I passed twenty pushups, then thirty, and just as I was about to quit, lightning struck. At one moment the idea wasn’t there; at the next it was, and full-blown. I got up and went to the bars.
“I know what we’re going to do. I don’t know if it will work, but there’s nothing else.”
“Tell me,” Iota said, so I told him about my mother’s hairdryer, which he didn’t understand at all; where he came from, a woman with long hair let it dry in the sun after washing. The rest of it, though, he got just fine. So did Stooks, who was listening from the cell next to mine.
“Spread the word,” I said. “Both of you.”
Stooks put his palm to his forehead and bowed. The bowing stuff still gave me the creeps, but if it held them together, I’d take it until I could go back to being an ordinary kid. Except I didn’t really think that was going to happen, even if I lived through this. Some changes are permanent.
5
It was sausages the next morning.
Pursey was usually silent as he served us, but that morning he had something to say. It was brief. “Eee, eee.” Which I took to mean eat, eat.
The rest of them got three links. I got four, and not just because I was the Prince of Deep Maleen. Tucked into each one was a wooden match with a sloppy sulphur head. I slipped two into one of my dirty socks and two in the other. I had an idea what they were for. I hoped I was right.
6
There was another agonizing wait. At last the door opened. Aaron appeared along with Lemmil—or whatever his name was—and two others. “Out, kiddies!” Aaron called, spreading his arms to open the doors. “A good day for eight, a bad day for the rest! Hump, hump!”
We stepped out. There was no Hatcha crying sick today; Stooks had taken care of him, although poor old Stooksie’s face would never be the same. Iota looked at me with a half-smile. One eyelid flicked in what could have been a wink. I took some courage from that. Also from knowing that whether we were able to escape or not, Elden Flight Killer, Petra, and his crew of suck-asses were going to be cheated of their Fair One.
As I started to pass Aaron, he held me back with the point of his limber stick against the ragged remains of my shirt. The semi-transparent human face on top of his skull was smiling. “You think you’re special, don’t you? You bay’nt. The others think you’re special, don’t they? They’ll learn better.”
“Traitor,” I said. “Traitor to all you swore.”
The smile disappeared from what was left of his humanity; beneath it, the skull grinned its eternal grin. He raised his limber stick, meaning to bring it down on my face, splitting it from hairline to chin. I stood waiting for it, even turning my face up a little to receive the blow. Something else had spoken through me, and it had spoken true words.
Aaron lowered his stick. “Nah, nah, I’ll not mark you. I’ll leave that for whoever puts paid to you. Hump, now. Before I decide to hug you and make you shit in your britches.”
He wouldn’t, though. I knew it, and Aaron did, too. The second round matches had been set, and he couldn’t afford to mess up the seedings by giving me a shock that might render me unconscious or even kill me.
I followed the others and he brought his switch down on my thigh, cutting into my pants. The initial sting was followed by burning pain and a flow of blood. I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give the dead son of a bitch the satisfaction.
7
We were taken to the same team room, two doors down from the Officials’ Room that might—might—be a way out. The poster board was set up in the middle of the room, as it had been before, only this time with fewer matches.
FAIR ONE SECOND ROUND
First Set
Ocka to Gully （d）
Charlie to Jaya
Murf to Freed
Second Set
Bendo to Bult
Cammit to Stooks
Eris to Quilly
Double to Mesel
Third Set
Ammit to Iota
So this time the big boys were scheduled for the final match. I thought it would have been a good one, too, but no matter how the next few minutes turned out it wasn’t going to happen.
The Lord High was waiting for us as he had before the first round, decked out in his fancy uniform. To me it looked like something that might have been worn by the dictator of a poor Central American country on a state occasion.
“Here we are again,” he buzzed. “Some of you a little banged up, but no doubt ready and eager for battle. What do you say?”
“Yes, Lord High,” I said.
“Yes, Lord High,” the others echoed.