TITLE FIGHT (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Scott Sigler

  “Korak just broke Chai’s knee! Blood is pouring on the canvas, Masara, I see a shinbone sticking out, oh, that’s disgusting!”

  “North falls back and rolls, his right leg is flopping in a sickening way, he’s hurt bad. Will the ref stop it?”

  “Not unless North taps out, Masara. The champ is getting up to finish it, but Korak’s knees are wobbly, he’s having trouble rising. He’s still feeling the effects of that overhand left.”

  “The champ staggers toward Chaiyal! The ref is hovering, staring at Chaiyal’s ravaged knee! Could this be it?”

  • • •

  Pain was nothing new to Chaiyal North. He actually kind of liked it. Ate it like candy. But right now, he was getting all he could eat. His entire right leg pulsated pure agony, the epicenter sitting right where his kneecap used to be. He already felt things grinding away in there.

  Korak was bearing down, all four arms reaching for Chai’s head.

  Muscle memory and endless drills took over, and Chai flipped to his back in a fraction of a second. That part his body did well at, the part about remembering he couldn’t raise both knees to put Korak in a full guard ... not so much.

  Something in his leg tore even further, raging pain loud enough to blur Chai’s focus as Korak the Cutter landed hard and started hitting even harder.

  • • •

  Korak the Cutter’s body worked like that of a drummer, each hand performing its own task, clocking its own independent rhythm. Right pedipalp hand grabbing Chai’s left wrist, left pedipalp hand blocking Chai’s right arm, keeping it from coming up to protect, middle arms shooting to the sides of Chai’s head, pulling it up off the canvas even as Korak closed his single eye and drove down with all his weight.

  • • •

  “Head-butt! Holy shucking supernova, Masara!”

  “North is stunned! Korak raises his head again, and, ohhhh!”

  “Oh, my High One! A second head-butt, the ref moves in ...

  “The champ head-butts again ... and misses! North somehow shifted right. The champ came in too strong, he’s off-balance!”

  “I can’t believe North can still operate after that, his nose looks like cheap hamburger, there’s blood on the canvas, all over both fighters.”

  “The champ slides back, he’s adjusting his balance, and here comes the middle arm short hooks!”

  • • •

  Chai couldn’t see all the blows coming, but he felt ham-sized chitin-armored fists smashing into his cheeks and eyes. He kept his elbows tight, his fists near his eyes, his chin tight to his chest — if one of those blows caught him on the tip of the jaw, it would be over. The last time he’d been in this much trouble, he’d been in a bar fight with Brocka the Razor-Barbed.

  Bam!

  Where was he? Was it the first round?

  Bam!

  His hands scrambled of their own accord, feeling Korak’s balance, locking up the Warrior’s middle arms.

  Bam-bam!

  Lighter punches, from the pedipalps, weaker than the middle arms, yet still stronger than most Humans. Chai tried to wrap his legs around Korak, to push him back, but only the left leg responded.

  Bam-bam-BAM!

  Chai fought to stay conscious. Had to keep his arms up, had to, if he dropped his arms the ref would stop the fight, and Chai would die before he’d let that happen. Blood sprayed out of his nose. He opened his mouth to breathe, tasting both blood and snot in the back of his throat. He had to make it out of the round, get back to his corner, but he couldn’t raise his right leg.

  His right leg. His only chance.

  Chai turned his head and looked down the right side of his body.

  Bam!

  Blackness ... no! No!

  Light.

  His right side, his knee nothing more than a flopping meat-sock, his bloody, broken shinbone jutting out from the skin ...

  • • •

  Korak rained down blows, putting everything he had into each punch. Most of them hit solid, clean. Why wouldn’t this Human stop struggling? Korak felt a cheekbone crack beneath his fists, fists covered in blood and bits of torn Human flesh. So much blood that each time his fists came back, they trailed little droplet-arcs of red spray. He dug deep, calling up strength and form and indomitable will to hit harder, hit harder!

  He couldn’t let Chai make it out of the round, couldn’t let the Human get back to his corner where his team would patch up the damage.

  Harder!!

