by Paul Tassi
“Buy me a drink?” she said with a sarcastic smile as he approached
“Mine are free,” Mark said. The crowd parted and dispersed as they went to the bar.
“What’ll it be, lovely?” Rayne said, not even breaking a sweat despite the insanity at the counter.
“Whatever … that is,” Brooke said, pointing at the remnants of Mark’s drink.
“Coming right up,” Rayne said. “Mark, we’re going to need to have a chat about this one later,” she said, jerking her head toward Brooke. “You’ve been a sad sack this whole time with this girl living across the hall from you? Sorry, but you’ll get no more sympathy from me from here on out.”
Mark grinned and Brooke laughed, carefully avoiding a snort. She’d had a few as well, it seemed. Gideon would be so disappointed in the pair of them.
“You could at least look like you’re enjoying yourself,” she said as Rayne handed her the drink and waved away her money. She skipped across the bar to take a new order.
“I actually am!” Mark said. “I promise. Thanks for coming. At least I know one person who doesn’t work here.”
“Well, everyone here wants to know you, that’s for sure,” Brooke said, motioning toward a gaggle of girls in impossibly short shorts glancing his way in the corner of the room.
“Christ, are they even eighteen? Does Rayne babysit them?”
Brooke laughed.
“You’re handling this all pretty well, I have to say.”
“You mean other than going on a bender and drunkenly fighting a Nazi and cracking his windpipe in front of thirty million people?”
“Yeah, other than that.”
They finished their drinks.
AT THE END OF the night, Mark did in fact bring Brooke home. But given that they practically lived next door to one another, it was hardly some sort of great conquest. They were in Brooke’s apartment for a change, and she lay on her couch with her arm draped across her face. Mark had taken up residence on the floor, the ceiling starting to spin above him. Looking left and right he saw mounds of animal fur that had evolved into tumbleweed-like shapes under the furniture.
“God, I am not in college anymore,” Brooke moaned. “I don’t know how you drink so much.”
“It’s not a skill I would recommend acquiring,” Mark slurred.
Brook lunged across the table to fumble for her flexscreen.
“Should we go over mission brief—”
She tried to bring the screen to the couch, but her grip slipped and it ended up smacking Mark in the face as he lay on the floor.
“Ow! What the hell?”
“I’m sorry!” Brooke choked out, but she was laughing uncontrollably. Mark rubbed his forehead and smiled. Brooke covered her mouth with her hand, but couldn’t stop giggling.
“And no, no goddamn mission briefings. We can take one night off, can’t we?”
“I’m not sure how effective a strategy session would be right now anyway,” Brooke said, finally controlling her laugher.
Mark was silent for a while, folding his hands on his chest. His flight left in what, five hours? At least it was a private jet, so he could show up five minutes beforehand if he wanted. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he woke up for it at all.
“I still can’t process how insane this assignment is,” he said.
Brooke peered over the side of the couch, resting her head on her hands.
“You know whatever’s going on, he has to be stopped.”
“I know,” Mark said. “But at this point, I’m starting to think he needs a bullet in the head more than a trial. Money can buy justice. Or rather, injustice, if the need arises.”
“The parameters could change. It could be on the table. But I’d like to avoid spending my thirties in a cell somewhere,” Brooke said. She looked at him and cringed, clearly remembering his Chinese imprisonment. “Oooh, sorry,” she said.
Mark waved her off.
“You get a pass for being my guardian angel the last few years.”
With the light above her streaming through her long, blonde curls, she did look rather angelic. Mark felt a powerful urge to kiss her. And not for the first time, he realized. He felt a sharp twinge of guilt.
She disappeared back over the couch, and Mark soon heard long, deep breathing. She was out, and he closed his eyes and let himself drift away as well.
17
SOME DAYS, MARK COULDN’T quite understand the trajectory of his own life. Five years ago he’d been sucking the bone marrow out of rats to keep himself alive in a freezing underground cell. Today, he was sitting in a plush recliner on a private jet being served champagne by what appeared to be a runway model wearing a flight attendant’s uniform.
