slightly shorter than Catherine but compact with sinewy musculature, watched her with slitted, black, lashless eyes. When a match was ready to begin, a Calyyt always stood in ready position. However, her opponent stepped out of ready position. She’d seen such a maneuver before; it signaled that the Calyyt didn’t believe she was a worthy opponent. Catherine ignored the display of insolence and maintained eye contact with him, staring him down and trying to look as mean as possible.
The bell rang.
When the Calyyt advanced toward her, and she toward him, she immediately knew she’d have to give her all to stay afloat. The Calyyt, true to form, wasted no time trying to take her to the mat with one of the common maneuvers she’d shown Eshel, where he suddenly grabbed her leg. She saw the attempt coming and shifted just enough to prevent takedown and free her leg. She then took advantage of his unprotected head and delivered a solid face punch that drew blood, followed by another punch. The crowd went crazy.
The Calyyt very quickly recovered. They circled for a bit before he took several punches at her, all of which she blocked, until he attempted another takedown. She saw this one coming as well, knowing almost instinctively that he would aim for her other leg. She punished him again, this time with a knee to his face that forced him to retreat. They continued to circle, each eyeing the other, each taking the occasional shot and missing. Then, the bell rang. Round one was over.
Catherine retreated to her side and sat down, grateful for a chance to catch her breath. She glanced over and noticed the line of judges, all Calyyt, seated along the rim of the ring. All had their eyes on her, not her opponent. She wiped the sweat off her brow with her towel, and looked over at her opponent. He watched her too, until each turned away to drink some water and prepare for the next round. Catherine concentrated on slowing down her breathing and centering herself, until the bell rang for round two.
They circled a bit again until the Calyyt made his move and put her in a clinch. Catherine recognized this maneuver as well, but was unprepared for it as the Calyyt coiled his leg around hers and took her to the mat with a thud. She knew he could submit her, and quickly, and that she could lose in the second round. He took a few shots at her—she felt a stabbing pain in her ribs and took another punch to her cheek, both of which quickly went numb from shock. He tried for a choke submission, but she managed to reorient herself to a more advantageous position, where he couldn’t hit her again without making himself vulnerable to counterattack. And while she was unable to completely free herself from his grasp, she knew she could fend him off for as long as necessary.
At one point, in their stalemate grappling position, Catherine could smell the Calyyt’s pungent smell, could feel his rough, sticky skin on hers and his dense body pressing upon her. She felt a momentary sensation of fear at being so physically close to a stranger, to a hostile stranger, and she strained to turn her head away. She then noticed the Calyyt’s exposed ankle. It had a small scar, indicating that he’d sustained some type of injury there at one time. She knew she should attack; but it was too risky at that time, so she put her remaining energies into avoiding submission. Just as she felt herself weakening, the bell rang, and each retreated to their respective corners.
Fatigue set in. She felt slower and less coordinated as the energy she’d had
at the start began its inevitable decline. As she sipped her water and calmed herself, she began to wonder if she would make it through the third round. She felt worn out. Her ribs hurt and her cheek felt swollen. But after a minute’s rest, she made up her mind that she must finish the round.
Once the bell rang, each approached the other. Fatigue had set in for her opponent as well, and he didn’t attack as often or with as much ferocity as before. But he continued to throw punches, and her tired state rendered her slower to block them. She took a couple more hits and could feel herself losing ground. She faltered, and took one vicious hit to her cheek that sent her crashing into the side of the ring. She saw stars and felt almost as if she’d gone deaf.
At that moment, while protecting herself from another blow to the head, the Calyyt’s ankle came into her line of sight. She delivered a kick to it. It had the desired effect—the Calyyt stumbled. She took a shot at his face and followed up with several more before she dove for his hips, took him down to the mat, and maneuvered to trap him between her legs. As she attempted to lock his elbow, he wrangled out of his compromised position and she didn’t get the submission she’d hoped for. They grappled for what seemed like endless minutes, each attempting to best the other, both exhausted but both refusing to relent.
