Page 50 of The Only Way Out Is Up

I agree. My grin spreads farther. So get in there and dismantle that thing.

[Gladly.]

Once again, Mordax charges. Its specialized design means it can do little else. Star backs up, gauges the distance, and gets clear with a single leap. His legs dig into the pit floor, moving far faster than his bulky opponent can manage. Lorrimer is shouting frantically and her runic tries its kick, but Star sees it coming easily. He slips underneath and bounces up, six legs digging into Mordax’s painted flanks while his front two slash viciously into the thing’s belly.

Mordax bucks, backward and forward, twisting to try to rid itself of this unwelcome passenger. But Star is impossible to dislodge, and red and orange sparks start to shower down around him. Lorrimer screams and the crowd roars in disbelief as Mordax’s legs give way. The champion stiffens and topples sideways with the momentum of a collapsing building, and Star jumps neatly away and lands on his feet. He takes a shallow bow as his opponent twitches and sparks.

Venci is staring goggle-eyed at the arena. I pat her firmly on the shoulder.

“Guess I won’t be needing that tip.”

EIGHTEEN

That first fight sets the pattern for the days to come.

As Ky predicted, neither Venci nor the crowd is happy with our decision to take the pot rather than reign as champion, and we walk off to hisses and boos. The ringmaster hands over the money with bad grace. I stare at the bits and stripes—stripes, plural, I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than one of the rectangular coins in one place—while Weslai rapidly counts them on a table back at the warehouse. Ky watches him like a hawk as he carefully separates his cut; she sweeps the rest back into the bag.

“I’ll put half in our account toward the entry fee, and we can use the rest on Star,” she says happily. “Fuck me, that was a rush. When that thing kicked Star I thought my heart would quit.”

“I knew he would win,” Weslai says. “That big bastard was all show.”

I catch Ky’s eye and snort a laugh. Truth be told, I’m feeling a little elated myself.

We decide to keep Star’s combat body at the warehouse—I’m not going to be fighting Twisted anytime soon, and I certainly don’t want to keep hauling it up the stairs. I’d anticipated the need for this, so the Mark 4 makes it easy to remove his foundation sigil. He complains incessantly about the lack of dignity until I reinstall it into his thief body, and from then on he accompanies us in that (thankfully much lighter) form.

For the next few weeks, I make the hike up every couple of days and check in at Weslai’s place. Usually the fixer has a fight lined up, and I spend some time on repairs and maintenance before heading to a new pit. Most of the venues are less impressive than Venci’s, usually just a single tier of spectators looking down into a simple circular arena.

Mordax turns out to have been on the impressive side as far as champions, too. I see a lot of strange designs, but none of them are as clever as Lorrimer’s. As expected, these runics are built to charge at each other head-on, slamming together and battering the opposing runic into scrap. With everyone using this simple strategy, the contests are decided by raw size and strength; the champions are enormous behemoths as big and heavily armored as their masters can make them.

Star makes waste of these oversized beasts with terrifying efficiency. He’s simply too fast for them to contend with, slipping easily around their clumsy strikes while their masters yell desperate instructions. With his opponents unable to get to grips, it’s a simple matter of either finding their core or wrecking enough legs that the opposing runic is immobilized. He and I get better at this with practice until most of our matches conclude in less than a minute. I don’t get a lot of applause, but the pots keep rolling in.

I enter the warehouse by the front door these days. The piles of boxes are different each time as Weslai’s other clients come and go, but his little den remains in the same place. I can hear talking and laughter.

Ky and Weslai are sitting by the table, chatting. The fixer is telling a story that involves broad, possibly obscene hand gestures, and Ky is shaking with laughter, rubbing her eyes with the back of one sleeve. She looks shockingly alive, white hair gleaming, her face transformed by mirth from its usual hawkishness into something more approachable. Weslai mugs furiously, eyebrows waggling.

Watching, I feel a spike of something. Anger? Regret? I want to be part of the fun, I guess, but that’s not quite right, either. I want to be where Weslai is sitting.

Ky and I haven’t gotten to talk much lately. When I’m not fighting or working on Star, I go home, and she stays here. With Weslai and his funny stories.

I saved her life, didn’t I? I killed someone, and all he did was get kicked in the balls. It seems… wrong.

I run my hand through my hair, exasperated, and shake my head. This is so, so stupid, obviously stupid. Knowing that doesn’t make the feeling go away, though, the jagged little chunk of spite deep in my chest. I clear my throat noisily, and they go quiet until I emerge.

“Hey hey!” Weslai calls. “It’s the man himself. The champion!” He grins. “Or at least the champion’s pet human.”

Star squirms in my pack. [Agreement: an apt description!]

“More like the champion’s… father?” Ky’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “I mean, Taj built him, but…”

“So in this metaphor, sex is me sitting at a table with my saws and clippers?” I open my pack to let Star out. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Yeah, that sounds terrible,” Ky agrees. “Whatever. The two of you are doing great.”

“Too great,” Weslai says. “We’ve picked off most of the likely pots. And word is starting to get around about wonder boy and his invincible runic.”

I bristle at boy, but I keep my expression calm. “So what now?”

“Funny you should ask,” the fixer says. “I got a proposal regarding that. They should be here any minute.”