Defiance

by Bear Ross

  “Mech Pilot Kramer,” the image of Mikralos said, ”you and Master Technician Prath will have autonomy in all purchasing, fabrication, and training decisions, within the bounds of our arrangement, naturally, but you will not besmirch our reputation with Master Vervor or his business. We expect cooperation between the two parties. Any deviation from this requirement may result in revocation of the contract, and the Judah computer, its host armor, and any upgrades to the 'semi-salvaged conglomeration,' as you say, will be forfeit. Is this understood?”

  Jessica mumbled her agreement. Vervor and Prath bowed with a single appendage held in front of them, palm up. The Nine returned the gesture on behalf of his master.

  “Very well,” Mikralos said. “Let us turn our collective efforts towards our mutual goal: victory in the glorious halls of our beloved Berva Proxima arena. We will forward research materials on the opponent via courier in a few hours. We understand he also has a match scheduled, soon, so it would behoove you to study him. In the meantime, Master Vervor, we leave you to it.”

  The image of Mikralos faded out. The Nine holding the holographic projector gave a stilted, awkward bow and stepped away. It boarded the waiting craft, which boosted off in silence.

  The three of them spent a moment regarding each other. Prath crossed his arms and glowered at the shorter Myoshan. Vervor's scaled shoulders gave a small shrug, but his jaw stayed fixed and defiant. Jessica spit on the floor.

  “Hmmph. My shop has a reputation to keep up,” Vervor said. “The sight of your dilapidated cargo loader was unsettling, to say the least. Besides, how was I to know you were the daughter of the great Solomo-”

  “Not a prudent idea at this time, good sir,” Prath said as Jessica stormed away, slamming the shop’s front door behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS

  Once the angry human departed in her prominent and noisy way, the mech fabrication shop became quiet as a church. The faint sound of a Myoshan crew member rummaging through a tool bin came from somewhere in the back storage area. The rest of the shop’s technicians wisely decided to find themselves elsewhere in the establishment, leaving the large front room to its two remaining occupants.

  Prath, the tall, orange Ascended, and Vervor, the short Myoshan shop owner, stood opposite each other in the open bay, both avoiding eye contact. Neither one was willing to be the first to break the awkward silence. A short series of alternating sighs followed. Vervor scanned the door with his rear set of eyes, the addressed the hominid.

  “Aren’t you going to go after her?” Vervor asked.

  “She’ll manage to take care of herself, I’m sure,” Prath said. “If she’s anything like I remember, she’ll be back. You might actually want to lock the front door.”

  The Myoshan rattled his fangs together with a slight clicking noise, the equivalent of an amused smirk, and snorted.

  The tension broken, the Ascended stopped brooding and uncrossed his hairy arms. He extended his hand out, palm up, in a greeting from the Old Code.

  “Erm, allow me to re-introduce myself, Honorable Myoshan,” the ape said. “I am Prath, Master Technician. As you can see with your forward-facing set of eyes, the obvious lack of a tail shows me to be an ape, not a... a monkey. If you must know, it is a grave insult to my kind. We... we do not react well to the ‘m-word.’”

  “Duly noted. I am Vervor, Fabricator and Proprietor. I welcome you to my humble shop, Honorable... Ape,” the Myoshan said through half-gritted fangs. A smile returned to Prath's face.

  “Well, now that the small item of protocol has been settled,” Prath said, “allow me to say, I have been an admirer of your work and reputation for some time. Would you please be so good as to give me a short tour of this beautiful fabrication facility? Is that a NeuHaas I see in the rear of the shop?”

  “It is,” the Myoshan said, his small chest now swelling with pride. “A state-of-the-art titanium foam printer and machining module. I even had the client pay for the object-scan option. My staff just installed it last gate-week.”

  “Wonderful,” Prath said, clapping his leathery hands together. “Let's start there, if we can, Master Vervor. We have a tremendous task ahead of us, and only a short time to accomplish it.”

  “I can imagine,” Vervor said, chuckling. “Your human. She really is quite the claw-full, isn’t she?”

