by Nagle, Pati
Don’t think about it. Think about your opponent. How are you going to beat Belduki-Elikitango-Hardart-Colloidisan?
He’d only seen the shapeshifter once, briefly, in a preliminary round. “Belduki’s its name, and throttlin’s its game,” was how the Plain Dealer had put it, in pointed reference to its reputed predilection for near-strangulation of its opponents. That was obviously an exaggeration for effect; nevertheless, it unnerved Hog, who devoutly regarded wrestling as a gentleman’s sport, safe and well regulated. He’d always scorned so-called “““professional wrestling””” (he always mentally put several quotes around the phrase, to emphasize his disdain), in which contestants were slammed to the deck, or thrown against the ropes, or otherwise theatrically mistreated. Real wrestling wasn’t like that; it was a sport of skill and conditioning and determination.
It’d come as a shock to learn that in the IIMAWL, there was not entirely the same sense of careful sportsmanship. Oh, sure, there were some protections: no contestant could emit chemicals toxic to the opponent, for instance. But with the contestants so morphically different from one another, monitoring safety was a lot harder than it was between human wrestlers. One contestant might turn blue with concentration, another with suffocation. Would a ref who heard that cracking sound of the transformer recognize it as the sound of breaking bones in a human? In the end, the IIMAWL claimed to be keeping the sport safe, but it was Hog’s uneasy suspicion that they mostly threw up their hands, flippers, and toes, and said to hell with it, let’s try to keep them from killing each other, but if a ref misreads a physiologic sign, what are we supposed to do?
Think about the Ektra, Hog thought, shooting a practice takedown in the empty space in front of his locker. Think about the Ektra.
The shapeshifter. Actually, he’d been more or less counting all along on Belduki-Elikitango-whatever being knocked out by Gazoom Gazoom the Indefatigable Baboon and returning champion, from Veni Five. After his own victory against Titanium Jimm, Hog had been carefully planning ways to defeat the baboon . . . ingenious ways, resourceful ways. And then the stupid baboon had gone and fallen right into the Ektra’s four-armed can-opener in the third period, and boom, right onto his back. Slap! Tweet! (Psicry!) The ref called the fall, and there went all of Hog’s planning, out the window. And now he faced the shapeshifter.
Hog drew a deep breath and blew into his cupped hands. This was no good—hanging around the locker room, thinking about what could go wrong. He’d be better off out on the floor, soaking up the psychic energy of the meet. And where the hell was Coach Tagget, anyway?
Hog reached into his locker, took a long drag from his plastic honey bear, and slammed the locker shut. For just an instant, as his hand was about to close the combination padlock, he hesitated. What if he were knocked unconscious and they needed to get into his locker? Good God, man—stop it! He squeezed the lock shut with a decisive click.
∞
As he strode up the echoing passageway to the gym, he heard shouts from the crowd and felt a surge of adrenaline. He broke into a trot, and darted past a couple of ETs who were half blocking the end of the passageway, and jogged out toward the end of the arena.
The crowd erupted with a roar of approval. He smiled to himself, flushing with confidence, then peered over to see what they were actually cheering about.
Tweeeeeeeeet! Slap!
The 133-pound match had just ended with a pin. An alien that looked like a huge gerbil got up, shaking, from under one that looked like a leaf. The ref flagged the leaf as the winner.
And Hog was up next.
Bye-bye baby, baby . . .
∞
Coach Tagget found him just in time to yell something incomprehensible in Hog’s ear, shake his hand vigorously, and push him onto the mat with a whack on the rear. Hog shook off his irritation at the coach and stepped onto the mat with a glance at the ref.
A new referee had come out from the table, replacing the one who had just tweeted the last winner. This ref looked a little like a centaur with multi-jointed legs, and big paddle-shaped hands, great for slapping the mat. Good, Hog thought. The better to signal Hog Donovan winner by fall. None of this eking out a victory by points. Hog Donovan goes for the whole enchilada. Starting right now. This is for Earth, and this is for Hog. He swung his arms, huffing. Damn straight.
“You can do it, Justin! Tear his lungs out!” screamed a woman somewhere in the stands. Hog smiled a little. He couldn’t pick her out of the crowd, but he knew his mother was waving her program wildly, endangering the eyesight of everyone within reach. His father was just as avid a fan, but he’d be too busy with the fastcam to spend much time yelling.
