Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (61 page)

“Hey, you commie! Your mother is a fat pig, and she wears combat boots!” Kahless taunted, making a face at the Soviet. He was trolling for the right insult, to provoke him to anger. He’d hit pay dirt on his first attempt. Little did he know that Tkachenko’s mother had died the previous year and he could not attend her funeral because he was on Mars.

“You bastard!” Tkachenko roared, his voice a blazing fire searing the air.

Kahless circled to the left and put his back to the ropes while the Soviet charged him like a mad bull. The Soviet collided with the American and pushed him hard against the ropes. Kahless put his hands up, covering his face and ribs. He peeked between his fists and said, “Fat pig.” The Soviet swung hard alternately with both hands, his face set with murderous intent. The American blocked every blow, getting bruises on both arms, but was otherwise unscathed. Every time Tkachenko slowed down, Kahless insulted his mother again, which caused his to redouble his efforts to try to pound the American lifeless.

With thirty seconds left in the round, LTC Killer Instinct shouted at his commander. Kahless came off the ropes and started infighting, slowly turning the Soviet so that his own back was to his corner. Now that he was off the ropes and in position, Kahless resumed his peek-a-boo style and stopped swinging. Tkachenko pressed his attack until Kahless was nearly in his corner. At the last moment, Tkachenko swung hard around Kahless’ block and stuck him with a devastating right hook to the left ribcage. Three metacarpal bones in Tkachenko’s right hand broke at the same time that three of Kahless’ left ribs broke. The bell announced that round fifteen was over. Both fighters were “saved by the bell.” The American sat down in the folding chair and Tkachenko walked the long journey back to his corner.

Kahless’ medic’s hands ran over his ribs and confirmed the bad news, three broken ribs on his left side. He pulled out a small flashlight and checked his eyes for signs of a concussion, but found none. In addition to his broken nose, broken ribs, and busted lip, he was sporting two black eyes. “If we had made a jigsaw puzzle based on your likeness before the fight, your face wouldn’t match the picture on the puzzle box. Seriously Colonel, you could puncture a lung if he hits you hard on this side again.” He sponged his face with water and touched up some cuts on his face and eyes.

“Colonel, this has gone far enough. You could die out there,” said his first officer.

“Take the towel and tie a knot in the middle,” Kahless instructed. His first officer did so, and Kahless motioned to give it to him. He threw it to his former wing man, CPT Janus Dread. “Captain, no surrender!” he shouted. The Captain held it up, and the men on the bench cheered. Kahless turned to the men in his corner. “Just removing the temptation—so I won’t have to kill you both.”

“Okay, cover your ribs and don’t let him pop you there. Switch to right-handed and end it now!” stressed his second. Kahless nodded, bit down on his mouthpiece, and went to meet his enemy. He did not tell his second that he was bone-weary, hurting so badly he wanted to quit with all of his being. He had exhausted his strength and spent his reserves. He approached with courage the counting house of strength beyond what a man is and has, with only heart as his collateral. He would borrow strength he did not possess to finish one last round.

“He manipulated you to spend your strength fighting on the ropes,” the Soviet first officer lectured. “Make him fight in the center of the ring.”

Tkachenko took a drink, rinsed his mouth and spit it in the bucket. He nodded, and realized in retrospect that he had been played.

Tkachenko’s medic was examining his left eye, which was black and swollen shut. He shook his head at Tkachenko’s second.

“I felt the bones in my right hand break when I hit him. It’s useless,” confessed Tkachenko.

“You are left-eye dominant. One more blow to your eye and you could be permanently blind in it and end your career as a field officer. You only have only one good hand, and one good eye. We have to throw in the towel.”

Tkachenko erupted like a volcano, bolted up straight in his folding chair, and glared angrily with eyes like pools of lava at his first officer and medic. “Nyet! I will have whoever throws in the towel before a firing squad and buried at Hellas Planitia,” he hotly declared as if spewing hot gases, ash, and lava. Neither man doubted it and weighed their concern for him against the threat.

Tkachenko watched as Kahless threw the towel away and proclaimed, “No surrender!”

“You see, Yuri. He will not give up! You would have to kill him before he will quit,” his first officer said.

