by Mike Brooks
“Bro,” Apirana cut him off, getting to his feet, “we’ve been over this. Like, five times already. Besides, you know as well as I do that I’m gonna be outclassed in there. A game plan’s all very well, but it ain’t necessarily gonna survive contact with the enemy, know what I mean? I see a way to win, I’m gonna take it.”
Drift stopped, a rueful grin on his face, and scratched the skin around his mechanical eye. “I know, I know. And I’d never have suggested this if I didn’t think you had a chance, but—”
“But we gotta speculate to accumulate,” Apirana interrupted. “How much have we got wagered on me, and what were the odds in the end?”
Drift checked his pad. “Kuai ended up putting eight grand down at twelve-to-one for a first-round finish, since . . . Well, if you’re going beat him, you’re probably going to do it early. So you’ll nearly make the stake back just by showing up. If you win in the first round, then we’ve got a hundred grand to put towards what we need.”
Apirana puffed his cheeks out, trying to focus his thoughts. “All right, then. Let’s do this.”
Drift nodded and sidled over to the locker room door, which he cracked open. A quick and muttered conversation in Russian ensued with the member of staff outside before Drift came back over and half-heartedly picked up a couple of punch mitts.
“Don’t bother,” Apirana told him, not unkindly. “It ain’t like you know what you’re doing with them anyway.” He bounced on the spot, testing out his surgically repaired ankle. In all honesty, it felt no different to the one he hadn’t broken a few weeks ago, and he marvelled once more at the healing technology possessed by the Universal Access Movement. “Damn, those circuitheads know their stuff.”
“Just don’t let Jenna hear you say that,” Drift muttered, then glanced up guiltily. “Not that it’s my place to . . . I mean, you know what’s best, I’m sure.”
“Ha!” Apirana laughed loudly and genuinely. “The whole thing’s been a bit more luck than judgement on my part so far. Kinda glad she ain’t here at the moment, though. I don’t think either of us wants her to see me get knocked silly.” He gave the air a flurry of punches, culminating in a vicious right hook that made Drift step back in mild alarm. “Wouldn’t mind Rourke being about, though. Might’ve been able to give me a few pointers.”
“Maybe,” Drift said with a nod. “But you’ve got to remember that Tamara’s used to almost always being the smaller person in any fight. You’re bigger and heavier and probably stronger than this guy, and you’ll have reach on him too. What she knows might not be so relevant to you.”
“Might have told me how Kuang’s gonna be thinking, though,” Apirana pointed out. “Ah, to hell with it.” He looked up at the holo-screen on the wall, where the event’s coverage was being broadcast live: This wasn’t a huge, big-name show, but it was still available on the local channels, and the announcers were talking excitedly in Mandarin. At least he presumed they were excited from their tone of voice: His Mandarin was little better than the Captain’s. He watched Kuang Daniu step up into the cage, jog from one side to the other, and then raise his arms and turn in a slow circle, milking the cheers of the crowd. His opponent was getting old for a fighter, although not as old as Apirana himself, but he still looked to be in good shape.
There was a knock at the locker room door and a staff member wearing a shirt with the Two Trees Arena’s logo on it poked his head in. “Shí shíhòu le.”
“Zǒuba,” Apirana said, rolling his neck and shoulders. He made for the door, Drift falling in behind him, then followed the staffer’s lead down a corridor towards the main arena. Apirana was almost surprised about how calm he felt, but then again, he’d been in far more dangerous situations than this over most of his life. It was only a month or so ago that he’d been dodging bullets in a revolution; a fight with rules and a doctor at ringside was practically child’s play in comparison.
Of course, he reassessed that a little when he stepped out into the arena, under the lights and the gazes of thirty thousand people, and was greeted with a wall of boos.
“Think they’ve got a favourite?” he asked the Captain, raising his voice to make himself heard.
“They certainly seem a bit partisan!” Drift shouted back, looking around them. “Why, are you having second thoughts about knocking out the local hero?”
