Glitch (17 page)

“All right, I’ll make up some excuse,” Yancey said. “They’ll want to observe her at some point, though.” Simone could see the concern in her mother’s eyes, and it wasn’t because Beasley was sick and scared.

“Mom, if we don’t do this ...” Simone said.

“If any of you recruits wash out, I’m afraid the Consortium will detain you until they decide what to do with the Program. Sorry, I was only told this today.”

Hutto half-listened. Her warning didn’t matter to him because he planned to fight. For any of his sanctioned, amateur matches his routine was to take the day to relax, maybe sleep in a little, get up, and eat a huge breakfast. He preferred six scrambled eggs, some bacon, two slices of toast, a big glass of OJ. He’d finish it off with some fruit. The rest of the day would be small meals. He’d wander around the fight space, wherever it was, maybe stretch on the mats or in the dirt. He’d size up his opponents. He’d head to the locker room, change, and warm up. He preferred jumping rope for ten minutes before performing basic combinations to get limber.

None of that mattered now. What he was about to do didn’t require any further preparation.

The night wore on with everyone trying to relax. No one spoke to him or Simone. She kept to herself, standing in a corner, just floating there. He couldn’t believe how normal it seemed to him to have her around now. There she was, mumbling mantras just like him. He smiled at her once, and she smiled back, and he guessed she was wishing him good luck, even though she hadn’t said a thing—especially about leaving him high and dry in his bedroom.

“I’m ready,” he said.

Nisson had been dozing in a chair. He perked up. “You want to head out? It might be a bit before ...”

“Fine with me.”

“The rest of you are staying put,” Yancey said.

Hutto ignored the trip through the complex, as they followed a steward to the fight space. He put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and looked at the floor. They moved down cramped corridors, one after the other. Hutto didn’t hear the roar of the crowd, didn’t hear any encouragement, didn’t hear anything other than the fall of his shoes on the tiled floor. He worked himself through his mantras, content to be in his centered space. He wore an oversized warm-up robe with a heavy hood. Underneath, he wore a black Bodyglove Agent Wellborn had given to him. He felt his body changing, although with his eyes half-shut, nothing felt that different. His brother seemed to shrink, though, because Hutto was getting bigger.

When the steward pushed two double doors open and led them into what looked like a wide, underground sub-structure, Hutto smelled sweat and blood. The steward shut the doors behind them. Hutto saw a sea of heads all looking toward the center of the chamber. The low ceiling held lights, all of which shown on the center fight space dominated by a square cage on a platform.

“Come on, over here,” Nisson said.

He pushed through the crowd until they arrived at the fight space. The cage walls stretched from floor to ceiling and inside were two combatants.

Two natural-looking guys who might have been fishing buddies circled each other. Both were stripped to the waists and glistened with sweat. Both wore beat-up denim pants. One guy, though, had an augment attached to the stump of his right forearm. It looked like a mean-ass piece of home-made machinery that was all business. Serrated edges along each side gave the augment a definite advantage. The other guy sported what looked like a steel frame around his entire right arm. The frame ended in a three-foot spike.
 

“Two Metalbods,” Nisson said. “Good match.” Nisson grabbed Hutto’s arm. “Over here.”

They pushed through the drunk gamblers to a gate on one side of the cage. Nisson shoved a spectator almost off his feet. He made enough space for them to lean up against the cage door. It took five minutes for the spike-guy to figure out a way in and impale his opponent through the upper chest.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Nisson said.

The crowd roared and jumped up and down and even tossed a few things at the cage. The fallen opponent slid off the spike as he crumpled to the floor. His towel man ran in to tend to the loser.

“Game over,” Nisson said. “The other guy is allowing him to live. Nice of him. His bleeding buddy over there will make it if they got a good doctor here. Might lose a lung, though.” He smiled. “Just kidding. Besides, you’ll be all right.”

The far cage door opened as security rushed in to get the wounded man out. They both saw beyond the far door a large crew of individuals wearing the same jerseys.

“They got shirts,” Nisson pointed, “because they’re proud to be here. Team Toth isn’t.”

