TITLE FIGHT (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Scott Sigler

  The weight bar clattered to the floor. Chai slipped free of the Warrior, turning to face him and ducking and blocking several retaliatory strikes before he delivered a vicious combination of kicks and punches that all landed home.

  Chaiyal turned around. The blood-smeared Ki was gathering himself for a cannonball attack. The horizontal and vertical segments of his 12-foot body compacted into one 8-foot stalk of granite-hard flesh.

  Chai was strong, Chai was tough, but if there was one thing that made him the champion of the galaxy, it was speed. Modified muscles had him close the distance in even less than the point-four-second differential that ended Lip-Pe-Att’s life. Chai’s “flying knee” struck again.

  The Quyth Warriors were on him before Chai could fully recover. The four of them quickly overwhelmed him, not allowing him back to a vertical base. Hands grabbed, fists pummeled, feet kicked. Chai protected himself the best he could, but he’d suddenly been thrust into the worst possible defensive position. There was blood and there was pain, and the levels of each were rapidly approaching a point at which both would become a problem.

  A deep, booming cry from across the gym suddenly halted the attack. It was a single word, spoken in the Quyth language.

  Chai didn’t flash on the word, at least not enough to understand its deep implication between Quyth Warriors. In their language it was more than an insult, it was the ultimate indictment of cowardice. It implied the Warriors assaulting Chaiyal weren’t worthy to wear their carapaces, to fight on a battlefield with their peers.

  The accusation was enough to turn every Quyth head and appendage away from Chaiyal.

  Chai blinked away the blood pouring into his eyes, his blood, and stared through the forest of alien legs and feet.

  Korak the Cutter stood just inside the entrance to the gym. He squatted in a fighter’s stance, one pedipalp extended, palm up, fingers curling inward again and again — the universal symbol for come on, let’s see what you’ve got.

  Maybe Chaiyal North didn’t believe in coincidence, but right about now, he wasn’t about to start complaining. Chai laughed and spit out a mouthful of blood. A tooth went with it.

  Virak the Mean was the first to address Korak. They spoke Quyth. Chai listened for a moment, then realized he was in fact lying there listening to a conversation while his attackers’ attentions were diverted.

  An instant kick, foot flashing out and taking the nearest Warrior’s leg so accurately the appendage ripped clean in two at the knee. His shriek alerted the rest of them, but by the time they turned their heads, Chaiyal was back on his feet, his teeth bared and wads of white foam staining the corners of his mouth. He tore into the next Warrior like an industrial thresher. As he smashed the alien’s limbs, Chai looked up and saw Choto the Bright fly across the gym floor, hit hard and lie still.

  Korak turned on Virak.

  And that’s when Virak shot him.

  A small-caliber revolver barked out three shots, all catching Korak in the chest. Chai had a moment to admire the grouping, a split-second understanding that what Virak lacked in hand-to-hand combat skill, he made up for with a gun.

  Chai stood there, fallen enemies all around him. Before he could attack, Virak swerved. Chai found the gun pointed right at his face.

  “No one is that fast,” Virak said. Chai nodded. Virak was right. Chai put his hands in the air and waited, hoping for a chance, hoping that Korak might attack Virak, or at least distract him.

  Instead, Korak the Cutter fell to his knees, then dropped to his back.

  Chai heard a police alarm, then realized he’d been hearing it for a few seconds, maybe more, who knew? The Greens were coming.

  “Choto,” Virak said. “Let’s go.”

  Choto stood up slowly. Blood poured out of his small mouth. “I don’t like this job anymore,” he said. “How long until football season starts?”

  “Soon,” Virak said. “Let’s move. We don’t know if these are our cops.”

  Those words seemed to snap Choto out of it. As badass as he was, he didn’t want to go to the interrogation rooms of Buddha City Station. Virak and Choto ran out the door. They didn’t seem concerned about their dead Ki associate or their four Quyth Warrior buddies, three of whom were dead.

  One moaned. Chaiyal raised his foot and drove it down hard.

  Correction, four of whom who were dead.

