by Claudia Rose
Helena dismissed sex firmly from her mind. Right now she had more pressing concerns than a few meaningless dreams.
What do I wear to a cage-fight?
She’d seen d-vids of cage-fights before. As the Chief Sociologist it was her job to be fully conversant with every manifestation of societal behavior. Central Administration relied on her evaluation of the trends and pressures of New Washington living to maintain stability among the great masses of people pressed together into the giant high-rise complexes engulfing half of the North American continent.
To this end she had many tools at her disposal, one of the most potent being unrestricted access to the output of every registered camera in New Washington. Very little occurred that wasn’t approved by her office. She’d paid close attention to the cage-fight phenomena when it had first begun, tapping at will into any video feed carrying this form of entertainment. She’d never attended one in person. Recently she’d stopped following them altogether as she endeavored to keep pace with the new and different entertainments the masses were always fastening onto.
Tonight’s fight would be different. The nature of the difference piqued her scholarly interest. I would have gone to one eventually, she told herself, but this fight makes the venture doubly worthwhile.
When cage-fighting first appeared, it was welcomed by New Washington’s government as an additional safety valve; one more way of allowing the tightly packed denizens of the city’s lower-level work places and tenements to channel their aggression and rage. It was considered far better the masses watch a few convicts tear each other to pieces than have thousands (if not millions) of citizens tearing themselves to pieces.
No one would quickly forget the last riots. After two weeks of escalating violence—viewed with increasing fear and trepidation by the privileged classes living above level two hundred—the disturbance had only been contained by sealing off the entire Virginia-East-7 precinct and gassing every living thing in it. That was her predecessor’s call, a brave one and the right one, but 379,802 deaths, while only a thousandth of one percent of the population, was still a high price to pay for stability.
In a frightening twist, her predecessor, Chief Sociologist Ernst Schtum, paid the same price as his victims the following day when an enraged survivor from VE7 breached his security and garroted and gutted him.
Helena deliberately didn’t think much about Schtum. She’d never admit to anyone how grateful she was for the opportunity his ghoulish death provided her. The trial of his killer passed her by in the blur of activity surrounding her appointment to the top job. She vaguely recalled the murderer being sentenced to cerebral cauterization—with his still-living body then being sent for organ harvesting—but that was as far as her interest went. She was, however, determined not to repeat Schtum’s mistakes.
Becoming a statistic herself wasn’t part of her plan. Nor did she want too many deaths on her conscience. Even Central Administration, whose private motto was “Sacrifice a Few for the Good of the Many,” decided, on reflection, that Schtum’s extreme solution was philosophically and morally untenable—although Helena heard cynics quietly remark that the most untenable aspect was the negative impact on New Washington’s economy of the loss of such a productive sector.
Whatever the reason, Chief Sociologist Dr. Helena Jewel was in no doubt about preventing riots being her raison d’etre. It was why fresh entertainments like cage-fighting, while not officially approved, were secretly encouraged. The method of controlling citizens by providing access to violent entertainments wasn’t new. Helena knew such strategies had been used in Earth’s distant past, the most notable example being the circuses of the Roman Empire. Despite her personal distaste for violence, she was, as a macro sociologist, perfectly comfortable with both the concept and the practice.
Tonight’s cage-fight was a “Ladies Only” night, a unique occurrence that explained Helena’s attendance. According to her briefing note, the two most successful fighters of the last dozen fights were to come face to face in a fight to the death. Both were handsome brutes, each with a legion of female admirers, and the promoters were cashing in on the fact. Only women would be admitted.
This stipulation meant that, for Helena, tonight’s event represented primary research. The central thesis of her doctoral dissertation was that peace in New Washington depended more on women than men. True, it was men who were most active and destructive during major disturbances, but her thesis, and the reason she’d been appointed Chief Sociologist over the heads of so many, was that behind many of the disturbances lay a dissatisfied female presence. She argued with conviction that if women could be made happier, New Washington itself would become a happier and safer place. She viewed her appointment as a mandate to put some of her theories into practice.
