by John Dixon
“They want the bearded man. He’s not just the head of the Few. He’s the only true member. In fact, they shouldn’t even be called ‘the Few.’ They should be ‘the One . . . and his guests.’ ”
“Guests? You said they formed a powerful global network.”
“They do,” she said, “but he’s the only permanent member. They’re more like sponsors. They come and go. Only he remains. All of this,” she said, and spread her arms, twisting at the waist, then tilting back, indicating the lake, the arena above, everything, “is his doing.” She took a step toward him. “There’s something else, something I didn’t want to tell you before. . . .”
Carl tensed. “What?”
“I didn’t want you to flip out or something.” She reached out, cupping his elbows. “He created Phoenix Island. His idea, his money, his connections.”
“What about Stark?”
“Just a soldier,” she said. “The bearded man recruited him, paid for everything, and shielded it from the world. He ruined our lives, Carl.”
“He’s the one?” Carl said, his knuckles suddenly throbbing.
She nodded, looking sad. “I can’t look at him without thinking of Ross.”
At the mention of his dead friend’s name, Carl felt the old ache in his chest. Ross.
“Remember Ross?” she said.
“Remember him? He was my best friend.”
“Remember how brave he was?”
“He was too brave,” he said. “I keep thinking how, if it wasn’t for me, he’d still be alive.”
“Don’t think that way,” she said. “You didn’t make that place. The bearded man did. He destroyed Ross.”
“And Campbell,” he said.
She pulled up her sleeve, displaying flesh mottled in old burn marks. “All because of him,” she said, her voice full of bitterness. “Thousands of kids tortured, killed, or turned into monsters. Now this place, his pleasure dome.”
He gritted his teeth, picturing the bearded man laughing in the opera box, the devil enjoying his theater of pain.
“To him, we’re just gladiators and guinea pigs.” She took his hand and lifted it to her neck, pressing his fingertips to her throat.
Beneath the soft skin, her pulse fluttered like a butterfly trapped under warm silk.
“Carl,” she said, her eyes wide and glistening, “he would slit my throat just to warm his hands in the blood.”
He pulled his hand away, horrified by the thought. “Don’t say that.”
“You know it’s true,” she said. “We have to stop him.”
He felt himself nodding—they had to stop him—and pictured his fist encased in the metal cestus, blasting through the golden mask, caving in the bearded face.
“We can’t leave until I’ve mapped him,” she said. “I have to get closer.”
“How? He’ll never come near us.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I have to go to him.”
“Impossible,” he said. “His guards will stop you.”
“After the awards ceremony, he hosts the champions’ dinner. From that distance, I’ll map him in about thirty seconds.”
“Sure,” he said, “but he only invites the champions.”
“And their guests.”
“Wait . . . are you saying I should take you as my date? Don’t you think they’d find that a little suspicious?”
She paused, her eyes never leaving his, then shook her head. “Not your date, Carl.”
“Not mine?” His mind flashed over the possibilities: the Zurkistani lightweight, who’d won this morning? Or the apelike Z-Force heavyweight to whom Agbeko would forfeit this evening? She wasn’t making any sense. . . .
She took his face in her hands and smoothed her thumbs along his jawline in a caress. “Let him win.”
Understanding hit him like a right cross, and he leaned away from her touch. “Julio?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming from her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
He just looked at her. Let Julio win? Throw the fight?
Strangling a sob, she threw herself forward, hugging him hard and burying her face in chest. “Don’t hate me. I wouldn’t even want to live if you hated me.”
“Hate you? I could never hate you, Octavia.” He held her close and rubbed her back.
“You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was any other way,” she said.
“I know,” he said, rubbing her back. “I know.”
“Tell me you’ll do it,” she said, “and then we can run away together.”
They stood that way for a long time, two throwaway kids holding each other at end of the earth, before he answered her. . . .
TWENTY-NINE
WRAPPED IN THE DEADLY CESTI, Carl’s fists felt hard and heavy.
“. . . representing Phoenix Island, Fighter 19,” the announcer said.
