The Champion

  Quentin put his arm around his sister and held her close. He turned to Fred, who was wincing from John’s overzealous hugging and back thumping.

  “John, take it easy,” Fred said. “Won’t do me any good to live through this if you just kill me with kindness.”

  “I was worried about you, my mind-reading buddy,” John said. “We had to come and save your ass.”

  John had been friends with Fred before Quentin had even arrived on Ionath. Had John actually come for Fred, and not to help Quentin find Jeanine? If so, did that even matter now?

  “Hello, Fred,” Quentin said. “Are you okay?”

  Fred winced at another overzealous back-thump, then pushed John away.

  “I will be okay if your linebacker doesn’t kill me,” he said. “Other than the occasional pain in my neck when I make a mistake with the Hypatia, I’m fine.”

  “The Hypatia isn’t a warship,” Quentin said. He looked at his sister. “It doesn’t have cannons.”

  “Does now,” Fred said. “She’s been refitted with weaponry and armor. Some next-level stealth in there as well, apparently — the engineers really liked your yacht’s design. The Portath tech, Q — it’s amazing.”

  Quentin thought about the Ki freighter anchored next to Rosalind; maybe it was much more than just a freighter.

  “Did the Portath do that with all the ships up there?”

  “So it seems,” Fred said. “I’m supposed to be the Hypatia’s captain, since it’s the only ship Jeanine and I know how to fly.”

  Fred gave an exaggerated wink. Jeanine reached for him, hugged him.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Since we came as a team, they kept us together.”

  She sounded grateful, and Quentin understood why. Fred knew how to fly just about anything. He’d commanded a Purist Nation warship once, although he refused to give up details about that experience. He’d also captained the Touchback when Quentin and John had stolen it. If Fred had revealed his skills, the Portath might have assigned him to a bigger ship — and not assigned Jeanine to go with him. Even when facing the rest of his life stranded in the Cloud, Fred had stayed by Jeanine’s side. Quentin would not forget that.

  Jeanine simply beamed at the Krakens, seemed to be in disbelief that so many people would come for her and Fred.

  “Thank you all,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  Ju, Kimberlin and Starcher smiled back, all three of them giddy at the dangerous mission’s final success. Becca smiled, too, but she looked away, uncomfortable with Jeanine’s gratitude.

  John stepped up and offered his hand to Jeanine.

  “Hello there,” he said. “My name is Jonathan.”

  Quentin looked at him quizzically. Jonathan?

  Jeanine grinned and shook John’s hand. She wasn’t a small woman — she shared Quentin’s genes, after all — but she looked like a toy next to the 310-pounder.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve watched my brother’s games.”

  John smiled wide, delighted. “You’re a football fan? That’s awesome.”

  “John, not now,” Quentin said.

  There would be plenty of time for thanks and small talk later, after they were aboard Rosalind and back in civilized space. He had his sister, his friend, and the information that had made a living god set up this dangerous charade. The adventure was over: it was time to go home.

  He turned back to Hulsey.

  “Thank you for bringing me to Jeanine,” he said, squeezing his sister tighter. “We’re ready to leave.”

  Hulsey frowned, confused. She looked at Jeanine, then back to Quentin, then realization set in.

  “Your sister can’t go with you,” she said. “Neither can Fred.”

  His rage, the fuel that had driven him through most of his life, that he had worked so hard to keep in check, suddenly crashed over him, a tidal wave that swept him up and carried him along. More games from the Portath? Quentin started to shake, to tremble, and wondered not only how far he could throw Hulsey, but what would happen to her head when it smashed against a tree.

  Becca and Kimberlin suddenly rushed between Quentin and Hulsey, Becca facing the red-robed woman, Kimberlin facing Quentin. Kimberlin’s hands rose slightly, as if he thought Quentin might try to rush past at any second.

  “Get out of my way, Mike,” Quentin said.

  Becca turned sharply. “Q, be quiet.”

  A request — a firm request, but not a command. Becca knew he had lost it; she was trying to control the situation. Quentin took a step back, focused on reining in his temper.

