“Put them on,” Gar muttered over his shoulder. “These are just for practice; they tell us we’ll get really nice ones for the big day—lined with lead and faced with iron.”
“Glorified brass knuckles,” Dirk growled, slipping the boxing gloves on.
They filed through a second door into a vast, slant-roofed room. The other churls had already paired off, trading half-hearted swipes.
“Not brass knuckles, really.” Gar turned to face Dirk; bringing up his gloves. “Cestas—the iron boxing gloves the Roman gladiators wore.”
Dirk nodded. “Probably straight out of a history book. They have a penchant for that kind of thing.” He eyed Gar’s huge, leather-covered fists and brought his own up warily. A corner of his mind wondered why Gar was being so very polite. Defense mechanism, certainly—but what was Gar hiding?
Then a leather-covered cannonball drove at his face, and he had to stop thinking to slap it aside. It didn’t slap too well. In fact, it drove right on through and slammed the side of his head. Dirk staggered back, shaking his head to clear the distorted glass that had suddenly come between him and the world.
“Sorry,” Gar muttered, “but we have to make it look halfway good, or they’re on us with the whips.”
Dirk glanced at the guards strolling around the edge of the room, bullwhips snaking lazily behind them. “Perfectly all right. I just haven’t quite gotten into the spirit of the thing.” If that was Gar’s idea of halfway good, Dirk was definitely going to have to go all out.
He jabbed at Gar’s face. The giant blocked it, moving so quickly Dirk scarcely saw it. Then the leather cannonball was in his face again. He threw all his strength into a block and was partly successful; the glove whistled past his ear. But Gar’s left was already hooking up. Dirk rolled back by pure reflex, just barely in time.
“Nothing wrong with your coordination.” He came back with his guard up.
Gar smiled. “Yes, that’s the mistake people usually make—because I’m so big, they expect me to be clumsy. But you’re not bad, yourself—you’re the only one here I haven’t been able to hit when I wanted to.”
Startled, Dirk stared, then glanced quickly at the other prisoners. A few of them were taller than he was, well-muscled and lithe.
“It seems they don’t know much about boxing,” Gar explained. “Only what they’ve learned since they’ve been here.”
Dirk nodded. “Of course. The Lords won’t allow churls to learn or teach anything to do with combat, even the unarmed kind. Anyone caught trying to work out a system on his own …”
“… is sent here,” Gar finished grimly. “Yes, I know. I’ve had some highly elucidating conversations in the last few days. Surprisingly good, really—they all show an amazing degree of intelligence.”
Dirk gave him a malicious smile. “Feeling inferior?”
Gar’s smile became a glare.
One of the guides caught sight of them and started over, gathering in his whip.
“Too much talk and not enough action,” Gar growled and swung a haymaker.
It was easy to block, and for the hell of it, Dirk tried. He caught Gar’s swing, all right, just before it caught him. But he did have the satisfaction of seeing the guard turn away, mollified. He saw it from a very low angle, with sand against his cheek and a ringing in his ears.
He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head, and found Gar gazing at him in consternation.
Dirk’s lips thinned. “Now you’re going to try and tell me that wasn’t full strength.”
“It wasn’t. I’m sorry; I guess I’d better pull my punches a bit more.”
Dirk just stared at him. Then he nodded. “Yes. Please do. If you expect me to be any use to you at all.”
“Use?” Gar frowned, jabbing lightly.
Dirk ducked—no more of this blocking nonsense. “Yes, use. I came in here to help you break out. What’d you think I was doing—taking a break from a busy schedule?” He tried an uppercut.
Gar blocked it absentmindedly. “I took it for granted they’d caught you. Well—my thanks.”
Dirk smiled sardonically. “Did you think we were going to leave you in here to get killed?”
“Frankly, yes. I’m not exactly a key figure in your plans, you know. I didn’t suspect you of so much sentiment.”
Dirk’s smile turned sour. “I wouldn’t call loyalty a sentiment.”
“But I would.” Gar glanced at their local efficiency expert and threw a punch. Dirk leaned back from it, but not far enough. As he picked himself up off the sand, he heard Gar muttering, “If revolutionaries take time for luxuries like loyalty, they lose.”
“Not always. Sometimes they save a valuable man.” Dirk lashed out with all his strength.
Gar batted it aside impatiently. “Only by risking another one—or several. I don’t know how elaborate this scheme of yours is. In addition to which, it tips off the opposition.” He swung another haymaker.
Dirk dropped to a squat and felt the breeze as Gar’s fist went by. “It’s nice of you to be so concerned; but don’t worry, we’ll try to make it look like a plain, ordinary, everyday riot that got out of hand.” He lifted his fist and drove up like a ramrod.
Gar caught his wrist and lifted; Dirk’s face hovered in front of his. “How often do riots happen at these Games?”
“Never,” Dirk admitted, “but we feel obliged to go out of our way for a visitor.”
“So thoughtful of you,” Gar murmured, and let go.
Dirk landed in a crouch and danced around Gar, weaving in and out.
“Be careful,” Gar admonished, turning to follow him. “You’ll make me feel like a VI.P.”
“Well, there is something to that. We do feel a certain responsibility for you.”
“Of course,” Gar murmured. “You wouldn’t want my father to feel you’d been careless with me.”
“That, too.” Dirk leaped in, feinting with his right. Gar blocked it, and Dirk hooked with the left, caught him under the chin. Gar’s head snapped back and Dirk bounced out, feeling a warm, glow of accomplishment spreading through him.
Then he bounced—period. He shook his head and saw Gar looking sheepish, but he couldn’t hear what the big man was saying. His ears were ringing too loudly.
“… just a natural reaction,” Gar apologized, as the ringing faded.
Dirk nodded, though groggily. “That’s okay—we all have our conditioned responses. And judging from yours, we should find you very useful.”
Gar shook his head. “Not enough to justify the first escape from the Games in your history. I’m just another fighter, albeit a good one.” His smile was tinged with irony. “As to my father—do you even know who he is?”
“Only that he’s rich enough to give you your own space yacht, and has time to go bumming around the galaxy—unless there’s some truth to that line you fed Core.”
Gar’s eyebrows shot up. “Your intelligence system isn’t too bad. And yes, there’s some truth to it. I am a d‘ Armand, but have you ever even heard of Maxima?”
Dirk scowled. “Yes, some. That’s the robot house, isn’t it?”
“Well,” Gar said judiciously, “the automated factories there do make very good robots. But I wouldn’t say that was a tremendous distinction.”
“Enough.” Dirk hid a smile. “I should imagine it’s a very lucrative trade.”
“Somewhat,” Gar admitted. “Enough for everyone there to live in some luxury—but not enough for private yachts.” He jabbed halfheartedly.
Dirk leaned aside from it. “Where did you get the money?”
“On my own.” Gar wore a puckered smile. “There are certain kinds of salvage that pay very high figures—especially if you’re a good cyberneticist.”
“Salvage?” Dirk hoped his dismay didn’t show. But it did. Gar’s smile went flat. “Salvage. Yes. I’m a junkman. So you see, your whole charade is a waste.”