by Scott Sigler
“Chick, that’s exactly what it is. We expected some pomp and circumstance from The Heretic, who’s become quite a showman in the last few years, but that looks like ... well, it looks like Spartans.”
“No, Masara, I was taken aback at first, but make no mistake, that is a phalanx of ten Carthaginian soldiers. I was expecting a show, but this is something else.”
“Chick, it looks like the crowd is panicking even further, it’s really chaos down there, and something is coming out of the tunnel. Something big ...
“Well, shuck me shucking, Masara, that is a shucking elephant!”
“Chick, the language.”
“Oh, shuck that, Masara, Chaiyal “The Heretic” North is dressed up like the ancient general Hannibal, and he’s riding a war elephant to the Octagon for his championship heavyweight bout.”
“The phalanx is pushing fans and chairs out of the way, widening the aisle for the elephant.”
“How the shuck did he get a shucking elephant in here? The IFA administrators are going to lose their nuts at this.”
“Chick! Come on!”
“Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home, it’s just not every day you see a Carthaginian phalanx leading a war elephant-riding Hannibal to the Octagon. Masara, I don’t think The Heretic could possibly make more of a statement about his confidence.”
“He’s reached the Octagon, Chick. Chaiyal North is off the elephant. The phalanx is guiding the animal back to the tunnel, people are starting to return to their seats, but it looks like there are more than a few injured spectators. The fight officials are checking North. He’s wearing red trunks with gold trim. And what a specimen he is. Argued by many to be the most dominant heavyweight to ever don the gloves, The Heretic is intimidating on all levels: physical appearance, sheer power, a killer’s stare, his skills, his in-Octagon performance.”
“Masara, things have started to calm down somewhat, but this crowd is both agitated and excited. They knew they were seeing one for the ages, but the hype continues to build. And now ... wait, what’s this? That’s the music of the champ.”
“And here ... he ... comes, Chick. The undefeated, undisputed heavyweight champion of the galaxy, Korak the Cutter. And what a contrast in styles. The Heretic comes in with all the showmanship of an outer-system live theater act, and aside from his black trunks and gloves, it looks like Korak the Cutter is wearing nothing but a white towel with a hole cut in it, his head and pedipalps sticking through, the towel draped down his chest and back. He’s got the heavyweight belt draped over his left middle arm, but he isn’t even wearing a robe, just the towel.”
“He’s an icon of focus, Masara. Korak is a minimalist philosopher of maximalist doom. No bells and whistles, he’s more stripped down than a slow Sklorno mommy caught in the feeding frenzy of her own brood.”
“Chick! You can’t say-”
“Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home. The fight officials are checking Korak, and ... what’s this ... the fight doctor appears to be paying very close attention to Korak’s chest. Korak appears to be protesting, can we get a close-up of his chest?”
“Yes, Chick, the cameras are panning in ... it appears that Korak has a fresh chitin fuse scar right above his heart. What could have happened? Some kind of training injury?”
“Well, Masara, it’s not like he had open-heart surgery right before the biggest fight of his life. I mean, that can’t be or they wouldn’t let him fight. But the doctor looks very focused on it.”
“The ringside physician is Doctor Hissian Lorah, a leading member of the Lorah Tribe. He seems to be saying that the fight ... he’s saying the fight can’t continue! Oh, my!”
“Masara, I think I just crapped an egg roll! Korak the Cutter just hit the ring doctor, a sweeping right that crushed the Harrah down to the ground.”
“Fight officials are swarming, trying to hold Korak away from the doctor, but the champ is absolutely enraged.”
“The media is crowding in, trying to get a shot ...
“And Doctor Hissian is flopping on the ground, he looks hurt!”
“I’ve never seen anything like this! The heavyweight champion of the galaxy, 382 pounds of lethal fighting machine, just hit a 50-pound Harrah ringside doctor. Masara, I think the champ may have killed him!”
“And Chaiyal North isn’t helping the situation, Chick. The Heretic is at the Octagon fence, his fingers locked in the chain link, he’s shouting at Korak, telling him to ‘get in the ring,’ over and over.”
