SF in The City Anthology (2 page)

             
Desai men never hit women…unless absolutely necessary. Little did this pretty little criminal know that she had picked a fight with a flesh jockey. This same short and unassuming girl pulled an urumi from her belt and unfurled its single blade. It could be worse. Jon had once encountered a drugged up nut job with six blades on his sword. She had Kordru glow paint lending a blue hue to the edges of her weapon, helping her see clearly during a nighttime fight. How cute.

             
When the girl slung the weapon towards him, the elegance of its design was lost. She wasn’t a skilled fighter, and that worried Jon just as much. In situations where one’s opponent had a discernible technique, previous knowledge could be utilized to win a fight. If a person came at you out of pure desperation, they were like a cornered animal – unpredictable and dangerous.

             
Jon put himself into the mindset that he wasn’t leaving this brawl without being cut. People who worried about being cut in such fights were sure to have their fears confirmed. Desai felt the rush of hot blood in the space between his left thumb and index finger. While he was ambidextrous, he often favored his right side for the ease with which that allowed him to operate in society. That was why Iwao had asked him which pinky he wanted cut off. His trademark as a flesh jockey was adaptability. If only the other facets of his life had been so flexible.

             
Having caught the urumi’s blade with his left hand and jerked it away from him, Jon drove his right fist into the surprised girl’s face. He punched her from as much of a horizontal angle as he could manage. Her nose was his target, and he did not want to hit her with an in and up motion. It wouldn’t do to shove this structure into her brain. It still bothered him to hear it break none the less.

             
The girl fell to the ground, shocked by her injury. Jon made sure to step on the handle of the now dropped sword. He calmly bent down and placed his thumbprint on the bike’s lock, shutting off the electric current and freeing the restraints. As he mounted the bicycle and put on his concussion resistant helmet, Jon pulled out a blood colored handkerchief and rapped up his hand. It was his habit to keep such material on hand.

             
Pulling a vial of opioids from a satchel he kept attached to the bike’s frame; Jon swallowed one and tossed another to the girl. She stared at the small object that had landed in her lap and looked up at this stranger in disbelief, her hands still on her broken nose.

             
“Find a better boyfriend and a less dangerous livelihood,” Jon called over his shoulder as he rode out into traffic.

             
“He’s my brother,” the girl said as her partner started to revive. Jon never heard her big reveal.

***

              It was exactly 11:34 PM when Jon arrived at Sandy Sander’s Bar and Karaoke. Central Authority, or CA as it was usually called, legalized flesh jockeying eight months previously, yet Sandy still didn’t openly advertise for simulatar fights out front. This unassuming establishment, nestled between Ramiro’s Tattoo Studio and a bath house/pot dispensary called Buds & Suds, had the largest fight attendance in this prefecture.

             
Everyone who attended the fights knew that they kicked off at midnight, with five engagements going on into the morning. A sizable line had formed at the front of the bar and extended out into the brightly lit street. Several of the expectant spectators pointed towards the melanoid sky. Jon could see a small fleet of Kongming lanterns floating by the skyscrapers and passing over this part of The City.
Someone somewhere is celebrating something
. That’s what passed through this flesh jockey’s mind, as he knocked on the back door of the establishment.
Hopefully I’ll have something to celebrate after the night is out
.

             
A familiar face opened the door for Jon. Balunn Harris was the head chef and also an old friend of the Desai family. He had made a nice chunk of change betting on Jon’s fights in the past.

“It’s nice to see you again dude,” Baluun stepped back and gave Jon room to enter the kitchen. With the better lighting, the cook’s infamous tattoo appeared clearer. With a bald head, the middle-aged man had the image of a brain inked on the outside of his head, complete with all its folds and bends. He had one hemisphere colored blue and one orange. Most people found him a strange personality, especially when he used old-fashioned terms like “dude,” but Jon always like him.

              Led through the kitchen, Jon descended a series of steps until he was face to face with the decagon. Barely over a year ago, he would be comfortable looking at this small arena. Then Knut’s unfortunate accident scarred his mind. People always told him to get over it, that he would become the greatest flesh jockey if he kept up his training. They didn’t understand what it felt like to have a person die on you while your brains had an established connection. Knut passed so suddenly, Jon didn’t feel pain and last minute desperation so much as a sudden loss of warmth. The whole experience had physiological and psychological effects on him. Having seen a doctor, he was told that scar tissue had formed on his brain.

             
A hand suddenly took hold of his shoulder. About facing in shock, Jon laughed nervously at Iwao’s lack of tact.

             
“Good he’s jumpy,” the gangster laughed. “Keep on your toes and you’ll be fine.”

             
“Who did the system match me up with tonight,” Jon asked, hoping that it wouldn’t be one of Aldo’s fighters.

             
“Hartmut Pekkanen is the flesh jockey,” Iwao said a bit peevishly. He seemed more nervous about the fight than Jon would have liked. “Have you been keeping up with the standings?”

             
“I’ve been trying to forget all this,” Jon motioned at the decagon.

             
“Well the simulatar he’s been fighting with is ranked second in this prefecture,” Iwao pushed a button on a small silver band he kept on his right ring finger. A holographic image of a buff four armed man came into view.

             
“Good grievous,” Jon shook his head. “You didn’t tell me they let bod mods into the decagon now!”

             
“Must have slipped my mind,” Iwao said dismissively. “This ugly sucker’s named Sethon. He put his last opponent into the local Knife and Gun Club. As you would imagine, Hartmut has put a lot of training into boxing, so that those four arms don’t go to waste. If you are going to best him, you need to focus on deflecting his strength. You were the best wrestler in your day. Use those skills to pin him if you can.”

