Defiance

by Bear Ross

  “I'm not going to lay behind a rifle in a puddle of your fluids, mammal,” the Shasarr cyborg said. “You'd better hold it.”

  The boy's pleading eyes told him that was not going to happen.

  “Fine. Gate damn it,” Skreeb said. “Let's get this over with. Now, look at me. I undo your gag, we go to the restroom, you do your thing, we come back. Anything other than that, and I hurt you, and your mom, and your little sister, I save for last. Do you understand that?”

  The child nodded.

  “C'mon, let's go,” Skreeb said, undoing the thing’s bonds. “Quickly.”

  Prath made his way to the restroom. His aging bladder demanded he visit the facilities, and just at the worst possible time. Jessica looked like she was about to enter into close combat with that gorgeous chainsword. A thing of beauty, that weapon, he thought.

  A reptilian cyborg knocked into Prath as he entered into the lavatory, putting a stiff shoulder into the tall ape’s chest.

  “Watch where you're going, Ascended,” the Shasarr said.

  “I beg your pardon, Master Shasarr,” Prath said. “It’s an invigorating match. I must have been lost in thought.”

  He noticed the small being next to the cyborg, and furrowed a brow. It was a boy. A human boy. The reptilian had a hard claw-grip on its shoulder, and the lad was missing a shoe. Alarms went off in the Ascended’s head. Something’s wrong, here.

  Prath turned, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Are... are you lost, too, little human?” Prath asked the boy.

  “Mind your own business, monkey,” the reptilian being said.

  “No, you didn't just say that,” Prath said in quiet disbelief, his fangs showing slightly. “Anything, but that.”

  “Oh, I did,” the Shasarr said, baring his own fangs. “Now, vent off, or I burn you down. This doesn’t concern you. Walk away.” The muzzle of a laser carbine jutted from the hostile being’s long coat.

  Prath put his hands up, looking away. He watched the pair through the corner of his eye. They walked down the hallway and disappeared behind a corner. Prath ran back to the elevator, mashing the call button to return to Mikralos's viewing pod. Perhaps the two Ninety-Nine bodyguards could help, he thought.

  The elevator lobby was around the next corner. He stopped short after he made the turn. The hallway was full of red cyborg.

  “Master Ascended, what a pleasant surprise!” the Headhunter said. “Say, you wouldn't happen to have seen a Shasarr around here, would you? Scaly, two metal eyes, foul disposition?”

  “Actually, Centurion and Warlord, I have,” Prath said. “A most disagreeable fellow. Follow me, if you please.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  BERVA PROXIMA ARENA

  MAIN PERFORMANCE FLOOR

  Masamune Kyuzo could tell Kramer was close. Masamune's external microphones heard the machine noise of her mech thrashing through the nearby columns. Good.

  “Masamune!” Kramer’s voice called over her mech’s distant speakers. “Enough hide and seek. Pop your lid and come out swinging. Come out and face me, Desecrator!”

  A grin crossed his face. The plasma from his reactor coursed through the claw. Opening his natural eyes for a second, he slammed the retraction button for his cockpit armor, overriding his protesting control module.

  “Agreed, Kramer,” he said over his own loudspeakers, plasma now coursing through the battle claw.

  Time to end this.

  MIKRALOS’S VIEWING POD

  Mikralos frowned at the screens that surrounded his main viewing portal.

  “Why are all these interior cameras out?” the Gatekeeper asked aloud.

  He pulsed a communication summons to his bodyguards. There was no response. Strange, he thought.

  “They are both about to go into close combat mode,” Beliphres said, paying Mikralos no mind. “Excellent. We shall signal Skreeb.”

  “Beliphres, we bid you make your way to the main arena control room,” Mikralos said, ignoring the match and its foregone conclusion. “There seems to be a glitch in the feeds to the networks at Central Data, and we do not wish technical difficulties to interfere with the plan.”

  “Now, when the match is about end?” Beliphres asked, annoyed at the request.

