12 – The Silo

  Hector walked a couple of steps behind Grando and his boys—four bodyguards who were interchangeable with the others he’d already met. Actually, only three were new to him; one of them was Jam. The tall wire-head walked off to the left a little, leering at the people they passed. It seemed Grando was well known, and most of the pedestrians they approached steered off to the sides, seeking anonymity in the crowds that lingered near storefronts, vending machine alcoves, and stoops. Hector barely noticed; his mind was in a million other places.

  He twisted the chrome skull ring on his left forefinger—the only one it properly fit. Lemon’s friend, Phil, had cracked the security on the other bit-lockers, and Hector’s share of them all was on the skull ring now—just a bit more than seven-thousand bits. Lemon had been ecstatic at her windfall, and even more so when they got back and Grando threw her a bonus for getting Sadie out of her predicament. Of course, that was all for the better, but Hector had too much bad news to focus on to really care.

  He had the bits to get some augs—maybe nothing great, but something to give his system some net access. He needed to get the AI busy doing some research. There had to be more out there about the Contis. Some of the info Lemon’s pay-by-the-minute AI gave him might point him toward a lead—Arndt Conti’s kids, perhaps, or the Ventress Consortium—

  “…Hector?”

  He looked up at his name and realized Grando and his goons were looking at him while they waited for a train to cross. “What?”

  “I said you know how to fight, don’t you?”

  Hector shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Grando snorted, shaking his head. “He’s being mod—”

  “Boss, how the hell is this kid gonna make you any money tonight?” Jam asked, spitting onto the sidewalk as he looked Hector up and down. “I’m not saying he’s not tough…for a kid. But really, how much experience could he have? What are you, Hector? 15?”

  Grando lifted one of his ring-covered hands—quite a large hand with plenty of scars on the knuckles, Hector noted—like he was going to smack Jam. The red-eyed goon took a step back, holding up his hands.

  “I’m just saying, Boss!”

  “He’s twenty, you stupid ass, and you saw what he did to Orin and that other spasmodic.”

  Hector’s temper decided to make an appearance, and he stepped forward, right hand balled into a fist. He stared into Jam’s eyes. “Maybe you want a taste?”

  Grando waved his arm, shifting his bulk between the two of them. “No goddammit! Jam, I need you on that job in the morning, and Hector, you don’t want to risk an injury—”

  “No risk,” Hector said, stepping to the left, edging around the boss in his maroon- and black-pinstriped suit. The move put two of his other goons on his flank—not something he’d do if he were thinking straight, but some kind of dam had broken in him, something that had been cracking at the seams ever since he’d foolishly started looking into his past. It probably didn’t help that he was dealing with the hormones of a skin in its prime.

  “So fuckin’ sure, huh?” The red in Jam’s eyes faded as a flickering yellow-green aura flared around him. Hector almost laughed. The thug had activated some kind of boost, but that aura was so spotty and dim, he didn’t think he’d even need to counter with his own. He put his hands up and—

  “Take him home, boys.” Grando waved a hand at Jam, and two of his other goons grabbed the lanky wire-head and dragged him off, cussing and spitting. Grando looked at Hector, glowering. “Come on, man. Be smart. I’m trying to win money by betting on you. Look around us. What do you see?”

  Hector slowly unballed his fists as he looked around the street and sidewalk. Hundreds of people were in view. Many had stopped to stare their way, likely thanks to Jam’s little aura display. He looked at Grando and nodded. “Witnesses.”

  “Exactly, partner. Witnesses who will run around the district talking about how Jam just got his ass beat to a pulp by Grando’s new guy. Think that’ll help my bets at Pete’s?”

  “I get it, but there’s a problem,” Hector said, stepping closer to Grando, his eyes flat.

  “What?” Grando reached into his coat to retrieve his half-burnt cigar.

  “You didn’t mention my cut—of the bets.”

  “Ah, smokes, man! You think I’m dumb? We’re in these ventures fifty-fifty.”

  Hector stared.

  “Right, fine, seventy-thirty on jobs like this—fights, rifts, stuff I couldn’t do without you. Other work you do for me, like today with Sadie, that’s to cover your upkeep.”

