The Sky Drifter (20 page)

Without warning, the screens changed to One’s game against the pony-tailed Stamira, who was tightly clutching his left shoulder as his arm hung loosely at his side. His bottom lip bled dark purple blood, which ran down his chin. I found it difficult to understand why the Malac team chose not to wear helmets, but I supposed they preferred being seen. Still, in a sport as brutally dangerous as Sphere, it seemed crazy not to.

With an angry look of determination, Stamira shouted at the top of his lungs and charged at One, still holding his injured shoulder. Calmly and confidently, One ran up and along the middle of the sphere, and with deadly force and precision, jumped up behind Stamira and swung his light chain widely, making the metal ball at its tip collide forcibly with the back of his opponent’s neck. Stamira crashed limply onto the floor and laid there motionless.

As the arena filled with shocked gasps and screams, the screens changed to another sphere where Bertramis was proudly standing over 64’s sprawled body as he posed and blew kisses into the crowd, who upon seeing this exploded into wild applause and cheers once again.

A moment later, the screen changed again, focusing on the only game left—that of 208 and Altec, who swung his light chain diagonally up toward his opponent’s helmet.

208 contorted his body diagonally backward, twisting rapidly forward again, as he brought his metal ball swinging up toward Altec’s body, catching him on his upper thigh. Altec stumbled backward, holding his leg as 208 raised his arms to his sides and began rapidly spinning on the spot, causing his metal ball to spin horizontally around him.

Altec walked slowly back as 208 slowly spun toward him. As soon as the latter was near the middle point of the sphere, Altec curled his lips into a grin, and holding his metal ball sped toward his rival.

A moment before 208’s ball could collide with Altec’s face, he rapidly ducked and sprang back up, punching upward with the ball he tightly held and then crashed it violently against the bottom of his rival’s helmet, sending him spinning backward.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Altec grabbed hold of 208’s leg and pulled it hard toward himself. When the latter’s helmet was within range, Altec drove his ball, which he still held, hard into his opponent’s visor, shattering part of it. 208 crashed to the floor, and his suit, like a deflated balloon, sagged loosely while Altec still kept a hold of his leg. For a moment, the Malac stood perfectly still, looking down at his opponent. As if a switch had flipped in his mind, his face suddenly hardened with hatred and disgust, and faster than I could blink, he dropped to one knee and pounded on 208’s helmet until it cracked.

Just as Mr. Hist ran out of the players’ area, however, Altec stood back up and backed away from his rival, holding his arms out in victory as he stared out into the cheering crowd with a pleased, maniacal look on his face.

Soon after, the main lights came back on as the winners and losers returned—or were taken back—to their own players’ boxes for praise or medical care.

***

The overhead voice excitedly said, “What an incredible start! Our own exalted Altec and Bertramis coming up victorious against their weaker opponents. Did we expect anything less of them? Now, your beloved Ofemus, Petris, and Tenula will face
their
opponents!”

At their mention, the entire arena once again filled with cheers of adoration from their loyal fans as six names, divided into three pairs, revealed the next match-ups. I was to face Ofemus, whose only immediate aesthetic variant was his shoulder-length dreadlocks. The voice had announced Ofemus enjoyed strength and agility training and cooking.

After having thoroughly sprayed 64 and 208, who were still barely conscious from their injuries, Mr. Hist turned to 33, the Volcuris, 41, the Morex, and me with a look of focused determination.

Feeling energized and filled with exhilaration, we placed our helmets on our heads and confidently marched out of the players’ area. A heavy shower of merciless boos descended on us as we headed up the platform. 33 and 41 hurried left and right to their respective spheres, and I continued up to the second set of stairs to mine where my opponent, Ofemus, already stood waiting.

As before, three spotlights shone down, brightly illuminating the spheres as the main lights went out. All sounds seemed to vanish along with them until the only thing I heard was the sound of my own heart beating. I won my game, swiftly beating my opponent, and looked up at the screens to see 41 beaten and 33 coiled around Tenula’s neck.

