by John Dixon
Agbeko shouted, demanding a knockout, but Carl, committed to this pattern of quiet brutality, kept pecking away with jabs, tending the gap. Open up again, he thought. Drop that guard, and then, in what seemed like magical obedience, the Brazilian’s hand slipped from his head.
Carl cracked him with a straight right hand to the temple, careful not to put too much onto it. Too careful, he realized, as the punch landed. The Brazilian stumbled but didn’t fall. Carl leaned left, meaning to finish things with a hook to the body and—
Wham!
Strong arms wrapped around his midsection. The Brazilian had only pretended to be hurt, drawing Carl to him, and now the guy’s shoulder butted into Carl as his foot hooked around Carl’s ankle, and Carl was in the air, falling, his mind screaming with full understanding—the Brazilian had him again!—as applause filled the arena and Agbeko bellowed, “No!”
Carl slammed into the mat, a jolting impact that knocked the air from his lungs, and the Brazilian flooded over him. They rolled in a frantic tangle. Carl struggled to a crouch, but the Brazilian had wrapped his legs around Carl’s shoulder and waist and clung to his left arm, which he’d locked in a bar across his body. The bar was exerting incredible force on Carl’s forearm, and panic flooded him as he felt the bones straining, ready to break. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get free. He bounced the Brazilian off the mat, but that did no good. There was no way out. He felt his tendons stretching and snapping and knew that the Brazilian could break his arm at will.
The Brazilian growled something in Portuguese, then said, “No escape, amigo. Tap out.”
He spoke the truth. There was no escape. He had to tap out, or his forearm would snap.
Thanks to the lightning speed of his thinking, Carl understood not just these facts but the larger moment as well, understood in a clinical way perhaps more befitting machine than man the terrible thing that was about to happen, and understood with robotic certainty the sequence of events that would occur after that. His wholly human heart gave one brief pulse of terror, wanting none of it, but he forged on into both disaster and victory, growling, “No.”
“Lamento,” the Brazilian said, and bore down.
Carl heard his own arm break—a horrible sound like a broomstick snapping over a knee—and felt his forearm give halfway to the wrist. There was no pain, of course—he had that particular dial buried—but he screamed as convincingly as he could.
The Brazilian released the hold, rolled away, and stood. He, too, had heard and felt the bone break, just as Carl had understood he would. Convinced that the fight was over, the grappler stood, raised his fists overhead, and started for his corner.
But this was no more a jujitsu fight than it was a boxing match, and Carl had understood when he’d sacrificed his arm that the ref wouldn’t stop the fight until one fighter tapped, died, or lost consciousness completely.
He popped up and rushed after the unsuspecting Brazilian, who turned just as Carl blasted him. The right uppercut slammed into the Brazilian’s abdomen, lifting him from the floor. Then the right fired again, a six-inch punch that spun the guy’s jaw and dropped him. Carl hovered, ready to finish the job, but the Brazilian was obviously done, and the ref stepped in, waving his arms.
It was finally over.
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN THEY GOT BACK to the apartment, Carl eventually allowed Davis to take a look at his arm—but not until Agbeko had agreed to a prefight nap and Tex had plopped down in front of the TV with yet another bag of cheese curls. In Carl’s room, Davis sat across from Carl, moving his slender fingers carefully over the swollen arm.
Davis looked grim. “You need a cast.”
“Nah,” Carl said, and took another sip of water, elaborately nonchalant. Sure, the arm was broken, but it wouldn’t stop him. He’d mute the pain and deal with the consequences after he’d won the tournament. “I told you guys, it’s just a sprain.”
“Yeah, well they might believe that nonsense, but I heard it, man. It’s swollen and hot. You need a cast.”
“I can’t have a cast,” Carl said. “They wouldn’t let me fight in it.”
“Fight in it?” Davis said. “Your arm is broke, man. The radius, the ulna, maybe both. Time to hang it up.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Davis just looked at him, working the toothpick side to side in his mouth. “Mess with a broken arm, it won’t heal right. Even if it’s off a little bit, it’ll grow weird, and you’ll always have a weak point. Get a little ridge of calcium in there, like a fulcrum, always ready to snap again.”