  Movement. Chai turned, ready to attack, and saw Korak struggling to his feet. He didn’t look frightened, he didn’t look shocked ... he looked pissed.

  He looked like he wanted to kick someone’s ass.

  “Where’s the bastard that shot me?”

  “Ran,” Chai said.

  “I’ll find him,” Korak said. “After tomorrow’s fight.”

  Chai shook his head. “What fight? You’ve been shot three times, old man.”

  Korak shook his head. It always looked funny when the Quyth did that, as their thick necks forced them to use their shoulders, too. “Fight goes on. I’ve been hurt worse.”

  “That’s crazy,” Chai said.

  “You’ve been hurt worse, too. I’ll be ready for the bout. You don’t like it? Then forfeit.”

  “Shuck you. You want to die in the ring? Happy to oblige.”

  “Nice,” Korak said. “Is this how Purist Nation bigots say thanks for saving my life?”

  “No. They say it like this: next time mind your own shucking business, old man. I don’t need your help. You don’t think it’s a little suspicious you showed up in the nick of time to save me?”

  The Quyth fighter made a sound that might’ve been derision. “If I wanted the easy win, I would have just let them do what they were doing. When I beat you tomorrow, it will be because I’m better, not because someone got to you first.”

  Chai stepped over the dead thugs. He moved past Korak, keeping the older being at more than an arm’s length.

  “I’ve never seen you beaten down before,” Korak finally said as Chai approached the exit. “There was more to respect in how you took it than in anything I’ve seen in your fights.”

  “One-night-only performance,” Chai called back without turning around. “Don’t get used to it.”

  But though he’d never admit it, not to anyone, Chai would think about those words every minute until they finally met in the ring.

  Round Seven: Preparation

  Weigh-in was always a little crazy. But nothing like this.

  Korak had lost count of how many times he’d defended his title. The day before every fight, he and the challenger would weigh in before fans, media and, via the cameras, millions of sentients all over the galaxy. The challenger would pose, brag, boast, and Korak would just stand there, saying nothing. Why should he talk? He was the king, this was his court, and the challenger was invariably just another jester.

  But it didn’t feel like that this time.

  This time, if felt like a coronation of a new king. Chaiyal “The Heretic” North. That’s what everyone here thought; they all thought that Chai would be the one to finally take Korak’s heavyweight championship belt.

  But titles weren’t given. They had to be taken.

  Korak hated the weigh-in ceremony. He hated the charade, actually — the fans, the media, the advertisers, all of it. If he had all the power in the universe, a fight would consist of nothing but an Octagon, two ring crews and two fighters. No one else.

  He stepped up to the scale. Lights glared, fans and media shouted at him like annoying insects. Some screamed support. Some hurled epithets. One on one, there wasn’t a person in this room Korak the Cutter couldn’t kill barehanded. Well, there was one, if you counted The Heretic. Sometimes, Korak wished he could kill them all, wipe them away. Fighting wasn’t about them; it was about going toe to toe with another sentient and deciding in the most primitive of ways who was better.

  He stepped onto the scale. The horde of insects buzzed louder. He’d made weight. Of course he had, exactly 10 grams below. Vikor the Black monitored every bite K
orak ate, counted the caloric expenditure of every motion, even down to Korak’s blinking. Vikor knew how to have his fighters dialed in, and with twenty years of biofeedback and data tracking, the Quyth Leader knew everything there was to know about keeping the champ at perfect fighting weight.

  Reporters shouting questions, asking him to flex, to show the fists like all fighters did at the weigh-in. Korak ignored them. The sooner he got off the scale and allowed Chaiyal to weigh in, the sooner he could be out of this zoo.

  The giant Human killing machine stepped up to the scale, and the crowd seemed to lose its collective mind. He dressed in old Earth fashion, like a Samurai. Idiot probably didn’t even know what a Samurai really was. Korak knew. He’d studied every warrior culture in the known universe, always looking for some edge in technique, in discipline, in philosophy. His favorites were the Harrah tribe of Sahanna and the extinct Human tribe of the Maori. The Samurai weren’t bad, though, although they went a bit overboard with the whole respect thing. Respect was fine for ceremony, but once the fight began, the only rule that mattered was winning, was survival. The last sentient standing got to live. Simplicity itself. A pure philosophy that could not be argued.

