Every One Fight

  Chapter Three: Up to my Blasted Neck

  I was alone. Mom had been sick, Doctor Namiki said she'd been ill for months before she collapsed from it. Wanna guess? Thousands in the colonies had it that year and every one was a fatality: Trelic poisoning.

  No one knew why it was causing cancer. Dr. Namiki told me it affected those who were emotionally weak, exploiting memories from their past. Not too vague, really, but it sounded psychosomatic.

  "Like when a Wicker loses their personality," I pointed out. "Right?"

  "Precisely. We believe the illness is wholly symptomatic of life long untreated psychological maladies."

  Hadn't I just said that? Namiki was sincere and trustworthy, but here's me preaching to you. He still does all your procedures. I bet you didn't know he became my life-long confidant. Maybe he's just one of those guys.

  Mom died a few weeks later. You guys were awesome to support me through the whole thing, even with credits, which I didn't have much of. Waiting tables in that 'cute' little uniform at Stalfo's earned me lots of tips but it was still a lousy wage.

  Ownership of the apartment in Green Briar Plaza went to me, and I made enough to pay for everything else. The pizzeria was a nice stint, and the staff never did me wrong. I felt like one of theirs, especially even when my life got rocky. Jaste always left me an open door, and there were times dinner was forgotten customer leftovers, or the odd occasion the kitchen staff had made 'too much' of this or that. I was pretty slim, then.

  Couldn't have started up my own place without him. Lookin' back I realize I took for granted some of the good people who cared about me. Mom's death left a pit I couldn't see the other edge of from where I stood, and I guess that's what I thought no one understood.

  I tried to keep hold of Raglyn Street, but the Bastille Yanks had walked on in. Like I said, either we defended it or let someone else lay their claim. They were nice to me in their way; promising not to break any laws or let the wasters ruin the turf. They were reliable, good kids, turned out. I remember they joined the Ranks, too, during the war.

  Any sensible girl might've found a guy to be with, but I was angry, frustrated and too strong for my own blasted good. The problem was the Jugheads had grown up and moved on. Most've 'em were in Apprenticeships or the Military, and Cosy had a gig as a lead guitarist. Suited him. He was a musical genius and sharding cool.

  So, alone, lonely and bored, I wandered out to the Barracks looking for a rumble. Stupid, right?

  I wanted a distraction and I got it. Dunno what I expected in the old waryard, but I guess my instincts were all over it. Not my better ones, awrite? I know, I know. A random buncha Strays had turned a haphazard circle of tanks into an arena of sorts. It was pretty impressive.

  "Awp," mouthed a scruffy, cockeyed kid in half plate and cybernetics. "Nuckles. You all worked up bout your turf? Fight me."

  "Screw that, Junkeyed," I snarled, hankering bad for a tussle. Little bastard son. Half his prosthesis were injuries I gave him and he never let me forget it. I wanted to vent and didn't like his scrapyard junkie style, jumpin' at me like I was going to crumble. Sure he had a grind, but it didn't fit somehow.

  In the end I was so frustrated and ready to go I guess I would've torn up anything that smirked at me. My heartrate jumped up plenty and my vision got real clear as we circled in the ring of smashed tanks. It was my arrogance telling me how brief this fight was going to be.

  I knew his fight style. He was short and his movements were sloppy as loose spit. Even so, he was fast and knew his body. He landed a couple boxing style punches before I saw the differences in his performance. While we were trading blows he had comments flyin' at me about my looks. Hurt? Me? He was playin' … and that didn't fit, either.

  “Toss me like dough.”

  “Shoot me from the hip.”

  “Gonna slap me down?”

  It was all about him, and that tweaked me but good. I knew he was throwing his nose under my boot, slackluster jabs about my loss of turf. Wasn't right, he didn't care about turf, he was a belly crawler, I thought. He said this and that, and I heated up, my moves gettin' really sloppy. During a flurry to my stomach he grabbed my breast, and I snapped.

