A week ago today I woke up, with a mouthful of sand and a name-sized hole in my memory. That was the strange part. There wasn't any fog or any groping or any "I'll remember in a minute." I knew, as soon as I knew anything, that I didn't know who I was. I knew the prime rate and the point spread and the top ten tunes, and that most people knew their names, and that I didn't know mine.
I sat up and took an inventory. One male human, post-adolescent, but not by much. Healthy, well-nourished, no marks or scars, not even callouses on my hands -- I knew what that meant but it didn't help the question of identity.
So much for the standard features, now for the options. Gun belt and holstered sidearm -- I drew and checked the gun. It was fully loaded, and an expensive piece, a Super Duelmaster, with custom stocks. There was an extra mag in the holster pocket and four more pouched on the belt, all topped up. Belt, holster and pouches were cheap and anonymous. So was the set of duelling armor I was wearing, my boots and the gloves on the ground beside me. There was no helmet.
The name tag on the armor read "Starbuck." I knew that was not my name. I also knew that I had answered to it in the past.
I tabled who for a later session and concentrated on where. Left of me, as far as the horizon, was sand and grease wood. That felt right; that was home ground. On the right was the pavement of a road; that felt right too, roads were part of my life. In the direction of the low-hanging sun was a familiar bulk. I knew that arena, both as spectator and fighter. I decided that it was east of me; I knew the temperature around me for the rising heat of a desert morning, not the bake-oven heat of a desert afternoon.
Suddenly I realized I was thirsty. I knew there was water at the arena; my mind replayed the sound and smell of cold water splashing in a fountain. I came to my feet.
That's when I saw the car. It was less than a hundred yards west of me, parked beside the road. Scrub and a low ridge of sand were just enough to hide it from a sitting man. The car was a big, luxury sedan. It had the unmistakable look of heavy armor, and the glint of laser-reflective. Twin machine guns front and a turret-mounted rocket launcher showed; there might be anything concealed. It was a class car, a road warrior's dream, and it made my soul crawl.
I stumbled away, toward the arena. Why did that set of high-dollar wheels terrify me? I knew it had something to do with my looted memories, but I could not force myself to go near it. I cobbled up some sane reasons. "I need water, and then money and a base and some fire power. Go off half-cocked against that monster and all I'll get is a kicked butt."
It was too early for crowds at the arena. Office staff and maintenance types worked, with the easy camaraderie of back-stage crews everywhere. A lone picket held the fort at soap-box alley. He was a big old man, with the hair and beard of a Woodstock peace monger and the kind of robe that Baptist Sunday schools think is biblical. Instead of a rope, he was girded with a gun belt that looked like genuine cow leather. It was studded with Navajo silver and turquoise, and the matched holsters held a sawed-off shotgun on the right and an enormous single-action revolver, the kind they call a Fed's Revenge, on the left. His sign said "Repent." I thought of asking him if you have to repent of the sins you can't remember, but decided I had enough problems.
The lobby was so familiar that it hurt. I went dead-straight for the water fountains, and soaked my fill. As I straightened, my eyes automatically scanned the big monitor with the lineup for today's games. Amateur Night showed ten empty slots.
For a moment, light flashed across the gap in my memory. Tires screeched, inertia pulled me tight against the safety-web, gunfire rattled in my ears, my hands fought the wheel through a tight turn -- and arena light flared through holes in the door beside me!
How stupid can a grownup be? Risking death or maiming for a few bucks cash; pushing every run against the inexorable odds; knowing that not one amateur in a hundred ever made it big? What kind of idiots played this game? Desperate ones, and that described me fully; desperate, dead broke and (I suddenly realized) hungry.
My feet knew the way to the Registration Office.
The woman behind the desk managed to be elegant, tired and amused at the same time. She gave me a look of well-bred surprise. "If you can afford a clone, what are you doing back here?"
I should have been braced for that question, but it was a shock too many. "Gotta start somewhere, " I said. It obviously made no more sense to her than to me.
She shrugged, elegantly. She must have been used to strange ness from duellists. She handed me the usual waiver forms, and asked if I had any preference for game number or car number.
