by Bear Ross
“We find ourselves, how should we say this,” Xenebris said, trying to choose his words carefully, “less than enthusiastic about his selection of subordinates. We know they were all part of the same combat triad, yes, but the conquest of Junctionworld was centuries ago. Surely, there were better choices available?”
Novalos studied his fellow GateLord. He could see where this was leading.
“Are... are you trying to change our bet?” the Sixth GateLord asked.
“Feh, bet,” Xenebris said, sneering. “You call our paltry side wager on Kramer’s death a bet? Why, we could win more, placing a clawful of credits on a back-alley octorat race.”
“You wound our pride with your prattling,” Novalos said, “though we are keen to your transparent manipulations. Very well. We shall double our wager on Mikralos. Actually... triple it. Such is our faith in his ability to oversee the destruction of the last of the Kramers.”
“Triple? We shall take that bet,” Xenebris said, his lights pulsing with delight. “As the Old Code says, 'A fool and his credits are soon parted.' Ah, you shall owe us a magnificent sum when your Mikralos simpleton fails to seal the deal.”
GateLord Novalos summoned a nearby notary drone. Both executive Gatekeepers placed a claw over the small recording surface on top of its dome, sealing their new gambling accord.
“We look forward to taking your credits,” Novalos said. “Pray tell, will you be joining us at the match tonight?”
“The final death match at Berva Proxima arena?” Xenebris said, reeling slightly. “We would not be caught dead in such a dung-pile. Oh, we understand your attendance is necessary, of course, said dung-pile being located in your own Sixth Gate Zone.”
“Well, appearances must be maintained, after all,” Novalos said, “and we know you are oh-so busy with your extensive defense preparations in the Eighth Gate Zone.”
The snide remark about the forbidden zone did not escape Xenebris’s notice, and his chassis wobbled a fraction. Good, Novalos thought, one hopes that found the mark, you arrogant porkbeast.
“Yes, well, we do have certain matters to attend to in the Eighth Gate Zone preparations,” Xenebris said, recovering. “We regret that we must decline your kind invitation. Now, let us return to the main Council chambers. The other members of the Eight will wonder what we are up to.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
SIXTH GATE ZONE
VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS
Jessica Kramer looked up from the palm-projector in her hand. It was more post-fight commentary on Masamune’s latest fight with Gorth at Ferro Fortress arena. Prath stood over her, a warm smile on his face.
“What is it, ape?” she asked.
“Master Vervor and his crew would like to show you something,” Prath said. “They’re still a bit afraid of you, so they sent me to ask you to come over.”
“Fine,” she said, snapping the holographic palm-projector’s clamshell body closed. She followed Prath from the front of the shop back to one of the fabrication bays. As she rounded the stall’s protective wall, the contents of the tall, deep room came into view. She gasped.
Jessica marveled at the massive close combat weapon hanging vertically in the shop’s ready rack. It was far longer than the shop’s hover van. Its dual rows of vicious motorized blades were polished to a mirror shine, and her family’s fighting colors of blue and orange were arranged in slanted hazard stripes along its sides and grip.
Beneath it, the gathered survivors of Vervor’s shop, and Vervor himself, arranged themselves in a pair of ranks, like a military formation.
“You... you guys did that?” she said, awestruck. “For... for me?”
“The counter-rotating blades were a pain to resynchronize after paint and chroming,” Vervor said, “but, yes, Pilot, we did that. For you.”
“Oh... oh, Master Vervor, thank you,” Jessica said, kneeling to hug him. His scales rasped against her jacket.
Vervor's mouth opened in a small gape. He looked at Prath as the human continued to smother him in affection. Prath smiled and shrugged back at the Myoshan. Eventually, she let him go.
“Well... we wanted to honor you for avenging our fallen crew members,” Vervor said, trying to regain his hard-bitten dignity. “Master Prath and Kitos told me what you went through with the Headhunter. It looks pretty, Pilot, but you need to give it a test. Mount up.”