Instead of hearing the expected wild applause, the crowd filled the air with unsettled chatter that grew louder and louder as we all returned to our own players’ area. Those of us who were conscious and could walk, anyway. Mr. Hist welcomed us with animated cheer, trying to keep his brow furrowed, as 41was carried in by two ASOs.

“RIGHT DOWN HERE
,” the coach instructed the ASOs, pointing at the bench. “64, get the spray, and apply it to 41—now! Well done, guys, well done,” the coach said, beaming, turning to face me and the looming figure of 33. “I knew you could do it. Now we’re drawing 3-3. Both you and One will be going through to the next round, but I don’t want you to think that just because you are it gives you license to be cocky. It doesn’t. Sit, sit.” Mr. Hist ushered 33 and me over to the large space next to One before he continued. “If anything, this round will be tougher. The Malacs have shown themselves to be quite a vicious and clever bunch, which is something we can’t take lightly.”

As the coach continued sharing his advice, the loud overhead voice resounded around the arena once again. “Ready for round two?” it asked animatedly, causing the vast crowd to cheer excitedly. “Without further delay—here are the three pairs that will be facing each other in the second round!”

Mr. Hist stepped outside the players’ area and looked up at the scoreboard. “Okay,” he began, turning back around to face us. “The match-ups are up.” The coach proceeded in advising each of us as to how to best beat our opponents.

All of a sudden, there was a rise in the intensity of the crowd’s cheering as the voice of the announcer said, “Altec, Petris and Bertramis are already making their way to their spheres! Now we’re all just waiting for their opponents from Cloud School to make an appearance,” it concluded with an air of wry sarcasm.

You could feel the irritation radiating from Mr. Hist, who merely frowned, and said, “Come on, you’d better go.” 33, One and I stood and walked toward the entrance of the players’ area, slipping on our helmets as we did. “Remember what I said,” quickly added the coach just before we left, “focus only on your opponents and on what you need to do to beat them.”

Moments later, we reached our spheres, mine being the bottom right one where a demonstratively impatient Petris stood, rapidly tapping his foot as he scowled with a demented look on his face. Despite all the Malacs being exact reproductions of each other, I though his shaved head made it look smaller than the others.

As the crowd continued to roar and the main lights faded, giving way to the spotlights, Petris and I glared at each other while he gleefully hopped from side to side. The loud chime sounded, and round two began.

Watching Petris bounding around the sphere for what seemed an eternity, my mind couldn’t help but drift as I wondered how One’s and 33’s games were going, feeling a sudden sense of pride in my teammates.

My game against Petris didn’t last as long as I thought it would have, because he kept insisting on attacking me with a series of head butts to my helmet, which I was more than glad to accept.  Finally, we met in mid-air, and I forcefully lifted my knee to connect with his jaw, sending Petris crashing back down in defeat. It had felt like a slightly unfair win as I asked myself whether he would have allowed such an obvious move on my part to connect if he hadn’t taken so many blows to his head already.

As soon as I could, I looked across to see One’s game already finished with neither opponent still in the sphere. The screen above revealed the shocking scene of the painful beating 33 received at the hands of Altec, who seemed to be punishing him, blow after blow.

Finally, when he appeared satisfied that enough of 33’s blood had been shed, he stopped. I have to admit how upset I felt at the sight of my teammate’s motionless, pulped body lying in a bloody heap at Altec’s feet. I suddenly noticed I had clenched my hands as hard as I could, wishing to run over to Altec to beat him senseless. To get revenge for what he’d done to 33—to turn
him
into a bloody pile on the floor.

The mad applause did nothing to appease the blind fury I felt inside. As the main lights turned back on, however, I knew the only way I’d get to do that would be if I faced him in the next game. I won’t lie to you—I wanted to hurt him.

I waited at the foot of the first platform as I watched two ASOs carry 33 on a mobile stretcher and then walked to the players’ area beside them.

“Quick,” exclaimed the coach, looking as ashen and worried as I’d ever seen him, “put him down here—slowly!” Once 33 had been placed carefully on the floor in front of the long bench, Mr. Hist rapidly sprayed him everywhere. He was beside himself. “I tried to stop it,” he repeated under his breath, “I tried…”

I sat on the bench and stared numbly at 33 when all of a sudden I heard, “Hey,” from somewhere beside me. I turned just in time to catch something in my hands.