“No, Masara, he’s saying get in the shuck-”
“We’ve got it, Chick. Korak looks like a wild thing, he wants in that Octagon, and it’s a tangle of bodies hanging on him, trying to stop him, to keep him from climbing the fence. Two Humans, a Ki and a Quyth Warrior are holding him back. Oh, my! One of the Humans just went down from an elbow! Korak is throwing punches and kicks, he will not be denied his chance at North. North continues to exacerbate the situation. He’s pointing at Korak, screaming at him, antagonizing him.”
“The fans have their money’s worth before the fight ever starts, Masara.”
“Now, more sentients have entered the fray. Two Quyth Warriors are pulling fight staff off of Korak the Cutter, and ... Chick, do those Warriors look familiar?”
“They do, Masara, and color me as shocked as the first time I felt the icy tentacles of my proctologist, but I think that is Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright, the starting outside linebackers of our Ionath Krakens.”
“Why are they getting involved? It’s chaos at ringside, folks at home, absolute bedlam. Fans are hitting each other, we’re on the edge of an all-out riot. There, another body in the scrum around Korak, looks like a Quyth Leader. Black fur, but I can’t make him out from all the big bodies flying around.”
“Despite all the shoving and pushing, the Quyth Leader appears to be talking to the fight officials, Masara. And it looks like things are cooling down. All of a sudden, the insanity has lowered a bit, except for Doc Hissian, who is still flopping around on the ground like a piece of frying back bacon.”
“Whoever that black-furred Leader is, Chick, he seems to have calmed the situation because fight officials are pushing Chaiyal North back to his corner. And what’s this ... Korak the Cutter is getting into the Octagon! More officials are flooding onto the canvas, holding Korak back, holding Chaiyal back. The two greatest living fighters in the galaxy can’t wait to get at each other. This is going to be a bloodbath.”
“We’ll see about that, Masara. There is a persistent rumor that Chaiyal North is taking a dive in the third round.”
“Chick!”
“I call them like I see them, Masara, or in this case, how I hear them. The odds were hovering around five-to-one in favor of The Heretic, and in prefight betting over the past 24 hours, the odds have drawn even.”
“Chick, let’s focus on the fight at hand. Both corner racks are lowering. Chaiyal North’s team is decked out in red with gold trim. The Klar brothers are on his rack, two men well known for their expertise in patching up damaged Human physiology. And, of course, the manager, Marcus Diablo. He ... well, Chick, it looks like Diablo isn’t on the corner rack.”
“What? You’re right, Masara, he’s not there. What the hell is going on that North’s manager wouldn’t be here for the heavyweight championship?”
“It’s absolutely mystifying, Chick, but North isn’t alone in being alone. Korak’s corner rack has lowered, and while I see Doctor Patah and Timmy McMasters, decked out in all black, there appears to be no sign of Vikor the Black?”
“Masara, what the hell is going on?”
“History is going on, Chick. History. Both fighters are seated. Their corner teams are prepping them for the right. Everyone is filtering out of the Octagon, except for head referee Ban-Ah-Moto, a former All-Pro lineman for the To Pirates and the largest referee in the history of professional fighting.”
“Officials knew they’d need some mass, Masara, if they want to control this fight. If No
rth wins, they don’t want a repeat of the heart-eating performance from the Brocka the Razor-Barbed fight. Ban-Ah-Moto’s translator is Shinnian, translation services sponsored by Jungbauer Beer. If you want real beer, you need that Bauer Power.”
“The ring crews are finishing up. The announcer is coming in for the prefight introductions.”
• • •
High up in a dark luxury box, two sentients watched the action taking place in the center of the ring. Both of them should have been down there, on opposite sides of the Octagon, but decisions, circumstances, or maybe just fate, had brought them here. They watched the live show far below and the multiple close-up angles provided by the luxury box’s multiple holotanks.
Fights were still raging in the stands. The emerald-suited station cops were swarming into the stands, controlling the near-riot in some places, making it far worse in others. Even in the chaos, both sentients sensed that the fight was about to start, that history was about to be made. With the Octagon nearly cleared of nonfight personnel, a tuxedo-suited announcer walked through the door and waited as an old-style silver microphone lowered from somewhere high up in the arena’s rafters.
