Feuds (2 page)

Thoughts of Imp and Prior relations turned her mind to the election. What would happen if her father lost the race to Parson Abel? But that wouldn't happen; her father had already gained a solid margin. Soon he'd be in office, and he'd keep her—and the rest of the city—safe, peaceful, and segregated. Worry-free, with cleaner boundaries established, everyone happier. The Imps and Priors didn't belong together—anyone could see that. Segregation would be better for everyone involved. Despite the carefully delineated borders, Davis couldn't help feeling like the Imps were moving closer all the time, like she had to wedge herself into a tinier and tinier space of the universe to feel safe. The sanitization checkpoints—arched gateways that administered automatic spray-downs to anyone who walked through them—kept her anxiety in check, but barely.

After all, the Imps had killed her mother.

At the thought, Davis felt hatred bubbling deep in the pit of her stomach, just below her heart. It was all their fault.

As the monorail ascended, the blurred landscape outside the high-speed train changed from grays, blues, and yellows to browns and reds. The train was soaring through Columbus, weaving through the canyons formed by the towering buildings, and beyond the river coiling like a snake to Davis's left were the dirt-covered shanties of the Slants. Davis was glad they were too blurry to see.

It was rare that Davis got the studio all to herself, and when she opened the door to the familiar room with her P-card, a tiny thrill climbed its way up her spine. She didn't bother signing in; there was no one at reception. And although she half expected to hear the familiar pitch of the Leon Minkus that her studio partner Emilie always practiced to, the room was quiet.

Davis slipped on her worn-in pointe shoes and walked onto the floor, taking pains not to make any noise. The fear of waking someone—some spirit, maybe—flitted through her mind unbidden, but she knew she was being silly. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at her reflection on four walls. Green eyes stared back from a heart-shaped face framed by tousled chestnut waves. The dance room was a large space the length of a city block and nearly as wide, and the whole thing was covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There were even mirrors
on
the floor, a detail all new students found disconcerting—so had Davis when she was small, always tripping over her own image—but Madame Bell had always insisted that a girl became a dancer when she could see herself at every angle and remain immersed in the music. The Apex rink, the famous landmark where the Olympiads took place, was mirrored on all sides, even the ceiling. She would see herself in the eyes of thousands of people, and in the reflection of their eyes, and in the reflection of that reflection …

She stripped off her overcoat and tossed it in the corner, wishing every day could be a holiday. It was so much different being there alone—so much freer. She ran across the expanse of the room, doing a series of jetés that made her feel as though she were flying. She hadn't bothered to stretch, but she didn't care. This was what she loved about ballet: it was this feeling of floating, like she was suspended in time. Anything seemed possible, then—it even seemed possible that if she turned to look, she'd see her mother watching her from the sidelines, or dancing just one step behind her.

And for whole minutes at a time, Davis felt free.

 

2

COLE

Sweat dripped down Cole's forehead and stung his eyes. It moved along his spine, then his face and neck and hands, as if he were one great machine meant for producing water and blood and rage. He
was
a machine, at least in the ring.
An animal. Fighting to entertain the vultures.
The thought didn't stop him from wanting to connect.
Body on body. Fist on face.
It was all he was good at; it was the only thing he'd ever known how to do without trying.

Kenny wasn't down yet, but Cole could tell he was fading fast. It was their last round in the cage. Cole leaned against the metal supports, feeling the cold, slick bars against his back.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the final round. So far they were tied, which was no surprise to anyone. Kenny and Cole had been neck and neck in the FEUDS since they were boys. Before that, before the FEUDS had meant anything to them, they were friends. It was hard to remember now the days they spent playing down by the abandoned railway tracks. But Cole couldn't let those thoughts distract him—he couldn't pity Kenny, because Kenny wouldn't do the same for him.

They each had their families to think of, and sponsors to attract.

Priors and Geneserians alike had started placing bets on the qualifying round months ago. Whatever happened in the ring these days could determine who would have enough money to finish school. Or better yet, move away.