  The Human disrobed, then started flexing for the crowd. Just like the rest of the jesters. Play to the cameras, pose for the show. If Korak could have invented time travel to bring some real Samurai to see this, he would have done anything to make that happen.

  The Heretic stepped onto the scale. Korak watched the readout. How about that? The Human was 3 grams under. Just 3. Precision or luck? Just one more tooth in his head, and he’d have been over weight.

  The Human crossed his forearms, some parody of a superstitious symbol. Humans were crazy for the primitive beliefs created before science. When he did it, of course, the crowd roared even louder. They might as well have been puppets on the end of Chaiyal’s strings. The Human held up a beverage can. One of the sponsors, likely. Korak didn’t know. Vikor the Black handled such things.

  The Human smashed the metal can with his elbow, held the can up and let alcohol spill all over him. Then he shook up the remnants and sprayed them over the two nearly naked Human females. Oh, truly, such an honor to the memory of the Samurai.

  “Very good,” Korak said quietly. “But cans cannot hit back.”

  Korak walked off the stage. Four Humans in emerald-green body armor materialized seemingly out of nowhere, two in front, two behind. They had escorted him to the weigh-in, walking with him every step from his room. Korak hadn’t cared then, but now he just wanted to be alone.

  They each held an electric nightstick in one hand, their other hand resting on the hilt of a holstered projectile pistol. On the left breast of each guard’s chest, a white infinity symbol on a gold shield, each man’s name stenciled below the design in small letters. One of them faced Korak, while the others stared out, into the crowd, clearly hoping someone would approach and start trouble. The one facing him had the name “J. CARTWRIGHT.”

  “Where would you like to go, sir?” Cartwright said.

  “Just get out of my way.”

  Cartwright shook his helmeted head. “Can’t do that, sir. We’re here for your protection.”

  “Do I look like I need protection?”

  Cartwright smiled. Korak towered over the Human. Even in their riot gear, Korak could have thrashed all four of them in a matter of seconds.

  “On Buddha City Station, yeah, you do,” Cartwright said. “Why don’t we just make this easy? Where would you like to go?”

  Korak calmed himself. Best just to accept their protection, lest some racist jerk try and take him out. Wouldn’t do to get shot just a day before the fight.

  “I’m going to my manager’s room,” Korak said. “Deck seventeen.”

  Cartwright tapped the left side of his helmet. “The package is going to deck seventeen. Team B, secure main causeway elevator bank. Clear lift four. No media. Use of excessive force to keep the path clear is authorized.”

  Cartwright wheeled and started walking. His three Human cohorts did the same. Korak the Cutter walked in the center of them all, wondering how many Buddha City Station residents or visitors would be stupid enough to try and force their way close for an autograph.

  • • •

  Korak reached Vikor the Black’s room. During the walk, a Sklorno journalist tried to get too close, screaming questions in her thin, hyper voice. One of Cartwright’s cohorts had hit the woman six times with the electric baton. She’d stopped moving after the third hit. Maybe the last three were just for emphasis.

  The greens took up positions on either side of Vikor’s door. Korak walked inside. The whole camp was waiting: Timmy McMurphy, Doc Patah, Vikor the Black and their secret weapon, Malachi “Ides of March” McMasters. The former Crusaders heavyweight champ was Vikor’s idea, a consultant that gave insights to Purist Nation thinking, strategy. Sure, The Heretic had re-invented himself to become the most lethal Human being to ever set foot in the Octagon, but he’d still spent eighteen years in the Nation — a sentient couldn’t unlearn everything. McMasters had been in Korak’s camp the last six weeks, working on ways to get a mental advantage over Chaiyal North.