A blast of easy listening music filled the gymnasium from somewhere overhead—a sampler of Earth culture to entertain the ET crowd.
Hog’s opponent streamed onto the mat from the opposite side, and gathered itself up into something resembling a whiplike tree. Its feet, if that was what they were, stretched out like roots, and Hog could have sworn that the roots were embedding themselves in the mat. What the hell kind of creature was this? Ektras didn’t make up shapes; they always emulated real species that Ektras had known, somewhere in the galaxy. Hog puffed into his fist and looked at the ref, determined not to be distracted by unanswerable questions.
The announcer’s voice boomed: “IN THE ONE HUNDRED THIRTY- EIGHT POUND CLASS! FROM EARTH: HOG DONOVAN—HUMAN!” There was a murmur of approval, plus his mother’s shrieks, but not exactly the thunderous roar Hog had imagined. He glanced up into the crowd, and saw a row of centipedes sitting on their legs. “AND FROM EKTRA FOUR: BELDUKI-ELIKITANGO-HARDART-COLLOIDISAN—EKTRA SHAPESHIFTER!” Hog held his breath, waiting for the cheers for his opponent. What he actually heard was more like a group indrawn breath of fear.
He noted that the Ektra had sprouted about a hundred suction cups on the ends of its tree branches. He was going to have a dickens of a time avoiding those. Hog danced in place, thinking hard—and coming up with very little, strategy-wise.
Fortunately, he was saved from despair by a voice that boomed out through the general noise: “HOGMAN, YOU PIN THIS WALKING JELLO-SALAD, AND DRINKS ARE ON ME FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR!” Hog grinned despite himself, and at that moment caught sight of Hermie “Harmin’” Harmon in the front row, shaking his hammy fists in the air. Harmin’ now worked the graveyard shift at Lotusflower Assembly, hanging transaaactional warp modules under Rigellian interstellar roadsters. He hadn’t wrestled in three years, and his physique now resembled that of a hippopotamus. Was that what was in store for Hog, after his wrestling career ended? Lotusflower Assembly, with the rest of the guys? Not if he could help it . . .
Hog frowned and stepped into a crouch, facing his opponent.
The shapeshifter waved its branches. The ref gestured with its paddles, and Hog reached out to grip the nearest branch in a handshake. The suction cups latched onto his hand, and let go with a pop. Hog shook off the stinging sensation. The ref leveled a paddle-shaped hand between the two contestants, then jerked it away with a tweet! on its whistle. The match was on.
Hog danced sideways, and forward and back, snatching in quick grabs at the shapeshifter’s branches. He was just testing, seeing if he could get the thing off balance. The Ektra waved its branches unconcernedly. Its feet remained planted. Hog circled, trying to make it lift its feet and follow. The Ektra didn’t turn at all; it just waved different branches at him as he circled. Where the hell were its eyes, anyway—on the leaves? And what would constitute putting this thing on its back? he wondered.
“Cut ’im down, Hog!” he heard, in the dim distance of the sidelines. Harmin’, cheering him on. His friend sounded as if he were miles away.
“You don’t have all day, Donovan—go in after him!” he heard on the other side. Coach Tagget, offering helpful strategy.
Hog shrugged off a negligent grab by one of the branches, and without thinking launched his attack. He shot forward, low, grabbing for the base of the shapeshift
er’s trunk. It was a purely instinctive move—go for the single-leg takedown, whether the thing had legs or not. It worked better than he could have expected: the branches waved madly above him, and some of the suckers came down on his back. But he got good penetration, and wrapped both arms around the Ektra’s trunk. He got one knee up under him, and lifted, hard.
The Ektra didn’t budge. It was holding itself down not so much by its roots as by a large sucker at the base of its trunk. Hog grunted, trying to break it free. As he strained, the Ektra’s branches were clinging to his back, though fortunately the fabric of his tights top kept it from getting too secure a grip. Grunting harder, Hog dug his fingers under the edge of the tree’s suction base. He heard his coach’s distant voice: “—the hell are you doing?”
