by Lee Bond
The Unreal Universe was in for it now.
Diax fretted. If only there was a way he could cheat, get some sideways action in without getting caught. He grabbed a slice of pizza and started eating, trying to think of some way to … get around things.
Minus Zero
When Chadsik al-Taryin caused BishopCo’s main habitat towers to go up like atom bombs just so people would leave him alone, those two billion ton towers collapsed in on themselves and fell down, down, down through the layers of civilization built so high above the rotten, abused skin of Old Earth. Everyone believed –for about a minute- that the world was coming to a proper, bitter end.
When the smoke cleared, though, and the devastation was fully understood –and Trinity stopped everyone from looting valuable BishopCo debris- it seemed to the rich and powerful people living heavenly lives above the demonic wastrels that lived so far below that, at long last, the chapter that was known as Ground Zero could be closed forever; owing to Jordan’s keen interest in keeping the cesspool of villainy and abuse going no matter the wishes of the other illuminati of Old Earth, that wretched spot of humanity had been allowed to grow too large and unwieldy for anyone’s like. Thankfully most of the crude world had flourished directly beneath BishopCo’s main towers and hardly anywhere else.
How could ‘Ground Zero’ survive such a calamity? Millions and millions of tons of ferrocrete and steel VI and all the other … detritus that came from four megalithic towers crashing through the unstable crust of the earth was the closest thing to divine justice anyone in Zanzibar had ever seen!
Surely Ground Zero –and all her whores, and thieves, and pimps, and drug dealers- had perished!
Alas, those living high above in their cloud-wreathed towers, with their technology and their AI minds telling them what to do, where to go, how to do it, they didn’t truly understand what it meant to be a Ground Zero native.
There was a point where you’d fallen so far that you had to get back up again. Some whispering little voice in the back of the mind spoke up, insisted that if you weren’t dying, if you could defend yourself even a tiny little bit, then you got off your ass and started living once more.
Certainly, when the habitats had fallen, it’d been a tragedy. Hundreds of thousands of dead Bishop employees and their families –not to mention exorbitantly expensive machinery and equipment- all gone in an instant. Official enquiries into the matter revealed a botched attempt in moving the heart of the mighty Bishop Conglomerate further away from the encroaching outer lines of hostile Conglomerates. So botched, in fact, that both Trinity and Arielle Bishop had unanimously concluded that any attempts in recovering anything was –to be blunt- a complete waste of time. Out of ‘concern’ for the ‘safety, wellbeing and profitability’ of interested third parties, Trinity Itself had issued many decrees and warnings prohibiting any Earthbound Conglomerates and their affiliates from making any of their own attempts.
And certainly, when the eons-old structured Domes built by post-Exodus, pre-Dark Age man that’d comprised the main fortifications of Ground Zero had broken apart like rusted old piñatas, allowing all that death and destruction to crash downwards atop the unlucky Zeroites, killing citizens indiscriminately, it really had seemed like the end of Ground Zero…
Except …
Except not everyone in those habitats died. Not every one of the old Zeroites got crushed. Not every inch of the hallowed and hollowed and haunted Ground Zero was destroyed.
For many who found themselves in Ground Zero, their fall from grace wasn’t quite so literal, making the few dozens of thousands who did survive the perilous, awful, life-changing descent scarred in ways that regular folk just didn’t understand; the very top of the world brushed against the very thinnest layers of the Earth’s atmosphere, making the downward journey miles and miles and miles of falling.
You fall that far without dying, you start thinking about your life. You start making promises. Bargains. Threats.
So when the dust settled and the face of Ground Zero became irrevocably changed by the addition of those collapsed towers that brought with them the promise of new goodies to be scavenged, old Zeroites and new Zeroites –once they were pulled from the wreckage and had their new lives explained to them fully- began the arduous process of rebuilding, changing the name of their illegal and misbegotten city to Minus Zero because they’d all learned one important thing from all that death.
You really could fall further than Ground Zero. You just needed the proper push.
In the middle of expansion and recovery, diligent and patient Zeroites found White Spider.
Once people stopped dying and a radius of the White Spider’s influence was discovered and human enterprise and spirit being what it was, a new form of commerce and entertainment was developed and the call went out through the underground networks of Zanzibar.
