by Piers Platt
“You a doctor?” he asked.
Falken shook his head. “No. Can we get ice down here?”
The man snorted. “Shit. I don’t think there’s ice anywhere on this planet.”
“Do they have any bandages?” Falken asked.
“If they do, they don’t give ‘em to us. He a friend of yours?”
“No,” Falken said. “I don’t know him.”
“So why are you helping him?”
“I did this to him,” Falken said.
He finished cleaning the man’s wound and then sat back. There was little else he could do for the man, he decided. Falken tossed aside the bloody piece of cloth and wiped his hands on his shirt. He took a closer look at the man sitting across from him.
“How long have you been here?” Falken asked him.
The man squinted, thinking. “Hard to say. A few months, maybe.”
“Haven’t won enough fights yet?”
“Came close,” the man said. “Twice. Wish I hadn’t made that mistake.”
“What do you mean?” Falken asked.
“It’s like this,” the man explained. “If you lose in a couple of your fights real bad, they stop caring about you. You’re not tough enough to join the gang, so they just dump you outside the building and let you go to the colony or wherever.” He pointed at Falken’s victim. “Like this guy. He gets his ass kicked again next fight, they’re just gonna boot him out.”
The man shifted, getting more comfortable. “But if you show ‘em you got heart, and can fight … then they start paying attention. This isn’t just entertainment for them, this is tryouts, see?”
The man studied Falken for a moment, noting the fresh blood on his forearm where they had given him his first victory mark. “The problem is, if you fight hard, they know you could be a threat. They can’t just let you go – you could cause trouble for them. So they put us back in the pit. And then there’s only two ways out of the pit: win your three fights, or die trying.”
Falken picked at a piece of dried blood under a fingernail. “What if you decide you don’t want to be part of Archos’ crew? What if you ask to leave?” he asked.
The man snorted. “If you’re brave enough, go ahead and try it.”
“I just want to get out of here and get a chance to call my lawyer,” Falken said.
“So win your three fights. Archos’ crew goes wherever they want.”
There was a roar from above, and Falken looked up to see a small rivulet of blood run down the side of the disk.
“Looks like you’re gonna have another patient to treat soon, Doc,” the man opined.
“I’m not a doctor,” Falken repeated, but the man had already stood, and was walking away.
Falken found an empty space along the outer wall and sat down with his back against the cold cement. As he stretched his legs out, he felt something hard brush against his thigh.
Something in my pocket …?
He dug in the pocket and pulled out a brown, leather-wrapped booklet.
… oh, yeah. From that short guy that got beat up at the landing site. The guy who looked like a librarian. Didn’t realize I had kept it.
He opened the booklet, and the cracked screen activated on command, showing the family portrait again – the man, his wife, and two children, a boy and girl. They were dressed in holiday sweaters, standing in front of a fenced paddock with several horses and a barn in the distance. Falken touched the screen, and the image shifted. Several shots of the children followed – dressed in uniforms for school, hanging from monkey bars at a playground. The next picture was of the man’s wife. It was a candid shot: she stood wrapped in a towel, applying makeup in a bathroom. She was half-smiling, half-frowning at the camera’s reflection in the mirror, as if she had been caught in the middle of gently rebuking the cameraman for interrupting her routine.
Something about the image made Falken feel guilty, as if he had just intruded on a private moment between lovers. He closed the booklet, shutting it off, and slid it back into his pocket. Above him, another fight was starting. He closed his eyes, and let his head rest against the wall.
*
Falken had to wait three days for his second fight. As part of his training back on Earth, he had routinely gone on restricted calorie diets to make weight before big fights. But he had always been able to eat something on those diets – a few vegetables, an egg-white omelet. He had never gone completely hungry.
Not like this.