  “Who better to ensure the plan is properly executed?” Mikralos said. “Yes, now.”

  MAIN PERFORMANCE FLOOR

  Jessica’s sensors could see the columns tumbling a short distance away, right where NoName figured Masamune would be, falling in a circular pattern. The arena air was thick with dust from the pulverized cylinders, making direct-fire targeting imprecise. Not that she needed her cannon’s sights for what she had planned.

  “How sweet,” Jessica said. “He's clearing a playing field.”

  “Chainsword close combat weapon reports ready, Pilot,” NoName said.

  “Pull the blast shields back, NoName,” Jessica said.

  “Not advised, Pilot,” the battle computer said.

  “I’m not asking,” she said. “Do it.”

  The protective carapace over her cockpit whirred and hummed as NoName’s manipulator gauntlet grasped the chainsword’s handle. The internal digital screens flickered away as the lights of the arena shone through the clear armored glass.

  The lethal weapon spooled up, its dual bands of opposing chain-blades screaming as they reached maximum cutting speed. Gates, that’s nice, she thought.

  “Circle around and give me max boost,” Jessica Kramer said. “Keep that chunk of concrete handy. Time for a surprise.”

  UPPER DECKS

  Skreeb cursed as his personal comm chimed. The match was just hitting its stride.

  He answered the comm, and the image of Beliphres’s face appeared.

  “Ah, Skreeb, there you are,” the Gatekeeper said. “Something seems to be interfering with the signal. The time has come to utilize your talents. The target needs to begin suffering malfunctions in her equipment. Surgical, but not too obvious. Engage.”

  “You got it, boss,” Skreeb said.

  The floating, distorted hologram of Beliphres disappeared. Skreeb looked at Masamune's child in the corner, the damn thing finally quiet after crying itself to sleep once again. The rifle was going to wake it up. No matter.

  The armor-piercing cartridge was longer than a beer bottle, a nasty combination of depleted uranium, incendiary agent, and explosive. He pushed the bolt handle forward and down, feeding a cartridge from the magazine and locking it into the breach of the large rifle.

  He brought the weapon up and tight into his shoulder, his eye cameras interfacing with the scope via a short cable. He took a puff from his arm, held it, then let it filter through his gills, his clawed finger on the trigger.

  MAIN PERFORMANCE FLOOR

  Masamune Kyuzo’s claw was blazing and ready, though the Kramer girl had not yet emerged into view. The noise of the chainsword faded, then grew stronger. He realized, too late, the masking effect caused by the array of standing columns and smeared cloud of dust. His sensors picked up something big and fast on his flank.

  He was facing the wrong way.

  Kyuzo started to turn. Jessica Kramer's mech arched high over a row of pillars, its legs wreathed in flame as it hurtled in on flaring jets. One of the mech's hands was full of double-bladed, saw-toothed death. The other was strangely empty.

  Had Masamune’s real eyes been open, he might have seen it coming. The thrown piece of column rubble didn't register with his sensors until the last moment, and he tried, too late, to deflect the hurled debris. It thundered off his mech’s armored windshield moments before Kramer’s mech landed on his shoulders, that gate-awful chainsword screaming and swinging towards his head.

  The massive impact hammered Kyuzo against the side of his cockpit. Concussed, he blacked out for an instant.

  UPPER DECKS

  Skreeb saw the target was jet-propelled and airborne. He had to lead her in the scope’s crosshairs. As she landed on the other mech, he applied press
ure to the trigger.

  The heavy rifle slammed back into his shoulder.

  MAIN PERFORMANCE FLOOR

  Jessica Kramer literally had the jump on the bastard.

  It worked, she thought. Death from above!

  Soaring through the air, she was close enough to see Masamune’s eyes were still closed in his control trance. At the top of her arc, she let the piece of concrete fly, and followed it in, her chainsword eager to carve Kyuzo to pieces.