And a Dome went up, because …
***
“Because of course a fucking Dome.” The hooded figure spat. “Just fucking once I’d like to see something different.”
“Say again, friend?”
“They say,” the heavily cloaked figure said softly, his words hard to understand through the wrap covering his head, “that you can find anything at all in Minus Zero. They say Exodites come down here in secret to look over the wares the deep tunnel scavengers dig up, heedless of the risks, ignorant of the death that awaits. They say Minus Zero is a doorway into the past.”
Cuanso Selpon squinted his one good eye at the burly freak who was covered from head to toe in form and face-concealing layers of fabric. Probably an Exodite his own self, looking for something that not even he could admit to wanting. With The Falling ripping open great new sores in the earth beneath their feet, fresh tunnels were being dug or discovered every day. “They say that, they do.”
The stranger shifted a bit. “I’m wondering…”
“What is it you’re looking for?” Cuanso asked, cutting the dance and shuffle short; the next match was destined to begin soon and he wanted to get his bets in before time was up. He had a real good feeling about the Offworld merc who’d come specially from somewhere else to have a chance at killing White Spider.
“I’m wondering if anyone has a fucking copy of Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome and a good fucking copyright lawyer, because that,” Garth N’Chalez pointed a blunt forefinger at the wireframe Dome situated right in the middle of a vast, open area, “is some kind of special, fucked up bullshit right there. The only thing missing are the adult-sized Jolly Jumpers and I swear by all that is holy, Cuanso, if there is a fucking midget around here somewhere, I will kill all of you, because I am done with freaky midgets.”
Cuanso dug a finger in his ear and wiggled it about. “How d’you know my name?”
“Hm?” Garth shrugged. “Oh. Hah. Did you know that even down here, people leave a footprint in the datasphere? If you know where to look, you can see everything. You, for example, were, once upon a time, a fifteenth-tier accountant for BishopCo, specifically in charge of petty cash purchases. And here you are now. Down under the ground, deep into this new life you’ve carved for yourself. You came up with the idea of the Thunderdome, didn’t you?”
Cuanso wanted to argue against the name the stranger kept calling his pet project, but the word Thunderdome echoed through him. Licking his lips nervously, he nodded. “I did. You got a problem with that?”
The fight promoter looked around and made eye contact with a few of the heavy-hitting thugs he hired to protect him around the clock; a small percentage of people who made their way to see the White Spider fight imagined themselves as being more fundamentally suited to running the game than he was. The largest of his bodyguards nodded, and made preparations just in case things went squirrely in a hurry.
“Who? Me?” Garth shook his head. “Everybody’s gotta make money, right? It’s not like I’m an Enforcer or anything, come down here to bust your balls for forcing some weird thing you found to fight day in and day out or
anything. That’d be weird. No…”
“Listen, friend…”
“No.” Garth repeated sternly. “We ain’t friends. I won’t have friends ever again. Now, before you interrupted me, I was going to say I’d like a chance to fight this … White Spider character.”
“Anything is possible.” Cuanso bowed humbly, all fear and concern over his personal wellbeing dissipating, replaced by excitement at the possible addition of new coin. When he’d first started out arranging fights between Zeroites and Spider, he honestly hadn’t been all that skilled in judging a person’s capabilities, but over the course of two years, Cuanso imagined he now owned a unique talent in gauging how good someone really was, as opposed to how they saw themselves. The burly, cloaked and covered man before him, though, wasn’t giving any indications of … anything. Except that curious comment about the datasphere and knowledge better left kept secret. “What do they call you? Or what do you call yourself?”
Garth thought of all the names he’d acquired over the years. Nickels. Captain. Specter. Engineer. Scourge. Fish. Onyx Brigadier. They stuck to him and wouldn’t let go, and after having been through Arcade City’s pitiless gauntlet of Dark Iron introspection, he reckoned the worst of the names and the worst of the deeds that went along with that needed to stay right where they were. Trying to hide from Specter only made things worse.
The Engineer blinked. “Sorry. Million miles away. Fish. They call me Fish.”
