Arena Mode (18 page)

“I guess that Arena Mode is the next logical step. And once the viewers get a chance to soak their senses in the digital bloodbath, there’ll be no turning back.

-
Cassandra Cole
(Combat Sports Monthly, April 2041 Issue)

Hurtling towards
the Earth at a hundred miles per hour provides an amazing amount of mental clarity.
Of course you don’t have enough time to gather and process
many
thoughts, but the ones that you
do
have are remarkably sharp.

A checklist blistered through my synapses:

Pull ripcord. Check.

Secure my grip around the toggles. Check.

Bank to the left and avoid the enormous decorative spike protruding from the top of the building that I’m currently drifting towards. Check.

As I descended between two of the older buildings in Chelsea, the task that I couldn’t check off my internal notepad was avoiding a fire escape. The sharp metal contraption that had survived the tsunami a decade earlier was still firmly in place, and this one looked particularly hazardous. Still three stories above the ground, my parachute grazed the side of the building’s orange brick exterior, causing a momentary free-fall. As I dropped, my knee hit the top rung of a rusted metal ladder, and my canopy tangled into a broken grate. I continued to fall until I snapped to a halt, dangling just a few feet above the pavement by my shoulder straps.

With a considerable amount of struggle, I released myself from the safety buckles, dropping the remaining distance to the ground. I cringed as I landed on my feet, and my left knee buckled. The blue armored boot that extended past my shin was enough to cushion the blow when I struck the ladder, but the depression in the metal indicated the speed at which I’d collided. The good news was that – without my protective gear – my patella would have been shattered; I’d be sitting in the alley, helpless, until my inevitable elimination. But it wasn’t the first time this joint had been battered. It was the same knee I’d dislocated playing high school football. The tournament had been underway for just a few minutes and I was already nursing a painful injury.

Classic Moxon.

I studied my surroundings. An assortment of red and brown buildings lined one side of the street, and mature trees dotted the other, bordered by a short chain-link fence. I was on 29th, not far from the Soccer Field at Chelsea Park – the location of one of the twenty-six weapons. According to the satellite images I’d studied with Gavin, it was by far the closest item, but the area was also one of the most exposed; the chest was sitting midfield, right in plain view. There was a chance that one of the other competitors had actually seen it while they parachuted in, and could be heading there right now. Unarmed and with a bad leg, there was no way I could risk going head-to-head with a superhuman in an open field.

On the other hand, I had few other options. Kenneth wanted to partner up with me, and I still thought that was my best chance of reaching the final four, but at the moment, I was in no condition to stroll around aimlessly hoping for a chance encounter. Especially without a weapon.

As I leaned against the wall for support and weighed my options, I noticed a faint red blip emitting from my epidermal implant, as if a tiny firefly was trapped beneath my skin. The longer I stayed in place, the faster it pulsed, and it continued to brighten. I was already camping. Even a few minutes in one spot was starting to trigger whatever it was that this device did – and I didn’t want to wait around and find out.
 

Fifteen minutes of hobbling did little to alleviate the swelling in my knee,
but at least I was mobile. I arrived at Chelsea Park and remained hidden in the shadows, crouching behind some trees near the soccer pitch. And then I saw it: a casket. The shimmering gold treasure chest reflected rays of bright morning sunlight in every direction, beckoning to be opened.

I lowered my visor so I could look directly at it. “Darken and magnify,” I whispered, and the voice-activated chip in my helmet responded. The tinted shield allowed for clearer vision, and my eyes zoomed in on the lid. The gold insignia was there, just as I recalled from the satellite photo. I tried to identify a pattern, a symbol, or some indication as to how it was different than the identical chests that were adorned with the silver ornament. As far as I could tell, at least from this distance, the color was the only distinction. I had a feeling that one set of boxes could be hazardous, but I didn’t want to be the first person to flip the lid and test that theory.

Fortunately I wouldn’t have to wait long for an unwitting volunteer.

The weight of Dozer’s steps caused motion tremors, like tiny earthquakes growing more intense as he approached. I could feel him coming before I saw him. Then he appeared, right out in the open; a powerful bronze figure strutting confidently onto the field, directly towards the casket.

