Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “Of course, of course. Just an irritating advertising partner who can’t take a hint.”

  That was all Mark could hope to get for the moment, and further inquiries would draw suspicion. Though it was significant in that doing business with any of the Chinese Republics was presently illegal.

  Mark turned to Crayton.

  “Mr. Crayton, can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Cameron, please. I have enough people calling me Mr. Crayton all day.”

  “Sure,” Mark said, but didn’t rephrase. Instead he just asked, “What made you want to get into this?”

  “Into what?” Crayton said. “Sports entertainment?”

  “Uh, yes, but this new kind you’ve invented. With … high stakes,” Mark clarified.

  “You don’t have to dance around it, Mark,” Crayton said. “You’re one of the few risking your neck out there after all.”

  “Fine,” Mark said, with Crayton giving him some leeway to be direct. “The deathmatches. Why not just buy a sports team? Or get into porn like everyone else?” He gestured toward the writhing women on stage.

  He knew he wouldn’t get the real story, but he wanted to see how Crayton reacted when probed, and what his rehearsed answer would be.

  Crayton smiled, but it was different. It almost seemed genuine.

  “You’re a smart man, Mark, so I’ll be straight with you. I suppose I’m supposed to say the money. That’s part of it, to be sure, but it’s more than that. To me, it’s hope. It’s healing. It’s honor. To you as well, I believe. Or else why would you be here?”

  That was a trap Mark almost fell in.

  “More competitive than sports, more entertaining than porn, then?”

  Crayton tilted his head back and forth.

  “To some. Traditional sporting events are dying, even if they all don’t realize it yet. I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself, with every league in disarray, trying to draw fresh eyes with brawls and rule-bending. Pornography is the current mainstream trend, yes, but what real challenge is there to producing that?”

  “I suppose it’s pretty straightforward,” Mark said, nodding.

  “But this?” Crayton continued. “Convincing brave men and women they want to die for glory or money, and convincing the public they want to cheer for it? That’s taken some doing.”

  Like bribing two branches of government and killing off members of the third, Mark thought. Crayton continued.

  “But do you know what I realized the secret is?” he asked. Mark was suddenly intrigued.

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s pre-packaged war. The most entertaining spectacle of all.”

  Mark was confused.

  “How do you mean?”

  Crayton sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his lap.

  “What were the two most significant conflicts of the last fifteen years?”

  “The Iran Incursion and Cold War II,” Mark answered automatically.

  “And how many American lives were lost in each?”

  “Eight hundred in Iran. Thirty-three in China,” Mark said, repeating the official tally. Naturally he knew both statistics were bullshit.

  “Those numbers are low, thankfully, the lowest they’ve been for any major ‘war’ in ages. We’re mostly fighting with robots and drones and computer viruses now.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Mark said, eyebrow raised.

  “Of course not,” Crayton said. “But it’s left the public hungry. Hungry for heroes. For glory. For blood.”

  “Both wars had heroes,” Mark said, starting to get a bit hot.

  “Of course,” Crayton said. “But what was their reward when they got home? What was yours? A paltry check from the government and being forced into working for a mercenary outfit?”

  Mark paused to consider it, and imagined how he should react given his cover.

  “And I’m one of the lucky ones,” Mark said, slowly getting where Crayton was going with this.

  “I’m glad you’re smart enough to realize that,” Crayton said. “Others work for minimum wage or live on the streets. Our veterans! I’ve seen men pawn their medals for food.”

  For liquor or drugs, more like, Mark thought.

  “And as brave as you all were, there was no glory in those wars. Iran was a rap on the knuckles for threatening Israel. We poked China until it ate itself to ensure our continued economic dominance. Before that, Afghanistan, Iraq, Korea, Vietnam. All those lives, for what? All those heroes that came back damaged, broken, forgotten.”

  Crayton grew silent, but the bass still pumped throughout the stadium. The Muses continued to rhythmically swordfight with fluttering ribbons.

