TITLE FIGHT (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Scott Sigler

  “You said you’ve never met him. Is that right?”

  McMasters nodded. “Never met him in person. Seen him fight, though.”

  “Can you talk to him?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to know,” Korak said. “I need to know if he’s going to take a dive or if he’s going to be a true warrior.”

  “How the hell would I know? I don’t know him from High One.”

  “You know sentients. You thought I was part of this fix, you talked to me for ten seconds, and now you believe I know nothing about it. You know the truth of words. Please, Ides. This could be my last fight. I need to know if it’s pure.”

  McMasters thought for a few seconds. Korak waited. This was really the only possible way to know if the fix was on.

  “I know he drinks,” McMasters said. “A lot. Even before fights. I can make the rounds to the bars, give the bartenders a little something to call me if he comes in. Maybe I can size him up, Champ, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Find out,” Korak said. “You can, and you will. Meet me back in my room when you have the information.”

  The Human walked out of the room. Korak waited a few seconds, then walked out himself. His four-Human escort was waiting for him. They snapped to attention as soon as he walked out.

  “Where to, sir?” Cartwright asked.

  “My room. I need food.”

  He walked. The green-suited Humans fell into place around him.

  • • •

  Food had been waiting in his room when he arrived. He took his time, dragging the meal out for more than an hour. Each element of dinner, carefully chosen by Vikor. Korak had made weight, so he didn’t have to worry about pounds, but Vikor knew exactly what needed to be in Korak’s digestive system and bloodstream before the fight. Mostly protein. Korak took his time eating the spindly saiata bugs. He preferred them fried, but these were baked. Maybe after the fight, he’d indulge.

  If there was an after.

  He’d made up his mind. If the fix was on, he wasn’t stepping in the Octagon. He would forfeit, take the loss on his record and retire. If it wasn’t an honorable win over The Heretic, he didn’t want it. Once inside the ring, Korak would do whatever it took to win, use cheap shots, dirty tricks, pressure points, anything possible, but he would not accept victory over an opponent that wasn’t truly fighting back.

  The computer chimed an alert. [MALACHI MCMASTERS AND OTHERS AT YOUR DOOR.]

  McMasters and others. Korak didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Let them in.”

  The door opened. McMasters came through first, shoved more than anything else. He regained his balance. His face glowed red with hot rage. Behind him came two Quyth Warriors. Heavily scarred and enameled, clearly vets. The first one held a revolver aimed at McMasters’s back. Korak recognized the second Warrior - Virak the Mean, linebacker for the newly promoted Ionath Krakens. The Krakens, who were owned by that gangster, Gredok the Splithead.

  And when a small, meticulously groomed, black-furred Quyth Leader came in next, Korak knew whom it had to be.

  “Gredok the Splithead, I presume?”

  “Correct, Champ,” Gredok said. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  Korak started to ask what was going on when one more sentient walked through the door, and he knew exactly what was going on. His Shamakath, Vikor the Black.

  “Vikor,” Korak said. “What have you done?”

  “What had to be done,” Vikor said. “And it is not your concern to know such things. It’s already been taken care of.”

  Korak had suspected this, prepared for it, but even in doing so he’d never thought it could be true. Not really. The knowledge cut at his soul, made his head feel heavy, even made his knees hurt for some odd reason.

  “Vikor,” Korak said. “What has been taken care of?”

  “You are not the fighter you were,” Vikor said. “You deserve to retire undefeated.”

  Korak turned and looked at his longtime manager, his friend, his Shamakath. But Korak didn’t see those things anymore. Now, he saw betrayal, he saw weakness — he saw Vikor for what he really was, just another one of the screaming masses, just like the buzzing insects back there in the weigh-in.

  Korak had no allies. No brother warriors. He had nothing. He was alone.

  And he knew in the deep part of his being that really did know everything, the part that analyzed reality and did away with prescribed sentiment, with feelings, he knew that’s what he had always been.

  Inside the Octagon, a true fighter is always alone.

  “I deserve whatever the Octagon tells me I deserve,” Korak said. “Inside the Octagon is all that matters. You taught me that. You.”