He threw three punches in the air—all with his right hand, of course, making a show of how he kept his injured left arm close to his body, just as he’d made a show of limping into the octagon, favoring his broken toe as if it were a busted ankle. He lifted his right hand overhead.
Phony applause roared.
“This is it,” Agbeko said, rubbing his shoulders. “You must win.”
No “my brother” anymore, Carl thought. At least Agbeko was talking again. He’d sulked in his room all day. It was unfortunate, their friendship ending this way—once Carl went AWOL, Agbeko would hate him forever—but at least they could come together for this moment.
The announcer introduced Julio, who bowed toward the opera box, his bronze muscles shining with sweat. Beside him, Octavia talked and nodded. She never even glanced in Carl’s direction.
He felt a surreal blend of fondness and sickening jealousy that tightened the knot of anxiety in his gut.
Better to not even look at her.
This was it. He’d never thrown a fight in his life, would rather have died than taken a dive. But now . . .
“Here we go, boss,” Tex said, slapping his shoulder. “Knock him out fast so I can get back to the pad. I got a hankering for fried chicken.”
Davis eyed Carl with suspicion, having apparently noticed something in his demeanor that the others had missed. Better not to look at him, either.
Fighters and trainers lounged in the bleachers. A handful clapped. Across the arena in the opera box, the Few offered polite golf claps—save for the bearded man, who smiled down from his throne, not bothering to clap at all.
Hope he bet billions on me, Carl thought. Hope he bet his kidney.
Then the ref was calling them to the center. Carl took a deep breath and started forward.
Julio’s hard eyes stared from a bruised and swollen face coming apart with lacerations. The guy had guts. Carl had made it clear to Octavia that he couldn’t just lie down. With the Few watching and wagering, they had to make this look real. He would pull his punches, but he had to hit the kid hard enough to make it look real, and that meant Julio would take more damage. But he didn’t look afraid, only determined. Good.
Octavia kept her head down.
Then Julio was holding out his gloves, and Carl realized the ref had told them to touch it up. They knocked cesti with a metallic clack—Carl careful to avoid hitting Julio’s broken right hand, as he’d promised Octavia, just as she’d guaranteed that Julio would avoid striking Carl’s broken arm. Polite savagery . . .
“This is for the middleweight championship of the Funeral Games,” the ref said—as if they needed a reminder—and then spoke in Spanish, likely saying the same thing. Then he split them and ordered the teams out of the octagon.
Carl limped back to his side of the ring and swiveled into a southpaw stance. This put his right side forward, kept his left arm farther from the action, and sent a clear message: he was badly hurt and fighting one-handed.
Across the octagon, Octavia gave Julio a hug, kissed his cheek, and exited.
Just an act, Carl reminded himself, smacking down the jeal
ousy that rose in him as automatically as a knee-jerk reflex. Besides, she’s not even your girlfriend. Never has been, really.
The bell rang.
Julio came straight at him.
Good, Carl thought. Just as planned.
Also as planned, Carl moved laterally, tripping a little on his feigned injury and jabbing with his right hand.
To Carl, Julio moved in slow motion, feinting with a leg kick and then pushing out a one-two, which Carl slipped with ease. He slid out to the right and jabbed Julio’s gloves, thinking, You’re going to have to do better than that, buddy. Throw the head kick.
Julio tore after him.
Carl flicked another jab, which clattered off the kid’s cestus and glanced off his forehead, splitting the skin and opening yet another cut. Oops, Carl thought, and slipped away again.
He was aware of his corner shouting, calling for the quick knockout—even Davis’s voice in the mix, the medic seeing how easily Carl could clip the kid, could knock him out and finish this nightmare tournament—and he heard Octavia’s voice, too, calling not to him but to Julio, not in English but in Spanish. Her cries throbbed with urgency. One word he did understand—cabeza—and that was good.
Cabeza meant head, and that was the plan. Come on, Julio. Kick me in the cabeza.
