| Extreme Mars 2: Red World of Pain
By Kenneth Silber
posted: 07:11 pm ET
20 June 2000
|
Our first
episode brought us to the first-ever event of Extreme Fighting on Mars
-- featuring Nick, a skilled but ambivalent competitor in this intense,
interplanetary sport. Now, the Extreme Mars saga continues.
The dust storm was still
whirling outside. Nick nodded at Gwen the barmaid and tried to smile. But
the pain spread across his face, and she'd already turned away to pour
him some kava in a faux-coconut cup.
The Marineris Bar. Three
deuterium miners sat at the counter, wearing maroon jumpsuits. A slow night.
Nick grabbed the kava, mumbled some thanks, and sat alone at a square table
against the far brick wall.
He was the Champion
of Mars.
But it was no time for celebration.
His victory was tarnished. He knew it. Gwen knew it. Billions knew it.
The dust storm. It had blown
in at 50 miles (80 kilometers) an hour, sweeping over the two fighters
as they stood on the gently sloped plain of Olympus Mons. Soon, the vast
volcano was awash in dust.
It was great tele-viewing,
at first. The fighters were still visible from nearby cameras, even as
the overhead views were obscured. For a viewer on the surface, the light
grew gradually dimmer.
The fighters circled, punched,
kicked. In the thin martian atmosphere, even a powerful wind felt like
a moderate breeze. Nothing that would stop two determined, well-trained
athletes. But then...
His opponent delivered a
hard punch to Nick's flexible face-mask. Nick could imagine the wild booing,
on Earth, on the moon, and in the clay towns of Mars. His opponent was
one of the most disliked individuals in the solar system. But what did
he expect with a name like Grok?
Nick stepped backward. Grok
was walking toward him. Nick threw a wild punch. It missed. His hand was
tingling. Then Grok was suddenly down. He was on his knees. Gurgling. Choking.
Nick saw what had happened. The dust. It had silted up his opponent's breathing
apparatus. Grok fell backwards, writhing.
"Cessation," chattered the
inhuman voice in Nick's ear-piece. The robot referee was rolling toward
them, its metal head silhouetted in the red-brown haze.
The Marineris Bar. Nick silently
drained the faux-coconut cup and stared out the window into darkness. He
had been champion of Mars for three days. Champion by default.
He knew the Consortium was
displeased. Ratings had slumped when the dust started obscuring visibility.
And that ending; people hated it. Nick's post-fight tele-conference was
cut to 9 minutes. His interplanetary chat session? Canceled. One video-news
story called him the "chump-ion."
The Consortium was worried,
said Beddocks, that sleazy promoter. The public was fickle. It might go
back to Lunar-Alai or other diversions. Nick heard acrobats were going
to perform in New Byzantium, the half-built city in the Valles Marineris.
Not even a decent sports clinic there. Grok was on the way back to Earth.
But Extreme Fighting on Mars
couldn't be over. Another FighterShip was arriving soon. There would be
indoor matches. Underground bouts. Fights in and around an orbiting space
station, in zero gravity.
And Nick had heard the rumors.
The Consortium's "genetic therapy" might be more than it seemed. Not just
ensuring peak performance but creating superhuman abilities. IPOG might
investigate. But did the Interplanetary Organizational Group really matter?
"In IPOG's eye," Beddocks would say, spitefully.
Better than War. That
was the Consortium's new marketing slogan. To some, it conveyed the excitement
of martian extreme fighting. To others, it meant the sport was socially
responsible, a needed outlet for human aggression. Despite the fight's
dismal ending, Nick knew he'd be in the next advertising campaign.
He was Nick Agonistes, the
First Extreme Fighting Champion of Mars. He would check his video-mail
later that night. Maybe there would be a message from Cindy. Wasn't she...if
nothing else...a fan?
No. He wouldn't think
about her. Nick raised the faux-coconut to his lips. Soon, the kava would
relax his pained muscles. He glanced over at Gwen. She was watching headline
news on the tele-screen behind the bar. Another probe had been lost near
Saturn. Deuterium futures were slipping downward again.
On Mars, more reports of
visions in the dust storm. Crazy locals, Nick thought. The same types who
engaged in that ludicrous cult that worshipped the "Galactic Ghoul." Nick
looked back out the window.
"You don't belong here,"
snarled the voice.
Nick turned, startled. One
of the deuterium miners had walked over, and was looming over Nick's table.
His breath smelled of tequila. Extra larvae. The miners' favorite drink.
"I've been in here the last
three days," said Nick, trying to keep his voice even. "I'm a regular."
He looked over at the bar, but Gwen was gone. Had she gone to the back
room to get a weapon?
"You don't belong on this
planet," the miner rumbled. "You didn't build anything, didn't pay any
respects to anyone." His voice rose. "You don't know what your own fight's
about. You don't know who's watching."
"Listen, friend," said Nick.
"I don't want to get involved in your politics or your religion. I'm just
here to --"
It arrived quickly. The miner's
fist. If Nick had been on duty, not drinking kava, he would have blocked
it in time. Instead, the dirty knuckles hit his forehead. A trivial blow.
He'd felt much worse.
But Nick was the Champion
of Mars, and he was trained to hit back fast. He rammed out his fist, straight
into the miner's solar plexus. The man stumbled backwards, gasping, then
collapsed against the bar. The other two miners got up from their stools,
but didn't even look at Nick. They propped up their dazed friend.
Nick turned back to his drink,
but something was odd. His hand. In the dim bar light, it was glowing
red. Brow furrowed, Nick held his hand away. The glow quickly faded,
then was gone. Was he hallucinating?
Nick slumped back in his
chair and exhaled slowly. He was alone, far from anyone who'd ever cared,
the dubious champion of a planet he didn't understand. And now there was
something wrong with his hand.
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