Red Denver: A Prelude to REHO (The Hegemon Wars) (2 page)

Reho looked at his appointed counsel, his words as ridiculous as his attire. His tight, purple jacket and the strange red bow around his neck certainly did not inspire confidence. Reho’s eyes must have spoken for him, as his representative’s smile faded to an insulted snarl, and he turned back to his stack of papers.

Reho looked over at Soapy, whose eyes burned right through him. Reho detected a cynical smile beneath that hateful gaze, as the skin around Soapy’s lips twisted and puckered. The look told him that Soapy had already won and was patiently waiting for him to burn for all of Red Denver to see. Tomorrow, the gasolines would resume as they had before Reho.

He had known men like Soapy all his life. Even Virginia Bloc had men like him—men who craved control, power, and wealth without restraint. Men like Soapy always won . . . until they crossed someone like Reho. People like Reho made it their business to put a permanent end to scum like Soapy.

The judge pounded his gavel three times, prompting everyone to stand. Reho did so and glanced behind him. Even those at their desks responded and waited for the judge to speak.

“Will the accused please respond,” the judge demanded.

“Here,” Reho responded.

The judge looked at Reho then down at a piece of paper that had been handed to him by one of the members of the court.

“Will the accuser please respond.”

Reho watched as Soapy straightened and replied, “Here, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded toward Soapy, then looked at Reho and Traylor.

“Who represents Reho . . .” “What is your full name?”

“In my home community, we are not given second names,” Reho answered.

“And which community is that, foreigner?” The word spewed from the judge’s mouth like vile profanity.

“Virginia Bloc,” he answered.

The judge scanned the room, inviting everyone to hear his words. With a deep, patient voice, he spoke:

“I believe in keeping these things brief. Justice must be given equally to both natives and foreigners to Red Denver, to both champions and to those defeated.” There was a pause, and Reho watched Soapy straighten at the word
defeated
.

“I have read many law books that suggest spending months working through evidence and then analyzing all sides. But I have learned in practice that, for Red Denver, such a process is not just a waste of time and points, but of men’s resources.” The judge spoke, his stern eyes oscillating rapidly between Soapy and Reho before stopping on Reho.

“I have looked at the evidence, and there is no doubt that the accused took the life of an employee of Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. A man known as Blackwell.” Reho’s muscles tightened as he forced himself to remain still. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, unfurling silently, not unlike the old man and his meticulously focused exercises in his cell.

“Motives are not always clear,” the judge said, “but we must ensure that our consequences are. The accused is left with two options.”

Reho felt Soapy’s eyes on him. He looked at Traylor; he stood limp. Perhaps he had meant to help him, realizing that his fate had been decided beforehand and without him. Traylor’s presence was as ceremonial as the OldWorld statues scattered across the room.

The judge cleared his throat. “You have a choice, Reho: either ten years in the Red Basin work camp or take your chances at Red Rocks. At Red Rocks, you would fight to the death an opponent chosen by Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. And your decision will be effective immediately. Do know, our next series of fights at Red Rocks Arena is this afternoon. Here at Red Hall, we don’t believe in delaying justice.”

Soapy made no effort to contain his gnarled, yellow-toothed smile; he already knew what Reho’s choice would be. Around the room, everyone took a deep breath as they paused, eager to learn which choice the former gasoline champion would make.

“Which do you choose?”

Reho straightened. He thought of the old man, how straight he’d held himself back in the cell. The judge shook the red gavel, ready to close the case.

“Red Rocks,” Reho answered, his eyes locked on Soapy’s as they exchanged unspoken—but deadly—promises. Reho would not just kill whichever fighter Soapy presented. Before the day ended, he would rid Red Denver of the crime and corruption that Soapy had spread.

***

An hour later, Reho sat in a second holding cell in the back of an OldWorld gasoline as they moved closer to Red Rocks Arena. He had attended a fight there before deciding to settle in Red Denver. The competition had been brutal. He had thought it too much for entertainment. He’d seen dozens of men die, but always in a real fight with a purpose other than to entertain ten thousand viewers. Out in the Blastlands, only the victors remembered the fight. In the arena, everyone watched. Everyone remembered. The gasoline stopped. The metal cage was ice cold, and Reho could see the hot breath of the enforcers who talked outside near the door. From the lone window he could make out part of the overhang they called Creation Rock. He had arrived at Red Rocks. Across the way, another massive structure called Ships Rock overlooked the arena stage. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. Soapy would be atop it, watching and waiting for Reho’s blood to be spilled.

Suddenly, a familiar cry erupted from somewhere near Red Rocks. He’d heard the sound before, but it sounded closer than it had at Red Hall. Whatever it was had been brought to Red Rocks.

His chain tightened as both doors flung open. Startled, he pulled back, slamming one of the enforcers into the side of the vehicle.

“Jesus!” he said as he yanked Reho out of the back of the OldWorld prison and into Red Rocks’ freezing winds.

Five enforcers circled Reho. Two held his chain as they led him to what Reho thought would be another temporary cell where he’d be stashed until the games started. His watch and other belongings had been taken. He looked at the sun and estimated it was at least six o’clock.

Despite the blinding sunshine, the temperatures had dropped significantly since early that morning. He would wait until they placed him in a cell; then he would use his AIM to gather information on the stadium. Killing the fighter Soapy chose for him would be the easy part of his plan. As he passed through the opening to the back of the arena, he saw the source of the muffled rumbling he’d been hearing. The archaic, earthen seating area was already packed with spectators. Another loud, high-pitched sound rang out, but this one was different from the beastly screams; it sounded electrical. The whine rose and fell, then rose again to a shrieking squeal. The ground shook as a rhythm replaced the chatter of the crowd. He knew the noise.