And here it came, a rear roundhouse that Carl watched swing in his direction, angling upward—though not upward enough, he realized—and at the last second, he pulled his battered left arm out of the way, and Julio’s kick slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
Julio followed up with hooks upstairs, left-right-left-right. With superhuman speed, Carl whipped his right hand back and forth, blocking the attacks. Anger roared up through him, filling his nose with smoke and his skull with flames. What was this guy doing?
Julio dropped back downstairs and drove his cesti into Carl’s arms.
Both arms.
Carl spun off the cage, grabbing and turning Julio, and slammed him against the mesh. “What are you doing?” he said, his words garbled by his mouthpiece and his rage.
He had agreed to something he’d thought he would never do—take a dive—and asked only one thing in return: no strikes to his broken arm. None. Octavia had guaranteed it.
Julio jabbed at Carl’s head—a pitiful feint—then swung a wild right . . . again at Carl’s broken arm. The jerk was targeting it.
Carl locked him up, swung his right leg between them, and hip-tossed the kid.
“No!” Agbeko called, no doubt remembering the Brazilian. “Stay on your feet!”
But Carl followed him down, wanting to get things straight.
Julio grunted with the impact, then struggled wildly as Carl wrapped him up. Even this—exerting the necessary force to restrain this thrashing liar—was torquing his injured arm . . . and his temper, which he very much needed to control. “What are you doing?” Carl said into the struggling fighter’s ear, working to form clear words through his mouthpiece. “Stick to the plan.” He released him and stepped away.
It took Julio a second to get to his feet. This display of weakness only enraged Carl further—how dare this third-rate wannabe come at him hard?—but he kept his head and faked a wince, leaning away from where the kick had smashed into his ribs.
Back on his feet, Julio looked at Carl with confusion—and something like fear. What was wrong with this guy?
Julio bulled forward with hooks—again at the body.
Carl picked off one with his lead elbow, then lifted his fractured arm and sucked in his gut to avoid the second.
Carl tied him up in a standing position. Maybe Julio was too excited. Maybe he’d forgotten the plan. Maybe he hadn’t understood Carl’s reminder through the mouthpiece. Carl jammed a knee attack, spat out his mouthpiece, and dodged a stomp kick, all with the ease of a parent patiently avoiding a toddler in a tantrum, then whispered into Julio’s ear, “Kick me in the head, you idiot. Not my broken arm. Stick to the plan, Julio.”
He freed the tugging, grunting fighter, and almost laughed at the look of shock on the Julio’s face. What was he, mad that Octavia had told Carl his name?
Carl glanced in her direction then, saw her standing just outside the cage, the cords in her neck standing out as she screamed, urging Julio forward, “¡Cabeza! ¡Cabeza!”
Yeah, Carl thought, cabeza. Throw the stupid head kick, so we can get this over with.
He hated the passion in her face, the hope and desperation in her voice.
And the kick slammed into Carl’s broken arm.
He’d spent one fateful second looking at her, and Julio, despite Octavia’s promise and Carl’s two reminders, had driven a hard kick right into Carl’s fractured arm, a direct hit that shoved Carl sideways and made him wince—not out of pain, of course, but from the awful feeling of his arm breaking clean through, the bones separating into halves.
When his bones snapped, so did Carl. Stoked by Julio’s brazen treachery, the beast in Carl roared flames, incinerating its cage, and engulfed him in white-hot rage, into which Octavia’s cries splashed like gasoline.
One-handed, he batted away Julio’s ridiculous attacks and shoved him—hard.
Julio flew backward, banging into the cage.
“Look what you did,” Carl said, and held up his arm, which flopped loosely halfway to the elbow. He walked straight at Julio—no bouncing, no blading away of the upper body, with his hands at his sides. “I was going to go easy, but now . . .”
He deflected a laughable kick.
Julio covered up—a pitiful sight that stoked Carl’s rage.
Carl hammered the coward’s thighs with powerful Thai kicks, swept his guard aside, and stunned him with a short, sharp head butt.
Julio wobbled, but Carl pinned him to the cage, keeping him on his feet. No falling down now, pretty boy. You had your chance. I offered to walk away, and you stabbed me in the back.