“You know me!” Apirana replied, focusing on the cage ahead of him. “I ain’t never let someone’s opinion stop me from doin’ something stupid!”
He walked through the gangway, flanked by arena security and ignoring the extended hands of punters who wanted to catch hold of any fighter passing by, no matter how unheard-of or unpopular. He walked up to the checkpoint, discarded his robe, kicked off his shoes, and let the ringside referee check his mouthpiece and pat down his gloves and trunks to make sure he wasn’t concealing any weapons. He turned towards the cage, taking deep breaths to psyche himself up, and looked up to see what awaited him.
Kuang Daniu was standing in the middle of the cage waiting for him, pointing downwards and shouting. The words were in Mandarin, but the meaning was fairly clear: This is my house. It was a blatant challenge. And, it occurred to Apirana, he knew just how to respond to a challenge.
It had been a long, long time since he’d performed “Ka Mate,” but some things you learned in school stuck in your head.
He adopted a half-crouch, his forearms held horizontal in front of him. He doubted he’d be given the time to perform the full routine, and he didn’t have a leader for the chant anyway, so he launched into the main refrain with all the volume his lungs could muster.
“Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora, ka ora!”
The expression on Kuang Daniu’s face as Apirana began the best-known Māori haka was priceless. Even if the other man knocked him out straight after the bell, Apirana would treasure that look of shock and apprehension for a long time.
He punched the air in front of him, bellowing in the tongue of his homeland while he did so, then tried not to grin as he realised how appropriate the chant’s finale was. It referenced taking a step upwards, and then another step upwards, an account of an ancient Māori war chief climbing a ladder . . . and there just so happened to be four steps in front of him up to the cage.
“Ā, upane! Ka upane! Ā, upane! Ka upane!”
He stamped up the steps, slapping his elbows with his hands as he did so, then stepped forwards into the ring and fixed Kuang with the widest-eyed, most intimidating stare he could manage.
“WHITI TE RA!”
He stuck his tongue out for emphasis as he finished, and half a second later the crowd erupted into applause and cheers. Partisan locals they might be, but they seemed to appreciate a performance when they saw one. Apirana held his pose for a moment longer, then straightened up and allowed himself to be directed to his designated corner by a rather nervous-looking official. He took deep breaths again, trying to get his breathing and pulse under control. That was the first time he’d performed a haka in earnest, and it certainly got the blood pumping.
The ring announcer began to speak, his voice echoing around the arena and prompting a new wave of cheers from the fans. Apirana couldn’t follow it, especially with the echoes, but picked up his cue as the announcer pointed towards him and raised his arms as a thoroughly mangled version of his name boomed out through Two Trees. There was some polite applause, a few cheers, and quite a few more boos.
Well. I’ve made an impression, if nothing else.
Now the announcer turned towards Kuang, who seemed to have recovered his composure slightly and was bouncing lightly from one foot to the other, shaking his arms out as he did so. Apirana, Drift, and Muradov had gone over all the footage they could find of the man in action and had concluded that he was a fast and efficient striker who preferred punches to kicks and was better on his feet than on the ground, but was quite good at keeping a fight standing. One thing that had stood out to Apirana, apart from his opponent’s tendency to start fights slowly, w
as that, although Kuang was an accurate and technical striker, he didn’t seem to have an awful lot of stopping power to him. He would wear opponents down over the course of a fight, and the other guy would come out looking a mess. But he didn’t have many one-hit knockouts to his name.
Basically, if Apirana was willing to take some hits on the way in, he was halfway sure he could land something that would give Kuang Daniu pause without being immediately knocked into next week himself.
The ring announcer reached a crescendo, screaming out Kuang’s name. He had to strain himself to be heard above the roar of the crowd, which had ceased to be mere noise and, at least from where Apirana stood in the epicentre of it, was approaching something more like a physical force. Kuang raised one hand in lazy acknowledgement, but his eyes were fixed on Apirana. The local fighter was a couple of inches shorter, but broad and well-muscled. He also didn’t have much of the spare weight that Apirana was carrying around his middle. In terms of sheer athleticism, Apirana was prepared to admit that there didn’t look to be much of a contest between the two of them. Or in ring experience, come to that. Although in actual fighting experience . . .