A live band played near the arena stage. The music filled the stadium as a voice sang out to the crowd. At first, he couldn’t make out the lyrics but could hear the crowd’s approval. The tune was familiar enough. He’d heard it before in near OldWorld Detroit. The soundtrack to Reho’s funeral seemed to include the chorus from a song called “Worlds Colliding” by a post-blast band called Nifhel. The lyrics followed Reho as he moved toward his cell.

The rain washes away the ash

The oceans wind carries away

The taste of death

The fire burns as

Worlds collide

Reho sat. Alone. He activated his AIM. He could see nothing within the arena that would be useful in his escape attempt. Along the perimeter, several towers ascended above Red Rocks. There would be eyes on him anytime he was outside the cell. His only hope, as he could see it, would be to win the fight and wait to see if they kept their end of the bargain.

He had felt the bitter winds cut through the air; in the arena it would feel below zero.

Reho’s door opened.

“Let’s go,” commanded the lead enforcer who was dressed in a red ceremonial uniform meant for the arena. Reho stood, his chain lifted by another enforcer cloaked in white.

They guided him away from the holding cells. As they approached the backstage stairs, he watched as several costumed entertainers practiced their tricks and flips. Reho had seen the group before at one of the theaters in Red Denver. He saw the thick-muscled giant who could bend OldWorld steel. He wondered why Soapy hadn’t chosen him. At least that guy would stand a chance.

***

The old man stood on the stage, facing the roaring crowd. His body was calm as his opponent danced around him waving a large OldWorld sword in the air. Each time the sword cut through the air, the crowd thundered. The stage rumbled; Reho could feel the vibration and hear his chains rattle. The old man never moved.

From atop Creation Rock, a resounding voice addressed the crowd. Both the rumble and music ceased.

Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to our first night of the twenty-sixth season of “Fight! Fight!” We will be showing two fights every night from now until the next new moon. To kick off our new season, we have two special fights for you tonight.

The announcer waited as the crowd chanted, “Fight! Fight!”

Our first bout is already center stage. We have the foreigner, a man who silently stood by as an unnamed assailant murdered the Ricardo family. He watched as they were slaughtered, their blood spilling at his feet. And why? Because he loves death and refuses to interfere in the fate of others. So, let each one of us ask this question: Will he interfere and prevent his own death here tonight?

The crowd hissed and cursed at the foreigner. The old man stood, unresponsive. Reho had spoken only briefly with him.
Would he let a family be murdered if he had the power to stop it?
Then again, he thought about his own reason for being at Red Rocks. He believed the old man’s fate had little to do with the lies being told to the crowd. He was here so the blade could silence a silent man—a man who had witnessed Red Denver’s secrets.

The announcer continued.

As punishment, the Ricardo family has hired one of your favorite fighters! You loved him when he beheaded last season’s Red Basin Rapist and broke the spine of the Tenement Arsonist three seasons ago. You know him by name! Give a deathly roar for Nordic!

The crowd erupted, drowning out the band. The archaic, steel blade swung in the air as Nordic worked the crowd for its approval. His muscles reminded Reho of an OldWorld movie poster he’d seen of a man named Rambo. Nordic’s hair was blonde and braided into two long tails that draped across his shoulders. His face was scarred. There was no doubt that he’d spent his entire life fighting. Judging by his style, he was just as much a stranger to Red Denver as Reho or the old man.

Red-clad enforcers led the foreigner and Nordic to opposing ends of the arena. As the band played, electric guitar riffs set the mood for the first fight of the night. The announcer’s voice boomed over the screaming crowd.

Let the fighting begin!
An OldWorld gunshot sounded from atop Creation Rock.

Reho watched as Nordic worked his blade in every direction, showing off his skill and trained precision.
How could the old man compete?

Nordic struck first. His challenger quickly moved past the blade and stepped behind Nordic, jabbing the giant’s leg with one smooth movement of his arm. Nordic dropped to one knee but quickly jumped to position, distancing himself from his opponent who stood patiently, waiting.

For a moment, Reho thought the old man might have a chance.

Nordic stood about two feet taller than his opponent. Reho understood the odds were stacked against the foreigner. Despite his speed, the sheer aggression and power of his opponent would be too much.

The old man evaded move after move. It worked for a while, but Nordic soon had his opponent figured out.

Nordic unleashed a fierce battle cry that brought the cheering crowd to its feet. His opponent stood calm as before, but Reho sensed a change in him. Then the old man closed his eyes, just as Reho had seen him do in the holding cell.

Nordic cursed him, attempting to bully him into opening his eyes. The old man lowered himself on one leg, his other leg extended. This time he lowered his chest, bringing his head parallel to the ground. Reho didn’t understand.
Has he given up?
How was it a fight if he surrendered?
Then Reho understood.
He is choosing not to fight.
Reho watched as Nordic raised his OldWorld steel into the air, then brought it down to the earth.

The old man’s head rolled.

The stunned crowd stood in awed silence, broken only by the clang of the blade as it sliced through to the stone floor. They seemed shocked at the end result, expecting, perhaps, to see the old man move quickly to evade his opponent one more time. Instead, a pool of blood flowed at the victor’s feet. The announcer’s mechanical voice broke the silence.

Our champion! Four seasons with eleven kills! Nordic!

The crowd slowly filled Red Rocks with praise as Nordic made one last show of his sword and walked from the stage. For a moment, their eyes met as the victor cast a shocked look toward Reho.
The old man’s unexpected surrender had caught him off guard, leaving him numbed by his unexpected final blow.
Unlike Nordic, the crowd would quickly forget the old man’s death as they shouted for the next fighter.

Reho watched a mop-up crew clothed entirely in black take the stage to clean the carnage and remove the body before the next fight. The chanting grew louder and filled the arena.