Fulcrum? Carl thought, struck again by how much Davis had learned. What is a fulcrum?
“You fight again, break both bones the rest of the way through . . .” Davis shook his head.
Carl shrugged. “I’ll keep it safe. I don’t need it. Really.”
Davis raised his brows, the hint of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Win with one hand tied behind your back, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Carl said.
“You fight again, you can’t use it; you feel me?”
“Yeah,” Carl said, “I feel you.”
“Keep it close to your body. No grappling, no twisting, no punching.”
“Got you,” Carl said.
Davis leaned back, shaking his head. “Man, I can’t believe I was barking up your tree back in the barracks. You would’ve thrown me a serious beatdown.”
“Yeah, and then you would’ve shanked me when I wasn’t looking.”
Davis shrugged, smiling for real now. “Not out of the realm of possibilities.”
“Well,” Carl said, “I guess it’s good for both of us that we never knocked it.” He was glad to have Davis on board. The former gangbanger was already coming up with good ideas on how he could help topple Stark. As the star medic-in-training, he had access to all things medical—including tranquilizers—and no one would question his doling out another round of inoculations when the time was right. Wanting to keep him happy, Carl said, “I only have one more fight, and it’s against Romeo.”
Romeo’s fight had been brutal. He’d fought the Chinese kid, some kind of temple purist who did this whole prefight ritual, then decimated people with explosive kicks. Carl expected the kicker to obliterate Romeo, but Octavia’s friend turned out to be a lot tougher than he’d guessed. By the end of the first round, both of them had gone down and both of them were cut. The fight dragged on for six bloody rounds. The Chinese fighter battered Romeo with leg kicks and a devastating side kick to the ribs. By the end of the sixth, Romeo’s whole face was red with blood, and he was breathing out of his mouth—a sure sign his nose was broken. Octavia stood outside the cage staring at him, terrified. And then, out of the blue, Romeo jammed a kick, dumped the guy to the mat, and choked him out. Octavia had run into the ring and hugged him as the simulated audience applauded wildly. Epic stuff. Very dramatic. No doubt entertaining for the Few . . . but not good for Romeo.
“I think he busted his hand,” Carl said.
“And a rib. You see that side kick?”
Carl nodded. “He might not even show up to the finals.”
“He’ll show. You two got the same medical condition.”
“What’s that?”
“More guts than brains,” Davis said. “Neither one of you know when to quit.”
“Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t drag out this fight,” he said, and meant it. Why was it so easy to commit to unloading on Romeo? Was it really a lesson learned . . . or did it have more to do with Octavia hugging the guy?
“Here.” Davis dug around in his med kit, uncapped a vial, and handed Carl a pair of fat white tablets.
Carl sipped his water, turning the tablets in his palm. “What are these?”
“Pain meds.”
“No, thanks,” Carl said, and handed them back.
Davis raised one brow. “That’s thing’s gotta be killing you.”
“No. It’s all right.”
“No p
ain?”
“Not really.”
Davis looked thoughtfully at the arm. “Tissue must’ve swelled up around the break. It’s holding the bone in place, keeping it from hurting. Once that swelling goes down, though, look out. If the bone gets displaced, the edges of the break can move around, cut meat, tendons, mess you up bad.”
“Noted,” Carl said. As much as his friend’s new abilities impressed him, he really wished he’d stop talking about the risks. He had to fight . . . regardless of the risks.
“If it starts hurting,” Davis said, “tell me.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Well, just remember, there’s a fine line between tough and stupid.”
Carl laughed.
“Speaking of ignorance,” Davis said, “what about Tex?”
“What about him? He lost. Tournament’s over for him.”
“I’m not talking tournament. I’m talking after. How much do we tell him?”
“Oh,” Carl said, getting it. He’d been so consumed, it hadn’t occurred to him. “He still thinks Phoenix Island is just some hard-core boot camp for bad kids.”