Now that the finalists were chosen, Crayton was escalating things further, apparently giving each the royal treatment before their nearly inevitable death. For Mark that involved a private flight to Las Vegas in one of Crayton’s many personal aircraft, a brand new vertical-takeoff N-jet that was practically silent. The thing was more spaceship than passenger transport, and it was like being in a floating dining room in the sky, complete with ornate furniture bolted all around the cabin and, somehow, a motion-stabilized chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was exactly as absurd as he expected from Cameron Crayton. Even more so when he realized there were probably fifteen other identical jets in the air, each ferrying their winning combatant to Vegas. As the half dozen flawless flight attendants smiled in his direction from the rear of the plane, he wagered they would probably take more than just his drink order if he asked them.
Instead, he thumbed through article after article about Crayton on his flexscreen, learning how the man had supposedly made his billions through almost prescient investments in every kind of company under the sun. Before he formed CMI, Wall Street had christened him the “Believer,” a man who had faith in tiny companies that almost always blew up after being graced by the golden touch of his investment. A nano-tech firm specializing in robotic surgery that today led the field. An autocar manufacturer, which rose to put old giants out of business. Hell, Mark learned that he’d even been an early investor in JavaSpot, the coffee place that put millions of baristas out of work with its automatic dispensers. The man had fingers in every pie by the time he was thirty, and used the fortune to start CMI, drawn to mass media by what he deemed “a natural inclination toward showmanship,” which was the understatement of the century. His investments grew alongside his business, and he was currently the eighteenth richest man in the world. Mark suspected he was probably higher on that list if anyone could actually manage a full audit of his assets. Most men in his position inflated their net worth when they could, but Crayton tried to downplay his at every turn. Mark made a mental note that Brooke should investigate other early investors in the companies Crayton had “believed in” decades earlier. He was either King Midas himself, or had the biggest streak of luck Mark had ever seen in picking winners. Alternatively, it seemed possible someone was crafting his luck for him, perhaps.
The flight was short, and two drinks later, Mark had touched down at a private tarmac outside the Vegas Strip. Even from a distance, he could see the looming, shrouded shape of Crayton’s Colosseum in the desert. From Brooke’s intel reports, the outer shell had been finished in record time, with more than a few worker deaths hushed up by CMI after they forced the crews to work at a breakneck pace. The interior and outer grounds were still under construction and would be through the rest of summer ahead of the main event. But Crayton wanted to broadcast that the stadium was coming along swimmingly, hence the forthcoming reveal of the façade, which had been constructed under the secrecy of massive tarps and screens, only bits and pieces poking through to the sunlight. Spy footage from the press only showed an arch here, a bank of windows there. But now it had apparently come together enough to make a big press event out of it, which was where Mark was currently heading.
After that, it was straight to Crayton’s compound for … well, Mark sti
ll had no clue, much to his dismay. “Training,” was the only buzzword that kept coming up in hacked internal messages. Reportedly Crayton was flying in people from all over the world to Vegas, not just the combatants themselves. Support staff? It was never made explicitly clear in any of his messages to his underlings. There were also a lot of references made to something called “The Crucible: Heroes and Legends,” which was pitched as “Stage II” of the grand tournament, with qualifiers being the first. It also sounded suspiciously like the name of potential TV show, so Mark guessed that whatever was coming, it would be broadcast nationwide.
It was a bizarre feeling to have grown sick of seeing his own face on TV, but there he was, sitting in an autolimo on the way to the Colosseum, staring at a screen where a panel of forty-something women on an entertainment show were debating the ranking order of the “hotness” of the Crucible’s male combatants. Chase Cassidy led the pack, naturally, and Mark found himself in sixth place out of thirteen, sandwiched between Miami boxer Asher Mendez and Salt Lake victor Moses Morton, a burly, bald white man with a prominent mustache who had knocked out a Prison Wars fighter in his final.
“Mark Wei over Morton?” one woman said. “But those shoulders Moses has, my god! I just can’t get enough.”