I stared intently as he reached down and flipped open the lid, exposing the treasure inside: an axe. A silver, double-bladed battle axe with a long wooden handle, bearing inscriptions in the metal that appeared to be Viking in origin. It looked enormous. The axe must have weighed fifty pounds. I wasn’t sure I could have swung it with any precision if I had acquired it, but in Glendinning’s hands this weapon could be frighteningly effective.

When he lifted his newfound treasure to inspect it, a dark shadow loomed overhead. Sergei Taktarov flew into view, cape billowing behind him, and touched down on the field near the opposing goal posts.

A stare-down ensued. The first one-on-one battle was about to begin, and I had a front row seat.

Dozer smiled and invited Taktarov forward with a cocky wave.

The Russian obliged.

They stalked towards each other slowly and then picked up the pace, increasing their speed with every step. The Canadian raised the axe above his head, preparing to swing. His opponent made no attempt to avoid it. When he brought the blade down onto Taktarov’s forehead, it crumpled, and the thick wooden handle splintered like a broken toothpick.

Unfazed, the bronze strongman followed up with a series of rapid-fire hooks and uppercuts, displaying what appeared to be some very extensive boxing experience. The Russian’s head didn’t even move when the Canadian’s fists collided with his jaw line.

Taktarov retaliated with a stiff kick to the chest, sending his opponent across the length of the field. Glendinning’s enormous weight crushed the goal posts, and tore a significant chunk of turf from the pitch.

The battle continued. They exchanged a series of powerful strikes, but it became clear that neither could inflict any significant damage.

Taktarov clenched his fists and grit his teeth. “You have experienced only two-tenths of my power!” he shouted. “Do not underestimate the heat of my rage!”

Russia’s Son had a number of impressive abilities, but apparently public speaking, especially in English, wasn’t one of them. I suddenly understood why he let his little sister handle his PR.

Taktarov stunned Glendinning with a series of lightning fast punches that actually dented his bronze jaw. The force of the blows sounded like a church bell ringing, echoing down the abandoned streets. Before the Canadian could react, Sergei applied a choke hold with both hands and leaped, taking flight. He soared into the bright blue sky and disappeared from my line of sight, dragging his flailing victim along for the ride.

“Maximum vision enhance,” I said, and focused my visor’s telescopic sight. I scanned the sky and found them drifting next to one of the media’s hover drones, thousands of feet in the air. All of the major networks sent small, unmanned hovercrafts above the city to film the tournament, using ultra high-definition cameras to zoom in on the action below. Taktarov seemed to be trying to attract its attention. It looked as if he was saying something; giving a live, unedited speech directly to the media, all while he clutched more than two-thousand pounds of bronze without giving it a second thought. When he’d finished the impromptu press conference, he took off again, rocketing vertically through the clouds and out of view.

A tense minute ticked by.

Then another.

And then, without warning, the most unbelievable event ever captured on a live simulcast (up until that moment, anyway) happened as I looked on in awe. Paul Glendinning plummeted from the sky, flailing and spinning. His body cannonballed into the Hudson River, causing a small tidal wave that capsized boats and tore apart docks – but not before crashing through the Holland Bridge. Like a one-ton missile, his metallic torso caused an explosion of steel and mortar, tearing the overpass completely in half. Police cruisers, fire trucks and more than twenty people splashed into the water after him.

I hoped that Glendinning died before the fall. That Taktarov was somehow able to snap his neck, or choke the life out of him before releasing his grip. Either one would have been more merciful than allowing the man to drop, fully conscious and aware, for several agonizing miles.

I knew that lives were on the line in this tournament. Every competitor did. But this was a stark reminder of the ferocity of Arena Mode and of how sudden, and mercilessly, an elimination could take place.

Every step was agony.
I felt as if someone was rotating a screwdriver into the cartilage behind my knee cap, like some twisted form of medieval torture. I tried to put the pain out of my mind, and remind myself that Times Square was just a mile away. It was the location of several weapon caskets, and more importantly, a doctor.

According to the pre-game briefing, there would be a number of medical stations scattered throughout Manhattan as per state regulations, but their locations were not revealed to the competitors. Just another one of Frost’s little twists to keep the game interesting. Based on the satellite imaging, I saw a preliminary set-up for a medical tent in Times Square, but the rest of the stations had yet to be put in place.

I was in desperate need of a cortisone injection. One small dose administered to my joint would reduce the inflammation, and provide a considerable amount of pain relief. Without it, I don’t know how much longer I could last before tapping out.