The bell rang and the Calyyt refs separated them. Catherine felt relief as she tried to catch her breath. It was over. She survived. After a few minutes of deliberation, the judges made their announcement.
It was a draw.
Catherine couldn’t believe it. A draw was extremely rare in the CCFs. It meant the competitors were too close in ability and performance to select a winner from that match, and would be scheduled for a rematch if they chose.
She finally noticed the crowd noise; there was a lot of high-pitched cheering and yelling, and she couldn’t tell if they were happy or angry about the decision. She didn’t care. She’d survived the fight. She didn’t win, but she didn’t lose, and that made her smile.
And then she saw something from the corner of her eye; suddenly, she felt a terrible pain on the side of her head. The Calyyt had blindsided her with a punch, knocking her sideways. She felt tears come to her eyes from the shock of it, and everything seemed to get quiet again, as if she could no longer hear.
Catherine’s shock quickly turned to rage. She delivered a hook to the Calyyt’s head, where the ear would be if the Calyyt had ears. It was where the Calyyt people perceived sounds and vibrations, and was an area of substantial sensitivity. The Calyyt stumbled back, grimacing in pain, his hands clutching the side of his head. She hit him again, aiming for the same sensitive region, but in her rage she missed and her strike landed on his face. He began to bleed from his nasal orifice again.
Suddenly Catherine felt arms around her, restraining her. They restrained her opponent as well. He signed to her—she recognized it as a common Calyyt insult. She spat at him as she strained against the refs who held her back.
They dragged her down the steps and thrust her into one of the warm-up rooms, shutting and locking the door after they left. She found herself alone in the room, where the roar of the shouting crowd was replaced by a glaring silence. The silence made her aware of her rapid breathing and the ringing in her ears. She paced the room, trying to calm her agitated state. Her eye stung as sweat dripped from her brow. She wiped it away; but when she looked at her white sleeve, it was stained bright red. Bewildered, Catherine realized she was bleeding. And it only made her angrier.
Catherine heard the door unlock. As the door opened, she prepared herself to lash out at whoever came to taunt her.
It was Eshel.
10
Eshel halted at the sight of Catherine’s bloodied face and infuriated expression. But once she recognized him, her anger seemed to dissipate. She turned away and sat down on the hard bench. Eshel walked over to her and kneeled down to get a closer look at her injuries.
She breathed rapidly and trembled a bit. “Take deep breaths,” he told her. She did so. But when he tried to examine her head wound, she shrank away. Just then, Tom arrived. Before Tom could say anything, Eshel said, “I need to get her to sick bay. Will you get a transport?”
“They’re already here,” Tom replied, a worried look on his face.
“Catherine, we must go to sick bay,” Eshel said. He led Catherine to the transport vessel; a medic had her lie down while Eshel climbed in and directed them to Cornelia. Within a few minutes they reached the external entrance to sick bay. When Catherine stood up, she lost her balance and stumbled. Eshel caught her and helped her regain her footing.
Once they entered sick bay, Eshel heard Catherine mumble something. He didn’t understand at first, until he realized she’d said, “Not Vargas.” Eshel took a brief look around and assured her that Vargas wasn’t there. The physician on duty, who he recognized from his redeye sick bay duty, approached them. “She has sustained a head injury in the CCFs. She is… disoriented.”
The doctor led Catherine to a medical bed. “Lieutenant, what day is it today?”
“Day Two of the fights,” she replied absentmindedly. By then, her face grimaced in pain.
Eshel stood aside while the doctor scanned Catherine, retrieved a small tube from a drawer, and gave her an injection. He gave orders to the nurse, who treated her and cleaned her up. After they finished, Eshel approached her again. To his relief, her grimace had faded and she looked better.
Catherine looked at him and smiled. “You’re so handsome, Esh,” she said, her words somewhat slurred.
Eshel, surprised, found himself unsure of how to respond.