Davis returned the pill vial to the kit and snapped it shut. “He goes back there acting like he acts—”
“He’ll get himself killed,” Carl said. He’d hated Tex at first, then had borne up under his obnoxious company, but the guy had grown on him. He wasn’t all bad, could be kind of funny, and besides . . . no one deserved what awaited him on Phoenix Island.
“How much do we tell him?”
“Good question,” Carl said. Out in the main room, the television blared. “Some.”
“Not all, though.”
“No. He’d open up that big mouth of his and start blabbing.”
“So we tell him just enough to keep that big mouth shut.”
“If that’s even possible,” Carl said. “I can’t figure why Stark sent him in the first place.”
“Kid likes to fight.”
“Lot of kids like to fight, and I can name half a dozen Phoenix Forcers who could beat Tex. Makes no sense.” Then something occurred to him. Had Stark sent Tex just to irritate Carl, making him more likely to snap in the ring? Somewhere else, with different people, that question would sound like self-centered paranoia, but with Stark . . .
“Whatever, man,” Davis said. “We take care of business soon as we get back, we won’t have to worry about it.”
Carl nodded, doing the math in his head. Another day of fights, then the awards ceremony and the champions’ dinner with the Few—he was dreading that—the closing ceremonies, a week of travel back to Phoenix Island, and however long it took Stark to promote him. In a matter of weeks, it would be time to strike.
Davis said, “How you think Agbeko will do?”
“The Somali’s tough, but he’s pretty banged up, too.”
“True,” Davis said, not looking convinced, “but that Somalian kid can punch.”
“So can Agbeko. And he’s fresher.” Considering the remaining heavyweights, Agbeko had lucked out. On the other side of the bracket, the Brazilian heavyweight, a submission wizard, was slated to fight Z-Force’s monster. “The Somali’s going to come straight at him. If Agbeko sticks to the plan and works his angles, he’ll wreck him.”
Agbeko didn’t work his angles.
He and the Somali knocked it toe-to-toe for two rounds, both of them whaling away with bombs and taking heavy shots, their heads jolting and jerking, faces coming apart, neither one of them giving an inch until Agbeko finally landed a comic-book uppercut that threw the guy off his feet and ended the fight.
The canned applause had never played louder.
After they had guided him back to the locker room and sat him on bench, Agbeko turned his ruined face to Carl. “Did I win?”
“Yes,” Carl said. Thanks to heart, superhuman endurance born of Dr. Vispera’s blood virus, and a lucky punch, Agbeko had won the fight, but along the way, the Somali had scrambled his eggs.
“Did you win?” Tex said, giving him a what are you crazy look. “You knocked him out, old buddy.”
Agbeko hooah-ed weakly. He looked like he’d smashed face-first through a plate-glass window. “That is good.”
Davis wiped the blood from Agbeko’s eyes and peered into them with a flashlight. Then he tucked the light in his pocket and told Agbeko to follow his finger.
Agbeko didn’t seem to hear him. His head started drooping and nodding like it had after the first fight.
Carl repeated Davis’s directions.
The battered fighter lifted his chin slowly. His eyes fluttered and tracked after the medic’s moving finger.
“You boys knocked it man style out there,” Tex said, his voice throbbing with enthusiasm. “Then—whammo!” He threw a wild uppercut in the air. “You see his eyes roll back in his head?”
“Was Commander Stark happy?” Agbeko asked, his voice sleepy.
Davis shot Carl a look that managed to mix concern and accusation, then told Agbeko to hold his head still so he could staunch the bleeding.
Carl pushed on Agbeko’s chest, straightening him. “Sit up straight. Take a few deep breaths.”
The massive chest rose and fell, rose and fell, covered in blood.
“You fought bravely,” Carl said, and patted one sweaty shoulder. “Stark will be proud.”
Davis worked his magic, a look of angry concentration on his face as his fingers deftly cleaned, closed, and covered wounds.
When the medic started mumbling about how Agbeko couldn’t fight again, Carl pulled him aside. It was his job, not Davis’s, to break the news, he explained in whispers. If Davis suggested it, Agbeko would never forgive him.
“All right,” Davis said, “so long as we’re clear. He can’t fight again. Either you tell him or I do.”