"Any number is fine, but give me a black car. " She could also look inquisitive, elegantly. "It matches my luck." I recognized the waivers as standard (where did whoever I was learn all this)? I scrawled "Starbuck" in all the blocks marked signature. Now my problematic heirs had no claim on the arena, and the arena took no responsibility for anyone I managed to hurt.
She handed the papers back. ''A last name too, Mr. Reese. It's an arena rule."
Two names in less than a quarter day! At this rate, I'd have a whole genealogy before tomorrow.
I added the new name, and tried to think of a line of questioning that wouldn't tempt her to call for psychiatric help. "I didn't realize that I'd made such an impression on you. You can't remember every car bum that stumbles in here."
She quickly checked the papers. I wondered if there was anything she didn't do elegantly. "No, but not many blow it quite so completely as you." For a moment she looked a little less elegant. "If I'd known you were Gold Crossed, I'd have saved some sentiment."
So I'd lost spectacularly. Could there have been bets riding? Gamblers have been known to carry quite a grudge. "Anybody looking for me?" I tried to make the question casual; from her quick, sharp glance I don't think I succeeded.
"No, who would be," she said.
I tried to laugh it off. "Husbands, brothers, officers of the court . . ."
I don't think she bought it, but she had the grace to switch topics.
"This makes you the local mystery man. You've got the price of a clone but you drive arena junk instead of your own car."
I had a memory then, from nowhere. My car was gone, and I felt a sense of loss too great for a machine. The car had meant something.
"Appearances can be deceptive," I said. I wondered if that sounded cryptic or just dumb. "I don't even have the price of breakfast."
I think she liked the excuse to get rid of me. "There's a restaurant right by the ready room, the Last Request. Show the cashier your copy of the waiver. She'll give you credit up to a loser's share of the purse. If you get out alive, don't welsh. Miss Emily has her own ways of collecting."
I wondered if that could be my problem; had I stiffed the wrong party for a platter of chicken-fried algae?
She rattled a little tune on the keyboard. "You're car four in game nine. I suggest you set up your car before you eat."
I followed the yellow-paint line on the floor. I knew it marked the way; I also knew it was common knowledge. Every wannabe duel punk knew to "Follow the Yellow Brick Road."
The garage area was no different than any other big auto shop. Optimists claimed it smelled like money, and anti-duellists said it stank of blood. All I could smell was hot plastic and dirt. The ready room was at one end, behind double, sound-proofed doors. A lot of people seem to like a little peace and quiet between games. The allocator's booth was on the garage side of these doors. Through his armorplast windows he could see all the activity on the floor, and his guns and gas bombs could reach it all. Of course, no one but a nut case would attack him or question his decisions, but sanity is not required on the duel circuit.
All allocators are professionally unshockable, but he raised one eyebrow at least an eighth of an inch when he saw my assignment. "What's your pull with Lady Grace? "
"Who's she, and who am I to have any pull?" That was one dumb question and one subtle probe for clues to my identity. Lady Grace was such an obvious nickname for the woman at registration that I was surprised I hadn't thought of it myself.
The probe was too subtle. "You're nobody, and that's what's strange. Game nine's got big-money sponsors and none of the rest of the drivers is a stumble bum."
This was the large model of allocator; even without the guns and gas he could probably squash me like a cockroach. I decided to ignore the remarks.
"How are they spending that big money," I said? Maybe something was going right for me.
"You get some choices on the car, and a lot more than the usual loser's consolation," he said. "Just for finishing alive, without ducking out the exit, you collect $500. The car is a basic Sargasso, but you get 56 sheets of armor to play with and $1,700 for weapons or more armor. How do you want to use it?"
Once more there were memories. Most were technical, but one was another flash of light through a badly-holed door. Death could come from any side. "Spread the armor, ten layers front and back and nine everywhere else," I said. That wasn't hard. Weapons were trickier. My technical part analyzed the problem. I had a cheap car and no money for sophisticated sighting enhancements. The way to go was one main weapon, one direction of fire and something to cover my tail. "Standard machine gun front," I said, "and a flame-cloud discharger rear."