  NoName’s heavy feet slammed into the top of the Desecrator’s hull, and she brought Jered's chainsword down like a cleaver. Too late, Masamune attempted to bring his claw up, trying to parry, to deflect the killing stroke.

  The swing of Kramer’s roaring weapon struck first, but Masamune’s last-second block altered its cutting path. It bit and tore through the red and white mech’s shoulder, shredding Masamune’s laser cannon to bits.

  Just as her chainsword struck, Jessica’s cockpit rang like a bell. A shower of sparks flowed across her back and neck, causing her to writhe in pain. A thick hole now appeared in one of her consoles.

  She looked back at the crazed, fractured glass of her cockpit up and behind her, her eyes stinging from the smoke.

  “NoName, what the void was that?” Jessica shouted to her computer.

  “No time,” the Arkathan control module said. “Evade, Pilot.”

  Jessica engaged her jets, trying to leap off the dazed enemy mech. Masamune's plasma-charged claw found through her mech's left leg, skewering it through the knee and thigh. The other, regular arm was coming up, trying to hold her in place for another horrific strike. Her chainsword came down again, severing the non-claw arm at the elbow. The sizzling blades in her leg twisted, and something gave. She was falling. Another loud noise clanged off the laser-damaged shoulder where her indirect fire cannon used to be.

  Was... was that a gunshot? she thought.

  “Max jets!” Jessica yelled.

  The ground rushed up to her, and she hit hard. The tumble turned into a rolling bounce as the jets kicked in too late. She slammed against her restraints, the cracks in her cockpit glass spreading from the impact.

  “Where is he? Get us upright,” Jessica said. “Kick his legs out from under him, NoName!”

  “Left leg gone, pilot,” the computer said. “Target mech is out of range.”

  “Chop him, then!” she said, her eyes stinging from the smoke. “He’s coming right at us!”

  A small fire started in the cockpit from whatever hit her, and she instinctively reached for the small fire extinguisher at her side.

  “In process,” NoName said. “Stand by.”

  “Well, damn it,” she said, spraying the fire suppressant on her console and the back of her neck, “you’d better come up with something quick.”

  “Stand by,” the computer repeated.

  Jessica worked the controls as best she could, trying to move her mech backwards with short kicks from the good leg. One hand kept the sword at the ready, the other was pulling her along, handfuls of distance at a time.

  Masamune’s red and white mech staggered and stumbled towards her, its wounded and punch-drunk pilot barely maintaining control of his broken machine.

  Jessica cursed as Masamune Kyuzo opened his natural eyes, his auxiliary controls emerging from his cockpit. NoName flashed a strategy on an undamaged console display, and prompted her to fire her remaining leg jets.

  As Jessica started to recover, Masamune blinked, trying to drive the pounding pain in his head away. Before she could create any distance, the Desecrator pounced, hoping to drive that claw home before that her chainsword could come into play. She swung the machine blade, trying to skewer him as he leaped upon her.

  Another shot rang out from the upper decks of the arena. The motors of Jessica's chainsword sparked, and the disrupted belt shed hooked triangles as the mechanism seized and flew apart. The long, inert body of the weapon smacked against Masamune's charging armored chassis, denting it when it should have torn through it. Aw, void.

  The Desecrator’s battle claw came down, long trails of plasma arcing behind it. She tried to block the claw with her empty hand, to kick with her remaining leg. The empty gauntlet stopped the attack, but it flew apart as the claw diced it to pieces. Glowing chunks of her mech’s forearm and fingers impacted on her cockpit.

  Masamune roared, slamming his controls forward. He reared back for another strike.

  There was a flash and explosion from up above them, and everything turned to madness.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  BERVA PROXIMA ARENA

  UPPER DECKS

  Prath and the Headhunter were in the right hallway. The shot came from somewhere down this corridor, Prath was sure of it. The sound of a second shot boomed through the building, and the mismatched pair of beings found themselves at the offending door.

  The Headhunter's lethal mass filled the hallway, a heavy plasma cannon and rotary gatling charged and spinning on separate weapon arms.

