The broken asphalt crunched as the limousine slowly drove through the streets of East Tharsis. It wasn’t unusual for a limousine to drive in this neighborhood. The rich often came through this part of town when they wanted a hire a prostitute or buy black market drugs. But this wasn’t just any ordinary limousine. It had triple thick bulletproof windows that were tinted black. The frame was made of steel reinforced with ceramic plating. The tires were lined with Kevlar, making them impossible to deflate. This wasn’t a car. It was a bunker.
The limousine came to a stop in front of the dry cleaner. Two well-dressed men armed with Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns loaded with armor piercing bullets, the kind of weapon reserved for Special Forces, stepped out of the car. They radioed back to the driver that the coast was clear—and out stepped the lone passenger from the back.
The passenger wore a double breasted, custom made Italian wool suit, a silk scarf around his neck. His white hair was brushed back, never slicked. He carried a chinchilla fur derby hat, but didn’t wear it. On his wrist was a Lange & Söhne Grand Complication watch. In all, he was the picture of elegance and class. The most peculiar thing about the man was his face. It was perfectly normal looking for a man in his fifties, if not unremarkable. But he didn’t have a single wrinkle around his eyes. Not a crease on his forehead. Not a line around his mouth. Those who worked for him said it was because he had never once displayed an emotion in his entire life. But maybe that’s what made him who he was—
His name was Caliban, the most powerful figure in the solar system.
Caliban strolled toward the entrance to the dry cleaner, his security following close behind but never closer than ten feet. He had made it clear in the past that they were to keep their distance. He needed them, but he didn’t like them being within earshot of his affairs.
Lucky was waiting for him outside. He held out his hand to greet him. “Caliban, I’m so glad you came.”
Caliban took a look around, unimpressed. “I hope this will be worth my time.”
“Discretion, as you can imagine, is key here. That’s why we needed this store front. Let’s just say the authorities aren’t thrilled by what we do here,” Lucky explained.
“You’s a rich mochafucka ain’t you,” a voice called out.
Caliban’s eyes ticked to the sidewalk, where a homeless man sat on the ground outside of a dilapidated tent that had been patched up with tape, but was barely standing.
Lucky motioned to the security detail. “Get this asshole out of here, will you?”
But Caliban motioned for his security to stay back. He turned to the homeless man. “I am a man of means, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Some people have money. But not everyone can afford that watch,” the homeless man said. “I used to fix watches. Fell on some hard times, though. Lost my shop. I always hoped a watch like that would come in. But you don’t get many people around here who own a watch like that. Did you know it takes a year to assemble?”
“In fact, I did. That’s why I purchased it. I admired the craftsmanship,” Caliban replied, then motioned to the man’s tent. “What happened to your tent?”
“Some kids from the city came down here. They tore it up. Thought it was funny. They don’t know that to people like me, this is my home.”
Caliban motioned to his security. “These men will get you into a hotel this evening. You stay as long as you like. I’ll take care of the expense.”
“Oh, oh my. Mister. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Caliban nodded. “You thank me by pulling yourself together and opening a new shop. Consider this an opportunity.”
He turned and entered the dry cleaner. Lucky was at his side. He stopped and turned to Caliban. “I have to ask: why would you help a random homeless man like that?”
“If you want to bring out the best in someone, you need to invest in them. And that’s exactly what I do,” Caliban replied, emotionless. He motioned ahead. “Now, shall we?”
* * *
Two boys were fighting in the ring. Caliban and Lucky watched from the top of the risers, away from the bettors and the inebriated rich people who had come to bask in the bloodshed.
“These kids, they’re hungry. I ain’t ever seen anything like them,” Lucky said. “They don’t just fight to win here. They fight to survive.”
Caliban motioned to the boys in the ring. “Where did these boys come from?”
Lucky shrugged. “These two are from the slums of Ganymede. Majority of my boys come from the slums. Some of ’em are criminals out on parole with nowhere else to go. We get some runaways, too.”
“And these boys,” Caliban asked curiously, “you think they may be of a benefit to my operation?”
“Absolutely. That’s the thing about them. They’re loyal. Even when they start winning and start earning some coin, they don’t go nowhere. They live for the next round. It’s like a drug.”
Caliban held out an empty hand to his security guard, who without being prompted placed a business card and pen in his palm. Caliban scribbled something on the back, then handed it to Lucky.