Jessica climbed into her mech, bringing down the thick, clear armored glass. The preliminary boot-up sequence was done before she snapped all her restraint belts in place.
“I still can't get used to your new speed, NoName,” she said.
“Understood, Pilot,” the battle computer said in her headphones. “This Unit can adjust to something more sedate and subtle, if necessary.”
“No, no, Prath and Kitos would kill me,” Jessica said, giving a short laugh as she ran her hands over the controls. “We spent all this time tuning you after the merging and rebuild. I'm just... well, I guess I'm impressed. That's all, NoName.”
“Acknowledged, Pilot,” the Arkathan command module said.
She moved to scoop up the reconditioned chainsword from its place on the rack. Vervor and his crew really had done a beautiful job restoring her brother's old weapon.
She engaged the weapon's dual drives. The two parallel belts of linked blades spun in opposite directions, filling the shop with their lethal scream. I see why Jered liked this thing, she thought. Let's see what it can do.
“Deploy chainsword, NoName,” she said, grasping her controls. Wielding the melee weapon in the testing booth was like fighting in a shower unit, but she would need that. Masamune was going to be deadly, in close, with that claw.
The whirring weapon sliced through the armor test plates like they weren't there, a flurry of sparks and metal chips cascading to the floor, followed by the top halves of the targets. And the target stand. Oops.
She gave the assembled crew below her a thumbs-up through the cockpit glass, a large smile on her face. Prath covered his eyes, shaking his head.
“I should have known,” Master Vervor said.
“Alright, little human, that’s enough,” Prath said into his comm set, “the time is upon us. Power down, and prepare yourself for the match.”
Dusting hot particles of metal from his shoulders, Vervor turned to his assemble crew of Myoshans.
“Get this thing loaded,” Vervor barked, his crew breaking formation in a furious scramble of scales and claws. “We'll clean up that mess later. I want those tamper seals in place, too. This thing doesn't leave your sight. All four eyes, scanning the whole time, front and back, do you understand me? Now, let's get moving.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
FIRST GATE ZONE
MAELSTROM GARDENS HABITATION POD COMPLEX
Master Mech Pilot Masamune Kyuzo made the final adjustments on his prosthetic hand and placed his dark, gleaming pistols, one by one, into their holsters. It was the final part of his pre-match ritual. Now, for the hard part.
He opened the door to the rest of the habitat. His wife was still on the floor of the living room, holding Miko, weeping, calling Kenji's name over and over till her voice was ragged. Little Miko's face was filled with confusion at the state of her mother's agonized cries, and tears streamed down her own round face. Her wails of alarm chorused with the sound of her mother's tortured grief.
Anora heard the door from the back hallway open. She picked herself up, Miko on her hip, and threw herself at Kyuzo as he emerged from the room.
“You... you bring him back here, you hear me?” his wife said through tears. “I don't care what you have to do! I don't care who you have to... I just don't care! You bring our son home, you understand me? You bring Kenji home! Do you understand me? Oh, Gate damn it, Kyu-u-u-zo...”
She collapsed against him, her anguish choking her, and her body shook with sobs. He tried steadying her, trying to choke back the hate and anger inside him. Kyuzo tried to hold his wife, all while touching Miko's crying face. He hugge
d them as hard as he dared, breathing in deep, as if to keep them safe from this place, safe in his arms. He felt a tear glide down his cheek, soaking into his wife’s close-cropped black hair.
He leaned them back, guiding Anora and their baby girl to rest on the living room's couch.
“I will, my love,” Kyuzo said. The words felt cold, empty, coming from his mouth.
“Don’t do this thing,” she said, her eyes red and blood-shot.
“Do what?” he replied, his organic hand clenching into a fist.
“Our boy is on the line,” Anora said, wiping her face and eyes, and then pointing an accusatory finger up at him. “Don’t you pull this cast-iron son-of-a-bitch routine with me. I’ve seen this emotional shutdown dung before.”