The allocator actually smiled, and nothing cracked in his face. He punched in the orders. "Your bay is D5. The car should be ready for a check by 1700, and your fight starts at 2100 even." He appraised me from boots to haircut. "I suggest a Pit Stop Special at the Last Request. There are phones if you need to do any outside business; say, a call to Gold Cross. Here's your copy of the waiver. It's good for credit most places in the arena."
I tried both pieces of his advice. The food was cheap, and worth it, but it stopped the hunger. Nobody came after me for an old debt. Ducking the check at this restaurant did not seem to be one of my sins. The phones were expensive, and the end result was that no Starbuck Reese, in any variation I could think of, existed. That name had no insurance, no Gold Cross and no criminal record that a civilian could find. My existence had to be under another name; the name I could not remember.
I thought, but not too long, about the lux and its unknown crew. They were enemies; I was sure of that much. Had I welshed on a bet, or died too soon and taken heavy money with me? On the other hand, was my crime to be too good, and mess up someone's schemes? Why had they attacked only my memory? Did this mean they wanted me here, still able to fight? Was I that good? Somehow I couldn't picture me as good enough in the arena to be worth so much trouble. This line of thought went only in circles. I needed to solve some more immediate questions before worrying about my unknown enemies.
I killed some more time, and a lot more credit, reviewing old arena videos. I went through a selection of Amateur Night contests for the last several weeks. I wanted some kind of a plan, some kind of an edge to get me through this fight. After several hours, I decided I had a tentative answer.
Most nickel-fight cars have one main weapon, mounted front. Only a few put anything heavy to the rear. Most drivers turn right coming out of the gate. Turning left meets the others head on, and decides the nature of the first fight, and maybe of all the others.
My car wouldn't quite be ready for a check yet. I thought about another Last Request, but decided I wasn't that hungry. Besides, this would be a chance to check out my opposition. There is no rule against looking over your opponents' cars, as long as you stay at least 20 feet clear.
I walked over to Bay D5. My own black-painted #4 was getting a last touch-up; the prep crews here worked fast. One slip over was #l, snow-white and mounting a single Vulcan forward. It was shockingly light on armor. Beyond it was #2, fire-engine red and with no guns. An oil-jet port in the back and a massive ram plate forward summed up the weapons; most of the armor was also piled on the front. The #3 car looked like a blue turtle. It had thick armor on all sides and mounted discharger packs on the back and sides and an ultra-cheap, micro-missile launcher in the front.
Studying the cars, I tried to guess how their drivers would fight. White #1, with the Vulcan, would shoot from a distance. He would fire and run, trusting to range, speed and maneuvering. One solid hit would breach his thin armor.
The red job, #2 was strictly a ram car. He would go for speed too, but with an opposite intent. He would always be trying to force it to a close. But remember that oil-jet; if his budget runs to flaming oil, he'll also be dangerous to tailgate.
The Blue Turtle, #3, was an enigma. The mini-missiles were strictly short range, and dangerous only from in front. I suspected that the dischargers were too cheap to be anything but smoke. Still, with that much armor, he could come close and pick his shots at leisure.
My guess was that #1 and #2 would barrel out the gate and try to force the pace. The Blue Turtle would hang back and commit in his own time.
I headed up to the ready-room to collect my gear and tag and see what I could learn from studying the drivers. It was getting close to game time anyway.
The first game had already started. The ready room was crowded with jittery contestants, but it was easy to pick out my personal competition from their color-coded game-number tags. I looked them over as I collected my helmet and number tag.
White Vulcan, #1, was a girl: brunette, thin, very young and painted thick on the face. Her voice was too loud and too shrill, and her eyes were hungry and fierce. She didn't look patient. I wondered if her tactical sense would hold up under pressure.
Red Rammer, #2, was a big, loud, blond boy. He had the heft and moves for a football lineman, and seemed to be up on some- thing besides adrenalin. He had the look of a reckless one, fast and hard but not shifty.