  “That’s right,” Vikor said. “I taught you. I taught you everything.”

  Korak felt the fight-rage building inside of him. He pushed it down. This was Vikor, not The Heretic, not Mark “The Mangler” Wheeler. “When?”

  Vikor refused to make eye contact. “Third round.”

  Words like a death sentence on Korak’s career, his friendship with his Shamakath, the end of everything he’d held sacred.

  “Your Shamakath kept you alive,” Gredok said. “Or at least, he tried to.”

  Korak turned to face Gredok and screamed: “What did you do?”

  Vikor flinched, his eye turned dark green. McMasters’s head hung low, and Korak saw wetness in the Human’s eyes. The two other Quyth Warriors stayed alert, ready to shoot, but shame radiated from them, clouding their eyes a dark-green color. They didn’t want to be part of this, didn’t want to see a hero of the people taking a dive, showing clear disrespect to a superior.

  Gredok the Splithead, however, stood unfazed. His eye remained clear.

  “Vikor came to me and asked me to arrange an outcome for your fight,” Gredok said. “I tried to do that. But I ran into Mister McMasters after he talked to your opponent for tomorrow, and perhaps now things need to change. Tell him.”

  “Shuck you,” McMasters said.

  Virak the Mean crossed the room in a flash. Maybe he wasn’t a pro fighter, but he was a pro football player and had the athletic skill required for his job. His revolver whipped down on McMasters’s temple in one smooth, fast motion. McMasters dropped to the ground, blood pouring from a fresh cut.

  “Apologize,” Virak said.

  McMasters touched his temple. His hands came away dotted with blood. “I’m sorry, Gredok.”

  “Mister McMasters,” Gredok said, “last time I ask. Tell him.”

  McMasters stood. He looked at Korak, then wiped away a tear, leaving a small blood smear on his cheek. He wasn’t crying from the pain, he was crying for the death of an imagined ideal. “I did what you asked, Champ. I found Chaiyal, sized him up. He’s not going to throw the fight. He’s coming at you.”

  Hope surged again in Korak’s soul. Maybe there was a way out of this, a way to fight with honor.

  “But I can’t allow that to happen,” Gredok said. “I have too much riding on this fight. After you sent McMasters out on your little errand, Champ, I felt it was time to speak to you face to face. The Heretic goes down in the third. You win. You retire undefeated, the greatest champion our people have ever known. You will not lose to that Human.”

  “I just told you,” McMasters said. “Chai won’t throw the fight.”

  Gredok’s antennae twitched. “He will, or he will not get into the Octagon, and he will forfeit.”

  McMasters laughed. “I’m not stupid enough to insult you again, Gredok, but I looked into his eyes and I can say this — the only way Chaiyal doesn’t get in the Octagon tomorrow is if you kill him first.”

  “That can be arranged,” Gredok said. “Virak, Choto, get the rest of the crew and go present Chaiyal North with his options. He is in the gym, one level up. And while you are at it, kindly solicit a heartfelt apology from him for the way he spoke to me earlier.”

  Virak and Choto walked out of the room.

&n
bsp; No. Korak would not let this happen. Maybe he’d underestimated Chaiyal’s warrior spirit. All the showmanship, the verbal garbage, the game playing — when you got right down to it, did any of that really matter once the ref closed the Octagon door? No. All that mattered was winning by any means possible. Korak had watched Chai’s fight against Brocka the Razor-Barbed, seen what the Human was like inside the ring. Inside the ring, Chaiyal North was the best that had ever been, and inside the ring was where this fight would be decided.

  Korak walked to the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Gredok said. “Sit down.”

  Korak ignored him. He reached the door, then came up short — Vikor the Black blocked his path.

  “Korak, you stay in this room,” Vikor said. “This is best for you.”

  An insect. One of the screaming masses. That’s all Vikor was. Korak let his stubby antennae rise up, stand straight. He would not brush them back for Vikor, not ever again.

  “Get out of my way,” Korak said. “I am now ronin. You are dead to me.”

  Both Korak and Gredok shivered visibly. There could be no greater insult to a Leader than for a Warrior to rescind fealty.

