Freedom

Chapter 39

Winding down, yes. Finished, not yet. We could wait for the Merc, but we couldn't wait penniless. I wasn't sure if the impulse came from me, or from whatever was wrong with my right hand – but I went straight to the pit.

There was a fight on, but I wasn't interested in that. The only official-looking person was the man in the meshed-in booth. Because everyone was watching the fight, I had him all to myself. I shouted some questions to him over the roar of the spectators – you'd be surprised how much noise just thirty stalkers can make.

The situation was about what I'd expected, except even more liberal. I'd never fought professionally before, but I didn't need to be a seasoned pro to recognize opportunity when it knocked. My right hand wanted blood, and my friends – and I – needed money.

You could die, but these weren't even technically death matches. All I had to do was win convincingly. I – or at least my right hand – was pretty confident I could do that.

I signed. And I didn't have long to wait. The guy in the cage shouted at some other guys, and they all but threw me into the pit – but not before taking everything I had, including my upper armor, and locking it in a big green box.

I touched down, and got to my feet. Boy, this concrete trough hadn't looked quite so deep from overhead. The perspective I had on the stalkers above was pretty ominous. It was a little chilly to be out in nothing but a compression shirt, but I had a feeling I'd be warming up soon.

My opponent didn't keep me waiting. He came down shirtless. His hands were taped up, and he had some bruises, but he looked pretty fresh. There was no bell or anything; we were both down there, so it was on. He raised his hands in a stance that was unfamiliar to me, but obviously pugilistic in nature.

"Hey," I said.

"What?" he replied in English.

"You know who Bruce Lee is?"

"Yeah."

"Then what are you doing here?"

I hit him so hard that a lot of people looking on stopped shouting long enough to groan on his behalf. It was probably the shortest fight they'd ever seen. There was an awkward silence. Then a lot of outraged shouting in Russian. I didn't blame them; the odds had been stacked against me, and they'd all just lost their money.

A ladder was lowered, and I climbed out, going to the cage to collect my winnings. It wasn't a lot of money in the great scheme of things, but for ten seconds' work it wasn't too bad.

Unsurprisingly, the manager suggested another fight. If not for my hand, I'd probably have quit while I was ahead. As it was, I shrugged my shoulders and said: "Why not?"

So, twenty minutes later, after listening to some Russian that I didn't fully understand, I was back in the pit. They were offering me a lot more for this fight, so I figured it would probably be someone fairly tough. I folded my arms and tapped my foot impatiently. The spectators were curiously quiet. I felt like I was about to get the punch line – like I'd inadvertently agreed to fight a pack of blood drinkers or something.

That was impossible, of course, but the part of me that was still thinking straight had a bad feeling about this. I'd read that in the arena at Rostov, they actually got in there with live weapons and shot at each other. Surely this good-natured little fight club wouldn't expect anything like that, right?

I thought back to the previous fight. I felt a little like Jet Li in that movie where he beats people up – well, one of them. The one with the guy from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. You know what I'm talking about. I'd have to give them a little more of a show this time. I'd also put my winnings from the last fight on myself, and to my surprise, they'd let me. That was odd, now that I thought about it.

Well, whatever. I waited. But not for long.

The concrete underfoot shook when my opponent dropped into the pit.

"Gee," I said aloud. "I didn't know the Merc had a twin."

Okay, so the guy wasn't quite as big as the Merc. But he was close. And he was wearing an exoskeleton. And he was carrying a sledgehammer. And I really ought to listen closer when people talk to me. Something told me backing out wasn't an option. Now I saw why they'd let me bet on myself – because if I lost this fight, I was dead. I couldn't very well throw it, could I?

There was no preamble. I was dodging wild, incredibly fast swings from that sledgehammer almost immediately. The exoskeleton augmented the guy's arms, so he was waving that thing around like a wiffle bat. I could barely stay ahead.

The crowd was roaring – much louder than it had at peak hours. Talk had gotten around that some idiot had gotten in the ring with this monster, and it had woken the whole place right back up. I saw women up there in the crowd. It looked like it wasn't every day this guy got to come out and pound somebody to a pulp.

Well, nothing less than a chainsaw was going to get through that exoskeleton, so body shots were out. The guy was unmasked, but he was tall, and he was controlling his space. Getting in there and punching him in the face wasn't likely. This was like getting into a fistfight with Iron Man barehanded. That didn't mean I had no options – it just meant I had to change the way I was thinking about it.

I was tired of the hammer. It had to go. I held up, let him get close, and ducked a swing, then lunged in. He didn't see it coming, and he raised the hammer to protect himself. I smashed right through the middle of the wooden handle with the flat of my right hand. The exoskeleton made his arms strong, not his wrists. He was strong himself – maybe even strong enough to hang onto what was left of the hammer – but he didn't try. He let it drop. He was surprised, but he'd been in enough combat that just surprising him wasn't enough.

No, he was already coming after me again – but now his range was significantly less. It was something. Anyway, everything has a weak point – and it's actually pretty boring, because it's usually the same thing. For this guy, it was obviously his legs, specifically his knees. It didn't take a genius to see it – all that weight had to come down on something. The exoskeleton was helping, but at the end of the day, it's the real leg that matters.

He was getting frustrated, so I didn't have to wait long to catch him over-committing. Then I just kicked him in the knee.

Boy, you hate to see a grown man cry. On the other hand, it wasn't entirely un-justified – the Zone is probably about the worst possible place to have a broken knee. But this guy was the champ – he presumably had a little money, and if he had even half a brain, he'd use it for a medical evac across the channel and back to civilization.

I didn't kill him. I didn't even knock him out. I just broke his knee. So there was this huge guy in his huge exoskeleton, lying on the floor of the pit, crying. And me just standing there.

I'd managed to get another awkward silence out of the crowd. I looked up and shrugged at them. Someone declared the fight over. For a moment I was worried they'd try to stiff me for not doing it right – like with Spider-Man. Wisely, they didn't. And the odds had been so stacked against me that even I was surprised at my winnings. The few people audacious enough to bet on me had really cleaned up.

So I got just as many pats on the back as murderous looks – but remember, a murderous look is a little more serious in the Zone than it is wherever you come from. I'd made enemies tonight, and I'd have to watch my back. But hey, it's the Zone – you always watch your back. Besides, when you're mad at someone because he's too good a fighter, do you really want to fight him?

Okay, that was my right hand talking, and it could say whatever it wanted – the rest of me was going to be careful for my remaining time in Kevorich.