“There is much hatred in that Octagon,” Vikor the Black said. He lifted a bottle of Junkie Gin Special Reserve to his lips and took a drink. “There is also much respect.”
“Respect,” Marcus Diablo said. He reached out his left hand, held a glass in front of Vikor. Vikor filled it with gin. “You know, I never thought Chaiyal really knew the meaning of the word respect. But for the first time, I can see it in his eyes.”
“That and bloodlust,” Vikor said and took another long drink.
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “That and bloodlust.”
The ring bell sounded three times, and the announcer spoke, his words echoing through the arena.
“Tonight, we are going to watch the most anticipated match in the history of professional fighting. For the heavyweight ... championship ... of ... the ... universe. Are you ready? Fight fans, are you rrrrrrrrrrrready? For the thousands in attendance, and the trillions watching from the deepest reaches of space, from that bastion of inter-species cooperation, the jewel of the Purist Nation’s peaceful intentions, the Bob Laramee Memorial Arena on Buddha City Station! Ladies and gentlemen, sentients of all ages, let’s get ready to rumble! This is a five-round fight, each round lasting five minutes. The fight is sanctioned by the Intergalactic Fighting Association. In the corner to my right, a former citizen of the Purist Nation, standing six-foot-six and weighting in at three hundred eighty-two pounds, with a professional record of just two losses against thirty-two wins, twenty-three by knockout or submission and five by fatality. He is the reverend of the revelation, the nuclear-fueled power plant of pain, he is ... Chaiyal, The Heretic, North!”
The crowd roared as one, a multi-being organism with enough power to shake the walls.
“Damn,” Marcus said. “Can you imagine what it’s like down there in the Octagon? I think we shucked up, Mister Black.”
“Vikor,” the Quyth Leader said “We are both losers tonight. We don’t deserve terms of respect.”
“And, his opponent,” the announcer continued. “Hailing from the planet Chickchick, a proud citizen of the Quyth Concordia. He is six-foot-eight inches tall, weighing in at three hundred eighty-two hard-fighting pounds. His record is one of perfection, an unblemished, untouched, undefeated forty-six wins, thirty-one by knockout or submission, ten by decision and five by fatality. He is the conquistador of the Concordia, the black hole of hate, the greatest fighter in the history of civilization. He is Korak, the, Cutter!”
Marcus took a long drink as the crowd roared again. The arena shook, knocking something off the back wall of the luxury box. That something crashed with the sound of breaking glass, but neither manager turned around to look. “The black hole of hate?” Marcus said. “That you or the marketing people?”
Vikor grunted. “That one was mine. Korak is what you Humans would call antisocial.”
“Imagine that,” Marcus said.
The massive, black- and white-stripe-wearing Ki ref scuttled to the middle of the Octagon, his Creterakian translator fluttering up before landing on his shoulder. The ref beckoned the fighters to join him. They approached cautiously, as if they thought the other might throw a sucker punch at any second. The scarred Human and the cracked Quyth Warrior stood toe-to-toe, Chaiyal’s nose almost in Korak’s mouth. Chaiyal had to tilt his head back slightly to look into Korak’s single, baseball-sized eye.
The Ki ref started talking in his guttural string of syllables. The flapping Creterakian translated. “The honorable Ban-Ah-Moto gave you your instructions in the dressing room. In the event of a knockdown, go to a neutral corner. Remember, protect yourself at all times, and above all, obey his honorable commands at all times. Now touch gloves, and when you hear the bell, come out fighting.”
Korak the Cutter and Chaiyal North gently touched gloves, an oddly civil act amidst the zoo that Marcus had watched for the past fifteen minutes.
Vikor the Black took a long drink from the now half-empty bottle. Marcus drained his glass and held it over for a refill. Vikor obliged, then held the bottle up, the long neck angled toward Marcus.
“To fighters,” Vikor said. “To real fighters.”
Marcus raised his glass and tinked it against the bottle neck. “I’ll shucking drink to that.”