  McMasters looked furious, his face all red the way Humans sometimes get. The strange coloring made the faded infinity tattoo on his forehead stand out in comical relief. Korak looked everyone over. Timmy looked afraid, like he thought McMasters might start thrashing everyone in the room at any moment. Doc Patah fluttered in place. He also looked agitated, uncomfortable, but he had ever since they’d left Ionath City weeks before.

  “What’s going on?” Korak said.

  “Nothing,” Vikor said. “Ides was just leaving.”

  “Fine with me,” McMasters said and stormed toward the door.

  Korak stepped in his path. “No. I want to hear what you thought of the weigh-in, anything I can use against The Heretic tomorrow.”

  McMasters glared up. Like any fighter, he didn’t take kindly to someone telling him where he could and couldn’t go. Stepping in front of a fighter, a real fighter, almost always produced a singular result — a fight. Hence the term, fighters. The old Human looked like he might have given most anyone a good scrap. But Korak the Cutter wasn’t most anyone.

  “Champ,” McMasters said, “I’m leaving. Get out of my way.”

  “No,” Korak said. “First, you’re going to tell me why you’re angry. Then, you will tell me what you’re paid to tell me, what’s going through Chaiyal North’s mind.”

  Vikor scurried over. “He’s leaving, Korak. Let him go.”

  Korak ignored his Shamakath. Instead, he just stared down at McMasters.

  “Not you,” McMasters said. “I never thought you would do it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  McMasters turned his head and spit on the floor. One of the more curious Human expressions of disgust, of disrespect. Korak didn’t really understand what it meant; he just knew that he should have killed McMasters on the spot.

  “I’ve been in the fight game since before you even hatched,” McMasters said. “You think I’m stupid?”

  Vikor actually tugged on McMaster’s jacket sleeve. “Get out! Immediately.”

  McMasters didn’t budge.

  Korak never broke his stare. “I have a title fight tomorrow,” he said. “This is not a good time to play games with me. What are you talking about?”

  “The line,” McMasters said, then spit again. “The shucking line has drawn even.”

  Now Korak understood. Yesterday, the line had been five-to-one — in Chaiyal North’s favor.

  “Ides stays,” Korak said quietly. “Everyone else, out.”

  Vikor’s black fur bristled. “You don’t tell me to—”

  “Out!” Korak snapped. “Everyone, out right now. We have to talk, one fighter to another.”

  Doc Patah fluttered out, Timmy tried to make himself as small as possible, which wasn’t all that hard. Vikor the Black stared, but Ko
rak ignored him. Korak hated the weight of that stare, but if the fix was in, his manager had to be a part of it.

  Vikor turned and walked out. Korak felt Vikor’s rage at being disobeyed, the Leader’s disappointment at a Warrior who would not follow orders.

  Korak stood alone with McMasters.

  McMasters spit on the floor.

  “Do that again,” Korak said, “and we fight.”

  “That’s fine. Maybe I can scrounge up enough money to pay you to take a dive.”

  “I would never take payment to lose,” Korak said. “Many have tried.”

  “You sure don’t seem to mind paying to win.”

  Korak’s middle hand shot out and up, his hand wrapped around McMasters’s neck. The man was old, but no pushover. His hands flashed up, one on Korak’s wrist, the other pinching into the elbow. Very illegal move, but they weren’t in a ring. McMasters started to squeeze and turn, a move that would hyperextend the elbow joint, but stopped instantly — Korak’s left pedipalp was on the Human’s face, the thumb pushing into the eye. One more ounce of pressure, Korak would blind him.

  “Okay,” McMasters said. “Shit. I should have known better.”

  Korak let him go. “I don’t know anything about a payoff. I am ready to fight and win, or die trying.”

  McMasters looked at Korak for a long time, then nodded. “I can’t read the faces of you ugly shuckers. But I believe you. But, Champ, the line went even. No disrespect, ‘cause you got the title and all, but that means the word is out that the fix is in. The Heretic is taking a dive. I thought this fight was special, you know? Two real warriors going at it, but the scumbags got their dirty hands all over it again. Nothing pure left in this universe.”