Shockball (32 page)

I’d say this is a great time to try to escape, if we had the cats with us
. There was no way I was leaving Jenner and Juliet behind. Not with knowing how casual the Night Horse were about what went into their tribal cooking pot.

We will be even more closely guarded than we are below.

The glidebus pulled into a restricted area behind New Angeles arena and the players silently filed out. Waiting outside the doors to the team locker room were a pair of junta officials. One of them noticed me and put a hand up to stop me from entering.

“No fems in the locker room.”

“She’s the team patcher,” Milass told the official, sticking out his chest and trying to look taller. “She’s come to observe the game and make recommendations to our chief on how to reduce penalties.”

“Here’s one,” I said. “Stop letting them play this idiotic game.”

Both officials stared at me as if I’d told them to let the players run around the field naked.

“Cherijo,” Reever said behind me, in a familiar warning tone.

“A good joke, patcher.” Milass wrapped his hand around my upper arm. “She’s amusing, isn’t she?”

“Not as much as you are, trying to walk around on your toes like that. Have you ever considered putting lifts in your footgear?”

The officials laughed and waved us through. I thought Milass might just fracture my humerus before we got inside. When the door closed, he flung me against a row of storage units.

“Not another word out of you.”

I swung out with the medical case, and rammed it into his groin. He folded over with a groan. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll do a lot more than talk.”

Milass slowly straightened. “You’ll die in my hands one day, bitch.”

Reever didn’t like hearing that. I could tell by the way he moved into that strange, alert sort of stance he did right before he wiped up the floor with someone.

Don’t antagonize Rico’s little pet rattlesnake
, I thought. “Are we done now?” I asked Milass. “Or do you want to dance some more?”

He looked at Reever, then me. “The chief is waiting for you.” The
secondario
pointed toward the other end of the locker room. “That way.”

I needed to talk to Rico. Badly. “All right. Let’s go.”

“Cherijo—”

“I’ll be fine. See you later.”

I kept my case between me and Milass and followed him out to a lift panel. Once inside, I looked out through the viewer panel at the tiers of the arena, which were rapidly filling up with eager fans, and wondered where Rico’s seats were. “What does the chief want to see me about?”

“He will tell you.”

“Want me to ask him about that footgear for you?”

That got me slammed face first into a wall panel, and made the lift rock slightly. “Insult me again, woman.” Milass said against my neck. “I am enjoying it.”

“Try this instead.” I stomped on his instep, then drove an elbow into his stomach. He staggered back and hit the opposite panel. I turned around and rubbed my bruised cheek. “Have you ever considered therapy? The extensive, mental kind?”

Before he could hit me again, the lift stopped and the door panels slid open.

We weren’t in the stands, but at the entrance to a private arena box. I’d only seen one before, when one of Joseph’s colleagues had invited us to his to watch a game. My creator had been so disgusted by the so-called sport that we’d left after the first fifteen minutes of play, and never repeated the experience.

That was one of the few times I’d ever agreed with my creator—shockball was stupid, pointless, and barbaric.

The box was three times the size of the one I remembered, with luxurious furnishings set up stadium-style, with rows of chairs equipped with personal vid screens. You could watch the game on the wall-length viewer in front of the chairs, too. It was programmed to display the field at eye level.

Terrans liked to see pointless, barbaric stupidity on a wide screen.

No one would go hungry or thirsty while watching, either—tables crammed with platters of gourmet food lined the walls banquet-style. A waiter, dressed in a modified Glider uniform, stood at a well-stocked bar. A second waiter, this one a drone, made a slow circle around the box, offering a tray of canapes and another of champagne.

But this box didn’t belong to a wealthy doctor. There were very familiar woven rugs hanging on every wall. Bundles of multicolored corn in decorated baskets formed a huge centerpiece on a main banquet table. Traditional Navajo music played softly in the background.

How did the Night Horse rate a box like this? Then I spotted the only other two occupants of the room.