“I’m not sure he’d flip sides for you, honey,” another woman said. “He and his husband have been married twenty years this June.”
“Isn’t that always how it goes, ladies?” the first woman said, and the group dissolved into laughter.
Mark found he was ahead of all three Prison Wars killers on the list, and in dead last was the Vegas winner himself, a homeless veteran known only as “Manny,” who fought like a rabid, cornered animal and had pretty severe burns covering half his face and neck. The women grimaced when his unsettling picture came up, and they quickly shooed it away so they could go back to talking about Cassidy’s chiseled jawline. Mark just shook his head and tried to wave away the channel, but it wouldn’t go anywhere. The set wasn’t tuned to respond to his bio, much to his dismay. Fortunately, it was only a few more miles to the stadium, which loomed large on the horizon.
Mark now had to hear the women swoon over Rakesh Blackwood, second place on the list, and one of the more eyebrow-raising contenders. He was actually a billionaire himself, the lone son of a deceased oil baron, but showed little interest in the family business, leaving everything in the hands of his board of directors. Rather, he was recognized as one of the world’s foremost thrillseekers, having been the first in line when space tourism reopened after the Hermes VI disaster in 2029. His quest for adrenaline had taken him from cliffdiving to autoracing to big game hunting, and now to the Crucible itself. The show played a clip of Blackwood, barely thirty, with piercing brown eyes and the smile of a Bollywood superstar, talking about how the Crucible was “the final frontier in pushing humanity to its limit,” implying he’d tried everything else under the sun that had the potential to kill him, and had grown bored. For the past few years Blackwood had been learning martial arts with the best instructors money could buy, which led to a decisive victory in San Francisco. It was hard to know who was the bigger media darling, Blackwood, Cassidy, or Soren Vanderhaven. Each seemed to be doing their damndest to win the crown, flooding the airwaves with interviews since their respective wins. In contrast, Mark had done zero. But he suspected he wouldn’t be able to get away with that for much longer.
When the limo stopped, Mark was ushered out past the swarming press camping at the base of the towering Colosseum. Mark saw a lofted empty stage in the distance and thought he caught a glimpse of football god and Dallas victor Naman “The Wall” Wilkinson towering above the crowd a few hundred feet away, smiling and flexing for the cameras. Mark was only out in the open for a moment before he was quickly ushered into a nearby tent and set upon by stylists who cut and tamed his hair and stuffed him into a slim-fitting suit that had somehow been perfectly tailored to his exact measurements. An approving gaggle of men and women nodded their heads when they were finished, and Mark had to admit he looked more stylish than he had in years. Or ever, really. A few dabs of camera-friendly makeup and he looked twenty-five again.
“God, I feel like a monkey,” Mark heard someone say as he was finally released from his stylist captors. He looked up and saw a recognizable face, Ethan Callaghan. On screen he was always surrounded by his adoring family, including his sick wife, but here where no guests or entourages were allowed, he was alone, just like Mark. Callaghan wore a similar suit, only light gray and with an even trendier tie. He looked as uncomfortable as Mark felt, if not more.
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Mark said, pulling at his collar. It wasn’t actually tight, with everything measured perfectly to the millimeter, but he did it for dramatic effect all the same.
“Ethan,” Ethan said, extending his hand, not presuming Mark knew who he was.
“Mark Wei,” Mark replied, shaking the hand. Another vet with a sick family member. It reminded him painfully of Josh Tanner, but Ethan looked more alert and alive, like he had some kind of hope, rather than being lost in a pit of despair. By making it this far, he had at least assured his family $10 million in winnings, which had to be enough to cover whatever outrageously expensive treatment his wife required. Though he might have to hurry up and die for her to get it.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Mark said. “How is she?”
“Worried,” Ethan said, bypassing her health. “Begged me not to do this, but you know, desperate times …”
“I know,” Mark said, nodding. “I definitely know. I’m here, right?”
Ethan gave a short laugh. “I suppose so.”
His face darkened a bit.
“And I was sorry to hear about your friend. Carlos, was it?”
