by John Dixon
“Okay,” Carl said. Like much of what Stark said, this all made sense without telling the whole story. Before he could sort this out, Stark continued.
“Look past men’s flaws. Earn their loyalty, and you’ll convert liabilities into assets.”
Carl said he understood and for the hundredth time, imagined pushing his own “benefactor” off the mountaintop.
Stark turned to face him. “Do I have your loyalty now, son? Can I trust you?”
These questions hit Carl like a stiff double-jab, not just because they rocked him out of his traitorous thoughts but also because Stark had never mentioned Carl’s loyalty, not once in the six months since the duel. Carl had unfailingly played the role of committed protégé, but with these questions, he had to wonder—had Stark, too, been acting?
Reacting with a counterpuncher’s composure, he opened his mouth slightly and furrowed his brow, conveying, he hoped, mild shock and a shade of indignation. “You know I am. You know you can.”
“Good,” Stark said, staring directly into his eyes. “That’s good, son.”
Seconds passed. Stark stared. Carl felt like a man entering airport security with a knife in his pocket.
Stark gestured toward the ocean. “In that case, I’m sending you away.”
Oh no, Carl thought, not Zurkistan. Many times, Stark had suggested Carl accompany Baca and Z-Force to “get his feet wet”—a phrase they both understood meant killing—and each time, Carl had declined. He was willing to endure this place for however long it took him to overthrow the organization, willing to suffer, willing even to act with contempt and cruelty, but he refused to become a murderer. He might surrender his life, but he wouldn’t sell his soul.
“Your first combat mission,” Stark said. “Everything on the line.”
“But our training together,” Carl said, reeling. “You’re teaching me so much, and—”
“Don’t look so distraught,” Stark said. “It’s not Zurkistan.”
Carl relaxed a little, but the phrase combat mission still echoed in his mind. “Where, then?”
A playful light came into Stark’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you’re sending me?”
“No—I only know what you’ll be doing once you get there.”
Carl waited.
In the distance, gunfire rattled faintly.
“Fighting,” Stark said, and his smile widened.
“Fighting?” The word could mean so many things. “Boxing?”
Stark shook his head. “The Funeral Games.”
Funeral Games? Carl thought. A vaguely familiar, overtly unsettling phrase . . .
“Named for the ancient Greek tradition, of course,” Stark said. “The modern Funeral Games is an annual underground tournament held at an undisclosed location and hosted by the Few, a small group of enormously wealthy elitists who happen to love blood sport. One-on-one, mixed martial arts, ten million dollars to the winner. You will represent Phoenix Island.”
Carl’s mind whirred. Was he actually leaving Phoenix Island?
Stark laughed. “You look stunned. Hefty prize, eh? But as usual, we don’t care about money. We care about honor. Speaking of honor, you have proven a perfect apprentice: apt, diligent, durable, and loyal.”
“Thank you,” Carl said, thinking, If he could read my mind . . .
“Phoenix Force idolizes you, and the cadre fear you . . . and yet, you have no official title. Win this tournament, and that will change. How does ‘Lieutenant Commander Carl Freeman’ sound?”
“Wow—I . . . really?”
“Really,” Stark said, putting a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “This is your big moment, son. As lieutenant commander, you will be second-in-command here, and whenever I need to travel, I will leave you in charge.”
“That would be awesome.” Carl didn’t need to fake a smile. This was it, the opportunity he’d been waiting for, exactly what he needed to topple Stark. Second-in-command would mean access to computers. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Stark said, giving his shoulder a friendly shake. “A soldier must earn his commission. You’ve put in your time and duly impressed me, but to earn your promotion, you must win the Funeral Games.”
“Okay,” Carl said. For this opportunity, he’d fight anybody. Surprisingly, a thrill of excitement shivered through him. “Who do I fight?”
“Whom,” Stark corrected.
“Whom do I fight, then?”
Stark spread his hands. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Carl said, but it did matter, possibly very much. Over recent months, he had mastered MMA, and the chip made him incredibly fast, accurate, and devastating. During sparring, he destroyed Phoenix Force and consistently bested Stark, even holding back, but this was different. As every boxer learns early, sparring isn’t fighting, and the gym isn’t a tournament.
