The red-striped robot moved with a savage fury, a prominent fist, its sturdy tempered alloy for an armor flailing at anything within striking distance, clashing steel. But furious as the attack was, it wasted no time or cut and thrust measure on the blue-striped android, who continued to dance away from each new onslaught his opponent launched. Inside an immense arena, the two combatants continued to wage their personal war—only for some profit by human masters, it was told—unmindful of the other, more subtle war of wills or strength occurring upstairs in the observation booth; not to mention money.
Morgan Romat was not having a good day. His dress uniform was about four turkey dinners too tight, and he could feel his stomach expanding. Also, the wagering tickets he held in his hand were about to become worthless pieces of paper any moment now. That alone would have been enough to ruin his day, but it was clearly evident the circumstance he found himself, and his prizefighter, in right now was not the only thing turning against him. The isolation booth his family shared with the Middle East taskmasters was warmer than the summers in the Arizona desert he remembered from his childhood. At the same time, the heat in the isolation booth was equally matched by the coolness of his wife; one or more times he tried to go to her—if not for more money—but he was instantly rejected by her cold, harsh, glassy stare.
He knew she was hurt, angry, disappointed in him. But now was the time he greatly needed her to stand by him. No matter how many times he repeated to her: “Honey, I tell you this is it. This win will buy us the house, the picket fence, the dog—the whole thing! I know it this time.” he always let her down, had to rebuild or reprogram the robot for the next fight, hope he’d be the next champion the next time around. Well, someday.
For now he sat in the very top row of the booth, behind rich and powerful sheiks and, using his special binoculars, glanced down into the combat pit, while Joanna, his wife, sat opposite the window with little Rafael and Beth, her hands pressed against the glass, tears running down her cheeks.
One of the sheiks turned his head now to Morgan and said, “You’re a brilliant man, I must say. It’s a good thing you didn’t use your red-colored creation as a toy for children. Even though he’ll probably lose again today, he fights extremely well. Fast-paced. What I want to know is if you’ll keep rebuilding him after he’s scrapped. The alloy alone must be expensive to replace. Nevertheless, my friend, the machine is not only lifelike but has the potential to become a Death Ring fighter. Not now, of course. But in time.”
“Thank you,” Morgan answered dispiritedly. “And his name is Crimson Wind.”
Morgan now spared a glance over at the Middle East’s robot match delegate, Mohab. Mohab, three seats away, only smiled at him—the sly, cocky smile of an Arabic predator who knew his investments well and that his prey had no hope of escape. Morgan wanted to walk over and beat the smirk off the face of his managing rival, but he kept his civility and simply nodded at him. Similar to the boxing matches or human blood sports of many centuries preceding them, they both knew what was riding on the outcome of this contest. Control of global policy among automatons and lots of money; gambling wasn’t the only surplus among the participants. It was legal, yet at the same time illegal. 365 days a year to manage and shape up—for two different governments—the world with machines. And as an added bonus, to one’s own image. Morgan smiled to himself. Superior control and money influx the likes he himself could not even fathom, the best part being that anybody with a sturdy machine capable of a fist more powerful than steel could enroll.
Crimson Wind, the shiny mechanical monstrosity representing the West, now held an advantage; so much that it surprised the Sheiks. Its deluge pushed the East’s blue-striped robot further back with each savage blow. But as Mohab looked on, there was little cause to worry. The blue robot was able to get back up and dodge each swing with little effort, relying on good programming and pure instinct combined rather than any normal fighting strategy. Much better than a boxer. Morgan clinched his hands together. Finally, he saw his creation showing drive, things for once going according to plan and for himself. Still, it was close. If something were to go wrong again, Joanna would never forgive him; shit, he’d never forgive himself.