“I do,” Carl said. Agbeko wouldn’t like it coming from him, either, but he respected the chain of command. Of course, the mission orders had come from Stark, not Carl. . . .
When the fifth pyre at last broke apart atop the black water and its fire died and the Brazilian anthem honoring their departed heavyweight faded, Carl closed his eyes. Let it be over, he thought. Let that be the final boat. It was not a prayer—given the things he had done here, he felt he had forfeited that right—but a desperate plea delivered unto that false deity, hope.
Another boat trundled forth onto the lake as a new anthem moaned and clashed like a funeral dirge underscored with martial percussion. Carl let his head roll back and beheld the black flag fluttering on the screen overhead, a yellow lightning bolt twisted into a Z at its center.
All the air went out of him.
When Alexi’s image came onto the screen, Carl looked away, filled with dread and sorrow and remorse.
The boat drifted toward the center of the lake, and the inhumanly deep voice intoned, “We honor Fighter 46 of Zurkistan.”
Not Fighter 46, Carl thought. Alexi.
The boat burst into flames.
Carl closed his eyes. I killed him, he thought—and the fatal hook looped again and again in his mind—Thock! Thock! Thock!—with the merciless vividness of the chip. This wasn’t remembering; this was reliving . . . and he knew he would spend the rest of his days reliving that awful moment. You stole his life.
But no. It was—
Thock!
. . . Stark and . . .
Thock!
Baca . . .
“May we all die such an honorable death,” the voice of the bearded man said.
Thock! And Carl could see Alexi’s skull give beneath the punch, could feel the bone crunch beneath his knuckles. . . .
He opened his eyes to see groups drifting through the gloom, coming away from the black lake. Oddly, he felt both paralyzed and restless. What have I done? What have I become?
He felt a hand settle lightly on his shoulder and knew it was Davis. Davis, who understood, who had been forced to kill as a child and who’d proven a far better person than Carl—though that was laughably fain
t praise now, wasn’t it? Carl had killed not by accident, not in self-defense, not even for justice. He had killed out of rage. He had murdered the Zurkistani.
“Poor Alexi,” a voice said—not Davis, after all—and the words burned like acid. He turned to see Baca and his smaller fighter. No sign of Fighter 47, who had killed yet again today. The lightweight glared at Carl, teeth bared, tears streaming down his face. He sputtered something in his guttural tongue.
“I . . .” Carl trailed off, unable to even finish the sentence.
Baca’s face was serious now, not taunting or goading. “You did what you had to do. Now it is over. And you at last have your Helot.”
“That’s not how it happened,” Carl said. “That’s not what I wanted.”
“Semantics and philosophy,” Baca said. “In the end, the results are identical. Alexi is gone, and you’ll have your promotion. Unless, of course, you lose to the Mexican.” He smiled wolfishly. “Then, I believe Stark will send you to me. We do have a vacancy on Z-Force now.”
“Never,” Carl said.
Baca turned to Agbeko and put a hand on the African’s shoulder. “Now, soldier . . . I do implore you: forfeit.”
Agbeko, despite a face nearly mummified with bandages, had returned to full consciousness. He shook his head.
“This isn’t good,” Baca said, with a pained expression. “Fighter 47 is unstoppable. Even I cannot stop him. He is pure, unrelenting force, incapable of mercy. He lives to kill.”
“I am not afraid,” Agbeko said.
“A true soldier,” Baca said. “No wonder Stark values you so highly.”
Agbeko straightened slightly, his chin lifting.
Baca said, “The commander would not want to lose the pride of Phoenix Force.”
“I have my mission,” Agbeko said without hesitation.
“You’ve already completed it,” Baca said. “You won your bracket and brought glory to the organization. When Stark sent me Fighter 47, he had no idea how the killer would . . . evolve. Otherwise, he never would have sent you here. He never intended this as a suicide mission.”
In a strange turn of events, Carl found himself agreeing with Baca, wishing Agbeko would see the man’s logic. Someone bumped him in passing, but it barely registered, he was so riveted by the exchange.