He had slept fitfully the first night, but he did manage to sleep. By the second night, his stomach was cramping so badly that sleep was impossible – when night came and the light faded from the massive hole in the roof overhead, he drank water, and paced around the disk in silent agony. Another inmate suggested he try chewing on a piece of cloth from his overalls, but that just made his mouth water, and failed to fool his aching stomach for one minute. Then, around mid-morning on the third day, the massive steel door swung open.
A member of the warden’s crew walked into the pit, yawning and surveying the waiting inmates. One man stood shakily, wobbling on thin legs.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Pick me.”
The gang member ignored him. He wandered through the pit, pointing at some inmates, while ignoring others. Falken wondered if there was a logic to his selections, or if it was simply random chance. Then the man passed by where Falken was standing.
“You,” he said, indicating Falken. Then he moved on. The chosen fighters gathered at the steel door, and then climbed the stairs to the balcony level. When they were halfway up, Falken heard the alarm bell begin to ring, announcing the fight.
Their audience was waiting for them as they stepped out onto the balcony.
“Fight day, baby!”
“Win or die!”
One of the waiting inmates had brought a bowl of food from the mess hall – he waved it, tauntingly, under each man’s nose as they passed by him. When the smell wafted past Falken’s nose, he had to make a conscious effort not to grab the bowl.
“I’m sorry, are you boys hungry?” the man asked, innocently. He slammed the bowl to the ground, where the gruel slipped through the metal grating and disappeared. “Then earn it!”
Archos picked the two weakest inmates to fight first. They shuffled out onto the disk, and then warily circled each other for a time, until several of the gang members grew bored, and threatened to beat them. Then, reluctantly, they met in the middle of the disk. They grappled for several minutes, panting from the exertion. Eventually, amid a chorus of jeers, one of the men managed to trip the other, and took his opponent’s head in both hands, and thumped it repeatedly against the disk. The winner could barely cross the plank bridge back to the balcony when it was all over.
They’re going to feed him, and he’s just going to throw it all up, Falken guessed.
There were three more fights, each brutal and depressing in its own unique way. Finally, it was Falken’s turn.
“Bird-man!” he heard one of the gang members yell. “Caw, caw!”
“My money’s on you, big guy,” another man said, nodding at Falken with a smile.
Falken crossed the plank, and then turned to face his opponent. With a start, he realized he recognized the man – it was the same man who had smashed a board over the librarian’s head, knocking the smaller man out, back at the landing site.
If anyone deserves to get beat, it’s this asshole, Falken thought. … so why don’t I want to fight him?
The man licked his lips in anticipation. “I’m starving, pal. Don’t think about getting between me and that food.”
“I don’t want to fight,” Falken told him.
The man frowned. “What?”
“If we both refuse to fight, they can’t make us,” Falken tried, raising his voice over the noise of the cheering inmates.
“The fuck are you talking about?” the man asked. “If you don’t want to fight, just stand there and I’ll beat your ass, and we’ll get this over w
ith quick.”
Before Falken could respond, the man leaped toward him. He faked a punch at Falken’s face, and then kicked at Falken’s knee. Falken stepped aside easily. The inmates watching laughed.
Anger flickered over his opponent’s face. He walked straight toward Falken, fists raised. Falken backed up, trying to stay away from the edge of the disk. The man lunged again, and Falken danced back. He closed again, reaching for Falken’s head, but Falken yanked the man’s hands aside, turning him and tossing him onto his back with a deft hip throw. The man scrambled up, snarling.
“Don’t you fucking play me,” he told Falken.
“Then don’t try and fight me,” Falken warned him.
The man ran at him again, and swung another punch, which Falken dodged. He heard boos from the balcony – the inmates were growing weary of the game.
So am I, Falken thought, side-stepping another clumsy attack. He doesn’t look as tired as I am. If I’m not careful, this guy might just beat me on stamina alone.
“Quit dicking around! Fight him already!”