“I think they were watching me on the train,” Catherine went on, seeming almost pleased with herself.
“Who was?” Eshel replied, amused at Catherine’s altered state.
“Those two Korvali,” she said dreamily.
Eshel stared at her. “What do you mean, Catherine?” But before she could offer any response, she went unconscious. “Doctor.”
The doctor turned, a smile on his face as he glanced at Catherine. “She’s fine. It’s the medication. She’ll be in and out for a while.”
Eshel heard the doors open. Tom and Snow walked in.
“How is she?” Tom asked. “Is she unconscious?”
“The medication has sedated her,” Eshel said.
“Let me guess,” Snow said. “Concussion?”
Eshel nodded.
Tom walked over to the doctor and spoke with him for a moment. When he returned, he said, “Looks like Vargas will be in later, so we should get her out of here before then. We’ll all get redeye duty forever if Vargas finds out she willingly submitted herself to the CCFs and is using his resources for treatment. We can look after her. Doc will contact us when it’s time.”
Eshel nodded and they left sick bay.
When Eshel received the doctor’s page and returned to sick bay, Catherine was sitting up while the doctor scanned her head wound.
“The swelling has gone down quite a bit,” the doctor told her. “Your injury could’ve been much worse, but you seem to have a hard head.”
“So I’m told,” she replied.
The doctor chuckled. “Rest for two days before resuming any work, and no training until the wounds heal and the symptoms are completely gone. That’s an order,” he added. Catherine nodded and thanked him for his care. He turned to Eshel. “So, Handsome, you know what to look for, right?” He handed Eshel the scanner.
Eshel nodded, ignoring the jest. “I… must thank you, Doctor. For your assistance.” The doctor’s expression turned to genuine surprise. Eshel turned his attention to Catherine, who seemed more coherent than before.
“Hey Esh.”
“You’re smiling.”
“It’s the painkillers.”
“We need to leave,” he told her. “Dr. Vargas will be here soon.”
Even in her haze, Catherine understood. She slowly sat up, grimacing in pain, and turned until her feet touched the ground. Eshel p
ut out his arm to help her up.
As they left sick bay, Eshel’s contactor chirped. “I have her,” he said to Tom.
“Sorry, I got hung up,” Tom’s voice said. “How about bringing her here?”
“I will take her to her quarters. I can care for her there.”
There was a pause. “Are you sure? You know what to look for?”
“Yes,” Eshel replied.
Once at Catherine’s quarters, Eshel explained that, per the doctor’s suggestion, he must stay with her to monitor her concussion. She didn’t argue. Instead, she began fumbling around, looking for something.
“What are you looking for?”
“Tea.”
“I will make it,” Eshel told her. “Lie down.”
Catherine gave up her search and proceeded to her bed. “Don’t turn around,” she said.
Not understanding, he turned toward her. She’d begun peeling off her dirty, bloodstained uniform, revealing bruising on her pale skin. He turned back around to make tea. When she gave him the okay to look, he watched her grimace as she got into bed, propping herself up against the bulkhead. Eshel set her tea down on her small bedside shelf. He moved a chair near her bed and sat down, removing his cold-water container and taking a drink from it.
“How are you feeling?” It was an expression he’d learned during his sick bay duty. He still found it strange to ask such a question.
“Better,” she said, blowing on the hot tea and taking a small sip.
“I did research; it is possible to get your opponent banned from competing.”
She shook her head. “We’ll both be penalized. We were both angry little idiots. Yamamoto will be so proud of me.” She sighed with a bit of laughter. “He’ll be so proud of the example I am for you!”
“I don’t understand.”
“I lost my temper, Eshel. People in our discipline aren’t supposed to do that.”
Eshel gave a small scowl. “What other solution is there? You cannot let a coward harm you and still respect yourself. He must be punished.” Catherine, appearing surprised by his remark, only smiled. “Your opponent used two of the maneuvers that you and Ensign Holloway demonstrated,” he said. “I recognized them.”
The Refugee Page 11