That was true. If their father’s organization had announced it was coming there would have been a huge media event, and the fight would have collapsed from all the interest. Already, Nisson’s presence had garnered the sort of attention that followed celebrity, even the infamous. But people understood not to approach him, or ask stupid questions. Hutto liked it that way because no one disturbed him as he continued to center himself.

Before the opposite door shut, a Roider appeared out of the group. The doors were at least seven feet tall, and this guy had to duck to get in the cage.

“He must have been sitting down,” Nisson said, laughing. “What a freak. I bet he drinks human growth hormone for breakfast.”

The crowd switched its attention to the giant in the ring. He was bare-chested with scars that crisscrossed his torso as if he had a fetish for it. He looked like a body-builder morphed into some imaginary clichéd gladiator from a comic book. He carried a steel spear in one hand and a round forearm shield in the other. Strapped to his waist were two knives the size of machetes. His cod-piece was steel, and he wore boots spiked at both ends. For some reason, Hutto didn’t feel even a sliver of fear. It was as if a cripple had entered the cage to fight him.

Nisson took Hutto by his wide shoulders, looked into his transformed face, and didn’t flinch. “Listen, brother. All you need to do is finish the steps. Let it all the way out. Can you do that? Good. I’m going to clear some space for you here. When you’re almost there, go inside, and finish. You got it?”

Hutto nodded, mumbling the magical mantras taught to him by Agent Wellborn. Nisson used his elbows to clear some space, and Hutto began to move through the strange, martial psy-kata he’d only learned days ago. Hutto said the words and allowed his entity to rise. People cleared when they saw the beast emerging out of Hutto. He was still more human than animal. He felt the shape under his hood and robe of his arms and back, his shoulders and neck, now morphing rapidly.

Nisson smacked one walleyed junkie in the mouth for venturing too close and knocked the guy out. Any of the toughs nearby who glanced his way would get more than a glance back. It was known that you gave the door space to any fighter about to enter.

He stood by the cage door, holding in open. Hutto finished a step and then launched himself forward. Hutto heard the cage door close behind him as the crowd rushed forward and the giant turned around to face his opponent. People pointed, some laughed, some beat the outside of the cage. Hutto dropped his over-sized warm-up robe. He had entered without a weapon, looking like some misshapen guy in a black Bodyglove with a body-hair problem. Bets were being laid, money changing hands. Hutto almost faltered once, but he continued his odd dance and the laughter increased, and he held back an inner smile because he knew it looked to the crowd as if they were in for a treat. Sometimes, the match-making was so uneven you saw a slaughter. They thought the Roider was going to destroy him.

Hutto finished his last step.

The full form of his Werebear pushed out. The crowd hiccuped for a second, long enough for a silent beat to erase the sound. They roared again as it raised its wide arms. The Roider rushed with his spear. Hutto batted it aside. With the other arm his massive paw hit the man in the side of the head and almost took it off. The Roider tumbled to the floor and rolled into the cage. He was out, and might have a broken neck. The feel of his opponent’s head had given no more resistance than would a beach ball. Hutto felt his Werebear step forward to pounce, maw open to bite. He sensed the beating heart of his victim ready to be turned to pulp. He stopped the beast with a thought.

“No more! No more!” Nisson yelled.

Hutto heard the cage door open. His saw Nisson waving him away from the downed man. Hutto began his reverse transformation. The crowd roared as it witnessed his victory, the stretchy Bodyglove slowly reforming to his body. Still, traces of the Werebear lingered. The magic that couldn’t be explained, but everyone had witnessed, brought Hutto back to the surface. Nisson covered him in the robe and led him to the cage door.

Pitdog security inched in from the other side with the Roider’s towel man.

“Impressive,” Nisson said.

“That was easy,” Hutto replied in a guttural voice.

Nisson gave him a congratulatory hug. “Congrats.”

Hutto moved out of the cage with no more discomfort than if he’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. He shook his head to dispel the vertigo of returning to normal.
 

Nisson steadied him. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Hutto said. “It’s weird. One minute I’m just ...
different
. I say the words and I feel myself returning to normal.”

“Ain’t nothing can explain that.”

“Right.”