  “I helped raise her, but that was years ago,” Prath said. “Her father—”

  “The Solomon Kramer, yes?” Vervor asked.

  “Yes, the same,” Prath answered, a distant look overtaking his face. “Solomon was a dear friend of mine, not just an employer. The Kramers were like family. I feel obligated to help the girl, even though she’s a bit prickly. Ooh, what’s this?”

  Vervor handed the tall ape a machined piece of foamed metal with intricate undercuts and deep internal radii. It was the same shape and surface texture of a sliced-open ghostmelon, complete with machined seeds, and filled the Ascended’s large hand.

  “A sample part from the vendor,” Vervor said, “to demonstrate the NeuHaas’s capabilities. A trinket, really, but it’s among the beginner files included in the machine’s tutorials. My lead technician, you’ll meet him later, has spent some time with the design program. Here’s his first original piece.”

  Vervor pulled another machined part from the rack where the metallic fruit originally rested. Prath’s dark eyes lit up when he recognized the shape.

  “Is that?”

  “Indeed, it is,” Vervor said.

  “I... I never thought I would see another left-hand wrist linkage assembly for a Slaughterbot 7,” Prath said, holding the articulated part like he would a newborn baby.

  “When we lost our supply chain behind the Eighth Gate,” Vervor said, his claws reaching for another part, “the price on all remaining stock went through the roof. The aftermarket offerings were insufficient. The only reproduction parts on the market were severely lacking. We had to convince our clients with Slaughterbots to lose their mechs’ hands, and substitute distance weapons for the entire arm.”

  “Such a brilliant design,” Prath said, turning the metal object in his hands, “yet, such a fragile part. I knew of teams that went through them like clockwork, one per match.”

  “Hours of tear-down time to replace one, too. The Slaughterbots could pick up an egg from the nest, but that control came at the cost of delicate parts,” Vervor said.

  “My record was three and a half,” Prath said, pride in his voice.

  “I'm impressed,” Vervor said, clacking his fangs in approval. “My technician was able to scan our last remaining unit in to the new titanium printer. A few clicks later, he’s not only captured the shape, but he actually improved on the design. Notice the—”

  “The gusseting and extra supports, yes,” Prath said, admiration in his voice. “I like how he handled the bracket transitions, too.”

  “My tech is a Niff, and thus, a bit skittish,” the Myoshan shop owner said, “but very proficient. We’re going to start vending them on the Merc Web.”

  “They should sell well,” Prath said.

  “Let’s hope,” Vervor said, gesturing for them to move on.

  The two seasoned veterans of the mech repair industry ambled about the large shop. Vervor would point out various tools or bits of heavy equipment, and Prath would compliment him on his impeccable tastes in hardware brands.

  The facility tour ended after a few minutes, and Vervor invited Prath into his office. The tall hominid was wary of entering the Myoshan-sized space. He breathed a sigh of relief when a hidden larger door, surrounding the smaller visible door, opened.

  Vervor took a seat behind his industrial desk, and motioned with a claw for Prath to take a seat, as well.

  “No, I’ll stand, Master Vervor, thank you,” the Ascended said.

  “As you wish, Master Prath,” Vervor said. He propped his clawed feet up on the desk, his rear set of eyes sca
nning a bank of security monitors arrayed behind him.

  “Tell me, Prath,” Vervor asked, “what type of match are we gearing your pilot and her... curious machine towards?”

  “I’m not sure the terms have been settled, yet,” Prath said, his eyes downcast, “but our young Jessica Kramer will ultimately be taking part in a vengeance match at Berva Proxima.”

  “Vengeance match? The last Kramer to fight at Berva Proxima was...” Vervor trailed off, then bolted up in his small, luxurious chair.

  “Yes, Jered Kramer and Masamune Kyuzo,” Prath said. “The fight they always show on the best-of collections.”

  “She’s going up against Masamune Kyuzo?” Vervor said. “The human? ‘The Desecrator?’”