  “Korak,” Vikor said. “You are upset. You have to trust me.” You have to—”

  Korak hit Vikor the Black. A straight right middle arm jab. The tiny Leader flew back and hit the door. Plastic cracked, and enamel paint flew. Vikor went through, falling on the other side.

  “I’ll see to it you are tried for that,” Gredok said.

  Korak turned on him, grabbed him by his tiny middle shoulders, lifted him up off the ground.

  “You!” Gredok said. “You will put me down, or I will—”

  Korak shook him violently. The Leader’s head bobbled like a toy.

  “You will shut ... up!” Korak said. “You sent your Warriors away, you fool. You won’t do anything to me, not until after the fight, and we both know it. And after the fight, nothing will matter to me, so do your worst.”

  Gredok’s eye swirled with pink and a deep blue, both colors of fear.

  Korak half set him down, half threw him, then walked to the door. It didn’t slide open. Putting Vikor the Black through it must have broken it. Korak lashed out with a push-kick, and the broken door disintegrated.

  He stepped out. The four green-suited Humans were standing there, stun-sticks out, unsure of what to do.

  “First one to follow me dies,” Korak said. He strode down the hall, not bothering to see if they obeyed.

  • • •

  It wasn’t hard to find the gym. Korak just followed the screams of rage and pain, audible even over the screeching violence alarm. That alarm would bring the Buddha City Greens, the station police.

  When he entered the gym, he knew the police would be too late to do anything.

  He saw three Quyth Warriors punching, kicking and grabbing at a massive Human struggling on the ground. Blood flew in fine splatters. To the right of them, a still-twitching pile of legs and arms that had once been a Ki. To the left, Choto the Bright and Virak the Mean, both holding guns.

  “Leave that Human or die!” Korak shouted in his native tongue. “Your true master is here.”

  The deepest of insults, insinuating that not only were their respective Leaders meaningless, but that Korak was their superior. The three Warriors pummeling Chaiyal turned. Korak dropped into a fighter’s stance, extended a pedipalp and waved them on.

  From the ground, the bleeding pile of huge Human lashed out. One of his attackers went down screaming, but Korak wasn’t watching that. The motion and the scream drew the attention of Choto and Virak. Only for a second, but Korak didn’t even need a full second to close the 5 feet and arm-lock Choto’s gun hand. Korak threw a one-two middle elbow blast that cracked chitin, then turned and threw the stunned Warrior across the room.

  Korak turned to rush Virak, but all Gredok’s main bodyguard had to do was pull the trigger.

  Korak heard all three shots but only felt the first one punch into his middle shoulder. Had the other two missed? Could he close the distance before Virak fired again? He could, he would kill that bastard, then make him watch while Gredok begged for mercy. Korak the Cutter rushed forward ...

  ... Or tried to, but he only made it half a step before his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, then slumped onto his back.

  How many years since he’d last been shot? Had it hurt this much last time? Korak lay there, hearing Virak and The Heretic talking, but not registering the words. Movement. Choto and Virak rushing by, out of the gym.

  Leaving Korak alone with Chaiyal North.

  Must move, must get up, defend, then attack ...

  Korak ignored the pain searing through his chest, the feelings of faintness, and struggled to his feet. Chaiyal was standing there, not attacking. That was too bad because someone was going to pay for these gunshots. “Where’s the bastard that shot me?”

  “Ran,” Chai said.

  “I’ll find him. After tomorrow’s fight.”

  Chai shook his head. “What fight? You’ve been shot three times, old man.”

  No way, no way, The Heretic was getting out of this fight. Doc Patah would patch up the wounds — even though they were gunshots, Timmy and Patah had patched up far more crippling damage in the span of the sixty seconds between rounds. With an entire night to do their magic, they could fix anything.

  “Fight goes on,” Korak said. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

  “That’s crazy,” Chai said.

  “You’ve been hurt worse, too. I’ll be ready for the bout. You don’t like it? Then forfeit.”

  “Shuck you,” Chaiyal said. “You want to die in the ring? Happy to oblige.”

  “Nice. Is this how Purist Nation bigots say thanks for saving my ass?”