  • • •

  “Ohhhh! High One, Chick, I’ve never seen a beating like this! Why won’t the ref stop it?”

  “The Heretic is still defending himself, Masara. Badly, but he’s still trying to block the punches, he’s alert, he’s fighting.”

  “North’s face is a sheet of blood. He’s lying in a puddle of his own life fluid, and yet Korak will not stop!”

  “North is moving, trying to better his position, he’s reaching for his own right leg.”

  “The shattered one?”

  “That’s right, the shattered one, I’m not sure what move he’s going for, but ...

  OHHHHHHH!

  “High one! High one! Chaiyal North just grabbed his own shattered right foreleg and stabbed the jutting bone into Korak’s side!”

  “You’ve got to be crapping me!”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “I don’t know if it’s legal, but it’s the most psychotic thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “That can’t be legal!”

  “How can anyone be that primitive?”

  “Like a crazed caveman fighting with a spear of his own bone! I don’t even know what to say!”

  “And Korak rolls off, Masara! He’s holding his side! Blood is everywhere!”

  • • •

  Korak coughed and felt blood splatter up inside his mouth. His blood this time, coming up from somewhere deep inside. What had just happened? He’d been stabbed? With what? His middle arms pressed against the pain in his left side, hot fluid gushing between his pincers.

  Was Chai coming? Korak tried to rise but could not. Something was wrong inside of him. Coldness spread through his lower midsection. He couldn’t get up. He had to get up. Had to finish ... North ...

  Korak willed himself to rise. He stood tall where a champion should stand — dead center in the middle of the Octagon. A thick trail of blood led from his spot to Chaiyal North, who was up against the fence. North’s bloody hands were locked in the chain-link wire. He was dragging himself up, one hand at a time, dragging himself up with huge arms blasted even bigger with the pump of the fight, with the raging adrenaline. North used his left leg to help his effort, but his right was twisted off at an angle and turned the wrong way, the foot actually pointing behind him, jagged pink-smeared bone sticking out.

  But North’s eyes ... the Human didn’t look away, he stared straight into Korak, focus and concentration and pain, sure, infinite pain, but concentration, and all of it focused on Korak.

  And then, Chaiyal “The Heretic” North actually smiled.

  Korak took a deep breath, or tried to — the shooting pain in his middle only let him take a shallow one. But it was enough. He took one step toward Chai.

  The bell rang three times.

  And Korak the Cutter didn’t stop. He took another step.

  • • •

  Doc Patah flew off the descending corner-throne and swooped in front of Korak. The champ wanted to keep going after North.

  “Champ, get back! Sit down!”

  Korak threw a right hook. Too slow. Doc flapped above the fist, then fwap-fwapped his wings against Korak’s face. He couldn’t hope to hurt Korak, but the slap got the champ’s attention. The one big eye blinked twice, seemed to focus. Korak looked at Doc.

  “Champ, get in that chair! I have work to do.”

  Korak turned and stumbled to the chair. He sat heavily, blood spilling out of the wound in his side.

  Doc flashed a look into the other corner — Chaiyal North
hopping on one leg to his own throne, sitting heavily, bleeding everywhere. You couldn’t repair leg damage like that in a week, let alone in the sixty seconds between rounds. How could North take so much damage and keep coming? There had to be a limit to willpower, even for Chaiyal North. Maybe Korak could win this after all, maybe Doc’s betrayal would never be known.

  Would North even make it out of the chair for the second round? That depended on the skill of the Klar brothers ...

  • • •

  Chaiyal knew it was completely shucked up to think it, but he was having the time of his life. This was the apex of his existence, the greatest moment he would ever know. Purity. Absolution. The perfect intersection of lifelong intention and endless preparation and pure, cosmic fate. To reach the peak of his fighting skill, of his physical development, of his mental and emotional state, and to hit all of those at the precise moment he waged war with his one and only true equal.

  Truth be told, no one had really hurt Chai since that bar fight so long ago. No one had stopped him, no one had knocked him down, no one had even really landed a significant blow. Chai had mowed through the opposition as casually as one might drink a beer.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, he’d been hurt. Bad. Been hurt by the one creature who could hurt him, who had the cred and the skill and the pure power to do so.