The two sentients did so.
Down in the Octagon, the bell rang three times. Chaiyal “The Heretic” North and Korak the Cutter moved to meet in the middle.
Round Nine: The Fight
Chaiyal North came out of his corner with murder in his soul. Just a few feet in front of him, Korak the Cutter, the undefeated, the champion, the second most dangerous creature in the known universe. Had all the showmanship gotten to Korak? Would he come in hot? Was the old Quyth Warrior weak from the fight the night before?
It didn’t matter if he was weak. Korak had stepped in the ring. He knew exactly what he was doing — the champion was a warrior soul and was ready to fight to the end.
An end that Chai would deliver in just a few seconds.
Korak came out of his corner fast, faster than any fight Chai had scouted. A Warrior could fake his pace, his aggression, but he couldn’t fake the deep-black color flooding his single, baseball-sized eye. Only Quyth Leaders could fake emotions.
Korak was enraged.
All the showmanship, the elephant, the phalanx, shouting disrespect to the shucker when the fight doc tried to stop it all — all of it had worked. Korak charged, a bit top-heavy, leaning forward too far.
If Chai could time it, it wouldn’t just be a victory, it would be a lesson to all that none greater had ever fought ...
• • •
“Here we go, Chick, the champ is coming out fast! He throws a wild middle arm right. Chai dodges back and, ohhhh, what a counterpunch! A straight right hammers Korak! Korak swings a weak left and, ohhhh, Chai ducks and lands a huge overhand left! Korak stumbles back toward the fence! Chai scrambles in for the finish!
• • •
Korak the Cutter fell, felt his body hit the chain-link fence, felt his ass thump on the canvas. Mother of all, could that Human hit. Korak could barely see, his head swam, his wits threatened to fail him.
But he’d practiced this.
Practiced this exactly.
He’d practiced flooding his eye black, developing a skill that most Quyth Warriors didn’t have. Korak was no master at faking emotions, any Quyth Leader would have seen right through it, but Chaiyal North was just a Human — in the flash-decisions of battle, North wouldn’t be able to discern the difference. That had been the first part of the three-part strategy, a strategy developed with the Human fighter Malachi McMasters, a strategy developed from watching every one of The Heretic’s fights at least a hundred times.
The second part of the plan, the hard part, was taking a straight right jab that would automatically come courtesy of Ko
rak’s intentionally out-of-control right hook and then taking Chai’s best punch — an overhand left — straight in the mouth. This second part was the real question mark because Korak didn’t know if he’d still be conscious after those punches. But if he was ... then came the third part.
The third part, the predictable part, because for all of Chaiyal’s skill, the Human couldn’t change the fact that he was a bloodlust killer, an instinctive predator. And when a predator sees weakened prey, a predator closes in for the kill.
Most of the time, they close in fast.
Too fast.
Korak had practiced this move, from this sitting position, at least 10,000 times. The second 5,000 blindfolded. And because of that, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see straight because his muscles knew the timing, and he didn’t really need to see at all ...
• • •
Energy coursed through Chaiyal’s soul. Other than killing someone, other than that final thrill of actually ending a life, there was no feeling like landing a clean shot, the sensation of your fist sliding through a thick piece of paper, because when you hit someone just right, your hand kept on going as if it hadn’t been stopped at all. If Korak lived through the fight, the Warrior would be eating nothing but puree for the next month.
But Korak wouldn’t live another thirty seconds.
Chai rushed in, every ounce of him electric from the hunt, from the blessing of doing exactly what he was meant to do. The champ was down, back against the chain-link fence, ass on the canvas. Time for some ground-and-pound, the hurricane hooks, time to finish it.
Chai raised his left fist high so he could deliver his hardest punch with all of his 382 pounds of momentum behind it.
Too late he saw Korak’s left leg shoot straight out. Too late did Chai realize he had all of his own weight on his right leg, his right foot planted, coming forward too fast to react in time ...
• • •
“Chai comes in and, ohhhh! Korak the Cutter push-kicked The Heretic’s knee! Down goes The Heretic! Down goes The Heretic!”