Cuanso scoffed loudly. “Well, that sure is a terrible name, Fish. Now assuming I let you fight Spider, what makes you think you got what it takes? You already wasted enough of my time so I couldn’t get in to make bets, which is really upsetting.”
Garth cocked his head to one side. “Betting against your own fighter? Isn’t that unethical?”
Cuanso gestured to the roaring crowds surrounding his … Thunderdome. Half, it seemed, were chanting ‘Spider’ slowly, splitting the name into two long syllables, while the other half were doing the same for Zorbak the Offworlder; a rebuilt holographic emitter set into the top of the wireframe dome spat and stuttered with still images of the stocky Offworlder. Had Spider met his match? It seemed that a lot of people in the audience believed so, making the lost chance at placing a bet all the more irritating. “You want ethics, you climb topside, Fish. No one cares who bets on what, as long as debt is paid, and in full, when the debtor comes knocking.”
“Believe me, Cuanso,” Garth sighed heavily, “I know all about debts.” God, he was doing it himself, now. He was being cryptic. “Anyways, you asked why I think I have what it takes to last in the ring against White Spider, right?”
Cuanso nodded, then looked over his shoulder at one of his bodyguards, who returned a quizzical shrug: the chanting was going on and on, which meant that Zorbak the Offworlder hadn’t come out of his little prep area. “Give me a minute, Fish, I need to…”
Garth pulled the head he’d been hiding under his voluminous cloak and dropped it to the ground, where it thumped a meaty thump. Zorbak the Gorundian’s –a form of space-faring Ent, of all things- lifeless pale green eyes looked up accusatorily at him. The Kin’kithal silently told the severed head to shut it. Individual deaths didn’t matter, so long as the majority of the Universe survived to … be passed through.
The Zeroites around them both took one look at the head on the ground and did that thing that people who live their lives one step away from the law did by almost literally fading into the woodwork. Garth appreciated the talent. It was one he used to be able to deploy, but sadly, the Unreal Universe wanted him front and center until things were all over and done with.
“Fuck me.” Cuanso bit back a surge of hot bile. He hadn’t been this close to anything dead since the first few days after climbing, shaken, battered, bruised and more than a little desperate, from his shattered apartment to gaze upon his new home; then, there’d been corpses everywhere, lain side by side and end to end by the old Zeroites as they searched for anything worthwhile. Retching, stumbling off to one side, Cuanso gratefully accepted help upright by Vaggro, his head of security.
Garth nodded and smiled pleasantly at the guards who approached with stun batons raised. Two stood a little further back, dinky little laser pistols in their hands. “Now, Cuanso,” he said slowly, “I want to make you a very rich man, and I can do that by fighting your White Spider.”
“You killed Zorbak!” Cuanso nudged the severed head with a toe. Weird luminescent green blood squirted out of a veiny tendril. Beside him, Vaggro made a strange noise in the back of his throat.
In the background, the chanting grew … bored, reminding the fight promoter that everyone was assembled to see someone get killed most impressively. “Vaggro, make an announcement. Tell them … tell them that the fight has been delayed pending the approval of a new, better fighter. Talk to the bookies, make sure they understand that if they don’t give everyone back their money, they’ll find it remarkably difficult to take bets for Thunderdome without any fingers. You.” He pointed a finger at ‘Fish’ as Vaggro walked off to dispatch his duties. “Give me a better name. I ain’t telling everyone that some idiot named Fish is fighting Spider. That is guaranteed to make me a laughing stock.”
A name presented itself for Garth. He laughed. It fit. The chances of anyone in the underground city recognizing it were … impossible. “Galactus.”
Cuanso nodded slowly at first, then quicker. “Good name. Galactus versus the White Spider. Sounds …”
“Like a goddamn comic book.” Garth interrupted.
Vaggro’s gravelly voice broke out over the local PA system, drowning out anything he might have to say next. The bodyguard’s semi-apologetic announcement that Zorbak had met with an unhappy surprise before having his chance at fame and fortune disappointed the audience, but not too much; dozens of people a week struggled to get their name on the list to fight Spider, only to change their minds at the last minute. As with everything in Minus Zero, a new fool would step forward soon enough.