  Becca faced Hulsey.

  “Jeanine and Fred are coming with us,” Becca said. “Bloodletter said we could leave, right?”

  “Bloodletter isn’t their trainer,” Hulsey said. “The Gouger is.”

  “Trainer,” Quentin spat, looking around Kimberlin’s wide body at this woman he now hated with everything he had. “You mean owner.”

  Hulsey leaned to her right, looking around Becca to return Quentin’s glare.

  “Trainer is what I said, and trainer is what I meant. You don’t know anything about our culture, Barnes, anything about our laws. Petra asked that the sentients who arrived on your ship, on Rosalind, could leave unharmed — Bloodletter agreed to that. Jeanine Carbonaro and Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga were not on Rosalind.”

  John crossed his arms, jutted out his chin.

  “They’re with us,” he said, his voice a lethal growl. “You don’t want to screw with me, lady.”

  Kimberlin turned slightly, his upturned hands seemingly ready to stop John as well as Quentin.

  “John, stop it,” Kimberlin said. “Now is not the time for threats.”

  “Wrong,” Ju said. “Now is the perfect time for threats.”

  Quentin couldn’t agree more. Jeanine and Fred stood tall, stood firm, but he sensed their fear. They had thought it was all over, but now their only chance to escape was falling apart before their eyes. Quentin would get them out of this place or he would die trying.

  “Hulsey, I don’t give a damn about your culture,” he said. “We came here for Jeanine and Fred, and we’re not leaving without them.”

  She rubbed her face, as if the whole ordeal exhausted her.

  “I suppose there is one way. You have to make a legal challenge to their trainer. This has never happened before, because every non-Portath who has come here has been a trainee, and trainees aren’t allowed to make challenges. But, since Bloodletter freed you, you aren’t trainees.”

  A loophole in the system. That was fine with Quentin, whatever it took to get the job done.

  “I’ll challenge,” he said. “Do we have to go to court or something?”

  Hulsey shook her head. “You have to challenge the Gouger to combat. If he refuses to fight, you become Fred and Jeanine’s trainer and can take them with you. If the Gouger accepts, then you and he will settle it in the stone pit.”

  Curved knives flashing, blood spilling, a sentient life cut short by the slash of a blade. If that was the only solution, then “the Gouger” would soon find out that a professional athlete was a far cry from some random ship crewmember.

  Quentin nodded. “I understand.”

  “It’s a one-time-only option,” Hulsey said. “If you challenge for Fred and Jeanine and lose, no one else can challenge for them.”

  John raised his hand. “In that case, Lady Fun-Times, I officially challenge the multicolored booger-bag that owns Jeanine.”

  Quentin wheeled on him.

  “Dammit, John, knock it off! This isn’t some stupid game, you idiot. Jeanine is my sister and this is my fight.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, stood only a foot from Quentin.

  “Q, this ain’t a scuffle in the locker room, and this ain’t a gridiron with refs who’ll keep your quarterbacky face all in one pretty piece. You heard the lady ... there’s killin’ involved. No offense, my brother from another mother, but you’re not cut ou
t for this kind of thing.”

  Quentin’s hand shot out, pushed John hard in the chest, forcing the linebacker to take a step back.

  Becca stepped between them.

  “Quentin, stop it” she said. “John is trying to help.”

  John held up his hands, palms out — he had no intention of pushing back.

  “Q, you said this isn’t a game, and you’re right — that’s why it should be me in the pit.”

  Jeanine’s freedom was on the line, and John wanted to talk about who was tougher? Quentin could win GFL titles, cut off his own damn finger to do so, but he supposedly couldn’t handle this?

  “My family,” he said. He thumped his fist against his chest. “My fight.”

  John bit his lip. He nodded. He didn’t look mad — he looked worried. Worried for Quentin, and that made Quentin even angrier.

  Quentin turned back to Hulsey.

  “I challenge the Gouger.”

  She looked him up and down. She paused for a moment, as if considering that his massive size might give him an advantage. Then she shook her head, dismissing that thought. She looked at Jeanine.