What does one wear to a cage-fight?
She knew she needed to blend in. The people she’d be moving amongst were adept at spotting upper-level intruders. Quelling her distaste, she eventually decided to follow one of the latest trends in costuming for the masses—split flowing skirts and a tight bustier that left the nipples bare for decoration.
Chapter Three
Just as Helena finished dressing, the apartment door hummed, announcing someone entering. She recognized the mincing tread of the man she lived with. Taking a deep breath she walked through to the atrium to greet him.
“Good evening, Nigel.”
Emeritus Professor Nigel Snively, twenty years older, six inches shorter and, since her promotion over his head, possessed of a perpetually evil temper, glared owlishly at her before snarling a response to her greeting.
“My God Helena! Have you no shame? You look like a cit-whore! What are these ridiculous things?”
He reached out a bony finger and prodded the delicate gold rings with which Helena had decorated her exposed nipples. Once she’d let him treat her like this, but with her promotion came increasing confidence. He no longer dominated her.
“It’s lovely to see you too, Nigel dear,” she replied acerbically, slapping his hand away. “These ‘ridiculous things’ are necessary accouterment for a small outing I have planned for this evening. Enough about me; did you have a good day?”
“You know what sort of day I had,” he snarled. Then his voice took on a tone of high-pitched pleading. “Professor Snively, did Helena say what she thought of my research? Professor Snively, would you ask Helena to consider my funding application? Professor Snively, blah, blah, fucking Helena, blah blah… What do I look like, your secretary?”
“Nigel why can’t you be proud for me? Doesn’t my success reflect well on you?”
“Reflect well on me? Where did you dream that one up? They’re all laughing behind their hands at the fact my protégé has the job that should be mine. I am a better sociologist than your inept and spineless predecessor was, and I’m a better sociologist than you. The only thing your ‘success’ reflects is my humiliation.”
His voice took on an even more irritating whine.
“Now you’re going out dressed like a slut. I can only conclude you’re planning to cuckold me so as to further humiliate me.”
“You place entirely too much importance on yourself, Nigel. None of this has anything to do with you. I’m dressed like this to attend a particular cage-fight and I want to blend in.”
“A cage-fight! What won’t you stoop to?”
“Cage-fighting is one of the most important safety valves of mass culture, you of all people know that. You also know that in my role as Chief Sociologist,” Helena took a perverse pleasure in deliberately emphasizing her title, “I need to understand it fully, and I can’t unless I experience it first-hand.”
“Rubbish! But if you insist on humiliating yourself, Chief Sociologist,” his mouth twisted petulantly as he spat the epithet out. “Wait while I change and I’ll come along to savor your demise and pick up any pieces.”
“Don’t waste your energy! Tonight is ‘Ladies’ Night.’ I’ll pick up my own pieces, and
I’ll be back when it suits me. Don’t wait up!”
She turned on her heel and stalked out without another word.
* * * * *
In a sky-cab on the way to the stadium, Helena thought about Nigel. Why had she stayed with him for so long? Was it because she still admired his intellect? He was a truly brilliant macro sociologist, and he had been a good PhD supervisor, primarily because his contempt for her research had forced her to defend it at every turn.
When she had first moved in with him, the only thing they had in common, other than their profession, was an innate determination to avoid contact with other people.
Macro sociology, the impersonal study of mass behavior, was a profession that suited Helena. She was so conditioned to negative reactions from others due to her mutation, she avoided all personal interaction. Nigel, on the other hand, was a misanthrope pure and simple, who disliked people out of habit and disposition.
Helena’s fear of the way people might respond to her had made living in the student dormitories very stressful. Then one day Nigel summoned her to his office.
“You wanted to see me, Professor Snively?”
“What? Oh yes…Ms. Jewel. Thank you for stopping by. Please sit down.”