“You did good, Simian.”

I was slightly taken aback by the strange tone of sincerity in One’s voice as I looked down at my hands to see my bottle of water. I was glad for the opportunity to finally be able to have a drink—I was desperately parched. After having drunk almost the entire contents of the bottle, I felt infinitely better and was relieved when I looked down and saw 33 begin to groan and stir.

Mr. Hist sighed in relief as the color began to return to his face. He looked over at One and me, and said, “We’re winning, 5-4. You have both been…” As Mr. Hist spoke, my head gradually began to hurt more and more and an intense feeling of queasiness built in my stomach. “…have to pick only one of you, so I have to base my decision on total points gained throughout the season.”

Just as the coach spoke my name, I started violently throwing up all over the floor and side of the players’ area, my head feeling as though it would explode.

Mr. Hist immediately jumped to my side, and exclaimed, “Seven! What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“Uurgh,” was all I could manage to reply as I stopped vomiting.

“Here, put your head between your knees,” he said, gently pushing on my head. “How is that? Better? Can you talk?”

To stop the coach from having an attack of nerves, I forced myself to say, “Feel sick…Don’t know what—” but before I could say anything else, I threw up again just as violently as the first time, narrowly missing Mr. Hist.

“What an exciting end to the second round!” exclaimed the voice of the announcer. “‘Bad Boy’ Altec is in top form as always!” The crowd cheered and applauded once again as the announcer continued. “The visiting team appears to be doing okay for itself.” At this, the crowd’s cheer turned to enraged boos and hisses, “No matter how many of them there still are, they’ll never beat our undefeated star, Altec!” Now the sea of fans cheered deliriously again—he had them eating from the palms of his hands.

“I can’t send you out there like this,” said the coach seriously. “I’m sorry. One, you’re up.”

Calmly, One stood, picked up his helmet, and just before putting it on as he headed out, he said, “I’ll destroy him,” in a cold, confident tone.

As the boos began, Mr. Hist turned back to face me and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Seven, but I can’t have you competing in the state you’re in.”

I appreciated his words, but the look of utter regret on his face showed me just how sorry he truly was.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, stepping out of the players’ area just as I retched again. A moment later, he was back with one of the ASOs with whom he was speaking.

“Take a look at him. He just started doing it.”

The ASO positioned itself in front of me, and from one of its circular cavities, passed a yellow beam of light from the top of my head to my feet. Its voice sounded like a cross between Ava and Gamal Metafrick. “The Simian has been poisoned.”

“
Poisoned
?” exclaimed the coach disbelievingly. “Impossible. How could he have been
poisoned
?”

“The Simian has been poisoned,” repeated the ASO, “but with only enough to make him sick. The Simian will be fine soon.” The ASO abruptly turned and headed out of the players’ area.

“Poisoned,” repeated Mr. Hist more to himself before looking at me. “What have you ingested today, Seven? Did you accept any food or drink from anyone?”

“No, sir,” I replied weakly, “but I did eat an old dagon fruit this morning for breakfast.”

“You did
what
?” asked the coach sounding shocked and angry. “You silly boy, don’t you know any better? And right before the game, too! You’re lucky you even made it
this
far!”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Mr. Hist grumbled something under his breath before he said, “Well, you just get some rest, okay? The ASO said you’d feel better soon.”

“Yes, sir,” I repeated simply as the coach walked away to resume tending to 33, who already looked much better.

I hated having to lie to Mr. Hist, but I didn’t want him to get involved. The cause of the poisoning hadn’t been mouldy dagon fruit, which I hadn’t eaten that morning, it was One. He’d no doubt slipped some poison into my bottle back in the locker room, or his Morex goon had, anyway.  His sudden kindness had been too good to be true. He’d given me my drink to stop me from playing in the third round. He’d done it so he’d be the one in the final. I asked myself how One could have known we’d even make it this far. Though, knowing him the way I did, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d poisoned my drink for the hell of it out of spite.