He would give them a great show, and he’d walk away from it, leaving his bloodied weapons behind as he found the diner next door and could sit with her, talk about what it would be like to never fight again. What would they do then? Maybe just enjoy each other’s company.
In peace, no fear of a future that included more violence.
He thought he understood the weapons and his body, but he had only scratched the surface. He trained with one hand, then the other, just in case he was injured. He learned to use both effectively, alone or together. His human body responded magnificently, grew stronger with each day.
And faster, too. When he whirled his blade and claw, they were too fast for the eye to follow. They made a comforting whistle, not too different from a rapid sawing of one’s upper legs, but he heard it as sound was experienced with human ears. He liked it.
He trained in two sessions a day, something he’d never done before. Two four-hour sessions as opposed to one longer session. Then three three-hour practices, and as the fight approached, he entered the case four or five times every day. With the weapons, the fight would not last long. Both the fighters were deadly. One opening and the fight would be over. Aspen suspected it would last no more than thirty seconds, unless there was a great deal of posturing at the beginning.
Aspen learned to shut out the crowd, something he’d never done before. He used to feed off their energy as they cheered him to greater and greater feats. Not this time. He needed to be singularly focused, drawing energy from within himself.
He included meditation in his daily schedule. When he returned home each night, his groceries were stocked, and he never wanted for anything. His benefactor made sure he had no distractions. He expected it was Bodhana protecting her investment, bolstering the value of his sale to another promoter. He accepted her help without complaint. It served them both.
A short night’s sleep and back at it. The days became weeks and then months, until the day of the fight arrived.
He reported to the community center where his case awaited him. He looked at it, sneering in his mind. Not today, you bastard. I will not be buried in you, he thought. Then he climbed in as he’d done a thousand times before, starting to calm himself before the lid closed and helping him become his alter ego, the human.
Aspen felt his body, strong and fast. He did not have his weapons, but that didn’t concern him. He’d find them when the lights came up. He crouched and looked toward the floor, waiting. The first hint of illumination came from below. The deck of the ring started to glow. He studied it, looking for something he could use. It was plain, smooth. It was a small ring, like the ones that boxers used to use. No matter. They wouldn’t waste any time posturing from a distance.
He revised his estimate to twenty seconds. As he studied every aspect of the ring, his eyes fell on two cords, hanging from the ceiling over the center of the ring. One held a sword, and the other held a claw. There was only one pair of weapons.
There was always a twist. It wasn’t his place to like or dislike what they threw at him, because he and his opponent both had to overcome the same challenge. He had to decide and act before the other. He continued to study the ring. No other surprises.
The last element he studied was his opponent. He looked like an old man, well scarred, far past his prime. He looked more like the one who splashed water over the winner at the end than the one who would do the fighting. Their eyes met and he flashed a sad smile, lifting his chin slightly in greeting.
Maybe there were two twists. This man was the champion, the current holder of the title. He didn’t get there because he wasn’t capable. The old man look had to be a façade. Aspen stared hard, trying to see through any VR manipulations of the image. His eyes saw an old man. His mind accepted the image as real and not manufactured. The replicant on the other side of the ring was what he appeared to be.
His secondary mind screamed incessantly to ignore the looks. Treat him as the deadly enemy he had to be.
Aspen conceded the threat. The weapons or the opponent? If he could get to the weapons before the other, then the fight would be over in no time. If the other reached the weapons before him, Aspen would have to disarm him. He had to keep the other from getting there first. That was what mattered. Either Aspen would secure the weapons or neither of them would. He had practiced without weapons and was ready for a fistfight. He always won the straight up boxing matches, although it had been ages since he’d been allowed to fight one.
His recent matches all ended in death, just like this one would.
There was no light outside the ring. Aspen didn’t know if that was due to his perception or the fact that the ring’s deck was lit. His eyes never left his opponent. They both rose at the same time. Aspen didn’t hesitate. He bolted to the center of the ring, leaping to grab the sword, pulling it down and slashing the air before him, expecting his opponent to be there.