He paused for a moment as if collecting his thoughts. Helena waited respectfully.
“Are you happy living in student accommodations, Ms. Jewel?”
“Not really professor. There isn’t a lot of privacy, and I find it hard to study.”
“Hmm, I see. It so happens I have a spare room in my apartment and I’m looking for someone interested in living in it in exchange for some small services, such as washing, cleaning and preparing my meals. Are you interested, Ms. Jewel?”
Her heart leapt. It was a way out of the dormitory.
“Yes I am, professor. Are you sure it’s me you want though?”
“I am, Ms. Jewel. I want someone quiet and unobtrusive, who’ll keep out of my way as much as possible.”
“Oh I can certainly do that professor. I spend a lot of time studying, and I’ll work hard to keep your apartment spotless.”
“I’m sure you will. Why don’t you arrange to move in this weekend?”
“Thank you so much professor; you won’t be sorry.” Smiling, Helena rose to her feet, thinking the interview over. Nigel stopped her.
“One other thing…Helena.”
“Yes, professor?”
“I’ll also want to have sex with you from time to time. You can do that, can’t you?”
“You want to have sex with me?” she said, stunned.
“Is that a problem? You needn’t move in if you’d prefer not to.”
“I…ah…no…it’s not a problem, more of a surprise. Not many people want to have sex with a gamma mutant.” For “not many” read “none.”
“From what I can see the extent of your mutation doesn’t appear too bad. Is it worse beneath your clothing?”
“Um…no…I don’t think so.”
He sighed melodramatically. “Perhaps you’d better remove your clothing and show me.”
Even now Helena regretted she hadn’t told him to go fuck himself. However she was desperate to escape the dorms, and suddenly terrified of jeopardizing her PhD by incurring her supervisor’s ire.
So she took off her clothes and stood there, like a dumb piece of meat, while he scrutinized every inch of her. She was so humiliated it was a simple matter for him to coerce her into letting him fuck her in his office.
“Just so we’re both sure we’re compatible. We wouldn’t want to make a mistake we might regret, would we Helena?”
Apart from the sex, it hadn’t been that bad. Nigel’s apartment was the closest thing she’d had to a home since her parents died.
Well, she’d taken control of other areas of her life, now she felt ready to deal with the big one. It was time for the two of them to part. Nigel’s envy at her success, which she had at first enjoyed, was becoming irritating. The book was ready to close on the Professor Nigel Snively chapter of her life. One thing she knew for sure, she wouldn’t be looking for any sort of replacement. Sex was one thing, but she didn’t want another person so close to her ever again.
Chapter Four
It was a full forty minutes before Helena’s sky-cab arrived at the cage-fight stadium in Connecticut-South—three precincts north of her home in DC-Central.
The scene on the main concourse was alarming. Thousands of citizens milled about in a tight mass. This type of crowd wasn’t to Helena’s taste, and she cringed at the thought of rubbing shoulders with so many people. It took all of her courage to step out of the cab. If an ill-tempered Nigel hadn’t been waiting at home to whine and snarl at her, she probably would have turned tail.
Taking a deep breath she stepped into the crowd and headed across the public concourse towards the stadium doors. People engulfed her. There were a few rent boys and pick-pockets about, but the throng was comprised mainly of women. Wherever Helena looked, bared breasts sported lavish nipple decorations.
Her hopes of blending in were dashed. The lower-level costume couldn’t disguise her nervousness, or her unusual beauty. Even in the swearing, sweating, colorful mass of female flesh she was noticed. Many women sneered at her. Others passed admiring comments. More than one brushed sensuously against her. She gasped when a tongue flicked out and grazed her nipple.
Jaw clenched, Helena forced her way through the throng towards the stadium entrance. Snatches of conversation separated from the hubbub of voices.
“My money’s on Greer.”
