The Ordeal

Chapter One

I stand in the entrance of Night Nachos bar and grill and wait impatiently for the electrostatic scrubbers to run through their cycle. I don't see the point of them. Dust is everywhere in the Basin. The only way to avoid it is to not be here.

As they run I scan the bar. It's packed, because if there's one thing you can count on in life it's people gathering to bet on the outcome of a violent contest. The TV still shows an empty courtroom, so the ordeal hasn't started yet, but the Constable is already stationed inside, which will make my job a lot harder. The Authority considers watching each ordeal a civic duty; the illegal betting, not so much.

The scrubbers finish their cycle and I walk in. The Constable turns to see me and frowns. I'm not worried that he'll card me. I look older than my seventeen years and in any case alcohol restrictions aren't enforced that strictly these days. But something about me always raises suspicions. Maybe it's because I walk with purpose, unlike so many others in the Basin who walk like they're going to their own funeral. To be fair, most of them are. Desperation is as widespread in the Basin as the dust.

I walk past the counter, struggling to squeeze through the tightly packed rows of people. I glance at the bartender and owner, Mikey Mike, and he gives me the slightest of nods as he wipes down a glass with a greasy rag that leaves streaks on the rim. He doesn't mind what I do here as long as he gets his cut.

I look back at the TV, which has now filled with text giving the details of the ordeal. The defendant is an alleged arsonist involved in the recent wildfire that burned fifty thousand acres up the west coast. Normally the Authority wouldn't prosecute such cases, but this fire came close to the Preserve, the gated garden paradise to the northwest of the Basin. The privilege of wealth is to insist that we all pay attention when the homes of the rich and powerful are threatened.

Which is fine with me, because I plan to be one of them very soon.

So now the Authority has found a scapegoat, and in a few minutes two men will enter a courtroom, dressed only in white T-shirts and training pants. The door will lock behind them, and they will fight an ordeal to the death to see if the defendant is actually guilty. This, so the Authority always reminds us, is the only way to achieve true justice. In the old system lawyers used fancy words and emotion to sway gullible juries. But you can't fake strength or fighting skill.

The names of the advocates come up next. The defendant is representing himself, which is no surprise; not many can afford to hire someone to fight for them. Commissioner Valentine, of course, can afford the very best advocates. A murmur arises amongst the patrons as the name 'Ken Thorne' appears on the screen.

This tells me two things: there will be a lot of bets placed tonight, and it will be a short fight. I need to hurry to get in position.

There is an open doorway to the right of the bar which leads to the bathrooms as well as the kitchen in the back. I stop there and turn back to face Mikey Mike. I take a deep breath so I can be heard above the increasingly chatty patrons.

"I'm the guy maintenance sent to fix your fridge. I'll be around back."

I say this loudly enough for the patrons to hear. Of course, I'm not a mechanic and I'm not here to fix Mikey Mike's fridge. Regulars know what that's really code for: if you want to place a bet, I'm here collecting.

I look quickly back at the Constable to see if he got suspicious. But no, he didn't even turn to look my way. I'm in the clear. I go through the door and wait outside the men's room. It smells like things have died in there, so hopefully this won't take too long.

Sure enough, a man I first noticed eyeing me at the bar comes through the doorway, looking back the whole time. That's dumb. I work hard to hide my frustration. He's supposed to pretend he's going to the bathroom. But it is what it is.