Kyuzo’s face flushed. He had tried forestalling this, putting it to the side. She was his lifemate, though, and knew him better than he knew himself. Gate damn it, he thought. Like countless times before, he locked his rage down, channeling his emotions so they could be used instead of consuming him.
“I... I am going out there to save him, Anora,” he said in slow, deliberate tones. “I can’t... let this rattle me. I can’t be distracted. I need to stay... focused.”
“Vent your venting focus, you hear me?” she screamed, standing up to hold him by the shoulders. She dumped their daughter on to the couch, setting off a fresh cascade of wailing from Miko. “You bring Kenji home! You kill anyone standing in the way! You hand the blobs her head, personally, if that means Kenji comes back home!”
He pulled his wife's clawing, grief-wracked hands off his uniform, and kissed her forehead, once and slow.
“I will do what I have to,” Masamune said. “I promise.”
He strode from their habitat, the haunting sound of his son's name echoing in his mind.
Gatekeeper Mikralos's silver grav-yacht waited for him in an adjacent landing area. He walked up the back ramp and took a seat. A Niner crew member offered him a beverage before takeoff.
Kyuzo took the cylindrical refreshment container and crushed it in his prosthetic hand. The red liquid contents ran down his arm, forming a puddle on the interior deck of the luxurious grav-craft. Masamune wiped his wet mechanical palm across the front of the confused Nine’s flight uniform.
“Damn your drink, and damn your master,” Kyuzo said, murder in his eyes. “Get me to the arena. Now."
Chapter Fifty-Four
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
Jessica found her ready room at the arena easy enough, with the help of the arena staff. This wasn't a rushed event, and she had time, perhaps too much time, to think about the upcoming fight.
Unlike her last time here, when it was a cattle call with four fighters and their staffs crowding the place, this was the star treatment. Fruit tray, cold cuts, and holographic flowers. There was even a gift. A package waited for her on the counter in front of the bathroom mirror, a glossy red box with a satin red ribbon tied around it.
“Oh, how nice,” she said aloud, opening the card. “Maybe Mikralos isn't such a dung-sucker, after all.”
“To Fire-Girl,” she read to herself, “You're better without this, but just in case. See you soon. All My Best, Red.”
Setting the card to the side, she opened the box and let out a noise that was a mixture of surprise, joy, and bad memories.
It was a vial of the healing stim-agent from the raid with the Headhunter. It was cool and slick in her hand as she picked it up, its slow-moving liquid contents languishing, back and forth, inside the transparent cylinder.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Holding the vial in one hand, she pulled her Dad's flask from her suit with the other, and glanced at her reflection again.
Prath knocked on the door and stepped into the ready room with one motion. She set the two containers of fluid down, and turned to face him.
“The arena staff are growing impatient, little human, Prath said. “I’m running out of excuses. It’s time. Are you ready? What are those?”
“It’s nothing,” she said, turning from the mirror to face him. “I'm ready, Prath.”
He took her hands in his, his brown eyes looking deep into hers.
“I know you are, love. For Jered,” he said, a tear forming as he said her brother’s name. He wiped it away, but not before she saw it.
“For Jered,” she answered, trying to make her own eyes not well up. “And... thanks, Prath. Really, thank you.”
“For what, little human?” her Ascended friend asked, sniffling.
“You know, for... for putting up with me,” she answered, her voice coming to her in spurts. “I wouldn't be here without you. I owe you. I know I haven’t made it easy, and... I'm sorry, again, about what I said. Before. Back at the shop.”
He looked at her, a puzzled look on his face. He leaned in to smell her breath. She stopped him, then patted his broad chest.
“Hey, easy, ape,” she said in mock protest. “I'll pass the bio-scan, don't worry.”
He smiled, then opened the bag he carried at his side, showing her his folded-up banner tucked inside.
“Mikralos wants to see me,” Prath said.
Jessica scowled at the news.