Cuanso wanted to ask what a comic book was, but shook his head instead. “Fine. Whatever. Now, before I actually agree to let you fight White Spider, how exactly do you plan on making me a rich man? Don’t forget that you just cost me a lot mon…” the promoter’s drab eyes fell on Zorbak’s lifeless head.
“I have a ship. In The Yard.” ‘The Yard’ was actually one of the few open points Minus Zero had with the rest of the planet, and it was the closest thing to an illegal spaceport as you were likely to find on Old Earth that wasn’t being run by insanely wealthy Exodites; with the collapse of the towers and the influx of so many new people and so much … stuff, much of it unusable by the eternally low-tech society, several brave men and women had started up a black market courier company, voluntarily flying their goods to points around Zanzibar and occasionally –very occasionally, given the shield protecting the planet from harm- to one of the other planets or space stations. It wasn’t entirely lucrative yet, but Cuanso, budding criminal genius that he was, owned part of The Yard.
Cuanso’s eyes shone. He pulled out his handheld and quickly went through the roster of vessels most recently added to The Yard’s lot. Nothing of interest, nothing worth … he looked at ‘Galactus’ dubiously. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” Garth nodded once, sternly. “Big to do over at Arcade City. Dome came down, I was part of the team. Saw my chance and took the ship.”
“You stole a reclamation ship from Tynedale/Fujihara.” Growing wonder crept into Cuanso’s words. “And came here? I …”
Garth put a hand on Cuanso’s trembling arm. “Relax, pal. This isn’t my first rodeo. I deactivated all the trackers, spies, snoops, sniffers, what the fuck ever else might have your panties in a bunch. Plus, the not-very-friendly Alax took his sweet ass time fucking around looking for anything I might’ve missed. Big bad Tynedale/Fujihara ain’t coming this way. Won’t for a couple days. More than enough time for your scavs to break the ship down. Alax as much admitted to me that you could find buyer
s for everything in less than an hour.”
Cuanso licked his lips. The AI on the ship alone would be worth a fortune! Enough to … he looked around at his dirty, dingy, unkempt and awful home. Two years wasn’t too long, but it was getting to be long enough that it took some serious effort to remember his old life. Hawking an AI sphere to some up Top … he could return to Heaven. “What’re your terms? What are we actually talking about, here?”
Garth smiled, all teeth. “Well, Cuanso, I’m not stupid and neither are you. No matter how thorough I’ve been in deactivating T/F’s trackers, when the madness happening on Arcade City comes to a close and they’ve had a chance to look around, they’re going to notice one of their ships is missing. They’ll track the engine emissions.”
“Or AI connection logs.” Cuanso supplied. “They can do that, too.”
Garth nodded. “Sure. They could totally do that. My point is, buddy, that no matter what, I’ve got to get rid of that ship, right?” He continued when Cuanso allowed as how that made perfect sense. “So this is what I’m saying. I’m saying that if I win, we divvy up the sale of the ship, fifty-fifty.”
Cuanso snorted so hard he thought he’d done himself an injury. “Seventy-thirty, excluding the AI sales.”
Garth let the moment grow long, staring thoughtfully at a point just above Cuanso’s balding head, careful in making certain that his billion-yard stare didn’t creep out and psychically savage the poor broker until he was a drooling three year old. He fidgeted, pretended like he was weighing his options –which were zero, really-, had a fake conversation with himself and generally wasted just enough time to turn Cuanso the tiniest bit fidgety. Then, “Sixty-forty?”
“Look, Galactus,” Cuanso snapped forcefully, “you and I both know you aren’t going to make it out of the Thunderdome,” he ignored the amused smirk on the other man’s face at the strange-sounding yet fitting word, “in one piece, so all this bartering is doing is wasting our time. In the improbable chance you somehow magically manage to survive in the ring against White Spider, you get thirty percent of the profits from the piece sale of your stolen ship. I’ll cut you in for ten percent of the house winnings from the bets, because I’m feeling generous. Hell. If you win and manage to walk out of the ring on your own two feet with all your body parts intact, I’ll set you up in Manner’s Grove in lavish style until we get everything sold off, on the house. That’s the deal. Accept it or don’t, and if you don’t, kindly get your ship off my Yard. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”