The ring announcer cleared out, leaving only Apirana, Kuang, and the referee. The official looked at Apirana to check his readiness. Apirana nodded. The ref looked over at Kuang. Kuang nodded too.
The referee shouted something that Apirana could barely hear thanks to the crowd noise, but the chopping motion he made with his hand could only be interpreted in one way. It was time.
Apirana sprang forward, feeling the cage floor ever so slightly sticky under his feet, the accretion of sweat from the fights that had already taken place earlier in the evening. The roar of the crowd had faded to a dull ebb in his ears, as though he’d been submerged in water. His long fighting experience instinctively focused him on Kuang’s eyes as he rushed in, looking for the telltale signs that would indicate how his opponent was going to react, and he saw the other man’s calm mask drop away to be replaced by the same fear he’d shown in the face of the haka.
Apirana stutter-stepped, checking his rush for the merest moment to see if Kuang would telegraph a dodge, but the other fighter seemed shell-shocked and had barely left his starting point against the far fence. Kuang threw a desperate, looping punch that grazed the air in front of Apirana’s face as he misjudged Apirana’s momentum, and then Apirana barrelled into him with a thunderous running kneelift to the ribcage.
It felt like he’d hit a giant sandbag, but Kuang staggered back against the wire mesh that formed the cage wall, his face screwed up in pain. Apirana stormed in after him and aimed a haymaker at Kuang’s nose, but his fist only hit the fence as Kuang ducked aside. The crowd noise had gone up, if anything, penetrating through even the thumping blood in his ears as he turned on the spot, trying to get a bead on his opponent. Kuang came in low and hit him just above the waist with his shoulder, looking to take the fight to the ground: a desperation move against a man of Apirana’s size. Apirana simply took a step back, then wrapped his arms around and under Kuang’s chest and heaved. The other fighter’s feet left the floor for a moment as Apirana threw him bodily aside with a roar, and Kuang landed hard on his hands and knees.
Apirana landed on top of him even harder.
Kuang twisted under him as he came down, trying to get onto his back where he could at least mount some form of defence, and managed to get both his arms up to block Apirana’s forearm as it came down in a blow that would have surely broken the other man’s nose had it connected. Kuang bucked with his hips, trying to throw Apirana off, but he couldn’t generate enough power to move that much weight. Apirana steadied himself, half-straddling Kuang’s body, then slammed his knee into the other man’s ribcage. Did he feel something crack? He wasn’t sure, but Kuang cried out in pain anyway. Apirana hammered at him with an elbow again, more effective at this range, and it smashed through Kuang’s guard and into his temple. The back of the other fighter’s head bounced off the canvas, and a line of blood appeared where the point of Apirana’s elbow had cut him.
Kuang had never mentally started this fight, Apirana realised, as his ferocious focus began to loosen slightly; the other man had been rocked early and was simply in survival mode now. Apirana could either keep beating on him until the referee made the call to stop the fight, which would be a brave call this early in front of a crowd this partisan, or Apirana could try to find a way to win without battering Kuang to a pulp.
He wasn’t just about raw power; he’d sparred and grappled with Rourke over the years they’d spent together, and he’d picked things up. He already had one leg across Kuang’s chest, so he delivered one more shot with his elbow to make sure the other man didn’t get any big ideas, then grabbed Kuang’s right wrist as the local fighter tried to defend himself. From there it was the work of a moment to throw his other leg across Kuang’s chest as well, straighten his battered opponent’s arm out, and lean backwards, looking up at the arena lights.
It was an armbar, and when administered by someone who knew what they were doing, it was excruciatingly painful and could hyperextend the elbow. When it came from someone with real strength, it could break bones.
Apirana was both.
Apirana felt his opponent’s body judder as Kuang tried to reach over and clasp his trapped wrist with his other hand, but Apirana had both strength and leverage on his side. He forced his own body flatter, increasing the torque on Kuang’s arm and preventing him from doing anything except flailing ineffectually at Apirana’s knees.