  Korak the Cutter. Chaiyal North’s spirit brother.

  “Shucking pay attention!” Jorgie Klar said, waving some rancid-smelling crap under Chai’s nose. Chai tried to move his head but could not — Bennett Klar, on the throne-rack behind him, had shut down Chai’s nervous system. All but Chai’s mouth and eyes, which blinked furiously at the smell. Jorgie tossed the smelling salts away.

  “You’re insane,” Jorgie said. “Bennett! Status?”

  “Knee is priority,” Bennett said. “Diagnostics say 45 seconds just so he can stand on it.”

  Jorgie dropped to Chai’s knee. Chai couldn’t see, but he heard a squelching sound coming from the area. Then the buzz of a saw, or maybe a sander, he wasn’t sure. “Shuck, what a mess! Bennett, fix his nose!”

  “I’m working on this hematoma, and his right eye is filling with blood from the inside and swelling shut as well. He’ll be blind if I don’t fix it now.”

  Jorgie stood quickly. “Chai, nose or eye?”

  Chai realized he was having trouble breathing. Blood was trickling down his throat, making him cough. He was already fatigued, despite his perfect conditioning — if he couldn’t draw oxygen, he wouldn’t make it through the round.

  “Nose.”

  “Bennett!” Jorgie screamed, but the younger Klar brother was already reaching over from the top, bending over Chai’s head. Bennett’s hair looked funny when he hung upside-down like that. Chai felt Bennett’s little hands jamming into his nose. That’s why Bennett was so good, the little hands, skinny fingers that could to the delicate work. Chai smelled burning flesh, felt the vibration of a rototool in his sinus cavity.

  “Chai,” Jorgie shouted up without looking away from the knee. “Chai, listen to me. I can’t return normal function. I’m going to lock the leg straight with an internal splint.”

  “I can’t go out there with a locked right leg!” Chai’s voice sounded funny, like he had a very bad cold. That, or maybe Bennett Klar’s long fingers deep inside his nose.

  “No choice,” Jorgie said. “If I don’t stop the bleeding, you’ll be dead in ninety seconds. You have to keep him off the leg, you got me?”

  “And keep him off your nose,” Bennett said. “And don’t let him hit your right eye again.”

  Chai couldn’t nod because his muscles were shut down, but in his head he accepted the limitations and started planning. Damn, he wished Marcus Diablo were there. Chai had to go out against the most dangerous sentient in the galaxy, and do so while unable to see from his right eye, walking on a right leg that would not bend and trying to breathe through a nose that would probably disintegrate if it took any further damage.

  Nothing quite like a challenge.

  Chai couldn’t move his face muscles, either, but if they’d worked, everyone in the arena would have seen his smile.

  High One, but this was fun ...

  • • •

  “Korak is amazing,” Marcus said. “But what Chai just did? That crap is legendary. Who does crap like that?”

  Vikor the Black said nothing. He just drank. The gin was really starting to hit home now. So many things he would say to Korak at this moment, were he down in the Octagon, in his rightful place on the corner-throne. And oddly, not all of those things would be about fighting.

  He wanted just one more chance to tell Korak he was ... sorry. A Quyth Leader, apologizing to a Warrior? Unheard of. But Korak’s soul was pure, while Vikor had taken the easy way out. Korak was the champion, deserved to be the champion, and in ways that no Quyth Leader would ever truly understand. Yes, what Chaiyal North had done, stabbing an opponent with his own broken bone, that was truly astonishing. North would be remembered for all time for that kind of toughness, that kind of resolve. The Human simply did not care how he won. Chaiyal’s spirit would be legendary throughout the galaxy, no question, but for Korak to come up with a strategy that almost beat a clearly superior opponent, to put his life at risk and ignore a powerful crime boss, to fight in defense of his opponent just to make sure the bout actually happened, to be shot three times in the chest the night before, to rescind fealty in order to make the match happen, to do all of that and still almost pull off a first-round win against a sentient that wanted to win so bad he would stab someone with his own broken bone?