  “If your brother does this, he is going to die. Please, talk him out of it. It isn’t that bad here, you’ll see. You can marry, have kids if you want. You can’t leave, but at least you’ll both be alive.”

  Jeanine squared her shoulders.

  “My brother will win,” she said. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll take my own life shortly after he loses his. I’ve lived in a gilded cage before, Hulsey, one far nicer than this. I wanted for nothing, but I wasn’t free. I was a possession, a toy. I killed to escape that place, swore to myself that no one would ever collar me again. I didn’t have the will to keep that promise until now, until my brother came for me. It doesn’t matter what kind of a life you think I can have, Hulsey — I will live free, or I will die.”

  Gilded cage? Jeanine had killed someone? Quentin didn’t know what she was talking about. What secrets were in her past? He knew almost nothing about her, something he desperately wanted to change. But before that could happen, he had to win her freedom — he had to climb into the pit.

  “I’ll say it again, Hulsey — I challenge the Gouger, I challenge for Fred and Jeanine. I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not going to back down.”

  Hulsey closed her eyes. Her head drooped.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will deliver your message. If the Gouger accepts, you will fight within the hour.”

  21

  The Pit

  QUENTIN AND JU STEPPED OFF the black stone ring and into the bowl. They were examining every detail, anything that might help with the upcoming fight. Ju had fought professionally. Quentin needed his counsel.

  John, Kimberlin and Becca remained on the spectator ring, Doc Patah floating nearby. They stared down, grim and resigned, knowing their friend might not live through the hour. Becca, in particular, was clearly struggling to keep her composure.

  Quentin was also struggling to keep his: he was just doing a better job of hiding the effort.

  Hulsey stood on the opposite side, hands tucked away in the sleeves of her red robe. Jeanine and Fred had been taken elsewhere. Bumberpuff had returned to Rosalind to prep for departure. George had gone with him.

  Ju slid the toe of his shoe against the bowl’s yellow-flecked red stone, leaving a spotty streak of black rubber sole behind.

  “Rough texture,” he said. “The bowl shape is hard to manage, but the traction is excellent.”

  Quentin slid his foot forward, gradually increasing the downward pressure. He made it only a few inches before the stone bit into his shoe sole and the foot scuffed to a stop.

  “Yep,” he said. “Good traction.”

  Was this stone pit where he’d kill another living creature? Or, was this where he would die himself, doom his sister to a lifetime of slavery? Not that she’d live long — that look in her eye, her promise that she wouldn’t serve another, that was as definitive and unquestionable as Quentin’s own will to win.

  Ju kept walking, his left foot higher up on the bowl’s concave slope. He rushed forward, stopped suddenly. He leaned left, right, acclimating himself to the change in balance required by being on a nonflat surface.

  “The slope, it really pulls at you,” he said. “When the fighting starts you might forget that, and it will take you where you don’t want to go. Be careful.”

  “Sure thing, Ju,” Quentin said.

  They kept walking, pointing out divots and small cracks in the red rock. It was no different from the pre-kickoff ritual of examining the host field on away games. That familiarity both comforted and disturbed Quentin.

  He moved to the bottom of the bowl, then saw a detail he hadn’t noticed before — a drain.

  “High One,” he said.

  Ju bent forward, peered down at it.

  “Booger-blood removal,” he said. “Efficient. Kind of gross, though.”

  Ju didn’t seem fazed by the fact that it might soon be Quentin’s blood coursing down that very drain.

  “Yeah,” Quentin said. “Kind of gross.”

  Ju crossed his arms over his wide chest, squinting thoughtfully.

  “Q, you’ll do fine. You know how to fight. Hell, you beat me. Know how many sentients in the whole galaxy can say that? Four. Including you. You’re badass, brother. You’ll carve that booger-bag into littler booger-bags.”

  Quentin nodded. Yes, he had beaten Ju, but that hadn’t been a fight to the death. And there was the small fact that Quentin had cheated.

  He looked up to Hulsey, who stood on the edge of the bowl, watching him.