“This is the name of someone in my organization. I want you to send him your hungriest fighters. Not the best, the hungriest. He will handle it from here. As you can imagine, I can not be directly associated with your operation.”
Lucky nodded. “Of course.”
“One more thing,” Caliban said. “I have a boy for you. But I don’t want him getting any special treatment. Bring him in just like the others.”
“Sure thing,” Lucky responded. His eyes flared with curiosity. “Who is it?”
“My son,” Caliban said, without a trace of guilt. Even the worst, most evil parent would feel a shred of remorse sending their child to a place like the Pits. But not him.
Lucky stared back, astonished. “Why the hell would you send your own son here?”
“Like I said. I invest in people.”
“Caliban…” Lucky tried to find the words. “Kids have died here.”
Caliban stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “If that’s his destiny, then so be it.”
He turned and walked away, leaving the other man alone in the risers. Lucky’s eyes began to fill with tears. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a rosary he wore around his neck. He kissed the cross, then began to pray.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
* * *
The White-Haired Boy’s foot tapped the floor relentlessly. He sat alone on a bench in the locker room, a row of lockers on either side of him. He could hear the muffled sound of the crowd through the walls. It was Saturday night, the biggest fight of the week. And they were already chanting. “We want blood! We want blood! We want blood!”
And then, from the other side of the lockers, he heard a familiar voice. “Those rich pricks seem like a rowdy bunch tonight.”
It was Fearless. He too was sitting on a bench. A row of lockers separated them. The White-Haired Boy couldn’t help but smile. “Feels weird to have to fight you.”
“Nah,” Fearless replied. “It was bound to happen, sooner or later. You had Irish on the ropes. And I still believe… shit, I know you would’ve beat Sixteen. Would only be matter of time until you sent me to the mat.”
The White-Haired Boy chuckled. “Thanks. But I’m not buying it.”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Fearless lit up. “What if we just ran?”
“Yeah, right.”
“For real, though. I’ve got plenty of blood money. We could buy a ship. Hang out on New Tijuana for a bit until we figured out where to go.”
The White-Haired Boy shook his head. “Yeah, right. You’d blow all your money on Kudo and titties at the Sneaky Lizard before we even got out of town.”
Fearless took a deep breath. Then exhaled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Suddenly, a pair of heavy footsteps began to approach.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
It was as if the White-Haired Boy recognized the footstep’s pattern. He knew who it was before they even rounded the corner. He glanced up.
“Dad?”
Caliban stood before him, dressed in his signature suit and scarf, chinchilla derby hat in hand. He didn’t smile, nor frown. As was his custom. He was perfectly emotionless.
“Son.”
“What are you doing here?” the White-Haired Boy asked.
“Lucky told me there was a big fight tonight,” Caliban explained. “So I flew in from Venus.”
“You did that… for me?”
“I came to see a fight.”
The White-Haired Boy’s lips curled to a smile. Even though his father couldn’t even bring himself to say he wanted to see his son fight, the fact that he was simply here meant the world to the boy.
“I almost won the other night, you know.”
Caliban’s eye narrowed. “You almost won?”
The White-Haired Boy grew excited. “Yeah, so, you see, my friend Fearless, that’s who I’m fighting tonight, he taught me that I needed to start anticipating my opponent’s moves, and so, I’m fighting this Irish kid right, and I’m getting beat pretty bad, but in the third round I realized that his plan was to double jab my ribs then—”
Caliban held up a hand to silence him. Then spoke with an ice cold tone. “What the fuck are you so happy about?”
The White-Haired Boy swallowed. “Well, I um, I’m making progress, so—”
“Progress isn’t good enough,” Caliban snapped back. “I sent you here to learn how to fight. To win. To learn how to be a man. And you’re telling me about progress?”
“I just thought that—”
“Do you know what Lucky told me when I sent you here?” Caliban asked. “He told me that boys have died in this place. He couldn’t believe that I would send my own son here. And do you know what I told him?”
The White-Haired Boy didn’t want to know the answer. But he knew that his father was going to tell him anyways. He just shook his head.
“I told him that if you died in this place, then that was your destiny. I wouldn’t shed a tear. Just like I didn’t when your mother took her life.” Caliban let his words linger in the air for a moment. And then continued. “You may be all I have left, but I’m willing to lose you too.”
And with that, Caliban turned and walked away. The White-Haired Boy sat there for a moment. But he didn’t cry. Something was building inside of him. A sensation. It was more than anger. It was a blackness. He had never felt anything like it before. It consumed him.