  “Sadly, yes,” Prath said. “There’s a bit more to it than just that—”

  “But, she’ll... she’ll be slaughtered!” the short, scaly Myoshan interrupted. “She’ll end up as ashes on the arena floor!”

  “Well, your concern is admirable, Master Vervor, but—”

  “No offense, Master Prath,” Vervor said, reaching for his comm line, “but concern be damned! I need to contact the client again, and make sure I get paid up front!”

  Chapter Nine

  SEVENTH GATE ZONE

  FERRO FORTRESS ARENA

  “Master Mech Pilot Masamune,” a random journalist yelled up at him from the repair pit floor, “how do you respond to the newest wave of reports, that your impressive kill streak is only due to your illegal use of electronic warfare jamming units, and possibly even nanites, which the Gatekeepers have strictly forbidden for centuries?”

  Kyuzo looked down from his cockpit at the reporters clustered around his mech’s feet. If he were a more expressive human, the hard, placid look on his face would actually be a mix of snarl and sneer. Hearing the questions shouted up at him, he had to make a conscious effort not to disengage his weapon safeties in the arena pits. Composing himself, he addressed them in a stern, formal tone.

  “I'll address those baseless allegations, and the others,” Master Mech Pilot Masamune Kyuzo said, staring into the sea of cameras pointed at him, “after I finish grinding my next opponent into the stadium floorplates. For the record, I categorically deny any involvement in the accusations against me, and look forward to clearing my name. This press conference is over.”

  Masamune donned his helmet as he closed the cockpit glass over himself. The correspondents gathered at the feet of his armored vehicle continued to yelp questions up at him, their drone cameras and manipulator-held holographic recorders hoping to capture his reaction to the more outrageous and loaded inquiries. His crew chief, Hepsah, pushed them back, aided by the rest of his ground personnel.

  She turned to him as his mech's armored segments slammed together over the clear glass, giving him a thumbs-up. Masamune returned the gesture with his prosthetic hand, the black plastic reflecting the last of the camera flashes as the protective leaves formed an interlocking cocoon around his cockpit. He contemplated the deep thudding of the extra armor's formation as his manual controls retracted. Cables snaked from the back of his headrest into ports in his neck and arm, and the command-and-control meshing began.

  Masamune Kyuzo tasted the bitter electronic buzz, beginning in the back of his teeth, and felt the grating sensation spread through his skull. The surge of his connection to his mech came in waves, and he kept his tongue high and centered in his mouth. Streaming blood from his mouth like a madman made for good ratings on the in-cockpit camera, but a bitten tongue was painful and annoying.

  His command computer increased the digital overlap to his nervous system, and he felt his mind and mech merge as one. The phantom numbness took over his organic body, like the elusive moment one felt just before falling asleep. Kyuzo closed his natural eyes, and the mech's camera inputs took over, feeding the images of the outside world and targeting displays to the control implants in his brain.

  The mech pits and staging areas in Ferro Fortress Arena were different from most fighting establishments. Instead of emerging from underneath or the sides of the combat floor, fighters dropped in from portals carved in the giant building's armored ceiling, their booster jets screaming as they impacted in front of the maddened crowds.

  Masamune looked from his perch at the stadium's seats filled with frothing, bloodthirsty sentients. Tonight’s event was a Black-Box Death Match, Hammer Class, Full Weaponry, meaning neither combatant knew the others’ identity in advance, there were no protective fields around the cockpits, and there were no rules or regulations applied when it came to what they pulled out of their armories.

  Kyuzo disliked the gimmicky nature of the fight arrangement, but it also added a hint of anticipation. Kyuzo was now undefeated in his last thirty-three death matches, all of them kills in his now-trademarked style. It was a spectacular record, but he was bored, and feared he was losing his edge. The public relations war the press waged on him did not help. Perhaps tonight would be an unexpected challenge.

  The arena pit boss's voice came over his communications input.

  “Desecrator, you're on deck. Profile introductions are winding down. Move your mech forward, to the lip, and good hunting,” she said.

  “My thanks. All systems are go. Standing by,” Masamune said.

