by C. T. Aaron
Two: dozens of these guys all headed for the arena at once can only mean something is about to go down there. Like a meet.
Maebry and Aison’s meet. Their fight.
“Move, B,” I tell myself. “You gotta move. Now.”
There isn’t a lot of cover between me and the arena, and it occurs to me that that’s the whole point. Suddenly that image of a razed forest makes sense to me: someone there at the arena, presumably, cleared a mile or more in every direction so it would be harder to sneak up on them.
Smart move.
But there are still piles of rubble here and there. I’m not feeling particularly ninja-ish right now, so I just walk carefully from pile to pile, taking my time, trying not to attract too much attention. It either works, because none of the bikers stop me . . . or they’re just too far away to notice.
Either way I make it about two hundred yards or so when the sound of a motorcycle engine getting louder behind me makes me whip around—a bad idea because it hurts my head.
Someone’s driving my direction, wearing a black leather jacket and helmet and riding an impressive black and chrome Harley, or at least a motorcycle I assume is a Harley. There’s no mistaking his trajectory: It’s straight at me.
I cuss and whirl around, looking for a place to hide, a place to run, a weapon—anything. I start to call Ezzy, then pull back; he was so hurt, I can’t put him in danger like this.
My indecision costs me. The rider rolls up beside me, my back to a pile of I-beams and lumber. I fall into a semi-crouch, ready to bolt the second this guy makes a move.
The rider sets his feet on the ground for balance, leaving the motor running, before taking off his helmet.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, right?”
Spark.
Relief and suspicion flood my system. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I just don’t want to be like my parents. If anyone knows anything about taking off when someone needs help, it’s them. So get on.”
I narrow my eyes at him, our last words to each other still fresh in my mind.
Spark lifts his gaze and shrugs. “Hey, lookit, you want me to leave, say the word, I’ll take this bike straight back to Doctor B and go my merry way.”
It’s not like I’ve got a better idea. I walk to the motorcycle. “Who’s Doctor B?”
“Guy I know near here.”
I start to ask more, but Spark cuts me off:
“And no, he’s not what you’d call a medical doctor, okay? He let me borrow this hog. And if anything happens to it, then something very medical gonna happen to me, if you catch my drift, so let’s do this real gentle, all right?”
I climb on behind him and wrap my arms around his middle. He slides the helmet back on and rearranges my arms to a position more to his liking.
“Hang on, lean when I lean, and don’t fight me, okay?” he says, his voice muffled.
“Okay!” I shout back over the motor.
Spark revs the engine a bit, then accelerates, and suddenly we’re off through the desert.
I’m a lot more glad to see him than I’d ever admit. At least I’m not alone. And riding into certain danger on a bad-ass motorcycle lifts my spirits a little.
Not only that . . . now I’ll blend in, at least a little. I figure—or hope—that none of the people riding toward the arena right now will be suspicious of the two of us on a bike headed in the same direction.
The ride isn’t long, and Spark doesn’t really speed. The ground is rough and the Harley’s not built for off-roading like a dirt bike might be. Still, it’s not totally uncomfortable. Or wouldn’t be if not for the pounding in my head.
We roll up to the arena. Everything is bare and flat surrounding it. I assume it’s where the big parking lot would be in our world. I’m not a good estimator, but there are a whole lot of bikes encircling the building. Two hundred? Three? I can’t tell. I figure the stadium seats 50,000 or more, and there’s no way there’s that many motorcycles out here. The sheer size of the stadium dwarfs all the bikes, making it hard for me to count.
Spark rolls to a stop in a nice empty spot about fifty yards from the building. Men—I don’t see any women yet—are climbing off their motorcycles, some greeting each other and forming groups, many staying alone, minding their own business as they pass through a gate and on inside.
I climb off the Harley while Spark stops the engine and takes off his helmet.
“Got a plan?” I ask him.
“None whatsoever.” He locks the helmet to the bike. “Where’s your dog?”
My heart twitches in my chest. “He was hurt. This giant Familiar attacked us and hit him pretty hard. His legs are hurt bad. I popped him away.”
Spark frowns. “Sorry.”
“He had a weapon, this big Fam. A giant spiked ball on a chain. You ever heard of a Fam using weapons?”
He nods toward the arena. “Only in here.”
Not an encouraging answer.
Spark blows out a breath like he’s smoking, only he’s not. “That probably means somebody here knows you’re here, too. We’re gonna have to keep this quiet.”
“How do we do that?”
“It’s your show. I have no idea. Looks like the fights are about to start soon, so we need to get in there, but I don’t know anything about sneaking into places, do you?”
I shake my head. Ouch. Bad idea. “No.”
“All right, then we walk right inside and try to blend in,” Spark says. “See what we’re dealing with, go from there.”
“You didn’t have to come back,” I say, suddenly, as we start walking toward the gate. “Thank you.”
“You’re right, I didn’t.” Spark glances around at the other men as we all start funneling toward the one entrance. “So don’t forget that.”
“I know.”
“I’m neither white nor a knight, so, if things get crazy in there for any reason—”
“Then you’ll take off. It’s all right. I understand.”
“Okay,” Spark says, a little too emphatically.
