Our first episode brought us to the first-ever event of Extreme Fighting on Mars -- featuring Nick, a skilled but ambivalent competitor in this intense, interplanetary sport. Now, the Extreme Mars saga continues.

The dust storm was still whirling outside. Nick nodded at Gwen the barmaid and tried to smile. But the pain spread across his face, and she'd already turned away to pour him some kava in a faux-coconut cup.

The Marineris Bar. Three deuterium miners sat at the counter, wearing maroon jumpsuits. A slow night. Nick grabbed the kava, mumbled some thanks, and sat alone at a square table against the far brick wall.

He was the Champion of Mars.

But it was no time for celebration. His victory was tarnished. He knew it. Gwen knew it. Billions knew it.

The dust storm. It had blown in at 50 miles (80 kilometers) an hour, sweeping over the two fighters as they stood on the gently sloped plain of Olympus Mons. Soon, the vast volcano was awash in dust.

It was great tele-viewing, at first. The fighters were still visible from nearby cameras, even as the overhead views were obscured. For a viewer on the surface, the light grew gradually dimmer.

The fighters circled, punched, kicked. In the thin martian atmosphere, even a powerful wind felt like a moderate breeze. Nothing that would stop two determined, well-trained athletes. But then...

His opponent delivered a hard punch to Nick's flexible face-mask. Nick could imagine the wild booing, on Earth, on the moon, and in the clay towns of Mars. His opponent was one of the most disliked individuals in the solar system. But what did he expect with a name like Grok?

Nick stepped backward. Grok was walking toward him. Nick threw a wild punch. It missed. His hand was tingling. Then Grok was suddenly down. He was on his knees. Gurgling. Choking. Nick saw what had happened. The dust. It had silted up his opponent's breathing apparatus. Grok fell backwards, writhing.

"Cessation," chattered the inhuman voice in Nick's ear-piece. The robot referee was rolling toward them, its metal head silhouetted in the red-brown haze.

The Marineris Bar. Nick silently drained the faux-coconut cup and stared out the window into darkness. He had been champion of Mars for three days. Champion by default.

He knew the Consortium was displeased. Ratings had slumped when the dust started obscuring visibility. And that ending; people hated it. Nick's post-fight tele-conference was cut to 9 minutes. His interplanetary chat session? Canceled. One video-news story called him the "chump-ion."

The Consortium was worried, said Beddocks, that sleazy promoter. The public was fickle. It might go back to Lunar-Alai or other diversions. Nick heard acrobats were going to perform in New Byzantium, the half-built city in the Valles Marineris. Not even a decent sports clinic there. Grok was on the way back to Earth.

But Extreme Fighting on Mars couldn't be over. Another FighterShip was arriving soon. There would be indoor matches. Underground bouts. Fights in and around an orbiting space station, in zero gravity.

And Nick had heard the rumors. The Consortium's "genetic therapy" might be more than it seemed. Not just ensuring peak performance but creating superhuman abilities. IPOG might investigate. But did the Interplanetary Organizational Group really matter? "In IPOG's eye," Beddocks would say, spitefully.

Better than War. That was the Consortium's new marketing slogan. To some, it conveyed the excitement of martian extreme fighting. To others, it meant the sport was socially responsible, a needed outlet for human aggression. Despite the fight's dismal ending, Nick knew he'd be in the next advertising campaign.

He was Nick Agonistes, the First Extreme Fighting Champion of Mars. He would check his video-mail later that night. Maybe there would be a message from Cindy. Wasn't she...if nothing else...a fan?

No. He wouldn't think about her. Nick raised the faux-coconut to his lips. Soon, the kava would relax his pained muscles. He glanced over at Gwen. She was watching headline news on the tele-screen behind the bar. Another probe had been lost near Saturn. Deuterium futures were slipping downward again.

On Mars, more reports of visions in the dust storm. Crazy locals, Nick thought. The same types who engaged in that ludicrous cult that worshipped the "Galactic Ghoul." Nick looked back out the window.

"You don't belong here," snarled the voice.

Nick turned, startled. One of the deuterium miners had walked over, and was looming over Nick's table. His breath smelled of tequila. Extra larvae. The miners' favorite drink.

"I've been in here the last three days," said Nick, trying to keep his voice even. "I'm a regular." He looked over at the bar, but Gwen was gone. Had she gone to the back room to get a weapon?

"You don't belong on this planet," the miner rumbled. "You didn't build anything, didn't pay any respects to anyone." His voice rose. "You don't know what your own fight's about. You don't know who's watching."

"Listen, friend," said Nick. "I don't want to get involved in your politics or your religion. I'm just here to --"

It arrived quickly. The miner's fist. If Nick had been on duty, not drinking kava, he would have blocked it in time. Instead, the dirty knuckles hit his forehead. A trivial blow. He'd felt much worse.

But Nick was the Champion of Mars, and he was trained to hit back fast. He rammed out his fist, straight into the miner's solar plexus. The man stumbled backwards, gasping, then collapsed against the bar. The other two miners got up from their stools, but didn't even look at Nick. They propped up their dazed friend.

Nick turned back to his drink, but something was odd. His hand. In the dim bar light, it was glowing red. Brow furrowed, Nick held his hand away. The glow quickly faded, then was gone. Was he hallucinating?

Nick slumped back in his chair and exhaled slowly. He was alone, far from anyone who'd ever cared, the dubious champion of a planet he didn't understand. And now there was something wrong with his hand.