They saw the crowd parting.

Agent Wellborn pulled a trolley with a shower curtain fastened around it. Both Toth brothers recognized what it was hiding. The crowd saw the Consortium agent in the Rejuv bandages and the Mirrorshades and kept their distance. A few of them even became ad hoc security and acted as ushers.

“Wait ’til they get a look at her,” Hutto said, moving away from the cage door.
 

Agent Wellborn stopped at the cage door as the people crowded in around her. Hutto heard the gaggle of voices in the crowd talking excitedly. Everyone wanted to know what the last fight of the night was going to be. Another Alter was all they’d heard.

“Well done,” she said.

Hutto nodded his thanks.

“You know who her opponent is?” Nisson asked.

Yancey shook her head. “No one’s talking. I even tried to bribe. Nothing.”

“Any way the Rogues could have found out about this?” Nisson asked. Agent Wellborn didn’t answer. “Shit.” He grabbed Hutto. “We may not be done. Stay close.”

“Why?”

* * *

Inside the curtain, Simone listened but did so as if she were at the bottom of a well. The roar was a far-away sound. No matter what they threw at her, she would be prepared. Supertrans would be prepared. But something about the sound of the crowd made her pause. Her mantra of calming stuttered as she listened. This didn’t sound like what she’d expected from a group of rowdy fight spectators ready for the next match. That sounded like fighting
in the audience
.

“What are you thinking?” she heard Yancey ask Nisson.

“Meatgrinder.”

“They must know about us,” Yancey said.
 

“You need to prepare yourself,” Nisson said.

“I know.”

Simone peeked through a slit in the curtain hanging in an oval from the trolley posts. Nisson nodded, his nostrils flaring, his eyes wide, already prepping himself for a transformation. What Simone saw was a man standing in place but looking around and hoping for trouble. He reached out and grabbed one unsuspecting drunk by the back of the neck and tossed him aside for space.

Her mother stuck her head through the slit. She kept the curtains closed around her neck, as if Simone were taking a shower. Simone floated inside, mumbling to herself. “Get ready, Simone.”

“What is it?” Simone asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about. It’s time.”

Her mother pulled the curtains aside. Simone saw the open cage door and floated out. She moved inside the large chain-link cage and heard the door close behind her. Her mother stood at it, as if she were there to prevent anyone else from entering. Bright lights made everything just beyond her mother pitch-black.

She imagined they were all staring at her.

I’m a little girl ghost, Simone thought. Big deal. “What’s going on?”

Nisson appeared out of the swirling mass on the other side of the cage. “Some assheads here just trying to make names for themselves.”

“With who?” Simone asked.

“Who do you think?” her mother asked.

She had seen one Rogueslave before, and that was the man who’d snuck into their school. Her mother had explained that Rogueslaves attended these matches, even fought in them, and that their goals were to cause as much havoc as possible, all in the name of furthering their masters’ agendas in total human domination.

The Consortium called them terrorists.

Her mother called them criminals.

Her father called them animals.

I call them ...

The far cage door opened, and Simone saw a skinny old man in a loin cloth enter the cage. She heard the crowd again, this time boiling with laughter. He had flabby arms and legs, a bird chest, and a bit of a belly. His skin was flaccid and stained with eczema along the shins. His hair stood out in wisps atop a bald pate. He looked like he might keel over and die at any moment, and here he was stepping into the arena.

She saw spikes burst from the man’s chest in a spray of gore.

“Mom?”

“Summon, Simone. Now.”

* * *

Joss was supposed to stay in the waiting room with the rest of them. But the room wasn’t wired, and he couldn’t get a signal on his tablet. A few standard wooden chairs, a table with a plastic top, even a typical black-and-white pastoral print of horses running in a field.
 

Beasley sat in one of the chairs, reading a trashy novel on her tablet, while Wally slept in the corner on a cushion. Kimberlee also fiddled with her tablet, playing some silly game. Hutto and Simone were already gone.

Joss cracked the door and peeked down the hall. He had to see the fights. He also had to see if the Rogues believed the information he’d sent about the Alters entering this small-time event; most importantly, he wanted to know if they had sent their people.