Falken sighed. When the man struck next, Falken let him come. He caught the man’s punch in both hands, and rolled backwards, pulling his opponent to the ground with him. Then, with smooth precision, he wrapped both legs over the man’s chest, and pulled back hard on his arm, extending it out straight. The man shrieked in pain. Falken continued to pull backwards, and with an audible pop, the arm snapped, breaking cleanly at the elbow. The warden’s gang roared their approval. Falken let go and stood up, backing away. The man rolled onto his stomach, clutching his broken arm to his chest.
“You done?” Falken asked him.
He nodded, sobbing. Falken crossed back over to the plank. Archos was waiting for him on the far side. He pulled Falken in close, slapping him on the back by way of congratulations. Then, under the raucous cheering of the other inmates, he whispered in Falken’s ear.
“I heard what you said at the beginning of the fight.” He stepped back from Falken, still smiling, but his eyes were cold with anger. He gripped Falken’s forearm in one hand and twisted it, turning it so that he could see the first counting mark scar. The warden cut a second mark on Falken’s arm next to the first, all the while gazing expressionlessly into Falken’s eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet; Falken could barely hear it amongst the din of the crowd. But his tone was unmistakable.
“Defy me again, and you’ll regret it,” Archos said.
Chapter 9
On the morning of the eighth day since landing on New Oz, the alarm bell woke Falken from an uneasy doze. The great steel door to the pit creaked open once more. A gang member strode into the pit, and walked directly over to Falken.
“You,” he said, pointing. “Just you.”
Falken stood. He followed the man out the door and back up the stairs, pausing to catch his breath halfway along, his head swimming from hunger.
Stay focused. Just one more fight.
The gang member turned to look at him, frowning. “Come on, move.”
Falken nodded and continued up the stairs. Archos’ gang lined the railing around the balcony level as usual, but this time, when the alarm bell shut off, a hushed silence was all that remained. Falken shifted uneasily on his feet, waiting. Finally, Archos appeared, stepping out of a side door. He sized up Falken with a cold glare.
“By tradition,” he began, “for his third fight, each man may choose his own opponent.” He swept an arm across the balcony, indicating the waiting inmates. “So choose.”
Falken looked them over. Archos’ men stared back at him expectantly – some were short and wiry, others heavy and hulking. But all bore the marks of numerous counting scars on their bodies, and many appeared eager to fight. Finally, Falken’s gaze came to rest on Archos himself.
“I choose you,” Falken said.
The room fell completely still.
“You think I don’t fight?” Archos asked. He smiled and stripped off the faded guard jacket, revealing a muscled chest covered in crisscrossing hash mark scars. “I fight, Bird-man. I’ve been fighting on this planet since you were shitting your diaper back on Earth. Why do you think I’m the one calling the shots around here?”
“So fight me,” Falken suggested.
Archos’ eyes narrowed. “No. I’ll fight you when you’ve earned your place amongst us. And not until then. Pick someone else.”
Falken shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Pick whoever you want. I’ll beat them.”
“Is that so?” Archos turned to the gathered inmates, raising his voice. “Bird-man has a rather low opinion of you, gentlemen. He thinks he can beat any of you. Who would like the pleasure of disabusing him of that notion?”
“Me.” A large man stepped forward down the balcony. He was slightly shorter than Falken, but stockier, heavier. “I’ll put him in his place, warden.”
“I will,” another man volunteered.
“Two volunteers, eh?” Archos asked. “I suppose we’ll have to flip a coin to decide who gets the honor.” He turned to face Falken. “… or maybe not. No. I think I’ll let both of you fight him. At the same time.”
A thunderous cheer broke out amongst the inmates.
Shit. I had to call him out, didn’t I? Fucking idiot.
“You done fucked up now, Bird-man!” someone yelled.
Falken felt himself pushed roughly toward the waiting plank. He stepped across, and took his place in the center of the disk. The two men joined him shortly afterward, as the rest of the inmates slammed the balcony with their fists, drowning the room in noise.