  “Gonna do more'n slap ya down!” I raged, voice echoing against scrap metal.

  I tore his blasted cybernetic arm off and beat him with it. It broke off like a dead branch, cracking with a good twist. Told ya, I have no class. Nobody stopped me, they seemed rather amused by my wanton brutality. When he stopped moving, I clued in it was over.

  Somebody declared me the winner and shoved a fully loaded one thousand cred stamp at me. In a feverish haze I accepted it. I didn't appreciate its value until I got home. That was more than a weeks wages. I went clothes shopping to distract myself from the scalding fact that I'd nearly bludgeoned a man to death … with his own arm.

  A few days later I received a paper letter in fancy cursive script. Yeah. Paper. What in blazes was it about?

  "Welcome, Masurani,

  “To the fold.

  “(Signed) Petulant, your champion."

  Here's something they don't teach you in school: Gangs set you up in the middle of a crime t'keep you from squalling to the authorities. Emotional blackmail on two levels: Guilt and the thrill of perceived power. Oh, and more guilt leading to more crime and in my case, violence in a deadly downward spiral.

  No I didn't understand that, but I was stuck in it fast.

  Never even pondered my reaction to being groped. Typical, I know. The way I figure it, though–even now–he should've known better. Keep it clean, a fight's a fight, nothing more. I've made friends out of smash-ups just because I learned they were honorable when we were toe-to-toe. Ayani wouldn't have understood, she's too pure of intent. I'm a blunt headed instrument, but not ashamed of the fact.

  Anyway, I went back and fought against bigger, meaner guys, and made a sweet nest egg for myself. If I was gonna make creds like that, I decided I'd be smart with 'em. I also got caught up in a nasty cycle of releasing tension on any tweeze dumb enough to take a swing at me. It was fun, and I loved being the winner.

  Then a couple things happened to me. I met a guy, and Petulant anted up with an offer to sponsor me into professional fighting. Shawn Mondale treated me very well, and he was the very template of the man I'd eventually marry. He knew I fought, but he wasn't the problem.

  My Uncle, Faroh Sarle, moved in. He wasn't there in any official capacity, just needed a place to 'camp' while sorting out his life during a real rough spot in his marriage. I'd previously consented, but the timing just out and out sucked.

  About a week later they bumped into a good counselor and worked things out. Oh? Dr. Natali Kraven was a close friend of Dr. Namiki? Ya don't say. I probably had nothing to do with it.

  I loved Faroh and we were close for the rest of his life, but right then it got on my nerves we were so alike. Faroh was six feet tall and built like a tank. He ate well and fed me too, taking responsibility for all the kitchen duties and grocery bill. Most generous man I've ever known.

  "Pass the bitter sauce, will ya please Nuckles?"

  "It's neysith sauce." Mid-pass I balked, but the mistake had been made, and I wasn't going to lie about it.

  This was over a dinner one night when I was distracted. Shawn and I had had a big fight and I was sore. Huh? We never got physical, but I learned how much words can hurt in that relationship. I'd had a good. loud cry about it not a half hour before.

  "Thinkin' about doin' the circuit, Masurani?" I'd expected to be chastised, seared and served on a platter with a side of fries, but he was eye-level about it. Made me realize it was my choice. I was an adult too.

  "I don't think I want to."

  He kept on eating for a few minutes. "It's good creds."

  "So what? Maybe it is." Oh yeah, on the hot seat with no foresight or goal. So typical. I hadn't made any decision so I was vulnerable to his influence. We spent the night talking about his career, and how it was disrupting h
is marriage. Hadn't figured him for the open, caring type.

  I wanted desperately to talk to Ayani about it. She has a level head, and I knew I could get an honest word on it. You weren't around, and I needed good advice. Instead I got a threat letter from Petulant. It was personal, since I had no family besides Faroh.

  Aim Westfarthing promised I'd have no future if I 'spurned my destiny as his prizefighter.' That very day I met a Nova cyborg who improved this notion in my eyes by nearly breaking my arm. Until then I'd never had an opponent who could do that.