Tkachenko’s smile was as cold as the East Siberian Sea in winter. “Then he will die!”

The ringing bell announced the beginning of round sixteen. Both men slowly moved to the center of the ring. The strength of both men was running out, like the sands of an hourglass. Both fighters were standing on wobbly legs, arms heavy as lead, faces swollen and hurting all over. Kahless begrudgingly offered a final boxer’s handshake out of respect for the battle already fought, and Tkachenko touched his gloves against his adversary’s. Blood and sweat stained the ring canvas, bearing witness to fifteen rounds of merciless combat between two embattled warriors.

Tkachenko pointed his gloved left hand at his American antagonist. “Finish now!”

His American rival nodded his weary head. “All or nothing, leave it all out here.”

Both men could stand, but barely, and they lacked the strength to keep their hands up to defend themselves. Boxing was done. What was left was a slugfest to see who would remain standing at the end and be the champion. Gone were the artful strategies of the sweet science of boxing from the earlier rounds. Primal instinct replaced training and technique. The nuclear essence of each man resembled that of cavemen with knotty clubs, beating each other senseless for their own survival and that of their tribe.

“This will probably be the last round,” reported CPT Two Horses.

“They look as if they are either sleepwalking, or some undead creatures from some monster movie,” added his junior partner.

Kahless switched to right-handed and kept his left down, protecting his broken ribs. Tkachenko kept his broken hand down to keep from injuring it further. Tkachenko landed a hard left cross across Kahless’ chin, and Kahless momentarily stumbled but did not fall. The Soviet looked like that took all the strength he had, and he stood there, arms down. Kahless commanded all of his strength and landed a right cross hard to the jaw of the Soviet. The punch rocked the Soviet and his legs felt like rubber, but he remained standing. Both men stood and stared, dull-eyed and slack-jawed at the other. Their seconds both shouted to get on with it. Tkachenko swung a vicious left hook with his whole body, tearing into his opponents right ribs. Kahless flinched at the impact, hesitated and delivered a hard right straight to his opponent’s forehead between the eyes. The Soviet was dazed, but the American had no strength to follow up with a second punch. The fighters clinched each other, each man hoping to gain more strength than the other by the time the clinch was broken by the referee. MAJ Luv2bomb broke the clinch and Kahless wished that Tkachenko would let him take him to the ropes again.

Two hunchbacked, bleary-eyed warriors called in a loan on the last bit of borrowed strength they could summon with the force of their sheer wills. Kahless launched a hard right hook to the jaw at the same time that Tkachenko launched a left hook. Both fighters connected to the other’s jaw; they both went down like two trees felled by the same axe.

The referee started the count, “One—two—three.”

Kahless could not stand aright and clawed his way to the corner to get help from the ropes. The fog covered his brain like a mist and he was no longer aware of why he was trying to get up. He heard his second’s voice and the voices of his men calling like the voice of many waters flowing, but he did not recognize them. He grabbed the bottom rope, raised himself to one knee, placed his hand on the second rope and then sunk into a pile of spent flesh without any conscious awareness. The American spectators were on their feet, shouting for their champion to get up.

“Four—five—six,” continued the referee.

Tkachenko was no longer political, and was no longer trying to prove his pride or manhood. His descent into oblivion was complete. He was what was left of a man that was spent in animal passion trying to destroy his adversary; his shell trying to stand on his feet. With his hand on the bottom rope, he was unable to to raise himself up. No amount of encouragement from the Soviet bleachers or the red corner could cause their champion to rise.

“Seven—eight—nine,” continued the referee.

The counting house of both men’s strength called them to account and found them both insolvent, immediately calling in all loans of strength. Both fighters were bankrupt of all endurance and vigor and could not arise by the end of the ten count.

“Ten!” MAJ Luv2bomb signaled that the fight was over and the bell tolled, calling the match to a close.

The Soviet medic broke a vial of smelling salts and placed it under his colonel’s nose. Tkachenko awoke with a start and clocked his medic with a hard left, knocking him down. The American medic took notice and put his smelling salts back into his bag. He stood back and poured a pail of water on his commander’s head from a safe distance. Kahless awoke a bit startled but was not swinging. Both medics checked the eyes of their men for concussions and other damage.