The Blue Turtle, #3, was studying me! She was a medium-sized woman, maybe in the late 20s. Her face was calm and shrewd and unreadable. Her suit's name plate read "Challenger." I wondered what she was doing in an amateur run. I bet her for the one to beat, and doubled the bet as she strolled up to me.
She wasn't much for preliminaries. "The boy is a cuckoo," she said. "He has a good local rep; he's a crowd pleaser, but he only knows one way, straight up the middle as hard as he can go. The girl's never worked here before, but my spies say she gets wild if things don't start to break her way in the first few passes. I think they'll waste each other soon. That leaves you and me. Want to deal?"
All my alarms went off. Was this a touch from the unknown? Was this the move that had got me in trouble last time? "What kind of a deal,"I said.
"Simple survival." Challenger grinned. "Let's agree that if either of us gets the other set up for a killing shot, we'll offer a chance to surrender. Neither of us will make any wild- hair plays; if he's obviously outmaneuvered, he'll surrender.''
"Sounds good," I said, because it did. "You have any idea what the betting looks like on our game."
She looked surprised. "Nothing heavy, nobody has much of a line on any of us. It's all on the board over there."
I had already checked the posted odds. "What about side-bets; anything stirring?"
She shrugged. "I haven't heard of anything. None of the biggies bets heavy on amateur night; it's too hard to figure and too sloppy to fix. Do you want the deal or not?" She was getting impatient with the irrelevant.
"Deal," I said. "Offer surrender and no berserker stunts."
We shook hands on it, and she moved over to a chair near the door. She continued to study me and the other drivers. I wondered if she had a deal with either or both of them.
She was right about the betting; whoever I was had memories to agree with her. Nobody bets big on the mid-week follies; there certainly couldn't be enough down to explain whatever had been done to me.
I went to a betting machine, just to see if there were any last minute anomalies. The odds on my survival were still 6 to 5 against; I risked $20 of my remaining credit, betting me to live.
I found a chair and went over tactical options again. All our main weapons were front mounted; we all had something to the rear. Obviously, the best attack was on the side. The problem was to manage it.
I was still driving in my head when we were called to our cars. No one of us looked at another for that whole, long walk to the bay. Even the Red Rammer had quieted down. We strapped in, made the last-minute checks and rolled out along the painted lines to our start positions.
I know nothing else like that long wait at the far end of the entrance ramp, watching for the lights to change and the gates to open. The ramp is 50 feet long. That's enough to build up lots of speed by the time you hit the fighting floor.
I didn't intend to build that speed. My plan, such as it was, depended on seeing which way the others turned. I fidgeted at the controls and listened to the chatter on the radio for about a decade.
The racket of the bell and the flash of the light caught me staring. I slammed the throttle, braked even more abruptly, and finally rolled out the gate at a sedate 30 mph.
The first thing I saw was the bulk of the TV bunker, straight ahead. The arena floor was vacant between us. I looked left and saw the white car zooming away. She had turned to meet the ram car, going fast for a head-on attack. I hadn't thought she looked patient. To the right, Challenger's Blue Turtle was moving off slowly. For a few beautiful seconds I was alone on my side of the bunker, free to choose. I made a leisurely turn to the left and followed the white car.
Before I saw anything, I heard the rattle of gunfire and the announcer whooping through the radio. White Vulcan and Red Rammer were going at it, the girl firing and the wild-eyed boy rushing to ram her. I could hear them both on the radio, screaming curses. The girl's voice kept getting higher and shriller. F I guessed she wasn't slowing the ram car down.
I saw the finish just as I swung around the second corner. Wild boy hit #1 dead center on her left side, doing better than 60 mph. The white car bounced, shed a spray of pieces, skidded out of control and went rolling hard and fast, straight into the TV bunker. The crowd roared like a tornado. I could barely hear the crash as she hit the wall.
One down, two to go. Why didn't that make me feel any better?
Rocket thunder yanked my eyes back to the Red Rammer. He was skidding through a ragged, dangerous, high-speed turn, trying to face Challenger's oncoming Blue Turtle. I couldn't see if her missile had hit or not, but his ram plate was mostly gone and his front armor was badly chewed. Still, he had enough left to knock over one more car. Challenger curved toward him, holding fire, holding his attention. He was caught between us and hadn't seen me yet.