“Not to worry, love,” Prath said. “I’m sure it’s just some last-minute intimidation. I can handle it. Don’t be troubled. Afterwards, though, I’ll be waving my old fabric sign from the stands.
She relaxed.
“Are you ready to fight?” Prath asked her. “Do you know what you’re fighting for?”
“Yes, ape. For Our Freedom, and Yours,” Jessica Kramer said.
They walked out the ready room's door together, a full vial, and a full flask, still on the countertop.
Time to mount up, she thought.
Chapter Fifty-Five
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
Jessica was almost impressed. Mikralos had splurged on real fireworks for the pilot introductions and opening ceremony. The smoke still hung in the air, the filters of Berva Proxima's aging life support systems straining to keep up with the choking stench of sulfur. Now, it was time for her and NoName to walk out of the gate.
“Ready, Mister Eighty-Seven-Percent?” she asked her Arkathan battle computer.
“This Unit is ready, Pilot,” the voice in her headphones replied.
She avoided looking at her father Solomon’s graven image on the side of the arena entrance gate, concentrating instead on her brother Jered's small commemorative icon.
She held her mech's massive chainsword aloft to the crowd's fanfare, her running lights pulsing as she revved the blades for maximum noise. Blazing curtains of fireworks shot out around the gate as she emerged, the individual armored scales of her canopy armor slamming shut with every step the mech took.
A swarm of tell-tales and target boxes popped up on the interior screen of her armored cockpit, the wrapped interior view relaying what the exterior cameras and sensors saw.
The starting circle beckoned ahead of her. Beyond it, a field of pillars lay before her in a sweeping hexagon pattern, a tall pyramid at its center which blocked a direct shot at the other starting circle.
The segmented cylinders were all about the same height as her mech, about two feet in diameter, and covered the floor of Berva Proxima, from wall to wall, in their vast six-direction array.
“They only use this arrangement for the special matches, huh, NoName?” She asked her mech.
“Correct, Pilot,” NoName answered. “The 'House of Columns' battlefield configuration is costly in terms of set-up and resources, and is rarely utilized.”
“Packed kinda tight together, aren't they?” Jessica said. “I don’t think we can even fit between them without knocking one or both sides down as we move.”
“As intended, Pilot,” NoName said. “Limited distance line of sight, lack of maneuvering room, intended to bring combatants in close proximity. Columns are hard cover, but not anchored. Collapsible. Suggested strategy on
left panel. Opening salvo, indirect fire weaponry. Firing solution loaded.”
Jessica reviewed the vectoring arrows hovering on the holo-screen.
“Yeah, I'll think about it,” she said. “Let's fire it up.”
“Reactor output increased,” NoName reported. “All jets ready.”
“Give the blob his salute,” Jessica Kramer said, “and let's go.”
Masamune Kyuzo watched the introductions fireworks with his own eyes, then closed them. His breathing slowed, and he felt himself slip into the interface with his mech's system. He did not feel the same numbness. Now it was only hate. Hate for the Gatekeepers who had his son, hate at his own feeling of helplessness, and hate for the brat across the arena. Her removal from this game would get Kenji back. So be it, he thought.
There was no flash, no showmanship, as his red and white mech stormed to the starting circle. His battle claw engaged, the dagger-like blades sizzling with plasma. The armored hood descended over his cockpit glass in segments, locking out the light and noise of the crowd. The arena layout didn't matter. The fireworks didn't matter.
The target was on the other side of the forest of columns, and she had to die.
He punched his claw in salute to Mikralos’ viewing bubble, then snapped it back to his side before the Gatekeeper’s lights could flash in response.
He was ready.
Chapter Fifty-Six
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
Gatekeeper Mikralos remembered why he liked watching arena matches alone. Beliphres was an annoying viewing partner, one who seemed to find silence and contemplation intolerable. Mikralos sighed bubbles as the Fifth Zone Recovery Specialist insisted on filling the idle time with mindless chit-chat.