  Spotlights and cameras converged on his mech's hull, bathing him in light and attention high above the throng. His sensors gave him an exact count of the thousands of lenses focused on him, including the personal capture-cams of the audience. He felt his natural face grin.

  One last systems check. Feel the body breathing, then put it away. Let the electricity coursing through the mech's pathways and motors take over for his normal sensations. Flare the jets and double-check the ammunition feeds. His sword checked and double-checked, still clamped to his hull by magnetic locks. Focus on the engagement signal lights.

  Green... yellow... red. Attack!

  The electronically-blended combination of Masamune and mech vaulted from his ready pad into the pulsing air of the arena, and the crowd roared. The floor setup, like his opponent, was unknown until this moment. It was a “king-of-the-hill” arrangement, his sensors alerted him, complete with minefields in large patterns radiating from the center's low peak. Some were active, their red lights blinking through the dirt, others were inactive, for now.

  His plummet from the launch pad slowed on a column of plasma from his jets, and he rotated in mid-air as he descended to catch a view of his opponent. Gorth! It was Gorth! Well, void, it's been a while, he thought. He opened a comm channel.

  “It's going to be tough killing you, Gorth,” he said.

  “You said it, double-legger. Come get wrapped up,” the Skevvian said.

  Most sentient species construct mechs to resemble their own bodies, both for familiarity and psychological purposes. Every mech pilot, regardless of origin, wants to be a walking armored nightmare. It added visual shock value, and helped drive the ratings. Gorth's mech was no exception.

  The Skevvian's chassis mimicked his natural form, only armored, weaponized, and over twenty feet tall. Its black and orange hull dripped with thick steel tentacles and bristled with weaponry. A heavy snapping beak protruded from under the enclosed cockpit. All Custom. The Bone-squid has style, Kyuzo thought.

  Signals blared in his mind, and two missiles launched from the enemy mech. Masamune cut his jets, free-falling, looking for a mine-free landing zone that offered some cover. He located a cluster of barricades off to his right, and pushed his mental controls hard to get behind them as he fell. He flared his jets at the last second, landing hard. The missiles overshot him and slammed into the arena wall, exploding just under the jubilant, protected crowd.

  Gorth's squidmech landed on the far side of the central hill, jets glowing from its clawed tentacle tips and a set of main boosters under the central hull pod, and disappeared from Kyuzo's sight. Masamune looked around, evaluating the arenascape.

  His sensors told him his jets needed to cool d
own from the taxing descent from the pits above. He popped a sensor tower over the barricades, saw the coast was clear, and moved out on foot.

  The barricades he left were adjacent to a blinking red minefield. Still on the run towards the center hill, he scooped up a large rock and tossed it into the array of crimson dots. An explosion erupted from the field, sending the stone hurling into the stands. It bounced off the protective fields with a shimmering flash of charged particles. Yup, they were real mines.

  A holographic counter appeared overhead, ticking down to zero. The once-active minefield beside him blinked out, and Masamune found his mech's feet now surrounded by red dots. His jets weren't cool enough to boost out of here, and he froze his armored vehicle in its tracks. An explosion sounded from the far side of the hill, and the crowd roared. Gorth was down a tentacle or two. Good.

  Masamune deployed his mech's autocannon from its left hull hardpoint and engaged the trigger. The rifled cannon chugged two dozen high-velocity shells into the ground, detonating the mines buried between him and the red blinking field's edge. The dust settled, and he stepped on the craters with a few giant strides, leaping the last stretch to clear an undetonated explosive device.

  The network drone cameras orbiting around him shifted to his rear, and his sensors alerted to two more missiles coming in. His battle computer identified them as impalers, armor-piercing with no warhead. They were meant to pin down a target without destroying it. Gorth wanted an in-close kill. Masamune grinned.

  Kyuzo saw his jets were cool enough for a boosted dodge. He laid down a suppressive burst from his autocannon as the missiles bored in on him. The barricades the missiles came from erupted in small puffs as his cannon rounds impacted, and he hammered his jets to the right. The rockets scorched past him, skipping off the arena floor and into the stadium walls.