3. Pete’s

3 – Pete’s

As Lemon walked toward the building, Hector paused to squint toward the setting sun. It happened to line up with the street just about perfectly, so the globe, made red by the city’s haze, sat like a swollen egg yolk between two distant towers. It was alien-looking, and though he hadn’t spent much of his previous life on any one planet, he felt a little strange—a little out of place as he took it in.

“You coming?” Lemon called from the building’s bay door. Hector nodded and followed her into the noise and swelter of the gym. It was unlike any business he’d ever seen. Half was devoted to fighting—mats, rings, and workout equipment—half devoted to a “clinic.” It was to the latter half that Lemon steered him. A woman in scrubs circulated among the waiting patients, tapping notes out on her little tablet. Lemon ignored her, walking past a row of plastic waiting chairs to a pair of large dispensing machines.

While Hector perused the contents of the first machine, a digital screen above the door in the far wall flickered, drawing his attention. It displayed the numeral 12, and a feminine voice announced, “Now seeing patient number twelve. Please proceed through the far door.” Hector turned back to the machine.

He scanned the offerings—blood packs, nanite infusions much like the one Lemon had given him, stimulants, analgesics, anti-inflammatories, and, on the bottom row, a single product that might do what he needed: Yahtzee Aura Conditioner. He tapped the plastic in front of the bright yellow tube. “This one.”

Lemon frowned at him and muttered something that the ears of his new skin couldn’t pick up. She pressed her ring against a little blinking circle on the machine. Meanwhile, Hector’s aura system pulsed, sending an update into his retinas:

//Aura Pool: 5/5. Corpus vivum no longer critically damaged. Aura pathways scarred and partially obstructed. Recommend designating a refinement path.//

Hector read the message and dismissed it. The refinement path was something he’d need to do, but it would wait until they got someplace he could concentrate—someplace he could rest.

The machine rumbled, and the yellow tube emerged from the dispenser. Hector grabbed it, nodding to Lemon. “Thanks.”

A small smile curled the corners of her lips, and she gestured to the exit. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll grab some food and go back to my place.”

He nodded, slipping the tube into the pocket on the front of his hoodie, then followed her back toward the exit. Along the way, he paused, looking around at the fighters practicing on the far side of the building. “They have systems?” he asked, and Lemon turned to arch an eyebrow at him.

“Now you decide to get talkative?”

Hector shrugged.

“Some of them do. Maybe all of them—I really don’t know. I’ve never been downstairs to watch the fights.” She shrugged. “Ready?” She stared for a moment, and when Hector didn’t respond, she turned and started walking.

Hector had tuned her out because he’d had an idea: If the fighters in that filthy fighting pit had aura systems, there was a good chance they’d provide more aura potentia than that thug he’d just drained. Three lousy units. It was customary—at least it had been two hundred years ago—for the winner of a fight to claim some of the loser’s potentia. He’d probably only get drips and drabs, but it was something—a way to move toward his goals, even if only a little at a time.

He needed to look into rifts, too. Did the royals still hoard the access? Didn’t they use to have lotteries for entry? Were most of them still on Earth? There’d been some on Mars, though, right? If he could just—

Lemon interrupted his nebulous, disjointed thoughts: “You like noodles?”

“Anything.”

“Well, good. At least you’re not a picky eat—” She stopped short as a muscular, bald-headed bruiser wearing nothing but a pair of tight shorts and a bunch of bad tattoos stepped in front of her.

“What’re you doing around here, doll?”

Hector looked at Lemon, wondering if she knew the man. She didn’t look happy. Her blonde eyebrows drew together as she stepped back and lifted a hand. “I’m leaving.”

The guy worked his fists in a display of moderately quick shadowboxing. He grinned, exposing some silvery metallic caps. “Don’t want to watch me work out? My girlfriend says it gets her juices flowing—”

“Then ask your girlfriend. Excuse me.” Lemon tried to step past him, but the guy sidestepped, staying in front of her. The sidewalk beyond the door was busy; the pedestrian and train clamor echoed off the buildings, and the gym clamored with shouts, poorly filtered music, beeps, clangs, and grunts. In other words, nobody seemed to care about Lemon’s little struggle.

“I said, I have to leave—” she began to say, but then Hector stepped forward, inserting himself between the bruiser and her. He gave her a nudge toward the doorway. She smiled briefly, almost shyly, and started walking. Meanwhile, the fighter wasn’t happy. He gave Hector a shove.

“The hell, kid?”

Hector scowled, unused to being called something so dismissive. He remembered the new skin, though, and tried not to scowl too heavily as he turned toward the fighter. “We’re leaving.”

“Oh! That’s your girl? I got bad news, chum: she’s for sale.” He laughed like he’d said something particularly clever. Meanwhile, he grabbed Hector’s shoulder and tugged, pulling him back.

If he hadn’t spent his life fighting, Hector might have stumbled off balance. He had, though, so he just moved with it, lowering his center of gravity, and snaking out his right hand, slapping the guy on the cheek. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it wasn’t a feathery tap, either. It clearly stung and, at the same time, startled the hell out of the sweat-soaked fighter. His eyes fluttered in rapid blinks as he stumbled back. When he refocused on Hector, his look of surprise shifted into angry disdain.

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Dammit, do I look so weak?

“You fuckin’ dare?” The young fighter balled up his fists and stepped forward.

Lemon looked at Hector with panicked eyes. “Leave him!” she hissed, trying to grab the man’s arm. “He’s injured, and he works for Grando!”

“Get off me, bitch.” He casually threw her aside with his muscle-bound arm. Hector watched how he moved, studied how he carried himself—back rigid, arms stiff and tense, eyes bulging with fury. In other words, nothing to worry about.

It was almost funny how Lemon, being accosted by the fighter, hadn’t drawn a single look. Now that a fight was brewing? People dropped what they were doing and began to gather, even the pedestrians outside. Hector lifted his fists, firm but loose, ready to shift to grappling hands. He bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving his arms up and down, nice and relaxed as the furious fighter closed.

Someone said, “A hundred on Chavo.”

If they’re betting in hundreds, then there’s more money floating around in here than I thought.

The fighter—Chavo—lunged, launching a right-hand uppercut that would have flatlined Hector, considering his current skin. It was a devastating blow, but it was slow and predictable. Hector moved before Chavo hooked his fist upward toward his chin. It missed by a couple of centimeters, and Hector stepped to the side, slapping the back of Chavo’s head with a loud thwap!

“You punk shit,” Chavo growled, whirling.

“Gonna let that kid punk you, Chavs?” a big, dark-skinned man with a chrome arm asked, chuckling.