             
“Who’s
my
simulatar?” Jon asked with unhidden apprehension.

             
“Here’s his picture. As you can tell he’s a wiry but strong fellow,” Iwao regarded the holographic profile ambivalently.

             
“What’s his name?” Jon seemed in a terse mood all of a sudden.

“Oh, that isn’t important. What matters is…”

“What is his name?”

             
Iwao reluctantly said, “Ayan Osório.”

             
“At least I know the name of the man I’m getting killed,” Jon shrugged.

             
“No, you’re not going to lose this fight,” Iwao put his face uncomfortably close to his flesh jockey’s, “because if you do, you’re going to lose much more than a contest. You will become an example. Am I being clear enough for you?”

             
“Yes,” Jon said sheepishly.

             
“Good. Let’s beat down this freak and make some money!”

***

              Sitting in a chair just outside the decagon, Jon wouldn’t seem to be an important part of the fight; at least he wouldn’t seem that way to those who had never watched a simulatar fight before. A helmet with electrodes had been placed on his and Hartmut’s heads, interacting with the nanotubes inside their brains and establishing a wireless brain to brain connection between the men and their simulatars inside the decagon. When the technology to use simulatars was first discovered, the Central Authority banned it for “ethical reasons.” Of course ethics didn’t keep the CA from using this technology amongst the police. Why send someone who had spent years training to be a cop, when a prisoner’s body could be sent in his or her place?

             
The same idea carried into MMA fighting. Men who devoted a lifetime to mastering various fighting techniques could only use their skills for as long as their bodies held up. With simulatar technology, a fighter like Jon could use an unlimited number of surrogates in fights for years. All it took was muscle memory to control a simulatar. While all manner of information could be uploaded into a person’s mind these days, muscle memory was the exception. A person couldn’t plug in and learn Aikido with the push of a button. That’s why guys like Jon still existed.

             
What about the simulatars themselves? Who would be crazy enough to volunteer for such a position? Having a professional fighter enter your mind and use your body as a fighting tool would not appeal to most people. During a battle, an “inhib chip” previously implanted in a simulatar’s brain would shut down all conscious thought while leaving the motor cortex and all functions related to physical movement and sensory information unimpeded. The flesh jockey would do the thinking, feeling and moving. He or she would see through another’s eyes, hear with another pair of ears, and punch in faces with another set of fists. Why did people volunteer to be simulatars? About 99.9% of the time, they were homeless and looking for a job, any job, to take care of them. The remaining 0.01% of time involved masochism.

People in the stands excitedly conversed in Japanish, Russonese, Korabic, and even Welshindi. Then Arv Guerra, the famous ring and cage announcer for Sandy Sander’s, welcomed fans to the first fight of the evening. His deep voice cut through the room with his ambiguous accent.

              “Inside the cage, first introducing the green corner, at 6’5,” weighing in at 316 and ¼ pounds, the Pugilismo Fogoso champion and runner up at the Arti Marziali simulatar matches, with nine wins and two losses, Sethon!”

             
I really miss established weight classes
, Jon thought.

             
“And in the black corner, at 5’10,” weighing 160 pounds, with four wins and one loss, Ayan Osório!”

             
It truly surprised Jon that so many people clapped and cheered when Ayan was introduced. Even more discomforting was who they were really pulling for. It wasn’t for the men in the decagon.

             
“And the referee this evening, Roy Blatz,” Arv Guerra finished.

             
Jon hardly paid attention as the automated referee spelled out the rules for the fight. Even a year’s absence could not make this part of a fight any less tedious. As the mechanical voice of the ref traveled into Ayan’s ears and was processed by Jon’s brain, all the flesh jockey could think of was the contest’s prize – cyberpint. It was a strong alcoholic brew, not much of a reward in and of itself, but what was encoded on every electron of the drink was what mattered – DUs. Whoever drank cyberpint would have 50,000 DUs registering in his or her brain’s nanotubes. While it wouldn’t fully pay off his debt, Jon’s success would also mean that Iwao would win a killing just by betting on him. Plus the publicity wouldn’t hurt.

             
The referee’s hand came down, and the word that thrilled so many throughout generations rang through the air, “Fight!”

             
Jon could feel everything that Ayan experienced with his five senses, including the sweaty smell of Sethon. On a more positive note, he felt like he had good traction on the floor of the decagon. He started working his feet, waiting for an impetuous enemy to make his move. Hartmut held back as well.

             
If someone didn’t make a move soon, the crowd would get reckless. Finally, Sethon came rushing forward. He had the advantage, so naturally he would break first. Jon knew that he would have to find a way to account for his opponent’s height, so he had Ayan jump off the wall behind him and try to knee Sethon’s chin. As expected, the wiry little man had an advantage in speed. While Jon’s simulatar successfully landed the strike on his competitor’s chin, it was a pyrrhic attack. Sethon’s bottom pair of hands rushed in and slammed each of Ayan’s hips, as if he was boxing the fighter’s body like a child’s ears.

Within his sedated body, Jon winced in pain. The frail frame he had to fight with couldn’t take another hit like that. Sethon tried a second attack, using an uppercut with his bottom hands and punching downward with his top ones. Jon simply had Ayan jump back. It prevented disaster for the moment, but he was being backed into a corner.

              Given that Hartmut’s simulatar had so much upper body training, Jon decided to go for the legs. Ayan’s body slid underneath Sethon, and Jon had him deliver a hammer fist strike on the metatarsals of the giant’s left foot. Sethon screamed in pain and turned around viciously. Jon’s simulatar had already gotten to its feet and backed into the center of the arena.