He now felt his stomach pang. He tried to study the course the fight had taken to this point. Crimson Wind was using the typical tactics he’d originally programmed him with, but he seemed to be taken aback by the lack of offense from the blue robot. Somewhat of an advantage—which was better than no advantage at all—this was good, he felt, because if Crimson was confused where to land his jabs and uppercuts, he’d fight stupid or like an incorrigible rookie droid. The arena’s blueish-green artificial lights gleamed off the blue-striped metal of the rival robot. Crimson thought he could see the mechanical grin of his opponent behind the clear, heavily wired polymer faceplate. The blue automaton danced out of the way of another savage blow. It was more concerned with evasive action rather than inflicting punishment, it seemed. But that was a risk with all prizefighting robots. A dangerous one. The Sheiks’ robot didn’t know rage or brutality, but operated rather using techniques of brains over brawn, aptitude and skill, as an underlying technique of landing a win. Crimson was the opposite, and that was how Morgan programmed him. Anything he did was reactionary, based solely on counterattacks. Morgan doubted he could just up and go on the offensive, let alone the defensive. And if he didn’t, how could he win? The blue robot couldn’t, and wouldn’t, keep dodging all day. That was a fact.
Now feeling unsettled about the outcome, as with many other matches, he decided to start up a conversation again with the Arabs, as well as Mohab, and brag a little. “Oh, you know Crimson broke all of the strength and endurance records for the Power All Project,” he said, the boast in his face unmistakable. “He also beat some of the world’s best human weightlifters.”
“Is that so?” asked Mohab, not trying to downplay the sarcasm in his voice. “And the other contests or projects he’s been in—all of them… How did your robot compare?”
“Favorably,” Morgan replied.
“But not spectacular?”
Morgan knew a fishing expedition when he saw it, and he wasn’t willing to provide a single piece of bait. “He performed as expected,” he simply said.
“Hmm… Still, you don’t sound confident—a little concerned about your machine?”
He looked down at his still-weeping wife. “He was recruited because of his elaborate micro-processing, micro-sensory breeding. The electronic gene pattern for the model and all. Good long-term investment.”
“Ahh, an automaton with not only a fighting will but a gene pattern for it. Well, then that would make him a competent, second-generation athlete. No wonder he’s excelled in many areas where humans cannot. Now my machine comes from a long line of interbred championship athletes. Non-synthetic, of course. They used to compete in the Olympics. And they always won.” The Arabic delegate chuckled. “So your machine’s breeding goes back that far? I’m impressed. Mildly. Now if you don’t mind,” he went on with a rather distinct air of arrogance, along with a wry yet smug look, “I’d like to watch my robot win the match.”
The other sheik from before now laughed silently, but not really to himself. “Yes, but we both know that is going to happen anyway, Mohab. It will be another devastating and crushing blow, another defeat at the hands of our Blue Sahara.”
But it was Morgan who felt crushed. In both spirit and hope.
Just below, the confrontation became more heated while the two robots continued the one-on-one sparring match, the force turning uncivil now. Crimson Wind began to swing for the chin attachment on Blue Sahara’s faceplate. Morgan forced a smile off his face; it wouldn’t be proper to tip one’s hand at this stage. Blue Sahara danced left and then right, dodging and weaving every attack. Mohab leaned forward in his seat to see the opponent blocking left and then turning right with a thunderous elbow to the head circuitry. At this point, his whole envoy leaned forward. Sahara countered not only correctly but swiftly in his blow, knocking Crimson Wind off his feet for almost a full count. Morgan cursed out loud as the one-hour bell rang, signifying the end of the round. A human referee climbed inside, separating the two. Minor repairs were made on the spot. Mohab gave a squeal of joy, jumping to his feet and embracing his wife and child. The sheiks shook hands and, a few feet away, Joanna sobbed uncontrollably.
When the bell sounded again, the many isolation booths surrounding the arena began to hum and throb. They were no longer silent. Voices could be heard from the leaders of many cities and countries of the world, chanting… Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill…!
Morgan sat impassively, watching the action below but with less interest. For a brief moment, Blue Sahara turned from his opponent—after landing a deep blow to Crimson’s gut—and raised his hands above his head. He looked up at the isolation booth, where his Arabic taskmasters sat, praising him, then saluted and turned his attention to the hundreds of cameras that were carrying the event to the world. Once again came the echoing hums and throbs of the other isolation booths, shouting… Death! Death! Death! Death…!