I swung wide toward him and gave him my best shot with the machine gun.
It was a solid hit. I could see bits of his rear armor shattering off, but not enough. His steering wobbled and changed direction a little. He knew where I was now, but he still headed at Challenger's 13. I closed on him, firing again. Again I hit, but didn't breach his armor.
Challenger came up, still not shooting. I saw her swing wide to my right, avoiding the head on. The ram car swung toward her, tires screeching, hoping to ram her side -- and giving me a clear shot at his right. I used it, and hit. More armor pieces flew. Why didn't Challenger fire?
Then she did fire. She swung back left enough to face the Red Rammer and let go one rocket, straight to his front. The roar echoed off the arena's far ceiling. The red car bucked, skidded and barely stayed on its wheels. Most of its front armor was gone.
There was not time to see what Challenger did next. I was coming up fast on the Red Rammer's back. I fired again at his tail, too close to miss, and saw the armor breached. One more shot from either of us had to get his power plant.
At the last second I remembered that he still had his oil jet. I pulled left fast to get out of range. I was a half second late. He fired.
The right side of my Sargasso blazed up like a Viking's pyre. For one panicked instant I thought the whole car was on fire. All I could think of was to get rid of my flame-cloud discharger before that went up too, so I fired it. Light blazed behind me and I heard another screeching of tires, then a crash. I didn't look. I was too busy accelerating and remembering that I had no fire extinguisher. One way to shed the fire was to blow it out with the wind of my own speed.
I raced down the empty track, praying that the flames would be doused before they could bum through. After the first turn, the flames began to dwindle. After the second they went out. I eased off the speed, wondering how much damage I'd taken.
The radio announced it to everyone. My right side looked "like a half-melted candle," and had lost most of its armor. I knew what that meant. One good shot would breach me. There would be holes in the door, for the light to come through.
The red ram car was good and gone, the announcer almost gloated. My flame cloud had hit him, and when he spun to face Challenger he went out of control. He was still rolling, the radio said. And still burning.
That left Challenger and me. Where was she?
I slowed some more, trying to calculate her position. With her last-seen speed and direction, she ought to be just rounding the far turn . . .
Then I saw her coming fast around the next turn, hugging the bunker. She'd speeded up too, and stayed fast. That Blue Turtle could move!
And she was on my right side!
I tuned as tight as I dared, trying to curl around my damage. For an instant her car swung in front of me, and I fired.
I missed.
Then she was inside the are of my turn, somehow keeping control at that speed, turning with me. We circled, each trying to get the other under his guns. My right-side armor was paper-thin, and hers was undamaged.
I couldn't shake her, couldn't push the turn sharper at that speed. Second by split second she was pulling up into the clear firing arc.
" -- and the finish is a forgone conclusion -- " the radio said.
I knew it. Turn out and skid and roll, or take the next rocket -- I was history. I had maybe one second left.
Again, I had the memory of light coming through holes in the door.
"Not again!" I think I screamed it. "Not again!"
Then I heard Challenger's voice; her first transmission of the game. "Do you surrender," she said?
"All right! I'm done." Saying it didn't hurt a bit.
I eased off on the speed, pulled out of the turn and braked to a stop next to a pedestrian exit. I fumbled my way out of the safety harness and got out of the car. The description of my right-side armor had been accurate, it looked just like half-melted wax. One shot would have finished me. I turned away.
Walking took a lot of concentration. My knees seemed to have picked up an extra joint apiece and wills of their own. I didn't see where Challenger finally stopped, didn't hear the announcer's babble, didn't care what anybody thought of the fight. I saw no point in going to the ready room. The arena would hold my pay until I claimed it, and I wanted no questions from sports casters or duel buffs. I would just leave.
I hadn't won, but I was alive.
I had another piece for the hole in my memory. I might have fought before; in fact that was pretty certain from the body I was wearing. But I had never walked away before -- this rubber- legged, shivering, hollow-gutted shock was new. My bones would have remembered if I had ever felt it before.