Kenny moved forward, raising his fists to his chin. He was a rat-brawler. He'd always been unpredictable in the ring. Violent. No brain and all muscle. Cole had heard some people whisper that Kenny
liked
the FEUDS, that he craved the violence. Cole was glad he wasn't as transparent as Kenny—they'd never know that Cole was the one to be afraid of.

Kenny took a swing and Cole feinted left. Cole was light on his feet—that's what everyone always said, and just the right size for a fighter. They circled each other like dogs, teeth bared, moving with the rhythm of the frenzied shouts of the Gens above them.

Cole forced himself to take long, slow breaths.
Focus,
he thought. Kenny was big but he was too slow. He didn't use his head. And he depended on his fists too much. He didn't know how to grapple or use his weight, didn't understand that fighting wasn't the same as brawling. You had to be as good at dodging hits as doling them out. You had to be smart.

Cole
had to be smart.

The Priors—some overweight businessman lab rats; a couple of blinged-out women, probably call girls; a minor celebrity Cole recognized from TV—hung back in the observation decks, enclosed in air-conditioned glass rooms into which the audio was piped. The Priors' shit-eating grins made Cole want to spit. They were there to make money off him.

His eyes flitted across the room, settling finally on Michelle. Her beautiful crystal eyes were wide. She had one hand pressed to the base of her throat, the other wrapped around her waist as though she was hugging herself. She was worried.

Kenny swung clumsily at Cole. Cole blocked easily and delivered a thrust to Kenny's jaw that knocked him back a few steps. But Kenny regained his footing within seconds.

Kenny leaped at Cole, and the weight of him threw them both to the ground. Kenny lifted his fist. But Cole reached up and deflected him, grabbing hold of his wrist. Cole shifted his weight and pivoted his hips forward, freeing his legs from beneath Kenny's bulk. In another second, he had Kenny completely immobilized in a triangle hold—eyes bulging, fat face red, shocked, and gasping.

The fight was over.

Then Cole felt Kenny's teeth sink into his thigh. Pain ripped through him. He saw the blood in Kenny's teeth. An overwhelming wave of nausea washed over Cole's body from stomach to throat to mouth. Instinctively, he broke the hold, rolled away. Kenny was fighting dirty now—and the Priors loved it.

He staggered to his feet, his vision swimming red, his head spinning. He inhaled for the count of three, exhaled for the count of three. No panicking. Let Kenny panic.

Kenny came at him again. Cole dodged him, ducked, kept moving, dancing on his feet. He waited for the right opening. Let Kenny tire himself out.

Then he saw it: his chance. Cole struck with his foot, hitting Kenny squarely in the chest. Like he'd expected, Kenny was unprepared for a kick. He stumbled backward, bumping up against the cage. The screaming of the crowd grew to a single note, like an alarm.

Cole pounced. He pummeled Kenny's head hard, bringing him to the ground, his knuckles crushing against skull, intense pain radiating from the contact point to his wrist. Cole released all the rage and sorrow he usually ignored, barely even feeling the crushing pain in his knuckles.
Wham.
He hated fighting for money.
Smash.
At night, when he dreamed about it, he was afraid.
Crack.
Parson wouldn't own him right now if he'd withdrawn from the fights when he should have.
Thud.
He hit Kenny again and again. Six times, then seven. He couldn't distinguish Kenny's eyes from his mouth from his nose. It was all slick with blood. Cole's heart pounded, and his own blood pulsed in his ears.
End it,
a voice said.
If he's out, you win.

Kenny managed to raise two fingers. The signal of defeat.

The final buzzer rang and cheers erupted from the crowd.

Cole's world began to shift back into focus. He glanced back into the crowd for Michelle's wide-open face, but she was gone.

A medic had already slipped into the cage to tend to Kenny's skull. Kenny was half dead, and the realization made Cole lurch backward, grabbing his stomach. His muscles clenched as he bent over his knees, vomiting at the edge of the cage. The audience gasped.
Let them,
Cole thought.
Let them soak up the drama.
Killing wasn't forbidden in the FEUDS, but it was against Cole's rule book. How would he be able to look his mom in the face after killing a guy? It was all blood money, but there were limits.