The chief and Ilona sat in front of a huge screen, which projected the image of the center of the playing field below us. They weren’t wearing the clothes I’d gotten used to seeing them in. In fact, if you ignored the braids and the dark skin, Rico and Ilona could have passed for a pair of wealthy Caucasians, dressed in their best party clothes.

All I could do was stand there and gape.

The dark man turned his head, smiled, and rose to his feet. “Dr. Torin, welcome. Come and join us for a drink.” He went to the drone and took a pair of flutes from the champagne tray.

Ilona pouted as I walked over and accepted a flute of champagne from her boyfriend. He wore the very latest trend, a four-piece black suit in an optic illusionary motif of red checks. Joseph had a couple of the same suits, minus the blinding pattern.

“Nice place you have here.” I gestured around me with the champagne glass. “It’s good to be the chief of the Night Horse, huh?”

He laughed. “This is nothing more than what is allocated for the owner of a participating team.”

I spilled some champagne on my footgear. “You
own
the Gliders?”

“Come, sit down with me. Ilona will give us a few minutes to talk, won’t you, my beautiful one?”

His beautiful one scowled, got up, and flounced out of the room without another word.

I sat down gingerly on the expensively upholstered chair Rico indicated. Real fabric. “How does an Indian who lives in a cave and runs an alien underground afford to buy a professional shockball franchise?”

“Night Horse players donated their salaries to our tribal fund, until we could purchase the team.”

We watched the last minutes of the pregame show through the viewer. Two thousand gyrating women in micro-mini skirts danced and waved various glittery accessories to the music from dueling drone bands on either side of the field. Around the top of the arena, huge vid screens projected holoimages of cartoon animals in shockball uniforms getting electrocuted by fumbling oversized spheres in various comical plays.

Even more ludicrous was the sight of what had to be two hundred thousand fans filling every available seat, nook, and cranny of the arena. Nearly all of them were wearing modified team jerseys and other ridiculous paraphernalia related to the sport—black plas-foam wings on their heads for the Gliders, and twin foam stardrive housings for the opposing team. Some had even painted their faces with team colors.

And I’d thought the Indians were prehistoric.

“Why didn’t anyone ever mention that your people owned this team?”

“We do not discuss our tribal concerns with outsiders.”

That put me in my place. So much for being of the blood. “Must have taken the players a long time to accumulate the money.”

“Only a few years. After the Native American Remuneration Act, Indians entering into any free enterprise qualify for matching federal funds.” He sat down next to me and sipped his champagne. “Not all whiteskin laws work toward our detriment.”

So Rico really owned the Gliders. That totally blew away my perception of the poor, ignorant, deprived renegades. And from the smugness he was radiating, he was enjoying my reaction.

I went to check the time on my wristcom, then saw I’d left it in Medical. Rico was, on his own, speaking stanTerran. Very educated, erudite stanTerran.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure anything I’d seen or heard over the past months was the authentic package.

I refrained from commenting on the amazing improvement in his personal situation and speech patterns, and watched as the dancers cleared off the field, making way for the two straight lines of players from each team. I stood up automatically for the World Government Anthem. Rico didn’t.

As the last notes of “Our Terra, Unified” faded away, the fans cheered so loudly that the viewer panel vibrated from the decibels. I sat back down and handed my untouched flute to the passing drone.

“Why am I here, Chief?”

“I thought you would enjoy watching your husband play. He has become one of the most popular members of our team.”

I could see that for myself. Hundreds of fans in the arena wore the Gliders’ number-fourteen jersey, and there was a swelling chant of “
Nilch’i’! Nilch’i’
!” already echoing around the field.

“I’d rather talk to you about these injuries the players have been receiving.”

“Later. We have a real chance at making the playoffs for the World Game.” He continued, talking about the team’s performance since something called the “preseason.”

I tuned him out after the first sentence and glanced back at the lift, the only exit from the private box. The demonic dwarf stood in front of it, stuffing his face with the tray of caviar-topped toast triangles he’d taken from the drone. He caught my eye and snarled, his teeth black from the fish eggs. So much for slipping out when I wouldn’t be noticed.