“Carlo,” Mark said. “He’s stable, but still hasn’t woken up. Hopefully that will change soon.”
“Absolutely,” Ethan said. He was a good-looking kid. Only twenty-eight, Mark had read, but he’d still get carded at any bar. He had sand-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a muscled frame without being bulky. He was just a little taller than Mark, but maybe weighed a few pounds less. Time spent as a Green Beret had made him a hell of a fighter, Mark had seen in his clips. Not to mention he had a hell of a reason to fight. Speaking of, Mark heard the vibrations of a phone and Ethan fished his out of his pocket. The screen lit up with a picture of a beautiful, smiling woman.
“Oh shoot, gotta take this,” Ethan said, looking apologetic. Mark nodded as he answered.
“Hey, honey. Yeah just got here. We’re about to go on stage in a little bit.”
Mark started to wander away to give the impression of privacy.
“Guess who I just met?” he heard Ethan say when he thought he was out of earshot, but Mark was trained to listen when others weren’t.
“Mark Wei! Yeah, that one. Seems like a cool guy.”
Their conversation turned to toddler nap schedules and medical bill due dates, and Mark tuned them out. Someone wearing a CMI badge and head-mic tapped him on the shoulder, and motioned for him to follow.
It was sweltering on the stage. Despite enormous fans blasting mist in their direction, the Vegas sun was unrelenting, and Mark had sweated through his suit several times over. He imagined the same was true for everyone lined up next to him.
He stood shoulder to shoulder with Callaghan, flanked on the other side by a towering figure he recognized as Moses Morton, who, to his good fortune, was wearing a white linen suit. Next to him was someone Mark could place only vaguely. The MMA fighter maybe? Hagelund? Then, Soren Vanderhaven, wearing the only outfit that would be considered climate appropriate, judging by the amount of skin it let breathe. And she was also kept cool in the shadow of Drago Rusakov, whose massive frame could have probably shaded the entire crowd if they’d raised him up a bit.
They were all there, all sixteen, lined up on stage like some sort of bizarre beauty pageant, or farm animals waiting calmly to be ushered into a slaughterhouse
.
In the center was Cameron Crayton himself, addressing a crowd at least fifty thousand strong who had trucked out to the desert for the unveiling of the Colosseum. The first few dozen rows were made up of press alone, judging by the sea of camera equipment. Screens were vaulted up at various points in the crowd for those who couldn’t get close enough. The cameras panned across their faces as they stood baking in the heat. Whenever the frame focused on Chase Cassidy, who was standing six bodies down from Mark, the crowd let up a little cheer despite the fact that Cameron was still speaking.
“… Crayton Colosseum will truly be a new wonder of the world. A worthy home for the sixteen bravest people I’ve ever met standing behind me today. Behold, a new era in sports entertainment!”
He flung his arm behind him dramatically, and a bunch of tiny hisses indicated that anchors were being released. Slowly, the massive tarps covering the walls of the arena floated down to its base, revealing the building underneath.
It certainly looked finished, at least from the outside. The influence of Rome’s original Colosseum was obvious from first glance. It had the same tiered archways that wrapped all the way around its oval shape, but while the original had maybe four levels, if Mark recalled correctly, this one had seven, and the entire structure as a whole was far bigger than the original ever was. Instead of stone, it was mirrored glass and blue-gray steel. It was simultaneously modern and ancient. Mark had to admit it was rather breathtaking, if only for its scale. Even if the insides were still hollow, it was remarkable to think a structure of this magnitude had gone up so quickly, no matter how many workers had been mixed into the mortar in the haste.
“With a capacity of 250,000, it will be the largest stadium in the world, bar none. The viewing screens on either side of the arena will be big as football fields themselves. Inside there will be five-star restaurants and bars with the finest drinks imported from all over the globe. There will be lower-cost seats for the common man, and luxury boxes for those that can afford them, so accommodating and welcoming they double as hotel rooms. The Colosseum will provide the best athletic viewing experience in the life of anyone who steps through its doors. Period.”