“Gaaaahhhh!” With a roar, Hog pulled up with his fingers. Sploook. The Ektra came loose from the mat, and he had it in the air like a heavy Christmas tree. He staggered, turning with it, trying to tip it over. The tree was snatching at his back and his arms. Hog lost his balance and went over sideways, taking the tree with him.
Even as they fell, he could feel the thing changing shape. By the time they hit the mat, the Ektra was an extremely slippery snakey thing, sliding out of his hands. Hog tightened his grip, trying to keep it from getting away. But it was impossible; it had some sort of coating that made it slick as hell. He scrambled to follow it on the mat, desperately trying to hold on long enough to get the takedown points.
“Queeeeeee!” whistled the shapeshifter, and with a convulsive jerk slithered out of Hog’s hands.
“No points!” brayed the ref, prancing alongside.
Hog glanced up in frustration. He was sure he’d earned the takedown points, even if he had to concede a one-point escape. Was this ref going to be an impossible-to-please type?
The glance was a mistake; it distracted him from his opponent. By the time he looked back, his opponent was gone.
Whufff!
His breath went out with a gasp, and he felt the snake’s coils wrapping around him from behind. How could it have moved so fast? he thought uselessly, as he struggled to jam his elbows down into the coils to protect his ribs from the rapidly tightening pressure.
“Queee-ee-eeeee!” chortled the snake, in what sounded like a merry laugh. Prelude to strangulation? Hog wondered. The next coil whipped around his ankles, and he fell to the mat like a hundred and thirty-eight pounds of frozen meat.
“Two-point takedown!” whinnied the ref.
“Augggh!” Hog grunted, trying to keep from rolling onto his back. The snake was trying to get him to do just that, but it didn’t have a firm enough hold on his legs, and he was able to scissor hard and gain some leverage, getting himself halfway up to his elbows and knees. “Hunhh! Uunhh!” He was struggling just to breathe. He could feel himself sliding a bit inside the slippery coils, despite the pressure. If only he could slide out . . .
In fact, he was moving a little, squirming in the coils. “Unhhhh! Unhhh!” He inhaled as hard as he could, held his breath a moment, then gasped it out and jammed his elbows hard against the coils. He pushed them down by about a foot.
The snake tightened like a vise around his hips. His progress stopped; the coils were smaller than his hipbones. “Auuughhh!” Hog groaned, blinking at the sight of the ref leaning close, maybe to make sure he was still breathing. If he wasn’t turning purple now, he never would be!
He heard a din and a stamping around him. The crowd was loving it—probably hoping he got squeezed to death.
Coach Tagget was yelling something, but he couldn’t hear what it was. But another voice reached him through the cacophony: “HAWWWWG—SLAM ’IM TILL HE LETS GO!” he heard distantly.
Hermie. And good thinking. Hog huffed, raising himself on all fours, lifting the snake’s weight. He suddenly went flat, hitting the mat as hard as he could, right on the snake’s coils. He felt them loosen for an instant, and he squirmed frantically . . .
Tweeeeeet!
The snake gave a last squeeze, then relaxed its grip as the ref halted the action.
“Warning!” brayed the ref. “Slamming is forbidden! Warning number one against the human!” The ref waved his paddle-hands.
Hog gasped, trying to catch his breath. Warning or not, he had a fighting start now; they would resume the match from a one-up one-down position. As the coils unwound, he lumbered to his feet and walked in a brisk circle to shake off the effects. Then he knelt back down on his hands and knees.
“Shake it off—shake it off!” he heard his coach yell. “Now stay out of those coils!”
Hog glanced back to see if the Ektra would take another shape. But no—he could only change shape while the clock was running. That was a regulatory concession to the nonshifting wrestlers: the shapeshifters had the advantage of versatility of form, but they were momentarily vulnerable during the change, and for a few seconds following, while they “got into” their new forms.
“No delay!” called the ref. This time it was yelling at the shapeshifter. The Ektra seemed to be having trouble deciding how to situate itself on the top position over Hog: it had no hands or feet to place on or near him. “Rest your head on his back!” the ref instructed.
“Queeee?” protested the shapeshifter.
“On his back,” repeated the ref. “No delay, please.”
“Queeee,” it answered.
Hog felt the snake’s head touch the center of his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the creature was arching over him from a base of coils on the mat, and was indeed touching him just on the center of the back. Good. He just had to move faster than the snake.
