by wade coleman
His knuckles shred my scalp while I keep working the gut.
The doctor said he put in extra padding around my brain ‘cause he doesn’t want anyone to damage his handwork. It seems to be working, so far.
I continue to work his gut while he switches to punching my ears.
It’s a good thing I got a thick neck. Otherwise, my head might come off.
But the power of each punch is getting less, and then he pushes me back.
He puts his hands on his knees and pants. “You won’t you go down?”
I blink to clear the blood out of my eyes.
“I think I ruptured your spleen,” I say.
“Yeah, I think so too,” he replies.
“That’s super-bad for you.”
“Yeah,” Muscle-guy replies, “the longer it gets, the worse my odds.” He stands up. “You ready?”
The audience is quiet. I look around as gift cards change hands. Then I look back at muscle guy. His face is ashen grey.
And suddenly, I’m not angry anymore. The fight goes out for me.
“I’m cold, and I can’t find my phone,” he says with a tremble in his voice.
“You’re going into shock. Lie down and put your feet up.”
He lays down and puts his feet on the still passed out fat guy. I can tell he’s alive because he’s breathing.
The audience boos and throws half empty beer containers at me.
I look up at the camera drone that’s circling me.
It circles me a few times and then checks out each of the downed players.
The Mic-guy mic walks over to me and raises my arm. “We have a winner.”
The audience cheers. When the noise dies down, Mic-guy puts the mic to my mouth. It sticks to my jaw and everyone laughs.
I blink three times, look at the menu and select “Off.”
The metal bar stuck to my skull and forearm fall off along with the mic.
Everyone laughs again, and then there’s applause.
He picks up his mic, puts it near me and asks, “It was a great win for the underdog. Your bone augments saved your ass. What’s your secret weapon?”
I want to say something nasty, but I’ve watched a lot of TV. An audience can turn on a winner if they don’t like him.
I smile with blood drying on my face, and with perfect nanite teeth, I say, “I consider this fight to be the highlight of my career as a professional fighter and so I announce my retirement.” I must have heard those words spoken dozens of times at fight clubs from people who look better than me.
The audience claps and approaches me. I spend the next hour taking selfies with fans. Someone brings me my shoe.
Mic-guy hands me a sack with a dollar sign on it. Inside are gift cards. “Good fight and good ratings. You’ll be in the year-end wrap-up.” He smiles and walks backward. “I’d shake your hand except for all the blood.”
After the pics, I walk back to my flat with my sack with a “$” sign and blood drying on my face. Everyone gets out of my way.
The 48 building sentry at the door points to his phone and says, “Epic fight.”
I nod, walk up the stairs and enter the lobby. A cop walks up to me. It’s the same one with the “13.23” tat on the cop’s arm.
He smiles, and his eyes crinkle. He looks down at my sack with the dollar sign and then back at me. “Have you been fighting?”
“I exercise my right to remain silent.”
“Do you want to go to urgent care?” he asks.
I nod.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “I’ll take you there just as soon as we search your room.”
CHAPTER 14
The cop leads me to the elevator, and we get off on the 35th floor. With the cope’s hand still on my shoulder, which I hate, we go to my room. It’s kicked open with a boot print on the door.
“I received an anonymous tip that your room contains contraband,” the cop says. “Please open the door.”
The door is three inches ajar, and I use my finger and push it open. The cop pushes me inside and goes in first.
On my bed is tattoo equipment: different inks and guns. It’s laid out in rows – nice spacing, but one’s off, and it bugs me. The cop uses his phone to take pictures. Then he takes pictures of me and puts on the cuffs.
“Adam-177, you are under arrest for possession of professional equipment without a license.”
“Mother, are you there? I say.
“The building A.I. is in a diagnostic mode right now,” the cop says. “Seems it caught a bug.”
The cop leads me out of my room, down the elevator and out the front door.
The girl gang watches me pass with hands cuffed in the front. I’m still holding my sack with a dollar sign.
“Tell them you eat kosher,” a woman says from behind, “It’s the best of the prison food.”
I get in the cop car, and he shuts the door.
Last time I was in for drunk and disorderly. Fatter Ass threw up on a cop, and the Gov tried to get Fatter Ass for assault. But they couldn’t prove intent. But he did it on purpose.
We were playing a game called, ‘Power Booting.’ You slurp down lasagna pasta made of blue-green algae and follow it with a fifth of the cheapest whiskey. Then we would see how far we could barf. There are two events: biggest noodle hurled and longest shot. Fatter-ass coated the front end of a cop with green goo. Those were good times. In D block it’s a lot the same shit and different day. I couple of days in lock-up breaks up the routine.
The car stops, the cop gets out, and then opens the door for me. I get out, and he leads me up a concrete ramp and into the sally port. Another guy takes my picture and puts me in holding. On either side of the cell is an extended bench. Four men sit on one side and four on the other.
I lean against the bars and look at the men. They’ve all been in a fight. Vomit and blood stain the floor.