  Hector shrugged. He didn’t mind killing time with dirty little jobs so long as he could salvage bit-lockers, potentia, and anything else he happened across. “And I keep the purse—from the fights.”

  Grando stared for a moment, but then he snapped his fingers, and a blue flame erupted from his pointer finger. He lit his cigar, puffed it a few times, and blew out a cloud of eye-watering smoke. “You think you can make more money in this fight without me? Go ahead.”

  Hector considered his words, tried to see if the big man was bluffing, but couldn’t see a hint of duplicity. Finally, he shrugged. “Okay. Seventy-thirty.”

  Grando nodded to his remaining goon. “Let’s get moving.”

  A short while later, they rounded a corner, and the gym came into view. Pete’s was a very different scene at nighttime, at least on a fight night. The sidewalk out front and the gym-side of the building teemed with people. Most of the women wore scant outfits, from see-through skirts to skin-tight jumpsuits to shorts that made Hector think of swimwear. Some, though, were different; they looked hard and mean and wore clothes that looked as functional as they did stylish.

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  The men were no different—gym regulars in shorts and nothing else, players in silken shirts opened to their navels, and then rough-looking banger types with weaponized accessories. Hairstyles were varied and wild. A motley mix of people, but they had one thing in common: they were low-born and had that hard, mean look in their eyes that said they hadn’t been handed much in their lives.

  Chem-stick clouds filled the air—blue, red, yellow, and purple—drifting from their users into a general haze that permeated everything. The odor was a mix of fruit, alcohol, and acid, and Hector caught a strange, jittery contact buzz the instant they entered the big bay door and moved between vendor tables toward a cage-lined cargo lift in the back.

  “Not your usual scene, is it, royal?” Grando whispered hoarsely, grabbing Hector by the shoulder and jostling him. His cigar blazed as he inhaled, grinning around the thick stogie. It was evident that this was exactly his kind of scene.

  “I’ve been to low places,” Hector said, shrugging.

  “Not without backup, I’d bet.” Grando winked and propelled him toward the elevator cage. Two men guarded it, hard types with metal knuckles and lots of patches on their synth-leather jackets. They didn’t get in Hector’s way, though, and when Grando followed him inside the car, they were more than friendly.

  “Hey, hey, Grando,” the big guy on the left said. “Got a fighter tonight, or just here for the bets?”

  Grando grinned, puffing his stogie. “This is my guy—Hector.”

  “Yeah?” The man, a bruiser with arms like scarred, black pythons, nodded, looking Hector up and down. “Looks a little small, but there’s something mean in his eyes. Reminds me of a dog I used to own.”

  Hector felt his old friend begin to stir, a heat at the back of his neck, as he balled up his right fist.

  “Oh shit! There he is. Yeah, he’s a mean one, ain’t he?”

  Grando grinned and took his stogie out, gripping it between his thumb and finger as he gestured to the guy. “You’ve got a good eye, Lowj, but keep that shit to yourself.”

  “Hey, don’t worry, G. I don’t bet, and besides, being mean is only half the battle. There are some real bastards fighting tonight.”

  Grando stuffed his cigar back into his mouth and nodded. “Good—the way I like it. Send us down.”

  It wasn’t lost on Hector that Grando’s remaining escort had stayed up top. “Don’t need your guard?”

  “He doesn’t get to use this elevator—only gamblers and fighters.” He gestured up toward the receding ground floor. “There’s another elevator on the other side that stops at the higher tiers.”

  Hector nodded absently, most of the explanation going in one ear and out the other. He was watching the square of light up above grow smaller and smaller. “How deep?”

  “Ah, it’s strange, right?” Grando took a long drag off his stogie as the elevator slowed. “We’re almost there. The silo is in one of the original deep vaults—the roots.”

  Hector thought about it, frowning. That made the structure old—close to seven hundred years. The nations of Old Earth had sent thousands of ships to Mars during the ancient land-grab years, long before any terraforming had been done. Most of those nations were footnotes in ancient history texts, but some of their vaults remained—deep shelters designed to sustain a rough existence on a harsh, alien world. Still, rough as they were, the vaults weren’t small. Pete probably only had access to a part of one.