  “No. They say it like this. Next time mind your own shucking business, old man. I don’t need your help. You don’t think it’s a little suspicious you showed up in the nick of time to save me?”

  Korak coughed dismissively. He’d been shot. Could the Human seriously think this was a setup? Dangerous? Absolutely. Smart? Not so much. “If I wanted the easy win, I would have just let them do what they were doing,” Korak said. “When I beat you tomorrow, it will be because I’m better, not because someone got to you first.”

  Chai stepped over the bodies, his shoes leaving footprints of blood. The Human had blood all over his face, his shoulders, not all of it his own. Teeth were missing, and the right eye was already swollen shut. But Chaiyal’s pit crew, just like Korak’s, could fix anything overnight. Despite the Human’s lack of intelligence, he had taken the blows of multiple opponents and fought on without ever giving up.

  A true warrior.

  “I’ve never seen you beaten down before,” Korak said as Chai reached the door to the hall. “There was more to respect in how you took it than in anything I’ve seen in your fights.”

  The ever-disrespectful Human didn’t even turn around. “One-night-only performance. Don’t get used to it.”

  Chai walked into the hall where the station alarms screamed. The ground hit Korak in the back. He’d fallen again.

  Motion, hands, tentacles, voices ... Timmy and Doc Patah ... Vikor the Black in there as well.

  “Champ,” Doc Patah said, “we’re going to have to get those bullets out right here. Timmy, put him under.”

  “No,” Korak hissed. “No ... I want to feel it.”

  “It’s near your heart,” Doc Patah said. “Champ, I have to cut into your chest to repair the damage, the pain will be excruciating, and I can’t have you twitching.”

  “Then shut off my muscle control. Timmy, do it. Immobilize me. I don’t want to go under, I want to feel all of it. Knock me out, and when I wake up, I’ll kill you both.”

  A brief silence. Then Korak felt filaments sliding into his shoulder slots. Seconds later, he felt the odd floating sensation of his muscle control shutting down.

  Then he heard the buzz of a chitin cut
ter.

  And then, he felt the pain. Every last delicious moment of it. Korak filed it away, memorized the agony ... he would store it, amplify it, then give it back to his enemies.

  Enemies like Vikor the Black, Choto the Bright, Virak the Mean, Gredok the Splithead. He’d kill them all, but only after he gave most of that pain to his fellow warrior, to his spirit-brother on the plane of pure combat, to perhaps the only sentient in the galaxy who really knew what mattered in life.

  To Chaiyal “The Heretic” North.

  Round Eight: Masara the Observant & Chick McGee

  “Hello, mixed martial arts fans, and welcome to Fight Night on USB network, brought to you by Junkie Gin. Junkie Gin, tastes like a touchdown every time, give it a shot. We are here at Bob Laramee Memorial Arena on Buddha City Station in the heart of the Purist Nation. Once again, I’m your ringside commentator, Masara the Observant, and with me as always, the every colorful Chick McGee. Chick, we have the makings of a legendary fight here tonight.”

  “Masara, it’s already legendary before a single blow is thrown. Korak the Cutter, undefeated in forty-six fights, putting his title on the line against perhaps the meanest Human being in history, Chaiyal “The Heretic” North. Undefeated in his last eight fights, he chewed up the IFA heavyweight division with his brutal, lethal fighting style.”

  “The lethal part is what brings us here, Chick. North killed Brocka the Razor-Barbed by ripping out his heart after defeating Brocka for the GFA heavyweight title. The Galactic Fighting Association, the GFA, stripped him of that title, and the rival promotion Intergalactic Fighting Association, the IFA, swept in and signed him to this fight. While Chaiyal North isn’t officially the GFA champion, make no mistake — in the minds of fight fans all over the galaxy, the winner of tonight’s tilt is the undisputed heavyweight champion.”

  “And speaking of the fighters, Masara, there’s the music of the challenger, Chaiyal North. He should be on his way to the Octagon now, and ... what’s going on? Fans are scrambling out of the way, there seems to be some confusion. Wait, what’s this ... are those ... helmeted Humans with gold shields and spears?”