The noise around him increased to a roar, and Cole was glad for a brief second that he was protected by the cage. Supposedly in one of the FEUDS long ago, a winner was trampled to death by revelers before he could even receive his prize. Hands grabbed the cage bars, eager to touch him. Gens hoisted other Gen girls into the air, some wearing only little beaded bikinis and waving signs with his name on them.

Through the haze, Cole could see the motion of the Priors cheering beyond the risers. They'd be gone soon, back to their luxury homes in Columbus, back to wash off the dirt that clung to them.

“Great fight, Cole.” Cole stiffened as Parson Abel's palm connected with his shoulder. “Let me walk you out.” Parson Abel, the CPM, was the only one with a key to the cage—despite the fact that the FEUDS were technically illegal. Then again, when had politicians ever
not
been corrupt? In addition to running Columbus, Abel's duties apparently included being the person designated to lock fighters in and—if both were still alive in the end—let them back out.

“Whatever you want.” Cole avoided Parson's attempts at eye contact. Parson reeked like the cigars he liked to smoke. His white hair glistened with oil and shone silver like the blade of a knife. Cole wondered where his security contingent was; usually they followed Parson like puppies. Vicious pit bull puppies, teeth bared.

“Nice fight, nice fight.” Parson Abel kept his trademark smile frozen to his face, chin dimpling as his cheeks stretched wide. He propelled Cole out of the cage and through the crowd. “Now all you have to do is beat out Brutus James next weekend, and you're clear for finals.”

“Right. Win against the guy who beat ‘Tommy the Toro' within inches of his life. That's it,” Cole mumbled.

“What was that?”

Cole shook his head.

Just before he and Parson Abel reached the old tunnels, Cole felt a light tug on his wrist. Michelle stood behind him, her coal-black hair falling all the way to her naked waist. She was wearing a tiny red cutoff top. Her skin was dark and shimmery, making her look like a metallic statue. Her nails glittered against the skin of his forearm.

“You looked good out there,” she told him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her torso into his.

“Thanks,” he replied, making an effort to extract himself from her embrace. But it only made her push against him more.

He and Michelle had been friends for years, and although they had never actually hooked up, he knew that Michelle cared—that she probably even wanted to be more than just friends. But he wasn't exactly in a place to get close to somebody. He couldn't afford to lose focus over a girl. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

“I wanted to talk to you—” Michelle started.

“The time, Cole, the time,” broke in Parson Abel.

“I'll catch you later,” he told Michelle, peeling her fingers from his wrist. He signaled to Parson Abel that he was ready to go.

“Don't know how you say no to that,” Parson Abel said with a low whistle, smirking at Cole. “I hear they're wild in bed.” Cole ignored the question in his statement, because Parson didn't mean Michelle in particular—he meant Gen girls. No,
Imp
girls—the derogatory term used only by Priors.

Abel led him into one of the dozens of offices that dotted the bottom of the site—shanties for the workmen who'd been running the demolition, now empty, abandoned—and closed the door. The “office” was lined with filth and rot, and it was dark. A rat skittered across the floor when Abel switched on a lamp, one of the dozen or so that had been installed to help the players and spectators navigate the underground.

The FEUDS—which technically stood for Fights Established Under Demolition Sites—were held in various arenas that had been hastily constructed in the basements of the crumbling buildings that used to comprise the city, before reconstruction and modernization efforts made Columbus one of the wealthiest and most powerful cities in the New Americas. As a result, the fights were dirty. Everyone got dirty and fought dirty; you couldn't help it. It was a voyeuristic sort of thing: you left with a sheen of dust and a gritty sense of satisfaction.

“How much?” Cole asked when Parson closed the door. He wanted to take the money and get out of there. He needed to study, and pay the electric bill … and there was probably no food in the house.

“You beat Kenny to a bloody pulp out there,” Parson remarked, ignoring Cole's question. “It's dangerous to lose control, Cole. Remember that.”