That reminds me, the cop was going to take me to urgent care. Must have forgotten.
“What are you looking at?” one of the men says. He got puffy eyes and bad skin. He’s grinding his teeth from a heavy dose of meth.
I don’t know what he’s talking about since my right eye is almost swollen shut.
He gets up from his bench seat and walks over to me. “What are you looking at?” His mouth is tight in an O shape, and his eyebrows are close. That’s anger for sure.
He swings a right hook at my face. I tuck my chin, and he hits the top of my head. His finger breaks like a twig.
He steps back, shakes his hand and says, “Bloody fucking hell!”
Laughter sounds from the guys on the bench.
Meth-head gets angry and charges me. I get my knee up and catch him in the stomach. The air goes out of him, and he falls to the ground. I walk over to his spot on the bench and take it.
I stay there an hour or so. Then another cop takes me into a room, and I sit in a chair. The cop leaves, and I sit for another hour.
A man in plain clothes and cop shoes walks in and sits down. He puts a computer tablet in front of me and says, “Sign here.”
I stare at him with my unflinching face. “I eat kosher.”
“You’ll get fed as soon as you put your thumb in the reader.”
I sit there with my hands in my lap. One thing I’m good at is sitting still.
Soon, the cop’s eyebrows get closer together. He fakes a smile and says, “Son, I get off work in a half an hour. If you don’t sign this, I have to stay late and fill out even more paperwork. That will make me unhappy. That means I’m going to make you unhappy.”
I sit there motionless. I concentrate on keeping all my face muscles flaccid.
Now his grin turns into a grimace, and he shows his teeth. “If I have to get up and make you put your thumb in that reader, you’ll regret it.”
I bite my right thumb with my new teeth, so it draws blood. Before the cop can react, I chomp my left.
“You piece of shit,” he says as he stands up.
I keep biting my fingertips. I get three fingers on my right hand before the cop grabs my neck and drags me out of the chair and onto the floor.
Then he puts a knee on my back and bends my arm.
I bite my left hand while he cuffs my right. Before he stops me, my hands are a bloody mess.
He picks me up by the neck and slams me into the door.
“Oops, forgot to open it.”
He leads me down the hall by my neck and throws me back into the holding cell. Blood is dripping from my fingers.
“You know… you only have to bite your right thumb,” a guy with black hair and a big gut says. “That’s enough to convince a judge of a forced confession. You don’t have to make a meal of your hand.”
“I eat kosher.”
Everyone laughs, even the cop who put me in the cell.
The men scoot down on the bench and make room for me on the end.
* * *
After they take me to the infirmary, they put me in a room with a TV screen. It turns on, and Mother is on the display.
I smile. “Hello, Mother.”
She smiles back. “You did the right thing, Adam. You didn’t talk to the police.”
“I am good at not talking.”
“Yes, Adam. You’re very good at that.” She changes the expression to that of concern. “Adam, do you trust me?”
I nod.
“Why?”
My first answer is why not? But she says that’s not an answer. “I trust you more than I trust cops.”
“Okay, I accept that. Your world deals with degrees of certainty and uncertainty.”
“Adam, there are things that I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed. But I can look out for your best interest without telling you.” She looks at me.
I nod.
“I want you to plead guilty. I know the artificial intelligence that will judge your case. Tell the judge you wanted a job. He has a record of going easy on nonviolent offenders. And he likes people who want to work but can’t get the permits.”
I nod. “Okay.”
There’s a brief pause, and the screen splits in two. On one half is Mother; the other half is an old man’s face.
“Adam-177, you have pleaded guilty to possession of tools without a permit. Do you have anything to say for yourself before sentencing?”
“I just want a job.”
I know. It’s good to have something to do. I suppose translating Ancient doesn’t take enough of your time?”
The close caption below says he’s telling a joke. Mother must have told the judge I’m autistic. So he’s using closed subtitles to make sure I understand him. Too bad humans don’t come close captions posted on their foreheads. It would make understanding people a lot easier.
“I didn’t translate Ancient; I just found the breaks between words.”
“Yes you did, Adam. That’s why I’d think you’re a good fit for the Pipeline Program. It’s a safe place for nonviolent offenders to learn important life skills. Are you interested?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Excellent,” the old man face says, “Adam-177 you are sentenced to three years in the minimum security rehabilitation center at Denver, Colorado.”
“Where’s that?”
The screen changes to a map. “It’s thousands of miles from any university that studies Ancient.”
I smile. “Did I bitch slap a bunch of professors?”
“Something like that,” the A.I. judge says. “Your attorney will fill you in on the details. Goodbye Adam,” and the screen goes back to just being Mother.
Mother smiles. “I’m pleased with the outcome; I think you’ll you’re a good fit for the Pipeline Program.”
“Will you still be my attorney?”
“No, Adam, you’ll get a new one when you arrive. Don’t worry; the new A.I. will have the same ethical programming as I do.”
CHAPTER 15
The girl gang is right. Kosher is good. I’m not sure what it is, but I think it’s a religion that eats chicken.