“Competition will be rather fierce,” Stark admitted. “Teenage fighters who’ve trained their entire lives. Some come from places like Phoenix Island. Others exist in the shadowy world of underground fighting. A few dwell year-round in temples and dojos, leaving only to defend the honor of their chosen discipline. Do you accept this challenge?”
Carl hesitated for a fraction of a second. What was he getting into? Excitement had abandoned him—but determination remained. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll fight.”
“Fighting isn’t enough,” Stark said. “You have to win.”
FOUR
“BACK WHERE IT ALL BEGAN, eh, son?”
Looking at the wavering air above the black macadam lot, Carl said, “Square one.”
His memory of that first day on Phoenix Island remained clear—Parker taking his medal and pulling him out of formation for front-back-go; all the drill sergeants shouting, calling him an individual, calling him Hollywood; Davis glaring at him before collapsing—and he was glad he had experienced that day before the chip. With time, pre-chip memories could still fade like old photos left in the sun. Now his eyes and mind worked quickly, taking in so much detail during any experience that new memories forever retained the sharp clarity of high-def footage.
Most of his life, the past returned to him foggily: things people said, their facial expressions, smells, certain details that stood out to him. Now his recall was like watching a film clip. He could even freeze the frame in his mind and search the remembered moment for details he hadn’t consciously registered while living it. If, for example, he and Stark had a conversation, he could draw it up later in such vivid detail that he could look away from the memory-Stark and identify items he hadn’t even consciously registered during their real-time talk. Amazing.
But perfect recall could be an awful thing, too, and he was glad the ghost of his arrival on Phoenix Island might one day fade to mist.
Stark turned his head toward the blazing sun, which flashed along his mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Close to eleven,” he said. “The chopper will arrive soon.”
“I’m taking a helicopter?” Carl said, and his stomach hopped with excitement. He’d never ridden in a helicopter before.
“For the first leg of the trip. After that, who knows? The tournament moves each year, and its location is absolutely top secret.” Then with a grin, he added, “Even I don’t know it.”
Carl smiled, no acting necessary. He was finally leaving Phoenix Island.
Hearing an engine, he turned and saw an approaching jeep. The driver could have been anyone, but the passenger was easily recognizable even from this distance: Agbeko.
“Ah,” Stark said, “the heavyweight.”
“Heavyweight?”
“Did you think you were the only fighter representing Phoenix Island?”
If he had to travel with someone, Carl was glad it was Agbeko. They’d had a strange relationship—to say the least. They had started as fast friends, but Agbeko had ended up shooting Carl in the face with a rifle shortly before Carl saved his life and beat him into unconsciousness. Stran
ge, indeed. But since the duel with Stark, Carl’s friendship with Agbeko had surged again, becoming a high-stakes relationship with no parallel in polite society. Agbeko would gladly risk his life for Carl, yet Carl also knew that if he ever revolted against Stark, Agbeko would kill him without hesitation. The hulking African was absolutely, blindly loyal to the commander.
The jeep dropped off Agbeko and left. Agbeko approached, huge and grinning. “What is this? Please tell me, Commander, that my brother Carl will be fighting beside me.”
“So he will,” Stark said.
“Hooah!” Agbeko bellowed, lifting Carl from the ground in a crushing hug. Releasing him, Agbeko held out a massive fist. “Pound it, my brother.”
They pounded it, just as Carl had taught the gigantic soldier.
“But why did you not tell me that Carl would also be fighting?” Agbeko said, draping his heavy arm across Carl’s shoulders.
“Can’t a commander surprise his troops from time to time?” Stark said, beaming. “The tournament has three weight classes. Agbeko, you’re our heavyweight. Carl, you’re our middleweight. Ah—and here comes our lightweight now.”
They turned, and Carl saw another jeep approaching.
“It will be Ladrido,” Agbeko said.