  I told nobody about that encounter. Later I met Aim the local gym, but not even that Nova had convinced me to sign with him. A conversation we had would be the deciding factor.

  "So y' can't find the Catalyst that killed your Father," he started, leaning into me with a lame right cross. "Mebbe nobody can."

  I got angry and knocked him on his ass. Physical intimidation never impressed me before, and he wasn't doing anything to reinforce that notion. Aim grinned. "I got the links t' find the guys who blew up Highway 9. Be my fighter and I'll get you their threads on a plate."

  I pushed him down again. "Stuff you, wickwalker."

  He got up, looking a little impatient and brushed past me, heading toward a red and grey bag of gear. From it he pulled a memory card, which he gave to me with a signing bonus of fifteen thousand credits. The recording contained detailed footage of the attack and promised more.

  The next day I was training with him at Mudwick's Gym, across the river in Sketchline. My fights were infrequent at first, but it didn't take long for Master Iridian to notice the influence it had on me.

  "Masurani, it was unlike you to turn your palm upward when you knew I was to strike your face," she said, staring at me in abject amazement. She'd hit hard enough to lay me out. Master Iridian was a foot and a half shorter than me, but the disadvantage was always mine.

  "Sorry, Master," I chuckled defensively, lying flat on my back.

  "There is our trust, you see? I will never 'sucker punch' you," she explained, but I already knew that. "How long will you fight for Westfarthing?"

  Guilt wasn't a big factor of my life, but Nasura sure brought it home. She helped me up, which made me feel worse.

  "I don't know," I said, regarding her serenity with the usual misgivings. "It's Pop. I want closure."

  "Ah. Closure, that is the word? Not revenge? Or justice?" What did I know? I wanted to know why they'd blown up Highway 9 and killed everybody. What made that okay? Master Iridian had another insight: "You have given Mr. Westfarthing control of you and your will to have answers. Can he give you them? What prevents you from them? Think on it, my dear young friend. It is not a gift you exploit."

  Her gentle, hard way of saying I was thoughtless and headstrong. Ayani and I were her first students, and she doted on us like her own. I walked away from that with a torment of loss and confusion in my mind and heart. In the circuit, things just got harder and each fight left me in worse shape. Aim told me to fight whatever was in the other corner, baiting me with tidbits of information about the terrorist gang.

  I was against cyborgs of all kinds, from Masura right on down to Body Melders, those whacked up nanoborgs. Meanwhile the physical damage mounted up in bruises, cuts and little bone fractures. It was wearing thin, even for those odds.

  At forty-five percent winnings off the top, it would have all been spent on medical. Doctor Namiki had a deal with Dryfuss and they insisted I pay nothing, but scrap it, I'm no splitball. Besides, I knew the cost. He told me AOC contracts covered all expenses, but I didn't like the odor of sideways accounting. Yeah okay, so he wasn't lying. Guilt is a powerful thing.

  So I paid him a flat, modest fee for each visit. I understand that paid for a lot of equipment, but at the time there was no easing my shame. Fortunately I was tough but my confidence wasn't so resilient. It wasn't like I'd had the sense to join the KnightsMage. I had harder lessons to learn.

  Do ya get trust is a big challenge for me?

  One night Aim visited my locker room and just eyeballed me for a while. The gear was his design and flat out sexy. I grimaced at him and he slapped on his business face before I did it for him.

  "Tonight's gonna be different."

  "Is it?" I put on a nasty scowl for him. The ninja getup he had me in was all tight and I hated him for that, too. Didn't show skin, but with my healthy figure it didn't have to.

  "You bet that it will," he said, as if he'd just avoided saying something else. "I got a Nova for you. He'll like you on the mat tonight."

  "Scrap that! This is for creds, right?"

  "Don't be so twitchy! Just a slip of the tongue. Fight or don't fight. I don't care."

  We both knew I would.