He wasn’t. The old man stood serenely in his corner, one pace from the tip of the sword that Aspen pointed in his direction. Aspen froze, expecting subterfuge of some sort. The man’s hands were in front of him, so he wasn’t hiding a weapon behind his back.
The man took a step forward, arms wide. If Aspen hadn’t moved back, drawing the blade away, the opponent would have impaled himself. Aspen reached over his head and pulled the metal claw off the rope and flung it out of the ring, leaving only the weapon that he held in his hand.
He canted his head, showing the confused expression that humans were so good at. The man smiled and nodded. “It’s how we all must end. I don’t need to hurt you, so maybe you can enjoy your final days, before your next fight, when you look like this, and do as I have done. Now end it. Send me on my way, send my fortune to my family, and remember me.”
The man closed his eyes, continuing to hold his arms out, exposing his gray-haired chest to the sword blade. Aspen took a deep breath and sighed heavily. His secondary mind screamed to finish it.
Aspen didn’t want to get hurt. He wanted to find Aletha and spend time with her, as much time as possible. With a full hip turn and a whistling slash, Aspen took the man’s head clean off. There was less blood than he expected. He dropped the sword and immediately headed for the ropes, climbing through into the darkness.
Beyond the ring, there was nothing. No spectators. Nothing. It was empty as if the VR case didn’t bother reproducing the stadium, didn’t allow any visitors. He looked for the door, but couldn’t find it. He started to panic in the darkness, hurrying forward until he ran headlong into a wall. He tracked the wall with his hand, probing, feeling.
As long as there was something and he was still in his case, he had hope that he’d find more.
The door. He pushed on it, but it wouldn’t open. He continued along the wall until he found another way out. He pushed and it answered with the squeak of rusty hinges. Light filtered through.
It was night, but the city was there. Old Chicago. He walked outside, breathing deeply of the night air. The street lights were dimmed, but next door, the diner’s sign beckoned. “Chitters’ Burgers, Malts, and Fries.”
How had he not noticed that before? He’d been in there a few times. No. That wasn’t the name. It was called Jimmy’s or something like that.
He didn’t question it as he ran to the diner. There was a man wearing a dirty white apron behind the bar and one patron. Aletha sat with her back to him. He walked carefully, not understanding why she wasn’t watching for him.
Aspen stood beside the table, looking down at her blond curls. She turned her head toward him, tears in her eyes, hiding the hazel beneath. He took a knee and held her hand.
“I will fight no more. Even if I enter the ring, I won’t fight. For you, I won’t ever fight again,” he told her. “So where do we go from here?” He looked around quickly, expecting someone to pull the plug, remove him from the case and turn him loose for the long walk home. At least he wouldn’t wake up in the hospital. Or be buried in the case, not this day, anyway.
> “We’re free Aspen,” she said to him. He shook his head, not understanding. “Our cases have been removed and are being buried. We will live out the rest of our lives in these bodies, in Chitters. You were here once, a couple months ago. It’s a real place, with real people, and it’s our home now.”
“It’s over?” he asked, unsure of what he just heard.
“Yes. You won’t ever fight again, and I won’t ever promote again. We’re both free.”
Realization dawned on him. He looked at the hand he was holding and started to let go, but she wouldn’t let him, clinging desperately, smiling as tears ran down her face. “Bodhana?”
“I never liked that name or her. Call me Aletha. That’s who I am.”
Author Bio
Craig is a retired Marine, retired business consultant, and now writes full time. He lives on the outskirts of Fairbanks, Alaska where there are few distractions and an environment unequaled for inspiration. Visit Craig’s webpage at www.craigmartelle.comfor information on all his novels, series, short stories, and thoughts. If you like what you see, maybe you can even sign up for his newsletter to find out more of what lies ahead.
Just One More Fight Page 5