I grab onto the sleeve of his leather jacket. I’m still not quite right on my feet. “Okay.”
Spark looks at where I’m holding on, then meets my eyes. He hesitates, then gives me a single nod. “But we’ll get her.”
“I know,” I say.
Except I don’t.
We walk inside.
TWELVE
The only electricity I’ve seen in the mirror world is whatever little kick the motorcycles need to get started. There are definitely no electricity-sucking air conditioners around, so we are not at all met with the cold blast of cooled air I’ve grown accustomed to in every other building in Phoenix. People there—back home, I mean—bring sweaters or wraps to places like movie theaters and coffee shops in July and August because the air is turned down so low in response to the triple-digit heat outdoors.
The mirror world is not like that. In fact it’s really been sort of unsettling; it’s like there is no weather. No wind, no clouds, no change in temperature from what I estimate is about 78 to 82 degrees; not warm, not cold. Just still and red.
Where are we, really? I mean, is this Earth? Is it one of those multiverse places I’ve heard people like Neil DeGrasse Tyson talk about on Discovery?
Or—and this really disturbs me as we walk into the arena—what if none of this is real and I’m just a certified can of nuts?
I rub my eyes real quick. Plenty of time to consider the physics and magic of the mirror world, or my impending admission to a mental hospital, when I get me and Maebry home safe again. I have to focus. Maybe I’m already dead or dying, like in a shitty movie, and all of this is my last fever-dream before eternal darkness. Sure, maybe. But I’m not going to give in to the temptation to believe that. This all feels as real as it gets, and Mae’s life—real or imagined—is too damn important.
If this is somehow make-believe, then I’ll damn well make-believe I save her.<
br />
Spark and I follow the crowd, which is shuffling toward a few sets of stairs leading down in to the stadium. There are no concession stands, no one hawking Familiar T-shirts or foam fingers, though the thought actually makes me giggle..
Spark scowls. “Dude.”
“Sorry. I think I have a tiny little concussion.”
He stops and leans close. “What?”
“When the big Fam attacked us, I got thrown pretty good. Landed on my back, hit my head. I’m kinda loopy right now. Wouldn’t it be funny if there were like foam fingers on sale? ‘We’re number one!’”
Spark puts a thumb against one of my eyebrows and lifts, staring into my eye. “Son of a bitch. Do you feel sick?”
“I did. But not so much now. Come on, we have to keep moving.”
Spark rolls his eyes as if to ask himself what fresh hell he’s gotten himself into, but then we move forward toward one of the staircases. I notice that we are being noticed, but no one says anything.
Like that first meet Mae took me to—was that only yesterday?—the men here are from all different backgrounds, except their faces are a little different somehow. Colder. Suspicious. While they are not “bikers” in any traditional sense, I still get the feeling I’ve walked into a biker bar or maybe a Mafia speakeasy. I’m an outsider, and it’s clear everybody knows it. Spark, on the other hand, gets the same once-over but then is dismissed.
I feel like I should hold his hand.
We reach the nearest concrete staircase and start climbing down. The roof is rolled back, and the mirror world sky glares crimson on us. Where there would normally be a football field is instead just the same dry dirt as outside. Now that we’re inside and I can see how many people are in the seats, I figure there are maybe five hundred people here, all spread out.
Five hundred people here to watch people fight to the death.
Liquid hate burns black through my veins as I realize all these bastards came here to possibly watch my girlfriend die.
I understand Mae’s arguments against violence. I do. But right now, I’m ready to personally give some ultra-violence to each one of these assholes.
While my rage takes root and grows in my belly, I also notice there are no protective cages or nets around the arena area. Whatever happens down there, it’s going to happen with the safeties off. Is that part of the thrill for these idiots? It’s not hard to imagine one of those flying Familiars I’ve seen outside knocking around inside the arena and lopping of heads as it goes.
So this isn’t Mars, or a some fractal universe. It’s just Hell.
As Spark guides us into a row near the staircase at the top of the seats, I spot Aison.
I suck in a breath. The massive gargoyle sits hunched in a cage the size of a tractor trailer. It’s made of some kind of metal bars; not rebar, but something thicker. He’s sitting at the far end of the field to my right. Beyond him, I see enormous doors open to the outside, as if trucks will be backing in later to pick him up.
Or what’s left of him after the fight.
I don’t see how a truck could make it into the mirror world, so how did they get him in there? Maybe they forced Maebry somehow to put him in there. I can’t imagine. Maybe it’s better I don’t.
“That’s Aison,” I whisper to Spark, although there’s no one within earshot from us. “The gargoyle down there.”
“Wow. That’s a big boy.”
I scan the entire arena. “That means Maebry must be here someplace. Where would they have her?”
“I don’t know.” Spark sinks low and kicks his feet up onto the chair in front of him. “But I do know that you look like you’re looking for someone, and that’s not going to help. Be cool.”
He’s right. I stop squirreling around in my seat and hunker more like him.
“I have to find her,” I whisper for no good reason at all.
“We will,” Spark says. “Worst comes to worst, we’ll swing down there like Spider-man and scoop her up.”
“You can do that?”