“Don’t listen to him, OK? Remember what I told you. You don’t need him. You’re an orphan just like the rest of us. We’re your family now.” It was Fearless. He stood at the end of the row of lockers, having heard the entire thing.
The White-Haired Boy ignored him. He stood up and faced one of the lockers. And then, he began to whale on it. Over and over again. Until the metal began to bend. And his knuckles began to bleed. When he was finished, the locker looked as if it had been smashed with a baseball bat.
The White-Haired Boy dripped with cold sweat. He began to shake. “I told you. He’s a monster.”
Fearless took him in. “Then prove him wrong.”
“I can’t…” The White-Haired Boy shook his head. “I can’t beat you.”
“Sure you can,” Fearless said. “I just saw it. That’s how you beat me. That’s how you beat anyone. You take it from him. You be vicious.”
* * *
The fight had already gone two brutal rounds. Fearless trapped the White-Haired Boy in the corner of the ring as he delivered jab after jab to his ribs. He could feel them cracking underneath his fists. Both his friend’s eyes were almost entirely swollen shut. His bottom lip split open. His ear mangled. He was almost unrecognizable. But as much as he wished the White-Haired Boy would give up, he refused. He just kept taking the punches. And every once in a while, he would smile. It was as if he was enjoying it. As if he was enduring the beat down to prove a point.
Ding ding ding!
The second round ended. Fearless returned to his corner and sat on a stool. He knew he was going to win. The White-Haired Boy couldn’t even sit on his stool. He was slumped over the corner. His body was limp. Fearless worried that he was going to die. And for a moment, he thought maybe he would be better off that way.
Ding!
The third round was beginning. Fearless stood up. But the White-Haired Boy didn’t move. He was still hanging over the edge of the ropes.
“Give up… Just give up…” Fearless whispered to himself.
Until, the White-Haired Boy slowly stood straight and wobbled back into the center of the ring. For a moment, Fearless bowed his head in thought. He didn’t know if it was better to end this quickly, or to let the White-Haired Boy hang around until the end. At least then it would look like he tried.
Fearless’s eye flicked to the crowd. He clocked Caliban in the stands. He was seated with Lucky. When, a bookie approached them. Lucky initially shooed him away, but Caliban stopped him. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred thousand woos. Handed them to the bookie. Fearless was astonished. He couldn’t believe what the man was doing. He was betting against his own son.
Ding! Ding! The bell rang twice. It was time to fight.
Fearless reluctantly approached the White-Haired Boy. He squared up with him, knowing that he could end this fight with a single punch. But he decided to do something more elaborate. To end this fight with a bang.
And so, Fearless brought his fists to his chin—then planted his back foot. His front foot lifting and wrapping around his body as he spun, like a serpent coiling around its prey. It was the same knock out kick he had delivered to Nineteen. The one that shattered his jaw. The one, if it connected, might kill the White-Haired Boy.
His foot came around. Ready to deliver the final blow. The White-Haired Boy would never see it coming, even if he could. And as his foot approached the other’s face…
It missed. By a split centimeter. His foot so close to the White-Haired Boy’s face he could feel the heat coming off his skin. And as Fearless completed the failed roundhouse, his abdomen was now exposed.
And with it, the knife wound. The stitches still intact. It was pink. Not yet healed.
The White-Haired Boy’s eyes ticked to the wound. Then he locked eyes with Fearless. For a split second, they held each other’s gaze. Then, Fearless gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. An unspoken agreement to strike him in the wound. To end this fight.
The White-Haired Boy balled his fist as tight as he could. Raised it. Then whipped it forward.
And struck the wound as hard as he possibly could.
Fearless yelped in genuine pain. And fell to the ground. He clutched the wound. And tried to stand to his feet. But the pain was too severe.
And then, he collapsed completely.
The fight was over.
The White-Haired Boy had won. He fell to his knees in celebration. Both of his arms raised in the air. The other boys rushed the pit. They surrounded him. Then lifted the White-Haired Boy on their shoulders. For he had defeated the mighty Fearless. And he was the new champion.
But as the White-Haired Boy was whisked away in celebration, Fearless remained on the ground in the fetal position. His eyes flicked across to Caliban in the crowd. He shook hands with Lucky and the other wealthy spectators around him as they shared their congratulations. Until, he turned back toward the pit. And saw Fearless laying there. They locked eyes for a moment.