I was so happy to be alive that I forgot to worry about staying alive.
They took me less than a dozen feet from the exit. They were good at snatch work. The redhead stopped me to ask directions. That put her close enough to pin my gun arm while her partner, who could have played Hercules without makeup, put the needle in just below my jaw hinge. Then both of them held me for the few seconds it took for the drug to hit my brain. All I can remember thinking was that this was a lot of trouble for a nickel duellist.
I woke up in a soft chair in a big office. It was furnished in successful-executive antique; too much carpet and too much wood, with the electronics so carefully blended in that the little bits that showed jarred worse than the whole machines would have.
The big, gray man behind the desk was even more incongruous. I tried to think of setting that would fit him, but it wouldn't come clear. His suit was gray, as plain as a suit can get. He had gray hair, cropped close and then ignored. His face was clean-shaven. I knew somehow that it was because beards were too much trouble. He bulked out of the chair, but somehow I knew that most of it wasn't fat. The big jaw, tight mouth and pale, gray eyes were familiar. I knew, without remembering why, that I hated him almost as much as I feared him.
I tried to form words, but that didn't work. That panicked me and I tried to stand. That didn't work either and the panic increased.
"I believe you are awake now,'' the gray man said. "There is a change to the eyes. If you're not awake yet, you will be shortly and you'll hear most of this. The drug is a new and very useful one. It has no after effects, is completely untraceable and while it is in effect, it completely paralyzes the voluntary nervous system. You can't move or speak. For once you will listen to your father, with no adolescent sarcasm, no whining excuses and no stomping off to sulk. When you are able to move, you will find yourself very thoroughly shackled, but you'll then be able to speak. Just for now you will listen."
I tried to remember something about this man, but only the hate and the fear would surface.
"I don't know how much memory you have," he said. "Gold Cross says that there has been very little experience with brain injuries as extensive as yours; usually there is no accessible memory at all. You seem to have all your motor skills, and most impersonal memories. What is gone is all of your personal life. They say they don't know how much of it is physical, and how much is psychological.''
He had been bland and informative, like a talking head on some good-for-you educational channel. Suddenly, for an instant, he changed. I tried to curl for shelter from the killing blaze of his hate. "I understand; I'd like to forget what you are too, but I can't," he said.
"No!" Screaming inside your own head is frustrating. "I didn't do it!" I wondered what it was I hadn't done?
"Your mother is gone," he said. "I know you don't care about that either; you never cared about anything but your car. I know she bought it for you, when I wouldn't. You could wheedle her out of anything, with your sick-puppy whine and daddy's-mean whimper.''
I had two memories then. One was a woman's face, misty on the edges, but obviously unhappy. The other was as sharp as the best Japanese hole. It was a black Peacemaker, with sloped armor and a universal turret. I knew its feel and smell, and I knew that I would never see it again. I felt loss, as though part of my soul had turned to vacuum. But was it my mother I missed, or the car? The gray man was back in control. I knew somehow that I hated that control most of all; that I would do . . Was there anything I would not do to break him and make him show weakness. What had I already done? I felt a deep satisfaction at his moment of rage. "I made you hurt," I thought. "I can hurt you again."
"You announced so loudly that you wanted nothing from me," he said. "You were going to make your own way. Then you went behind my back to your mother for that car. Yes, I took it back. My money bought it, and I was not having you destroy it, and yourself, for your childish idea of glory. But that wouldn't stop you. Not you; not Starbuck the Conqueror! My God, you even pick a name from children's television!"
"This isn't fair!" My thought was frantic. "Don't I get to tell my side? But, what is my side? It can't be the way you say!"
"You stormed off to the arena to prove your skill. Brave Starbuck, independent Starbuck! You could take any car the arena handed out and drive it straight to the top. If something went wrong, you had a clone, paid for with my money. But you were in such a rush, you never made a memory deposit!"
"I have a video here of your triumphant entry into the profession of autoduelling. I don't know if you remember; even if you do, the reminder should be useful."
A big screen appeared, replacing a gold-framed copy of Landseer's Monarch of the Glen. The picture on the screen was a very familiar view; it was the arena I had just fought in, from the central bunker.