He was a conflagration of fury.
He drove a knee into Julio’s ribs. Split his cheekbone with an elbow. Stomped down hard on his feet, loving the feel of bones breaking beneath his heel.
Julio flailed weakly, but Carl bumped him up against the cage, grinning at Octavia’s shrieks as he dragged his cestus up Julio’s face, opening a long cut. The sight of fresh blood spurred the beast in Carl. Again and again he struck his stunned opponent, raking away with his leather-wrapped palms, ripping open long furrows in Julio’s face.
You will remember me by these scars, Carl thought. He cupped Julio’s chin in his bloody hand, jerked the dazed fighter’s head toward him, and at the same time whipped his own head forward in a vicious head butt that melted Julio’s bones and sent him spilling to the ground, completely unconscious.
Then the fight was over, and the canned applause roared, and his team was all around him, cheering and slapping his back and calling him champion, and Octavia was crouched beside Julio, cradling his bloody head and trying to wake him up.
THIRTY
ONLY WHEN CARL REACHED the end of the tracks, having sprinted uphill for miles, did he consider what, exactly, he was doing. Barely out of breath, he paused there, remembering Octavia’s hateful glare and the exuberance of his team and how, in the locker room, as Davis set, splinted, and wrapped Carl’s broken arm, his rage had cooled and the terrifying recognition of what he had done settled over him like a killing frost. He’d fled the locker room, running away from his team, away from Octavia and Julio, away from the bearded man and the Few, away from the arena, out miles of track and tunnel, not running to anything, only away . . .
Bringing him here.
There were no guards, of course. Why guard an exit that led only to a frozen death?
He pressed the arrow-up button in the wall, and the heavy gate groaned open. Stepping from the tunnel, he squinted into the wind and sleety rain.
He stood atop the severe, unforgiving peak from which the jagged ridge of stone and ice plunged straightaway to the formidable coastline. Mountains without lowland, sh
eer stone cliffs falling to a brief beach of jagged talus booming with the crush of black tides, the vast ocean spreading away beneath dark skies to where, in the distance, lightning flashed, like a battle of gods unseen at the edge of the world. He stood in the howling wind, his clothes fluttering about him, sleety rain lashing down. By something approaching instinct, he dimmed further down his sense of cold and the stinging bite of the sleet, but then he thought, No . . . feel it.
The object of life was not avoidance of pain. Stark had said that. All this time, all this change, and Stark was still in his head. So be it. Sometimes, Stark was right.
He dialed his temperature awareness back to what he felt to be normal—it wasn’t so easy to tell anymore—and reveled in the spasm of discomfort that shuddered through him, the sudden, saturating chill, the assault of wind and icy rain upon his face and exposed flesh, the cold rivulets within his hood, draining down his neck, onto his chest.
Yes. Cold. Discomfort. Reality.
Exactly what he needed now that he’d fled the false world of the Cauldron, where subversion and sublimation ruled, action defied intention, good destroyed good, and he had become a monster of rage.
Forget the Cauldron, he told himself, shuddering with cold. Focus on reality; fixate on the now. . . .
An unforgiving, uninhabitable place. The farthest reach of the world. Cruel and hard. Unsustainable. A land beyond all questions of hope. No life, nor even any soil in which to sow it. A bleak, untenable country that knew only stone and crashing surf, ice and blustering wind.
He stood at the base of the world, its lowest ring, as frozen and as devoid of hope as Dante’s Judecca, the very bottom of the abyss to which were exiled the most vile of all sinners: those who had betrayed their benefactors.
He belonged here. He had only hosts and patrons—no benefactors—but knew he had betrayed everyone. Not just Stark but Octavia and even his father. Somehow, he had betrayed even himself.
Now, in this land of penance, there could be no more fitting punishment than reality.
For it was unreality, not just the lies and secret agendas but the chip, that had undone him. The chip had weakened him with strength. He had let it ruin him slowly, from the inside out, surrendering to one small concession after another, avoiding discomfort, blocking pain, coddling himself until the soft rot of comfort had hollowed out his core, leaving him empty.