“Robson Greer? Ha! De Vos will slaughter him within a round. Then, please God, let them pick my seat number. There’s plenty I can think of to do with that stud before the week’s up.”
Helena had a vague idea what they were talking about. She’d heard of a lottery, something the promoters had decreed. Tonight, one lucky woman would take home the winning cage-fighter for a week as her personal trophy. It was an interesting idea. What would a woman do with such a man? How could she trust him not to beat, rape or slaughter her? What would her partner say? What would Nigel say? With an amused snort she dismissed the lottery from her thoughts.
When she found her seat in the huge stadium, it was with seconds to spare. Her ticket said XAL443, but when she pushed her way along the row someone else was sitting there.
“I’m sorry, you’re in my seat,” she said politely to the woman, holding out her ticket as proof.
“Don’t worry, you can have mine,” the woman replied, pointing to a seat six places along, positioned directly behind a pillar.
“I want mine, thank you, and if you don’t move, I’ll have security move you.”
Muttering loudly about stuck-up upper-level bitches, the woman pushed her way along the row. Thoroughly resigned to never fitting in, Helena sank into her chair just as the lights began to dim. Down in the floodlit well where the fight would take place, the ring announcer appeared. His voice boomed above the noise of two hundred thousand excited women packed in for the fight.
“Here it is at last ladies. The fight you’ve all been waiting for, the fight of the century. Convict Robson Greer, winner of fifteen bouts with a record of ten clean kills and five lethal maimings, matched against Convict Brandt De Vos, winner of eleven bouts, all clean kills. But before we begin, don’t forget at the end of the fight to stay in your seat for tonight’s draw, because one of you lucky ladies is going to get to take home the winner as your personal toy for the next week.”
The crowd shrieked and cheered. Helena smiled to herself. Great odds—a one in two hundred thousand chance of spending a week with a murderous psychopath.
“But now, ladies, we’re counting down to the main event. Let me hear you ladies. ARE-YOU-READY-TO-RUMBLE?”
The stadium erupted.
As the announcer’s voice died away, great cables tightened, and from out of the floor of the stadium a hidden cage began to rise. Inside stood two naked men. Helena leaned forward in her seat. Wha
t big cocks they both had! The penis of one was semi-erect. He held it obscenely and gestured at the women close to the cage. One responded by lifting her skirts to him. The other man didn’t acknowledge the crowd. His cock was almost as large without the erection. He carried himself with such dignity that naked, he appeared fully dressed. Helena studied him intensely.
When the crowd calmed down the announcer resumed speaking.
“Here they are, needing no introduction. Robson Greer is fighting out of the blue corner and Brandt De Vos out of the red. The rules are, there are no rules. They’ll go for as many three-minute rounds as it takes for one to kill the other. Last man standing gets to fight another day—after he’s been a fuck-toy for one of you lovely ladies, that is.”
The stadium echoed with breathless laughter. There was a palpable tension, part sexually charged excitement and part blood lust, in the air. There was much booing when each man was handed a groin protector.
The cage halted ten feet above floor level. At the sound of a buzzer, the two men moved warily out of their corners. Helena was impressed despite herself. They were both huge, and massively muscled. Greer had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. His face was the face of a fighter, his nose had been broken more than once, and there was a thick band of scar tissue above its bridge, evidence of a tendency towards head butting. His mighty torso was covered in a thick pelt of black hair. He walked slightly bent over with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, making Helena think of a gorilla.
De Vos was altogether different. His sandy brown hair was cut short. He had a handsome, undamaged face, and his unusual height made the great curves of muscle he carried seem perfectly in proportion. He didn’t seem real. In fact, as he moved dispassionately towards the center of the cage he seemed more like a sculpture of a Greek god come to life. Helena felt herself strangely drawn to the man. She was also a little puzzled. De Vos was familiar, she knew the name and the face, but couldn’t place him. Yet she felt she should be able to. What was it about him? She’d research him later. For now there was a fight to watch.