13. Ringing the Bell

13 – Ringing the Bell

Hector watched the two fighters leaving the bottom of the silo—the “pit” as he’d heard others call it—one of them bloodied, leaning to the side to relieve pressure on his ribs, the other triumphant, grinning stupidly through a new gap in his teeth. Of the four fights he’d watched, theirs had been the most entertaining, but none had been anything special. One fighter with a mechanical arm might have done some damage, but his opponent had been too fast and too damn sturdy for him to capitalize. He’d lost when he failed to slip a surprisingly quick uppercut.

As the crowd cheered and mingled, people moved to collect or pay bets. Pete had employees circulate with carts, pushing their way through the crowds to sell their wares: beer in recycled bottles and bags of salty snacks. Both were overpriced, but people paid; watching men beat themselves bloody was thirsty business.

Hector was leaning on the railing, staring down at the red-tinted sand, wondering how much blood it hid, when a wiry young man squeezed into the gap on his left, nudging him with his elbow. “Hey.”

Hector looked at him: dark eyes, hair cut like a broccoli floret, scars around his lips, a missing front tooth, and cauliflower ears. He was small, but he was a fighter.

“Um, hey,” the kid repeated when Hector only stared.

“What?”

“You gonna fight Vasque in the all-comer match?”

Hector didn’t answer.

“Well, that’s the rumor. Bojo saw you watching the fights and started asking around. Word is you work for Grando. That right?”

Hector turned back to the sand, running his gaze toward the far side of the silo where Pete’s platform jutted out away from the metal walkway. The fight boss had a commanding view of the pit from that perch, and it looked like he was getting ready to speak.

“Yo, man, you can’t hear me?”

As Pete cleared his throat into the mic and tapped something on his little floating control glass, the speakers crackled and the background music got louder, switching to an up-tempo beat. Hector glanced at the kid, saw no sign of animosity in his wide eyes, and took pity on him. “Yeah, I’m fighting.”

“Oh cool, man! You’re new around here, right? You know anything about Vasque? I could give you some—”

Hector held up a hand. “I’m good.” He gestured toward Pete’s platform. “I want to hear.”

The kid nodded. “I’m Alec.” He held out a fist, and Hector punched his knuckles—just hard enough to make a satisfying thud.

The music faded, and Pete’s voice cut through the din: “Time for the main event, everyone! The Friday night all-comer match, and do we all know who’s defending his title?”

As he asked the question, the crowd went wild. Their cheers were disjointed and frenetic, but Hector could make out the repeated refrain: Vasque, Vasque, Vasque! He looked at the kid. “He’s popular?”

Alec nodded, his brown eyes glinting in the overhead lights. “He won the all-comer last week—beat five guys and almost killed one of them.”

“He modded? Use an aura system?”

“Yeah! You’ll see—he has dermal plates and his reflexes are wired.”

“No aura?”

Alec shook his head. “He says it’s trash.”

Hector smiled and turned back to the silo, where Pete was speaking again. “That’s right, everyone! Vasque is back to defend his title, and thanks to the generous wagers you all have put up, he’s got a purse worth fifteen-hundred to defend in the first round!” Pete played it up, pausing to let the crowd cheer, then he pointed, and it felt like his finger was aimed directly at Hector. It made him uncomfortable, so he stopped leaning on the railing and stood up straight. “Looks like we already have some challengers lining up by the bell!”

Hector scowled, irritated at being called out, but then he realized the people around him weren’t looking his way; they were looking behind him. He turned and saw what Pete meant: two shirtless men stood near the rough, sweat- and blood-stained rope that hung along the inside of the silo wall. They were glaring at each other, clearly vying for the right to ring the bell first, but Hector didn’t understand why. The smart thing would be to let Vasque and the other challengers fight first unless he’d misunderstood some part of the rules—

As though he’d read Hector’s mind, Pete continued with his blaring announcement: “If you’re new to the silo, here’s how the all-comer match works: the purse grows with each fight, but the fighters never walk away empty-handed! Even losers take ten percent, and the winner of each match locks in another ten. Everything left over goes to the final winner!”

Hector nodded; now it made sense. The more fights someone won, the bigger their prize at the end. He strode toward the rope, but he was too slow. The guy on the right—an older, muscular man with enough hair on his chest and back to give a gorilla a run for its money—gave the other challenger a shove and jerked the rope.

“Our first challenger, and Vasque isn’t even in the pit yet! What a night this is shaping up to be!” Pete screamed into the mic. “Let me see…who is that? It’s—it’s Roy Lund!” His voice had gone up an octave with excitement. “Lund the Basher hasn’t fought since last Garland Day! What a night! Get your bets in!”

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Hector watched as Lund walked to the ladder on the edge of the platform, and people made room for him to climb down. Then he walked over to the rope, eyeing the other guy. He was also middle-aged, with a well-muscled physique and lots of tatts. His ginger hair was shaved into a partial mohawk, and his augmented eyes tracked Hector’s movements, spinning and shifting colors like pinwheels. It was a little off-putting to watch, so Hector focused on his nose.

“I’m next,” the guy growled.

Hector moved closer to the rope, his spine stiffening, some heat crawling up his neck, through his skull and into his eyes. The man stepped back.

The crowd had gotten louder, and he figured Vasque was in the pit; the fight would start soon. Picturing the two fighters squaring off, Hector realized he wasn’t being smart. Sure, a bigger purse was nice, but winning was probably more important. He had a chance to watch the others fight, but he couldn’t do that if he stood there competing to be the next to pull the rope. Without another word, he turned and walked back to the railing.

“That was crazy, man! I’ve never seen one of those guys back off like that!” Alec said, squeezing up to the railing beside him again.

“Those guys?”

“The old regulars. They’re like a…club, I guess. Guys who’ve won in the silo a few times.”