  The cage rattled to a stop, and Grando yanked the doors open, stepping out into the amber light of a bronze-colored alloy landing. Hector followed, noting the scents of oil, sweat, and blood in the air. He could hear the roar of a crowd and the stomps of boots on metal, and when he stood beside Grando, it all made sense.

  The floor was a metal grating welded to the side of a huge cylindrical structure. The grating continued to the left and right—a wide metal walkway that overlooked the center of the silo. Dozens of people lined the railing, all looking down at whatever was happening on the ground. Some cheered, some groaned, some stomped, some jostled their friends, but everyone looked to be having a hell of a good time.

  Hector stepped past Grando, pushing between two men wearing laborers’ overalls to peer into the silo. Perhaps twenty meters down, two men were fighting at the base of the structure.

  The ground was buried in red sand, providing a more forgiving fighting surface for the combatants. Hector grunted in approval; hand-to-hand on concrete or plasteel was never ideal. The cheers echoed from above, and when he peered up into the glare of the lights, he realized that high along the silo walls were three more tiers of balconies connected by metal walkways, and they were lined with more cheering spectators.

  Grando’s voice, raised in irritation, echoed over the noise. Hector turned to see what had gotten the boss riled up. “…started without me? What the hell is this, Pete?”

  The man he was growling at—Pete, apparently—was a smallish fellow wearing a gray, grease-stained jumpsuit. His dark hair was cut in a buzz, and he had a chrome eye that shone with pale green light. Hector guessed he was in his forties, but he looked fit and moved with an easy kind of grace.

  “Nah, this is just some warmup stuff. Nothing worth betting on. I wouldn’t do that to you, Grando—not when you called ahead and said you’d be here tonight.”

  Grando glared at the other man, inhaling through his stogie and exhaling plumes of smoke through his nostrils. After a moment, he adjusted the lapels on his burgundy and black suit jacket and nodded. “Okay, Pete. Anyway, here’s my fighter. Come here, Hector.”

  Hector felt his spine stiffen at the tone. I’m nobody’s dog! He reeled in the anger; there’d be some wallowing in the mud, but he’d climb out soon enough. Stepping closer to the two men, glowering through a curtain of dark hair, he nodded at Pete. Hector wasn’t used to having enough hair to cover his eyes, so his scowl grew even more ferocious as he brushed it aside.

  Pete gave Grando a sideways glance. “Angry looking kid you found, huh?” Grando just grinned, so Pete turned back to Hector, raising his voice over the din of the crowd. “Hector, was it? You ever fought before?”

  Hector nodded.

  “He doesn’t talk much, Pete. Anyway, he’ll just join in the all-comers event.”

  “All-comers, huh? You know Vasque is kicking it off tonight, right? You should let him fight a few before your boy comes in. Might wear him down a bit.”

  Grando narrowed one eye. “The purse grows the more fighters jump in, yeah?”

  Pete nodded. “That’s how it works, yeah. It’ll start off at around a thousand, and Vasque will walk with that if no one challenges him. It’ll go up based on bets after that.”

  Grando shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to Hector. He can ring the bell whenever he’s ready.”

  Hector glanced toward the silo. “Bell?”

  Pete nodded, pointing along the walkway to the left. “When the all-comers event starts, challengers will line up on that wide section of balcony. There’s a bell there, and I’ll be able to see you if you ring it. When I give you the go-ahead, climb down the ladder into the silo. See it?”

  Hector followed his pointing arm with his gaze and saw the gray plasteel ladder bolted to the silo wall in an area where the metal walkway was built out into a platform of sorts. He looked at Pete and nodded.

  “Okay, well, there are four fights scheduled before the all-comers.” He turned back to Grando. “Place your bets; I’m about to kick things off.”

  Grando nodded, watching Pete wander off along the walkway. “He’s a cheat, but he’s fair with me. He knows who’s buttering his bread, you know?”

  Hector scratched a phantom itch on his jaw. “Sure.”

  “So? You gonna jump in early or wait and see what the competition looks like?”

  Hector considered for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll see how I feel when it starts.”