"That's you," he said. "car #4 in game #6 the Black Death of the nickel circuit. The brilliant beginning of the illustrious career of Starbuck the Great, Monarch of the Arena."
His voice was back in control, but I thought the sarcasm was a little overdone.
On the other hand, it fit the technique of the me on the floor out there. I came zooming out of the gate with great panache and no control. I turned, to the right of course, and barely kept the wheels on the pavement. With no targets in reasonable range, I opened fire, with mini-rockets! Predictably, I hit nothing but the arena floor and walls.
I think I survived as long as I did because no one took me seriously as a threat. I lurched and spun around the track, wasting shots apparently at random. If I had any plan, it was too subtle for analysis, and it didn't work.
I had ignored hits on my armor, making no attempt to keep my hard side toward the fire. A spot-light picked out the jagged blackness of holes in my door as I turned, bringing that breached side into the firing are of #2. He took the shot, of course, and I watched me die.
The camera angle and view changed abruptly. "Watch closely," said the gray man. "This is a very instructive segment; one that didn't appear often in those duelling shows that were so much more interesting to you than school or work. This is from the arena maintenance log. They keep a record of all casualty cleanups, in case of legal or insurance problems."
Of course, the black car was the focus. The crews were interested in salvaging a repairable frame; the first things they stripped away were the ruined accessories. One man was busy tossing burned and shattered parts from the driver's seat. He picked up one lump and turned toward the camera. The lump was a battered helmet. He raised the visor and I looked at a scorched caricature of my own face.
"It took me some time to find you," my father said. "I gave you too much credit. I didn't start by looking at the closest arena, for a duelling name combining your first name and the name of your video hero. It has been difficult to give up my illusions as a father. I wanted to believe that my son had intelligence and courage and only needed time to show them. When we finally got what was left of your brain, the memories were in their current state."
I tried very hard to curse him and managed a squawk like a hungry nestling.
"You are beginning to recover," he said. "I'd best hurry with this. You wanted nothing from me. You told me that one arena victory was worth more than all I've built. You said that all I've known: the war I fought in, the business I built up, the values I tried to teach you, were unimportant compared to Valhalla on pavement. I'm going to give you the life you want."
I think that's when I realized that he was crazy. Only a madman could be that obsessed with someone else's life.
My father glanced at his wrist. "I have other things to do. I'll make this brief. Your contract with Gold Cross is canceled; you won't be able to make another with my money. I have a private cloning facility, devoted entirely to you. You're going back to your beloved arena, and you're going to fight there. If you try to find any other work, I'll find you and send you back. I have good people working for me; you met some today, and not the best. I have money and power and no real interests any more but you.
"Surely the great Starbuck will soon make his way to the top of his trade, and can afford whatever he needs for himself. The wealthy and renowned Starbuck can laugh at my little obsession. Of course, Starbuck the arena bum may find that a little more difficult. If that Starbuck is killed or maimed . . . Well, your clone is growing now. I don't see any real need to keep the memory of your defeats on record; each time I'll just bring you back to where you awoke this morning. You'll wake up, face down in the same sand. Then, if you live through one fight, we'll have this little talk again. It may get boring, but it's going to be my hobby."
I managed to curse him then, but I didn't manage to sound impressive even to me. He was laughing as he left.
The redhead and her partner unshackled me. I tried to fight, to hurt somebody for my pride's sake. They didn't even let me hurt myself. They put me back in the lux and Hercules held me like a baby while the redhead drove. They talked football the whole way. The redhead had too much faith in Pittsburgh. It was the only sign of weakness either of them showed.
They dropped me at the arena entrance and drove away, still debating lineman armament.
There were a few more believers on soapbox alley. They always swarm a little thicker for the main events. The prophet with the studded gun belt had abandoned his sign and was holding up a bible big enough for a prime-time televangelist.
"Here in the book is the highway to heaven," he said. "Without it there is only the back road to hell. Where will you spend eternity?"
"That's easy," I thought. "I know that one. I'll spend it dying on Amateur Night."