“Reever’s kidney isn’t going to take much punishment,” I said to Rico, when he finally ran out of game stats. “Some of the other players should be benched for the rest of the season.”

“
Nilchi’i’
tells me he is fully recovered.”

The Wind was going to get himself smacked, if he didn’t stop trying to be Super Terran. “Who’s the doctor, me or him?”

“You are a woman.” He flicked some fingers at me. “You do not understand what drives a man to win.”

I could feel the heat creeping up my face. Stay cool, Cherijo. “I understand what ruptures an internal organ.”

“There are other, more important matters for you to attend to.” He leaned forward, getting close to my face. “You have been punished long enough, I think. You belong to us now. Accept it, patcher. I can make your life much more pleasant.”

The sudden, inexplicable perception smashed over me, much stronger than before. I wondered for the first time if he was doing something deliberately to drag me in like this—hypnosis, maybe? I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Slowly the assault on my synaptic functions faded back to a faint, nonthreatening buzz.

“Don’t do me any favors, Chief,” I said. “I like my life tough.”

I saw Reever trot out onto the field, carrying his helmet. Seeing his number-fourteen jersey made the crowd cheer. My throat tightened when he joined the double rows of players and took position directly in the center. Some buzzer went off and the players tightened the straps on their helmets before crouching over in a distance-runner’s stance.

“Is it starting now?”

“Yes.”

On the field, nine players from each team lined up facing each other. The computerized game sphere popped out of a heavily shielded box at the top of the arena and dropped down to hover between the lines. It shimmered and tiny rainbows flickered around it.

I recalled reading a psych text about some long and painstaking research on what colors and textures most appealed to the senses. The resulting data had ended up determining the design of modern sports equipment, like the shockball game sphere. I could see the attraction. Even I felt like reaching out and grabbing it.

When everyone was in position, a drone official rolled down the length of the gap between the lines, then turned near the sidelines and fired a small, ornate pistol into the air.

Every fan in the arena shrieked as the two sides descended on the sphere, their arms folded in front of their jerseys, legs kicking at each other and the sphere. Someone got it out of the middle and went down on his knees, cradling the sphere between them. It was Reever.

“We have won the starting offense driveline,” Rico said.

“Yipee.” I watched a couple of the players slap Reever on the back as they helped him to his feet. The chant of “
Nilch’i’! Nilch’i’
!” got a lot louder. I winced as one of the opposition spit on Reever’s face mask. “Oh, isn’t that against the rules?”

“No. Spitting on another player is a time-honored tradition.”

Well, what did I expect? I was on Terra, after all.

From there the game wasn’t difficult to follow. The Gliders tried to kick and bounce the sphere down the field toward a small silver box being guarded by two of their opponents, armed with sticks with wide, padded ends. The other team, dubiously named the Nu-York StarDrivers, tried to stop them by throwing their bodies to block the sphere during passes, and colliding with the players kicking the sphere.

One of the Night Horse, not Reever, acquired a penalty on the second play. The sphere rose from the ground, hovered over the teams, then dropped and landed in the hands of one of the players.

“How does this penalty thing work?”

“The sphere is linked to a remote computer. It records any illegal motion and penalizes the players immediately after the play is done.”

“How does it know which player made the illegal motion?”

“It reads the sensor grid under the playing field. The grid identifies the offender by the transmitter implanted in his helmet.”

I hissed in a breath as the man suffered a hard jolt of bioelectrical energy, which knocked him off his feet. The crowd, naturally, began cheering.

“What did he do to deserve that?”

“Watch the arena vid.”

On the small screen by my chair, the view of the field was temporarily blacked out, and the penalty displayed. “Illegal use of hands?”

“Junta rules specify the players are not to touch the sphere with their upper bodies.”

“How do they know he used his hands? I didn’t see him grab it.”

“He probably didn’t do anything more than brush it with a few of his fingers. The sphere is highly sensitive. It will register any contact, no matter how insignificant.”