Falken glanced at the two men, sizing them up. Can’t fight them both at once, he decided. But if I focus on one, the other’s going to jump on it, and jack me up while I’m distracted. So how the hell do I fight them separately?
The two men conferred in whispers for a moment, then headed in opposite directions around the edge of the disk. Falken looked at one, and then the other.
Fuck.
The small, wiry one moved in first, but over his shoulder, Falken saw the larger man move a split second later. Falken faced the smaller one, and hurried to meet him. The man jabbed at Falken, and landed a punch on his stomach.
He’s boxed before. He’s had training.
Falken dodged the next punch, and landed a cross on the man’s jaw, but felt a heavy blow land on his kidneys at the same time – the larger man was behind him. Falken threw an elbow backward on instinct, but it failed to connect. He dodged out from between the two of them, getting tagged with a punch to the back of the head for his trouble. He shook his head to clear it and continued backward, putting distance between them.
They came after him almost immediately, but this time they were too close together, and Falken circled to his right, preventing them from splitting too far apart. Instead of back-pedaling to avoid them, he moved in toward them, and feinted toward the smaller man, who brought his arms up defensively. At the last second, Falken changed direction, though, and rocked the bigger man with an uppercut to the jaw. The smaller one got in another cross to Falken’s chest, but Falken didn’t care – his punch had stunned the larger man, who stumbled backwards, reeling.
Only got a few seconds, though.
Falken turned quickly and squared off with the smaller man, ducking under another punch. Then he unleashed a vicious kick at the man’s front knee and saw the man wince and drop his guard in surprise.
Typical boxer – not expecting a kick.
Falken moved in hard, landing a heavy punch on the man’s face, and then two more in his gut in quick succession. The man dropped back, skipping away from the sudden attack, but Falken continued to press him, swinging hard and ignoring the punches the smaller man dealt out in return. Amidst the sudden fury of Falken’s attack, the man continued to fall back, until Falken saw empty space behind him – they had reached the edge of the disk. Falken pulled up short, and then reared back and planted a hard kick squarely in the man’s stomach. It was enough.
The man teetered for a moment, arms wheeling through the air in shock and alarm, and then he fell, and disappeared from sight.
A thick arm wrapped around Falken’s neck, and he felt several more heavy punches to his lower back. Falken grunted in pain. He grabbed the other man’s arm and elbowed back hard, twisting to free himself from the grip. He jogged away from the man, but as he did so, a wave of hunger-fueled nausea swept over him, and he bent over, dry-heaving.
Don’t have much left in the tank for this.
Falken straightened up. “I beat my third man,” he called out weakly, spreading his arms wide. “I proved myself.”
On the balcony, Archos shook his head, grinning cruelly. “You beat three men. But you still haven’t won your third match.”
The big man closed with Falken again. Falken, still grimacing from the nausea, traded punches, and managed to land more than he received, but several of his opponents’ blows were heavy, and one landed squarely on Falken’s temple, shaking him. He stepped back again, panting.
Can’t just wear this guy down. He’s fresh. You’re not.
The man stepped closer and swung at Falken again, and Falken stepped into it, hugging the man to his chest. He managed to tangle their legs up, and then Falken twisted himself, and the two men toppled to the floor. They grappled for several seconds, jockeying for position, and briefly, Falken found himself under the other man. But the man was clumsy, untrained in wrestling, and Falken easily maneuvered himself out, and then scrambled to the man’s back. He wrapped an arm around his opponent’s neck, and then slipped his other arm inside the choke-hold, cinching it tight.
“Yield,” he told the man, shouting in his ear over the noise of the yelling inmates. “Tap out.”
“Fuck. You!” The man managed. He struggled against Falken’s arm, then elbowed Falken in the ribs several times. They hurt, but Falken hung on. Finally, the man reached back and tried to grab at Falken’s face with one hand. Falken grimaced, leaning away to dodge the flailing arm.