  Unbelievable.

  When this was over, Vikor the Black would make sure his people knew the true story.

  “Hey,” Marcus said. “Got any more of that gin?”

  Vikor reached under his seat and pulled out another bottle of Junkie Gin Special Reserve. He handed it to Vikor, then focused in on Korak’s throne and wished he was there.

  • • •

  “Champ,” Doc Patah said, “you have to keep him away from your left side. I stopped the bleeding, but the first hit you take there is going to open you back up again.”

  “How long do I have if that happens?”

  “Thirty seconds, at most, then your lungs will fill with blood, and you’ll be dead thirty seconds after that unless I stop the fight.”

  The big eye swiveled to stare at Doc Patah. “Do not stop the fight,” Korak said. “I might need that last thirty seconds to finish him.”

  Doc said nothing. What was there to say? Korak was already strategizing how much time he might have — while dying — to finish the match, to get the win. Never had there been such a warrior as this.

  “I won’t stop the fight,” Doc said. “I understand.”

  The five-second warning buzzer sounded. Korak the Cutter stood and took one step forward. Doc Patah hovered over the throne as it rose up. He looked down, wondering if those might be the last words he ever said to his champion.

  The bell rang three times.

  • • •

  Chai limped out of his corner, unsure of his first move. Korak watched him, also hesitating, clearly trying to evaluate the best way to attack the leg — but Chai couldn’t afford to give this glorious bastard time to think. When in doubt, attack. Chai sprinted as fast as he could sprint with one leg that would not bend, and he took the fight straight to the champion.

  Chai tried to throw a right cross, but his leg threw his aim off just a little bit. Korak blocked the punch and snapped out a right pedipalp jab that Chai caught on his broken cheek. Well now, that was certainly a different kind of pain altogether — clearly the Klar brothers had deemed a broken cheekbone a lower priority than a smashed nose and a ravaged leg. Chai tried to counterpunch, but the waves of pain from his cheek slowed him. He ducked a pedipalp left cross just in time to see the right middle arm uppercut in the split second before it caught him full in the nose.

  • • •
>
  “Ohhhh my! Korak lands a right uppercut. The Heretic goes down again!”

  “Korak isn’t hesitating this time, here we go again, the champ’s devastating ground-and-pound!”

  • • •

  “Dammit!” Marcus hissed. “He walked right into that!”

  Vikor watched, the gin forgotten for the moment. Could Korak really do it? Could the champ finish it off? Chaiyal North lay on his back, 382 pounds of deadly Quyth Warrior straddling the Human’s chest, raining down blows like an orbital cannon. Blood splattered across North’s face, splashed on Korak, flicked onto the giant black- and white-striped jersey worn by the Ki ref who hovered close by, the Ki ref ready to stop the fight. Vikor looked away from the ring, instead watching one of the holotanks zoomed in tight on Chaiyal. The Human was in all kinds of trouble, on death’s door, really, yet he didn’t look concerned, he looked like he was ... waiting ...

  • • •

  If you couldn’t learn from the greatest champion in history, who could you learn from? Chaiyal ate two more punches, one to what was left of his nose, one in his mouth. Judging from the loose teeth digging into his tongue, he’d lost his mouthpiece at some point. An abstract part of his brain wondered how much reconstructive surgery he would need after this. The Klar brothers and a team of plastic surgeons, maybe. Chai timed the punches, blocking what he could, rolling with those that got through, feeling Korak’s weight shift with each devastating blow.

  Korak had suckered him in at the start of the first round, taken advantage of Chai’s killer instincts, taken Chai’s best shot just to draw him in.

  Bam!

  Chai blacked out for just a second, then his wits snapped back into place. That last blow had been the worst of them all, a left middle elbow on his now-shattered cheekbone, but it had to be taken ... because now, Chai had the timing.

  Korak had suckered Chai in, but Chai knew that he and his dance partner were one and the same, forged from the same pure spirit, flooded with the same desire to kill, overwhelmed with the same instincts to finish the fight.