Tweet!
Hog launched himself up to a standing position, whirling away. He felt no resistance. “One point escape!” called the ref. Hog spun around to face the snake.
“QUAAARRRRRRRRR!” roared the creature that was facing him—no snake now, but an enormous, maned animal with a mouth full of large teeth. (TERROR! TERROR! I’M BIGGER THAN YOU!) Hog backed away, startled. He tripped on the heel of his sneaker and fell to his knees. “QUAAAAAAAAAA!” bellowed the Ektra, charging. (BARE YOUR GNEEPHITZXX . . . !) echoed its psicry.
For an instant, Hog was paralyzed with fear—like a man who’d stumbled in front of a rabid lion. Do something, he thought. Get out of its way! Then something in him snapped, and instead of using common sense and fleeing, he leaped straight at the charging beast with a bloodcurdling Tarzan-yell. “AAAHH-AAAUUGGHHHH!” He was going to meet those teeth, and it would all be over before the ref could tweet his whistle, but he couldn’t stop himself.
The Ektra lion halted in midcharge, bewildered by Hog’s furious yell.
Hog slammed into it, grabbing it around the neck. The damn thing was all fur and air; it weighed the same as he did, but at three times his size. The Ektra went over like a bowling pin, perhaps too surprised to react.
BLAAATTTT!
Tweeeeet! “No points!”
Hog rolled away from the shapeshifter and leaped to his feet. “Whaaat?” he yelled. “I had him—”
“End of first period!” called the ref, strutting away on its four centaur legs, ignoring Hog’s protest. Hog sighed, wheezing for breath. Damn, this wasn’t looking good. He had to do something.
“Ref, you blindfolded nag! If that wasn’t a takedown, what was it?” came a scream from the sidelines. Hog kept his back to his coach as Tagget demonstrated proper Earth sportsmanship. Not that Hog didn’t agree with him.
He turned and stared at the leonine alien, whose unreadable eyes were just shifting from Hog to the ref. (I crush you.) “Quaaaaaa?” it asked the ref.
“Call the toss!” whinnied the centaur, holding an oversized poker chip in its paddle-hand. The chip was red on one side, blue on the other.
“Quaaaa,” grumbled the Ektra.
The ref flipped the chip. It fluttered and landed red side up on the mat. “Up or down?” it asked, pointing to the Ektra, who had apparently called red.
“Quaa
a,” it said, with a shrug of its furry shoulders.
“Ektra up! Human down!” announced the ref, pointing to the center of the mat. Hog knelt and assumed the position.
“No teeth, shapechanger!” yelled Coach Tagget as the lion-thing positioned itself with two large paws on Hog’s back and its mouth open, breathing hot, fetid air straight down on the back of Hog’s neck. “No biting allowed!” shouted Tagget.
“QUAAAAAAARRRR!” answered the beast with a terrifying rumble. (I SQUEEZE YOUR—!)
“Get up and away from him!” Hog heard through the ringing in his ears.
The ref peered at the two, raising a flat hand. Tweet!
Hog scrambled, and felt the lion all over him. It felt heavy, and it was quick, and its breath made him reel. But it had to be tiring with all that movement, and maybe Hog could wear it out. He soon realized something, and the lion must have, too. Except for its teeth and claws, which it couldn’t use, it had no good way to hold onto him other than hugging him in a smothering embrace and staying on top of him. If Hog could just shoot his legs out to the side and keep moving . . .
He felt the Ektra changing shape even as he did so. He made it partway out of the Ektra’s embrace, then lurched to stand up. He turned, hopping back and away—and was nearly free when he felt a tentacle whip around his left ankle. He hopped harder, trying to jerk away, but the tentacle was faster. He managed to turn to face his opponent, and found the tentacle attached to something that looked as if it had crawled out of a very dark lagoon. God only knew what planet the original was from. It had a head like a moldy stump and two squidlike tentacles that sprouted from the head, and it was trying to snake its other tentacle around Hog’s right leg. Hog hopped madly to evade it, and the lagoon creature responded by hoisting his left ankle to a ridiculous height, practically to his chin, with the first tentacle. Hog was left hopping like a crazed ballet dancer, struggling not to lose his balance.