“No, but I do have a big-ass spider that’s still functional. We’ll see.”
I nod. A big-ass spider on our team sounds pretty good right now.
“Wherever she is, she could just pop him out of there, don’t they know that?”
“Sure they do. So whatever it is that’s making her keep him there, it’s one hell of a big reason.”
From the right side of the arena floor, near where Aison is caged, a group of men come wandering onto the dirt field. Two of them wear suits and sunglasses, like Secret Service guys. Another wears a loud, shiny purple shirt, and I’m pretty sure that’s Dante.
The fourth man is taller; white, clean-cut, and dressed like a businessman who just got off work, with a button-up that’s not buttoned-up, no tie, and the sleeves rolled. He’s got something in his hand that at first looks like huge handgun or something. Then, as he reaches the middle of the arena and lifts the thing to his face, I see it’s a bullhorn.
I feel as though I can see him smiling as he talks. I want to kick each one of this teeth individually down his throat.
Mae, where are you? I’m getting you out of here, I swear.
“Howdy, everyone!” the tall man says, raising a friendly hand. The other three sort of surround him, with the two Secret Service types standing on either side and scanning the whole arena like I had done. Bodyguards.
Actual bodyguards. Like, no kidding around, these are men trained to take people down, fast. The reality of this hits me like a hammer against my ribs. This guy with the megaphone is a big enough deal—or has made enough enemies—he can afford to have two men at his side who for all I know are willing to die for him, like the guys who guard the president.
What the hell have I gotten into?
“That’s Alexander,” Spark says.
“Just how . . . bad . . . is this guy?”
Spark glances sideways at me. “Pretty bad. I tried to tell you.”
I just nod helplessly. I am so, so very far in over my aching head.
“We’ve got quite a show for you today,” Alexander goes on, turning in a slow circle to make sure all of us can hear him. “We’ve got two newcomers to the meet, an all-out brawl to the finish!”
Scattered applause and hoots from the men in the stands.
Alexander seems pleased by the response. “Take a look over here!” He gestures toward Aison, who is sitting still and stoic in his cage. “Would you look at that monster? Woo, what a big ’un! What do you think, boys? What’s a giant like that worth to ya?”
The men cheer, boo, shout, and generally act like freaking primates.
“Speaking of money, there’s a lot of that at stake today,” Alexander says, sounding like a game show host. “Flag down your bet girl and we’ll get the party rolling in about ten more minutes. Enjoy the show, fellas!”
He lowers the megaphone and walks back to the exit with his men. I turn to Spark.
“Did he say ‘bet’ girl? What’s that?”
Spark nods. I follow the gesture to a college-aged woman walking down the steps near us. Other women, all dressed similarly in short skirts and skimpy tanks, are walking down other sets of staircases and crossing to men who are holding wads of cash. When the woman near us starts down our row, Spark waves her off with a quick flick of the wrist. She just keeps a smile plastered on her face and walks on down the stairs to some men about ten rows farther from us.
I say, trying to burn the woman from my glare. “How can they do that? How can they work for this piece of shit?”
Spark clandestinely points to one of the men down the stairs from us, who is standing next to the bet girl and counting out bills from a thick roll.
“Those are hundreds that guy’s counting out for his bet. I told you, this whole thing might make Alexander a million bucks tonight. Tonight. One night. So he pays his workers well. It’s easy work, in a sense. Take money from men, let them make comments about your body. Women still work at Hooters and places
like that. This isn’t any different.”
“Well it’s messed up,” I snap. “This whole thing is messed up.”
“Not arguing.”
Someone walks past our row. Or at least, from the corner of my eye, that’s what I think is happening, except the person stops right next to Spark. Wearing all black, hands in his pockets, big grin on his face.
Oscar inhales deeply though his nose and gives a theatrical sigh.
“Ahhh! So! You made it. What do you think happens next?”
He looks down at me.
“Girlfriend?”
I, predictably, say the following:
“Oh, shit.”
“What’s up?” Spark says, staring straight ahead.
“This your boyfriend?” Oscar says to me. “I thought you were . . . you know.”
Spark sits motionless, but I can see his pulse beating hard in his neck. “You’re Oscar. Alexander’s son.”
“You got it. We met?”
“Nope.”
My fingers clench into fists. “You’re the reason Mae’s here.”
Spark tilts his head back to look at Oscar. “Is that a fact.”
“Yep.” Oscar’s grin widens. “Got a problem with that?”
Spark repeats Oscar’s deep breath in and out before saying, simply:
“Yep.”
Bam.
Spark moves like a freaking ninja. I’ve never seen anything like it—which is a relative expression here in the mirror world.
He slips up fast and smooth, like a dancer, and snakes behind Oscar. Before Oscar can even track Spark with his eyes, Spark has an arm around Oscar’s neck and Oscar’s left arm in some kind of twisty hold. I can barely tell where Spark’s arms begin and end.
Oscar gives a choking gasp. His eyes bulge and his cheeks squish upward.
“Shh,” Spark says. “Don’t make a sound. If you call your Fam I’ll kill you.”
Oscar’s cheeks smooth a bit as Spark relaxes just a fraction.
“Hear me?” Spark says.