Carl started to nod—the little Filipino wasn’t very bright, but he could scrap—until his eyes did their focusing trick, bringing the jeep and its passenger into close-up view. So close that Carl could see, even at this distance, not only the boy’s great height and dark, scowling face, but also the teardrops tattooed beneath his eye.
“Davis?” Carl said, and instantly regretted it. A rare slip, after months of disguising the true boundaries of the chip’s abilities. After all, the less impressive Carl’s new abilities seemed, the less likely Stark was to immediately restart chip implantations.
“Good eye, son,” Stark said, and stared down at Carl through mirrored lenses. His smile was gone. “Very good eye, indeed.”
“But, Commander,” Agbeko said, oblivious of the tension between Stark and Carl, “surely Davis is too heavy for lightweight.”
Stark nodded. “Indeed he is.”
Carl watched the approaching jeep, happy to break stares with Stark. How could he have been so stupid?
But he knew the answer, didn’t he? Shock. For months, he had assumed Davis was dead. The last time Carl had seen him, the former gangbanger wore cuffs. That had been at the duel with Stark, where Davis, Sanchez, and Octavia’s friend Tamika had cheered for Carl from the sidelines. Carl had assumed that Davis, who had turned some kind of ethical corner when Carl stood up to Decker and Parker, had refused to take part in the barbaric hunts. Having not seen Davis, Sanchez, or Tamika since the duel, he’d further assumed that they had finally participated in the hunt—as prey. A logical assumption here on Phoenix Island. How, then, was Davis still alive?
As the jeep pulled up, Carl saw the reason: a third teardrop.
Davis had relented. He had killed someone—and thereby saved himself.
A wave of disappointment crashed over Carl. But he caught himself. You have no room to judge him, he thought, not after the things you’ve done here . . . and the things you haven’t done.
Davis rose, looking skeletal. His eyes, which seemed unnaturally large in his emaciated face, raked the trio, settled on Carl, and narrowed slightly. Then he faced Stark and came to attention. “Specialist Davis reporting for duty, Commander.”
Specialist? A rare rank, reserved for people with highly developed proficiencies . . .
“At ease, Davis,” Stark said. “You know Carl, I believe, and this is Agbeko, team heavyweight. Careful with that handshake, Agbeko. Davis will need his hand in good working order to patch you up during and after the fights. He will be your cut man and medic.”
Cut man and medic? Davis? It made no sense.
Davis nodded at Carl, his eyes distant and . . . what? Suspicious? Angry?
“But, Commander,” Agbeko said, “if Davis is our medic, who is the lightweight?”
Wondering the same thing, Carl looked at the driver, a sergeant named Plonski, a tough guy nicknamed “Hammer” but far too big for lightweight. Where was Ladrido?
Plonski turned, yelling into the backseat.
A head popped up from the backseat of the jeep, saying, “Woo-ee, we there already?”
It took Carl a second to recognize him without the hair. Then he turned to Stark and said, “No way. You can’t be serious.”
Texarkana Reginald Dubois hopped out of the jeep and swaggered toward them, his beaming face cloudy with bruises. “Which of y’all do I fight first?” Then, seeing Carl, he said, “Well, if it ain’t the snake handler. You ready for round two?”
To Stark, Carl said, “He’ll ruin everything. He’s out of control. He’s completely—”
Stark raised a fist, not a threat but an order. Carl stood down. Unreal, absolutely unreal . . .
“You must be the head honcho around here,” Tex said, addressing Stark.
“Indeed I am.”
“Heard you needed a real fighter, so I hopped in the jeep.”
“Good of you to make time for us,” Stark said, smirking with obvious amusement. “Specialist Davis, I suspect you met Recruit Dubois on the ride over.”
“Yes, Commander.” Davis gave Tex a hard look and spat on the ground. “We met.”
Tex slapped Davis’s arm as if they were old buddies. Davis tensed. “Bygones be bygones, doc. Who’s Mount Kilimanjaro over here?”
“This is Agbeko,” Stark said. “He’s second-in-command during your trip.”
Tex jerked a little during the handshake, and Carl smiled inwardly, seeing Agbeko’s huge forearm muscles ripple as he crushed the smaller kid’s hand.