  “Why is this thing stone? Everything else on this whole ship is steel.”

  “Platinum-iridium, actually,” she said. “The bowl is ancient. All ark-ships have one for the settling of disputes and for trial by combat. The stone is from the Portath homeworld. I am told this pit was carved from the side of a mountain some five thousand years ago.”

  Five thousand years old? The Portath had been killing each other on this very surface back when Earth was still in pre-history.

  Quentin saw a little flake of something stuck to the bowl’s rough stone. He poked at it with his toe. The bit came free, and he realized what it was: a dried piece of Portath skin.

  It finally hit home, made every ounce of his being shiver with a metallic chill — this wasn’t a gridiron, a basketball court or a baseball diamond. This wasn’t even the Prawatt arena. Sentients died in those games, but death wasn’t the specific objective.

  This, however, wasn’t a game at all.

  He felt sick. Maybe he should have let John fight. No ... John had his own life to live. He had to provide for Ma Tweedy. No matter what happened to Quentin, John and Ju would return to Ionath and to their careers with the Krakens. Jeanine was family: the responsibility for this fight fell to Quentin and no one else.

  Hulsey called down. “Barnes, it’s almost time. I’ll take you to the room where you will prepare yourself and say your final prayers.”

  Ju gripped Quentin’s shoulder.

  “Q, you sure you’re okay to do this?”

  Quentin was not okay. His stomach felt sour. His skin tingled.

  “You bet,” he said. “Ma Tweedy’s third son will whip that ass.”

  Ju smiled. “That’s the spirit. And remember, Q, when you kill this thing? Don’t feel bad, because it was eventually going to die anyway — you just speeded up the process. Keep that in your head and everything will be fine.”

  They stepped out of the bowl and followed Hulsey into the ship’s steel — no, platinum-iridium — corridors. Ju sounded so at ease; Quentin was anything but. The “process” was going to be speeded up for someone, all right, but would it be for the Portath foe?

  Or would it be for him?

  22

  Prelims

  THE SMALL PREP CHAMBER’S CURVED CEILING flowed into curved walls, which themselves melded into the floor without a single hard line or seam
. The oval door opened to a corridor, where Kimberlin, John and Doc Patah waited. Ju had stayed at the pit in case the Gouger showed up early. Ju would analyze anything he could, look for any strategic advantage he could call out to Quentin once the fight began.

  In the center of the room, the floor extended up into a small, round, flat table. On that surface, a double-sickle knife. Quentin had tested the edge, found it to be sharper than anything he’d ever handled. It would slice through his skin as easily as air. If the Gouger was strong enough, it would also probably cut through bone.

  Quentin put his hands against the curved wall, rested his forehead against the cool metal. He was about to fight to the death. No rules. No refs.

  “That’s not a game face, Q.”

  He turned. Becca stood in the oval doorway, hands awkwardly at her sides as if she didn’t know where they were supposed to go.

  “I’m working up to it,” he said. He faked a smile. “It’s going to be okay, Becca.”

  She stared at him. Stared hard. Her mouth tightened. She seemed to realize she was doing that, pressed her lips into a thin line instead.

  “It better be okay,” she said. “I didn’t follow you across the universe so I could go home without you.”

  He shook his head. “You won’t...”

  You won’t have to were the words he wanted, but he choked on them, because those same lips she’d fought to control started to quiver — she was fighting back tears, and seeing that ground him up inside.

  Becca sniffed once, a short, sharp intake of air.

  “I know that — someday — I’ll have to say goodbye to you,” she said. “But it won’t be today. You’re the best there is, Quentin. Do what you have to do. Do what you always do — win.”

  She sniffed again, then turned quickly and was gone.

  Quentin stared at the empty doorway. She believed in him, in a way that went beyond football, beyond titles. As scared as he was, her belief mattered.

  If only he believed as much as she did.

  She was right about one thing, though — it was time to get his game face on. He walked to the table and picked up the weapon. The center was a polished metal ring: no handhold, no finger-notches, no texture ... the thing might as well have been greased for all the grip it provided.