Alien Hunters

CHAPTER THREE: ALIEN ARENA

CHAPTER THREE

ALIEN ARENA

Riff walked through the crowd of roaring, pot-bellied drunkards toward the Alien Arena, the most blood-soaked place on the planet.

     Some factions on Earth, such as Friends of Aliens, preached tolerance and acceptance of creatures from the stars. Others, like the Cosmians, worshipped them as gods. Not here. People came to the Alien Arena not to befriend, worship, or study aliens . . . but to watch them bash one another's brains out.

     Riff sighed. "And Nova calls the Blue Strings a pit."

     The arena rose ahead of him, looking like some giant, steel bird's nest which had fallen from the sky. It was all rusty beams, spikes, leaking water spouts, and blinding spotlights. Neon lights blinked above the main doors, spelling out "Alien Are a", missing the n.

     Thousands of people clogged the streets, heading toward the arena. Almost all were men, a sort so rough they made even the Blue Strings' patrons seem gentlemanly. Riff had never seen so many hairy shoulders, scruffy beards, and beer can hats in one place. The smoke of cigarettes and cigars stung his eyes. The smell of cheap booze infiltrated Riff's nostrils; at least half the men here were drinking home brew from paper bags. There wasn't even any decent blues playing. The arena's speakers were blasting out old rock 'n' roll, the sound so distorted Riff couldn't make out the tune.

     A few people had set up soapboxes in the crowd. One woman lifted a "Friends of Aliens" banner, shouting that aliens were to be loved and accepted, not gawked at. An old man stood on another soapbox, crying out that "illegal aliens" were an abomination, that only humans belonged on Earth. On a third box stood a Cosmian monk, preaching about the "skelkrin masters." Riff grimaced and made sure to steer clear of that last soapbox.

     A voice roared out from the arena's speakers, rising louder than the music and street preachers: "Tonight only--Nova, the fiery Ashai Assassin, vs. Brog, the Behemoth of Belethor! The battle of the ages at the Alien Arena! Only fifteen bucks a ticket!"

     Riff reached into his jeans pocket, rummaging for money. His hand brushed against the rumpled envelope he had found in his room, the one from his father. Riff decided to keep it unopened for now. It was too dark here to read, and besides, Riff wanted to be alone when reading the first communication from his father in a year. Somehow, that moment seemed too important to share with ten thousand roaring, overweight drunkards in sweat-soaked wifebeaters. Riff pushed his hand deeper into his pocket and fished out the last money he had in the world: a crumpled twenty-credit note.

     Riff approached a scalper--a ratty little man with metal legs--and bought a ticket and a hot dog. The meat tasted like it probably came from the arena's last loser, but Riff was hungry enough that he ate the whole thing, ignoring his stomach's churning protests. He walked with the crowd, entering the arena.

     A few years ago, Riff had owned an old car with a grungy engine that belched out smoke and constantly leaked oil. He imagined that if he shrank in size and stepped into that engine, he'd find a place that looked like the Alien Arena. The arena's insides made the exterior look downright classy. Tiers of iron bleachers rose in a circle, the metal stained with years of spit, gum, cigarette ash, and spat-up hot dogs. Thousands of people filled the place, their shirts just as stained--at least those who wore shirts.

     Disk-shaped drones buzzed over the bleachers, tasked with both selling refreshments and providing security. On their flat tops, they carried bottles of beer, bags of popcorn, and dripping cheeseburgers. From their bottom sides, like legs under crabs, stretched out machine guns. One drunkard waved at a scuttling drone.