  “So how do we create new heroes? How do we inspire a nation fatigued by pointless violence meant to make the rich richer, and little else?”

  “The Crucible?” Mark offered, following Crayton’s twisted logic.

  “In here, we will contain war. We will fight not with nations, but with individuals. Here we offer the chance to live forever. To grant the brave and their loved ones the rewards they deserve.”

  “But it’s entertainment,” Mark said, gesturing toward the dancing Muses.

  “All war is,” Crayton said, “whether the public will admit it or not. How high were ratings of the livestreams when we first marched into Iran? How many people waved flags like America was a sports team to cheer on? But it was all futile. A pointless conflict with more pointless deaths. We want to feel proud again, and no war has achieved that since we toppled Hitler.”

  “Millions died to make that happen,” Mark said.

  “And now millions don’t have to!” Crayton countered. “Don’t you see? Only a few, and it will energize the nation in a way that we haven’t seen in nearly a century.”

  Mark was silent, he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to be a grinning sycophant, but didn’t want to be overly aggressive either.

  “For too long we’ve rewarded bravery with empty gestures,” Crayton continued. “Flags and fireworks. The Crucible will shower the country’s bravest warriors with millions, and their names will live forever.”

  And you’ll make money hand over fist, Mark thought. The rich get richer.

  “That’s why I’m here, I guess,” Mark said, deciding it was best to placate him. “I feel like I’m owed more than I got.”

  “You are, my friend,” Crayton said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are.”

  As the dancers left the stage, Crayton turned to chat with the round-faced guest seated at his right, the mayor of Chicago.

  Crayton was good, Mark realized. That entire speech was tailored directly to him. If Mark was the man he was pretending to be, he no doubt would have been moved by the whole “heroes that get what they deserve” speech, crafted for a wounded vet who had lost everything. Hell, part of it actually spoke to Mark, the true Mark, who had lost even more than this false version of himself had. Wasn’t he owed more?

  But it was all bullshit, of course. Sure, there were veterans and soldiers alike in the Crucible, but what about the athletes? The actors? The martial artists? The Prison Wars murderers? Crayton’s logic fell apart there, and Mark was sure if anyone else had been sitting beside him, he’d have an entirely different tale planned for them.

  Still, Crayton wasn’t wrong about war, nor the public’s perception of it. China’s collapse after The Red Death was one of the most profound American victories in the country’s history, but where were the parades? Where were the medals for soldiers like him who fought only in the dark? There were none. Nothing short of a full-scale invasion and a few atom bombs would have satisfied the public’s need to see heroes kill and villains die. China’s demise was too clean on its surface, and Iran was little more than a quick sucker punch. No wonder they were so rabid when the Crucible came along. Crayton had indeed picked his moment well, Mark had to admit. But that didn’t make him anything more than a snake offering the hungry a poisoned apple.

&
nbsp; Mark’s train of thought was interrupted by a ping from his phone. He slid it out of his pocket and read Brooke’s message.

  “I think Drescher has 47 lbs on Carlo. I wished him luck!”

  It was code. It meant there were forty-seven cell signatures in the room. She was supposed to let him know when that number was at its probable max. The mention of “luck” meant go. Mark looked around and saw that everyone had in fact taken their seats ahead of the imminent start of the fight, and no one else was coming or going. He flicked to the correct symbol in his homescreen, a decoy photo editing program, and opened it. He watched for six seconds as his phone leeched all the data from all mobile devices in the room. Thousands of terabytes were uploaded to Brooke in almost an instant.

  Another message appeared. “Great view I’m sure,” it said. More code. The transfer was a success, and she’d begin decrypting immediately. A message about food would have been a signal to retry. If somehow anyone was monitoring his phone, the conversation would have looked innocuous.

  Mark briefly scrolled through the list of transferred data. A phone registered to Crayton himself was there, as were a dozen and a half other Crayton Media-issued devices including flexscreens and S-lenses like the ones Axton wore. A potential goldmine, depending on what they revealed when cracked. Mark slid his phone back into the pocket of his suit and the lights dimmed. A bombastic dance track starting blaring, and a spotlight shone on Carlo entering the crowd from the dugout area, smiling as wide as Mark had ever seen.