Gesturing to Carl, Stark said, “And of course you’re already acquainted with the mission leader, Carl Freeman. You’ll do as he says during the trip, hooah?”
“Hoo-friggin’-ah, boss man. Old Chatty Cathy and me did the gear-shed shuffle, but no hard feelings. Right, pal? We buried the hatchet so deep you couldn’t find it with a backhoe.” Extending his hand toward Carl, Tex said, “Put it there, old buddy.”
Before Carl could even decide whether to shake, Tex jerked his hand away and smoothed it over his shaven head. “Oh—too slow!”
Carl’s fists ached.
Tex patted around his bald dome for a second. “Sure do miss my crowning glory.”
Carl heard a helicopter approaching and turned to Stark. “May I talk to you in private?”
“No need and no time,” Stark said. “I’ve made up my mind, and you have your orders. Now, you men listen to Carl, do what he says.”
“Hooah!” Agbeko sounded off, solid and willing.
Davis nodded almost imperceptibly, staring straight ahead.
Tex whacked Carl’s shoulder. “Old Carl’s my main man! His wish is my command.”
“Good,” Stark said. “Should anything happen to him, command goes to Agbeko.”
Should anything happen to me? Carl thought. This was a tournament, not a battle.
“And should anything happen to Agbeko, command goes to Davis,” Stark said. “If anything happens to Davis, well . . . you’ll figure it out, Dubois.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Dubois said, grinning wide. “I’m a resourceful son-of-a-female-dog.”
Stark smiled. “So it would seem,” he said, and again, Carl had to wonder what Stark saw in Dubois. The commander was many things—some great, some terrible—but he wasn’t stupid.
The helicopter thwup-thwup-thwupped overhead and banked, curling around and descending toward the landing strip. At Stark’s insistence, Carl had memorized decks of “scout cards” and could now identify countless military vehicles by silhouette alone. This was an American Black Hawk—though American only by manufacture, he realized, noting its lack of flag, insignia, or identification.
Shouting over its noise, Stark said, “The warbird will carry you to your next destination. From there, you will lik
ely travel a great distance. Could take days, even weeks. Hooah?”
Carl and the others hooah-ed, Carl thinking, Weeks just to get there?
“From this point forward, you’ll be known by numbers,” Stark said. “Carl, you’re Fighter 19, hooah?”
“Hooah.”
“Agbeko, you’re Fighter 20.”
Agbeko hooah-ed.
“Dubois, you’re Fighter 18.”
“Yeah!” Tex shouted. “How about we switch that to Fighter 21? I’d rather drink than vote!”
“Davis,” Stark said, turning to the tall, stone-faced boy. “You’re Medic 8.”
Davis nodded.
“I won’t wish you luck,” Stark said. “While warriors acknowledge luck, we never count on it. You must win this tournament, hooah?”
“Hooah!” the fighters shouted. Davis shifted his weight and looked toward the helicopter.
“I’m counting on you,” Stark said, looking at them each in turn, until his mirrored shades faced Carl. “There is more riding on this tournament than you could imagine.”
Yeah, Carl thought. Like the entire world.
The copter door slid open, revealing a man wearing faded green coveralls, a black helmet, and sunglasses like Stark’s. The pilot, who could have been this man’s twin, stared straight ahead. The man in the doorway saluted Stark. Stark returned the gesture and faced the boys.
“Agbeko, you’ve been on a chopper before. Take point. You others, approach at a ninety-degree angle, straight at the door, and keep low. I’d hate to see you lose your heads.” He made a chopping motion across his throat and smiled. “Wait for the crew chief’s signal.”
The force of the blades was intense. Squinting into the wind, Carl studied the spinning blades. To normal human eyes and brains, the motion of copter blades, like the movements of small birds on the ground, appeared choppy. The eye couldn’t keep up. Thanks to the chip, Carl could now fully appreciate the speed—and smooth movement—of birds and blades alike.
The crew chief beckoned.
Stark patted Carl’s back. “To victory, son.” Then, to the others, he said, “Go, men—and remember: with your shields or on them!”