Smiling viciously, Mohab turned to Morgan. “Well, you had to expect this result,” he said, even though the fight was not over yet. “After this, Blue Sahara can go on to win the World Belt. But don’t worry. We’ll be kind during the next year on simpler models, and I insist on compensating you for the loss of your machine.” He was not trying to hide the smugness in his voice this time either.
Morgan didn’t move from his seat. He was practically wooden—almost on the verge of crying himself. Neither did he turn to face Mohab. Instead he watched Crimson Wind pick himself up and go back at it. Sparring. The fight of all fights. He sat there and kept his eyes focused, hoping for a miracle, staring down into the arena.
When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. “It’s not over yet, Mr. Delegate. Turn your self-righteous grin back to the match at hand.”
Mohab threw him a quizzical smile and turned to see what he was talking about. His eyes opened wide when he saw the red robot was still moving with incredible agility. His steps were slow and measured with no hints of animosity, but when he found an approach just right for his metal fists, he danced circles around Blue Sahara.
Crimson Wind continued his victory parade, his conquering attacks, almost oblivious to his blue opponent’s actions. “Turn around!” Mohab shouted. “Turn around, you fool!” And even the other members of his envoy looked on in concern and distress. But his foul warnings could not be heard through the soundproofed walls and glass. Slowly, Crimson Wind continued pounding on his blue opponent, ready to celebrate his imagined victory.
Morgan was ecstatic; Joanna’s tears started to disappear. Imagine, he thought, all the while Crimson’s not yet beat challenger could not even near him from behind, get back to his feet instantaneously, as before, and use all those fancy moves Mohab’s emissaries had programmed him with. Morgan now had reason to smile. The red robot could win. He’d seen matches change like this before, Crimson push things over in the last few minutes of a fight. And not out of rage or fury or hatred, but just to continue the game…
Go inside for the final blow.
The throngs of people from around the world, now standing in their booths—some of which worked for governments, some who only wished to at the outcome of such fights —were smiling, rooting, screaming at the top of their lungs… Red! Red! Red! Red…!
Mohab took a deep breath, expecting a counterattack, but Blue Sahara simply pushed his red opponent forward, as if out of wind, like a human. Then he fell forward—became trapped on his stomach, waving his limbs around, like a turtle stranded on its back. Soon, Crimson Wind, exhausted himself, sat down on top of his foe and waited for the final bell to sound. The match ended. The red had won. But at the cost of him emitting sparks out of both his head and chest circuitry. Though he was victorious, his battery died out.
There were two ushers in the back of the booth now, getting ready to clean up. “Now that’s what I call a match,” the first one whispered to his coworker. “Fighting to the end!”
The second usher said, “I’ve seen this droid fight before. Imagine what that Morgan Romat guy wins? He gets money and a form of global supremacy over part of the Middle East’s political and social advancement, productivity, and say in automaton affairs. Let’s congratulate him. Maybe he’ll give us a tip.”
But Mohab left the booth extending no congratulations whatsoever.
Morgan stood up, straightened his uniform, and offered his hand to the others around him. Though the ushers were enthusiastic about it, anyone part of Mohab’s group refused quietly, simply staring forward and shaking their heads in disbelief. Morgan then went to his own friends, retrieved them, and turned to leave. “Joanna? Hun?” He saw that Joanna had collected the young ones herself and waited for him by the elevator. He didn’t know what to say to her at first. He wanted to tell her they finally had the house with the picket fence and the backyard, and that he had the job of a lifetime. And that they were rich.
During the ride down to the arena area, Joanna spoke to him for what must have been the first time in weeks. Her voice was thin and shaky, but it still held that musical quality that had attracted him all those years before. “I thought we’d lost him… I was right…”
“He sacrificed himself,” he said quietly. “He fought till the very end.”
“I knew he was gone, but not like this… Not this much.”
“No, he’s never gone,” Morgan stated in a matter-of-fact tone he used whenever he’d discussed anything concerning Crimson. “There’ll always be repairs, honey.” He reached out slowly with his arm, extending his promise to her, unsure whether or not to even offer it. He pulled it back a bit and then tentatively extended it again. Joanna, recognizing her husband’s indecision, smiled, and pulled his arm around her. They didn’t speak. Instead, they opted to listen to the gentle hum of the elevator as it dropped downward.