  13

  MARK SPRINTED THROUGH THE corridors of the stadium past fans in the refreshment lines gawking at the monitors. His heart was racing as he tried to remember the blueprints, which he’d only glanced at during mission prep, and figure out a way to get down to the main field. He spotted an “employees only” door and slid through it as a dazed vendor walked out rubbing his mouth.

  “Jesus,” the man was muttering aloud.

  Drescher didn’t have forty-seven pounds on Carlo. It was more like a hundred. It was the reason that normal fighting events had weight classes, rounds, and referees. So disasters like this couldn’t happen.

  Mark took a hard right and blew past a dusty row of broken seats that had been extracted during a recent renovation. He ignored Brooke’s messages, which he only saw part of as he glanced at his phone during his full sprint.

  “MARK DON’T—” was all he could see, but he knew the rest. He didn’t care.

  Carlo’s technical sophistication and speed had eventually counted for nothing the moment Drescher finally landed his first punch, six minutes in. It sent the kid rocketing back into the glass, and he was too dazed to block the follow-up hook. Mark saw his eyes roll back in his head before he hit the mat.

  But that wasn’t the end. By Drescher’s third punch, to an already downed, unconscious Carlo, the chime sounded. Then the kicks began. One. Two. Three. Thunderous football punts directly into the crucifix on Carlo’s back like Drescher was trying to kick Christ off the cross. The in-ring mics picked up the sound of bone cracking. By that point Mark had already leapt from his seat next to Crayton and was out the door by the time the ring’s gate opened and security began wrestling Drescher away.

  “That’ll teach you to eyeball me you fuckin’ spic!” was the last thing Mark heard Drescher bellow. Fuck the mission. Fuck everything. He would kill him.

  Mark had finally made it to the ground floor, and followed the signs to a dark hallway where the dancing Muse girls were standing around looking frightened, not knowing if their finale was canceled due to the EMTs flooding the area.

  Blowing past them all, Mark ran into a wall of security guarding the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Sir, this area is—” one began before Mark stiff-armed him in the chest. He spun wildly down to the ground and the other three guards drew their tasers. Mark dodged their electric swings and disappeared into the floor crowd before they could stop him.

  Stumbling through the seating outside the ring, Mark ripped away bodies as he made his way to the glass enclosure near where the pitcher’s mound would normally be. When he reached the edge, he saw Carlo’s mother sobbing. The cousins were emulating her wails. His aunt was trying to shield his brother from looking into the ring. Diego caught his eye as Mark pushed past more security and climbed the steps to the ring.

  Carlo was wearing a plastic neck brace and wasn’t moving. His eyes were swollen shut, and Mark prayed he was only unconscious. Mark saw one of the EMTs with a mobile heart rate monitor on his wrist, and watched the lines rise and fall far apart from one another. Too far apart.

  Mark whipped around and looked for Drescher, but the only trace of him were bloodied size fourteen footprints leading out of the ring. They’d taken him away long before Mark had reached the floor. He was probably already in an autolimo by now and Mark was furious he’d missed him.

  Mark knelt beside Carlo and watched his chest rise and fall ever so slightly. EMTs were screaming at him to clear the area, but he couldn’t hear them or the rest of the crowd.

  Until suddenly, he stopped and listened. They were cheering. They were fucking cheering.

  The ride to the hospital was a blur. Even in its so-called emergency mode the autocab would only go five over the limit. Mark had been practically thrown from the ambulance, but he made sure that Carlo’s mother Maria rode inside with Diego. His aunt and cousins followed with Mark in a painfully slow autocab.

  The hospital was bright and deathly quiet at the late hour, even in the emergency wing. All hands were on deck to receive Carlo, who, according to a shaken Maria, had reportedly died for a minute in the ambulance before he was shocked back to life.

