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Someone knocked on the
door. "It's time." A low male voice growled. "They're
waiting."
A lock clicked. The door swung open. My escort partially
entered the room, made eye contact, then gestured for me to follow.
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he turned and left. So did I, half
a stride behind him.
The light in the corridor was bathed in filtered fluorescent
that shifted slightly to green in my vision. My boots made an echoing
thumping sound against the highly polished floor. The sound bounced off
the walls with a ringing edge to it, eerily faded behind me.
First my escort, then I
passed into and through a pair of swinging stainless doors crossing an
apparatus filled chamber. Out the other side again through a duplicate
pair at the opposite end, we entered a narrow concrete passageway leading
upward at an angle.
Halfway up, he stopped.
"This is it." His voice was steady and assured.
"This is as far as I go. You're on your own from here on."
I neither acknowledged nor thanked him. I simply strode on
past him as though he were not there. I walked boldly up the ramp and into
the blazing lights of the amphitheater above.
The roar of the crowd was instantaneous and deafening. Hatred
wove its way through the throng like a viper spreads neurotoxin through a
dying man. They were here to see me die and more than anything else, they
were prepared to pay for the pleasure of it. Arrogantly, I ignored their
displeasure.
My opponent entered from the opposite side of the arena. He
received the exact same tone of greeting I did. If anything, they booed
him more loudly. Unlike my indifference, he responded to their catcalls
with obscene gestures and defiance. His face was contorted with rage or
fear or hatred or all of the above.
Suddenly, he
charged a row of tables exactly in the center of what would in seconds be
his or my final battleground. When he moved, I moved faster. I was smaller
than he was, so the speed advantage went to me. I reached the
weapons table first.
I only had three seconds. I
grabbed a body armor vest with one hand and a pistol with the other.
He chose a double shotgun, but struggled with the shells, fumbling with
the mechanism.
Backing quickly away from the
table, I struggled into that cumbersome chest protector faster than I
believe anyone has ever
donned the thing, next loading, aiming the pistol at my opponent and
firing.
He fired an instant sooner than I did. One shotgun blast
caught me fully in the chest, slamming me backward. The second caught my
belly, knocking the wind out of me almost completely. The vest absorbed
the shots, but white-hot bolts of pain raced through me. I was alive and
that's what counted, but it didn't feel good at all.
What else I was, was lucky. My
round scored also. He'd not taken time to put on the Kevlar vest, using
those precious nanoseconds to be the first to fire, but it wouldn't have
mattered. My bullet penetrated his left cheekbone and exited behind
his right ear. He never felt it or saw it coming and died instantly. As I
dragged myself to my feet, he still lay in a crumpled heap and a widening
pool of crimson.
The crowd was on its feet roaring insanely. The scoreboard
overhead exploded into rapidly changing numbers as each of the fans
punched in his approval or disapproval of the outcome of the fight.
It was a blur of color and muted sound as an escort collected me for the
walk to the winner's circle.
The numbers on the scoreboard slowed, then stopped altogether.
In large numbers it read, "50." A fifty percent approval
rating from the fans - It wouldn't be enough, I thought, my heart sinking.
Now the judges held my life in the balance. They were the tiebreakers.
Somewhere, a microphone opened into the arena's massive PA
system, to a sudden whine of feedback. Instantly, expectantly, the crowd
went silent.
A sense of foreboding washed over me. The combat had been too
quick. The shot had been too lucky. While the fans loved an underdog, they
hated being shortchanged. I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was
about to be a goner.
"Prisoner 45297881," an amplified voice boomed,
calling my number. "It is the decision of the judges by a three to
two margin, that your parole be granted. Your trial by combat is complete.
You are free to go and remember, crime does not pay."
I exhaled in relief. Obviously disappointed in the decision,
the crowd once more let its disapproval be known. But this time, it was
halfhearted and far from unanimous. There I stood in the winner's
circle, aware of the TV and Internet cameras focused on me. I raised my
hands over my head in victory, but I did not give up the pistol until my
escort gently pried it out of my hand. For that I got a little extra
applause on my exit.
At the entrance to the ramp that led downward to
freedom, I turned back to the crowd, but they were watching a Pepsi
commercial on monster vid screens above the scoreboard. As I stood there I
was already gone.
I had a little spring to my step on my walk down the ramp. I
was free. 15 years after my crime and the life sentence I'd earned because
of it, I'd won freedom on a long shot. Parole By Combat is simply a chance
to live or die. Either way I would have been free.
Striding back through the double doors of the apparatus
filled room, I suddenly stopped short. Five big guys in white med scrubs
were waiting for me and took charge immediately. Someone produced a hypo.
Someone else tied off my arm. Then everything went black. That's the last
thing I remember. Prison. Combat. Freedom. And now this.
***
***
***
I am aboard a ship, a
freighter from the smell of it, sub-light speed
probably, from the vibration in the deck plating. I am obviously in the
brig, though this is far more comfortable than my prison cell on the world
I apparently have left behind. I've been deported, thrown off-world
randomly into space on the first outbound. Now that was a clause I missed
when I signed up for Parole by Combat. Must have been in the fine print.
Damn lawyers.
Still how bad can
my future be considering the luck I've had in the past?
Upon the instant of that thought, an alarm goes off. Within
seconds, the vessel resonates from an explosion somewhere aft of my cell.
Three different alarms go off simultaneously. The sound of automatic
weapon fire rattles to the pinging ricochet of slugs on steel. A hatch
bangs open and a scruffy human in dented battle armor strides in. He stops
in front of my cell and regards me for a minute. His lackey isn't far
behind.
The man says, "He
looks healthy," talking about me. Then, "He'll fetch three
hundred in the slave market on Kyzil. Bring him."
My future's so bright, I'm gonna need shades..
(c) 2001 by Bob Liddil.
All Rights Reserved
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