The police took me to the airport and put me on a plane. The cops took my phone but let me keep my sack of gift cards. I counted them: 28,346 credits is my winning purse.
Garry stole all my gift cards when he drugged me. That was a little over twenty thousand credits. Plus the Gold’s Gym membership and the muscle augment therapy that I can kiss goodbye.
I figure that I’m down two thousand credits from before the fight. But I got to ride in a plane and go to boot camp. That was fun. Guys in uniform would yell at you but couldn’t touch you.
They acted mean. But the training instructors made sure you got three meals a day, exercise and eight hours of sleep. I haven’t been treat that good since the orphanage.
The B citizens washed out to C class are a bunch of whiny bitches. Our squadron slept in a dorm. Some guys would cry themselves to sleep every night.
More than half of our squad didn’t make it through boot camp. Probably because of all the cardio training. Then the wind sprints. We ran as hard as we could for a hundred meters and then rest for a minute and run back. You do that until you puke or pass out.
I wasn’t used to the altitude and passed out. The doctor checked my records. His eyebrows went up when he was reading his tablet. Then he shined a light in my eye and connected my skull computer to his computer. With my zero-g blood and a few keystrokes, my doctor increased my red blood cells by ten percent.
The instructor stopped yelling at me once the new blood cells kicked in.
We graduated yesterday, and thousands of people were shipped out on busses. Boot camp was somewhere in Kansas surrounded by wheat fields. Now we’re going to some place called Greely where we go to vocational college.
I’m a little nervous about school. I graduated high school; it was easy - just a bunch of memorization - but college.
With all the new brain cells, I realize now that I am not that smart. Life is not about memorizing facts; it’s about using knowledge to figure things out. I’m not so good at that.
I’m worried because I can’t sleep. I’ve been depressed for so long, that I forget what it was like to feel.
I think it was third grade when I figured out how unimportant I am. I’m okay with that and resigned to be alone in my world. I left people alone, and most people left me alone. Everyone except bullies.
My crew were bullies. Fat Ass and Fatter Ass got his name because they used to sit on me and fart. The priest found out and called them the Sons of Thunder.
Everyone laughed, and that shamed them into stopping their torment. That’s when I learned the power of humiliation.
Now I’m going to school again. I need to play nice and learn rules - fast.
* * *
The sun rises, and people begin to stir in their seats.
A woman turns around says, “What did they get you with?”
“Possession of tools without a license.”
Gage says that when people ask questions about you, it’s okay to ask them the same questions back. “How about you?”
“I’m a serial shoplifter. They say I’m crazy.”
“They don’t say crazy in the mental health field. It’s called Impulsive Behavior Disorder. They have names for everything.”
Her round face smiles. She’s chubby but not fat. Zane would say she’s a Cadillac; built for comfort.
“Do you have a lot of experience in the mental health field?” she asks.
I nod. “I spend a lot of time in hospitals and read their manuals. They’re very informative.”
“What do you have?”
“Autism and brain damage from fights.”
“No shit?” she asks.
“Fucking-A. No shit.” I heard a guy on the bus say that. I think that’s the way they talk in America; every other word is a curse word.
She smiles and her eyes crinkle, “You seem okay.”
“Thanks,” I say, and the bus slows down.
We stop at a gate. After a few mi
nutes, we get going again. Soon we drive down rows of buildings and a track field. We pass the gymnasium and then stop at a “Dormitory.” That’s what the metal sign says.
It’s a three-story building with balconies. A man and a woman stand by the door with tablet computers.
They have fake smiles. The guy gives us our room assignments. They’re acting happy, but they’re not. They seem… I can’t tell.
I walk up the stairs to the second floor and find my room. It has two beds and desks. A tablet computer sits on top. I see a guy with a ponytail is laying on one of the beds with a tablet in his hand. “I’m James.”
“I’m Adam,” I say.
I put down my bag, take off my shoes, pick up the tablet and lay on the bed.
I turn on the TV, it just a menu.
“Can you believe it? No phone, internet or music?” James says.
“Yeah,” I say and check out the menu.
Rules and Regulations
Do’s and Don’ts
Rights
Classes
“Hey,” some guy says and pokes his head through the doorway. “There’s a dive bar called Pete’s Place two miles down the road. A bunch of us are walking over.” The guy leaves without waiting for an answer.
James gets off the bed. “You coming?”
“No, I want to check out the main menu.”
He leaves without saying another word.
I go back to the menu and select Rules and Regulations
No touching staff.
No fighting.
Observe a dusk until dawn curfew.
The hallway gets noisy, and I shut the door. I select, Do’s and Don’ts.
Do’sDon’ts
Sign up for classesdon’t be lazy
Stay in shapedon’t get fat
Use only legal drugsdon’t become an addict.
I press ‘enter,' go back to the main menu and select “Rights.”
“You have the right to be under constant surveillance and have an artificial intelligence as counsel.”
I press my thumb into the box, and it takes me back to the main menu. The last thing is classes.