  The doctors were trying to firm up their diagnoses, but all agreed on a few points. Carlo had sustained severe damage to his neck and spine and had broken at least four ribs and one of his legs. But it was hard to get a full gauge of his potential pain or mobility status because he simply would not wake up. He was being taken to a brain scan when Mark finally answered his phone.

  “What?”

  “Mark,” Brooke said. “You need to come in.”

  “I’m with the Riveras.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “You’re worried about the mission.”

  “That too.”

  Mark stalked down the hallway, his body wired despite the late hour.

  “I don’t give a damn about the mission. That wasn’t a fight. That was a hate crime.”

  “Mark, you knew this is what this was. And this won’t even be as bad as it gets. We have the phones now and—”

  “I don’t care about the goddamn phones!”

  Mark remembered now why for years he’d tried not to get attached to anyone. Now, someone who had barely been an acquaintance not that long ago was nearly dead and causing him to lose his mind. It was like it was happening all over again.

  “I need the night off, for Christ’s sake.” He calmed his voice down a bit, knowing that would reassure her. “I have a fight in a day and a half. I’m still on track. Crack the phones. Let me know what’s in them and we’ll go from there.”

  “Alright,” Brooke said, sounding a bit more hopeful. “But come in tomorrow morning. Gideon wants to meet.”

  “Fine,” Mark said. “This better be worth it.”

  “You want to make Crayton pay? Stay with the mission and bring him down. The right way.”

  Mark hung up.

  Carlo’s scans would take hours, and most of the exhausted Riveras were asleep in his room. He was way too jittery to sleep.

  I need a goddamn drink.

  A few hours later, Mark had no idea where he was. He remembered a blinking neon sign with a brand of beer he liked. Opening bleary eyes, he saw a bottle of that beer in front of him. Beyond it sat a dozen and a half overturned shotglasses. He tried to swear, but his brain lost the word halfway through.

  Some yelling, a punch. Concrete scraping his palms. When he came too again, he was wandering the aisles of a liquor s
tore, a bottle of something brown in his right hand, and something clear in his left.

  There was no clerk. Just another faceless robotic monolith demanding payment. This one actually required a breath test to sell alcohol, but Mark waved his phone in front of it and a military-grade hacking tool fried the circuits of the whole unit. He stumbled out the door and into a waiting autocab.

  He couldn’t feel his face. Or his hands or feet. He felt nauseous and couldn’t remember how many times he’d thrown up already. The stain patterns on his shirt said at least twice. He wobbled toward the line of a thumping club, and pair of bald, burly bouncers dragged him by the neck away from a gaggle of laughing girls in short dresses. To free himself, Mark tried an elaborate judo throw, which only managed to rip one of the bouncer’s shirts, and it was Mark that got tossed into a wall instead.

  It was getting darker, if that was even possible. The moments felt like years. He was staring at water, though he couldn’t tell if it was a river or a lake or a drainage ditch. He threw away the remaining empty bottle in his hand, which sank silently. He went to throw something else away but stopped when he realized it was his phone. And then he did it anyway, the slim, glowing piece of plastic disappearing into the black water after sailing twenty feet through the air.

  Where are you, Riko?

  Why did you have to go?

  He realized he was speaking out loud, yelling at the night itself.

  “Because I deserved it,” he said. “And now I’m in hell.”

  HE HAD DAMNED HIMSELF in China, of course. After Zhou had surgically removed his soul through weeks of torture, there was nothing left but a shell. The training hadn’t prepared him for that. Nothing could have. No one would have gone knowing that was in store, and they had to have known that. But if he didn’t finish the mission, there was no point to it all, and he’d never see Riko again, or meet Asami. It was the only thing that kept him sane.

  But the horror had only begun.

  “My superiors believe your desire to turn is genuine,” Zhou said. Thankfully there was no knife in his hand, which was a rarity. “The information you’ve provided has been very helpful to them, they say.”