A moment later the referee appeared in Apirana’s vision and waved his arms frantically. The fight was over. Kuang Daniu had submitted.
Apirana released his grip instantly and rolled up to his feet. He felt caught halfway between wanting to roar and beat his chest and wanting to laugh; the adrenaline still pumping through his veins was warring with the incandescent joy of victory, of the knowledge that he’d just won them a sizeable stack of cash to help with paying off Orlov . . . and that he’d stopped when he was supposed to. Apirana knew better than anyone that he could only bury his temper so deep, and he’d had uncomfortable visions of himself losing control in the cage. He’d never have agreed to Drift’s scheme if he hadn’t thought he could hold it together, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t played on his mind.
He became properly aware of the noise around him. The crowd was a baying animal with thirty thousand throats. The ring announcer could barely make himself heard above them, veins standing out on the side of his neck as he gave it his best effort anyway. Kuang’s trainers burst into the cage the moment the door was opened, running to their fallen fighter who had rolled onto his side, clutching his arm. Drift followed more sedately, stepping respectfully around Kuang’s team as he made his way across the ring, then breaking into a wide grin and clasping Apirana into a hug as he reached him.
“Knew you could do it, big man!” the Captain said with a laugh, then drew back and winked his natural eye. “Did you have to take so long about it, though?”
“Fuck you, bro,” Apirana replied with a chuckle. “You think you can do better, you’re welcome to get in here next time.”
“Oh, hell no,” Drift protested, making a face of mock fear. “I know my strengths, and this isn’t one of them.” He clapped Apirana on the shoulder as the referee came over, ready to raise A’s hand and make the victory official. “You’ve done us proud. Let’s collect your pay and get the hell out of this circus.”
REPEAT PERFORMANCE
Drift felt like he was walking on proverbial sunshine as he led Apirana back to the locker rooms, despite the cacophonous boos that were still raining down from the rafters in the arena behind them. Let the locals vent their spleens! Apirana had walked into Kuang Daniu’s backyard and had essentially beaten him up and taken his lunch money; it was understandable if the man’s fans were a bit pissy at exactly how quickly it had been done.
“You know, I think I might have missed my calling in life,” he declared expa
nsively, pushing open the door to the room where Apirana had been getting changed such a short time ago. “Maybe I should take up managing fighters as a career.”
Apirana barked a laugh. “Takin’ the easy option again, I see.”
“Oh, you say that,” Drift smirked, “but who came up with the plan? Who managed to talk a no-name, no-record man into a bout with a local superstar? Who put down the funds for the gambling win that means we’re about one-fifth towards the total we need?” He adopted an expression of false modesty and placed on hand across his chest. “I must take credit where credit is due.”
“Yeah, and who actually got in the cage and beat the other guy up?” Apirana pointed out with a chuckle, pulling a towel out of his bag. “I can’t help but think you’re missing something here, Mr. Big Picture.”
Drift flapped a hand. “Pfft. Details, details. Your contribution was important, yes—”
“Important? Bloody vital, bro!”
“—but we shouldn’t look past the sheer marketing genius at work here,” Drift finished grandly as Apirana turned to head for the shower. He was about to continue in a slightly more serious vein when the locker rooms door slammed open to admit Serenity Chen.
And behind zir, four particularly burly men in arena security uniforms.
Drift’s cheerful greeting died in his throat. The events manager’s face was thunderous, and he wasn’t particularly enamoured of the way the last member of security closed the door very firmly behind him and leaned against it with his arms folded.
“Mer Chen,” Drift said cautiously, with a respectful nod. “Is there a problem?”
“There most certainly is,” Chen said, crossing the room to glower into Drift’s face. Apirana had turned away from the shower but still held the towel in his hand: ready to throw into someone’s face as a distraction if a fight started, if Drift was any judge. He splayed the fingers of his right hand, hoping the big man caught the signal. Wait.