  “I beg your pardon, Centurion,” Prath said.

  “Oh, yes?” the Headhunter said, pausing. “What is it, Master Prath?”

  “I believe there's a child in there with him,” Prath said. “Perhaps...” Prath motioned at the charged anti-tank weaponry.

  The cyborg grinned.

  “Oh, sure, of course,” the bionic titan said. “Well, just let me adjust this... tuck this away... and, here we go.”

  The Headhunter’s large set of vibroclaws parted the door, piercing through the thick metal. A muffled scream came from inside the room. The red monstrosity wedged his upper body through the constraining door frame, the sinewy metallic titan squirming to get the proper reach into the enclosed space.

  Prath heard a laser carbine sizzle, then cut short.

  “Hey, Skreeb! Fancy meeting you here,” the Headhunter said to the room’s occupant. “Wow, I never figured you for a sports fan. Oops, sorry about the arm.”

  The warlord pulled back out of the room, a set of his smaller limbs holding a bewildered Masamune Kenji.

  “Master Prath, will you hold on to this little guy, here?” the Headhunter said. “Oh, look at the time, too. Make sure you two cover your ears. I just have to attend to one more thing.”

  The cyborg stretched back through the door, leading with his large set of claws, his voice muffled again.

  “I have the perfect spot on my wall picked out for you, Skreeb,” the Headhunter said. “Here, hold still, this won't hurt a bit.”

  364-t had always considered himself a loyal servant to his master, Mikralos. The performance of vicious, dangerous, and demeaning acts, with insults and abuse as his only reward, was a natural part of his existence.

  It did not matter. These things were what he was printed to do. He was a Model Ninety-Nine, created to serve, obey, and, if need be, die for his betters, the Gatekeepers.

  Today, at Berva Proxima arena, that would all change. If the Headhunter’s plan held true, his life would end. His death would be of his own choosing, though, and would help bring about the eventual downfall of his so-called superiors. Today was a day he had looked forward to his entire life.

  He looked at his long-time guardian partner, 364-v. The two of them turned their black eyes to the arena’s luxury gallery, its shielded deck full of visiting Gatekeepers.

  It was an impressive collection. -T counted at least three dozen of them, all yearning for spectacular viewing spot for the death of the last Kramer, or to at least be able to say they were there when it happened. It was a status symbol among their kind.

  There was even a GateLord, Novalos, among them. None were accompanied by their own Nines, nor were the normal set of paranoid security protocols enforced. To do so in the house of another Gatekeeper was considered rude, and a violation of the Old Code.

  The overbeings gossiped and bragged amongst themselves, boasting of their latest intrigues and schemes, their conquests and purchases. Their blatant disinterest in the life-and-death contest below
them, and their ignorance of the fate about to befall them, was a microcosm of their entire rule of this place.

  A scarred Model Nine trooper approached the armored bodyguard.

  “Greet. Demo set,” said the Recyke Nine. He was one of the Headhunter’s personal guard, but wore a Berva Proxima security staff uniform.

  “Acknowledged,” 364-t said. “Pull all remaining forces back to staging areas. Prepare weaponry. Brace and cover.”

  364-t watched the overdue-for-recycling trooper leave at a brisk pace.

  His partner, 364-v, his brother and friend from the time they both emerged from the bio-printers, handed him a detonator.

  “Selfsame honored, conduct one last op,” 364-t said to his fellow bodyguard.

  “Selfsame cog likewise,” 364-v said, placing a hand on his batch-mate’s shoulder. “The Headhunter is The Future”

  “The Headhunter is The Way,” 364-t replied.

  The arena’s crowds roared as something spectacular happened on the killing floor below. The match’s final blow was about to be struck. Even the chattiest of the Gatekeepers paused their conversations to watch what was happening.

  364-t pressed the button in his hand.

  The plasma charges set throughout Mikralos's viewing chamber and the elite seats around them exploded.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  BERVA PROXIMA ARENA

  MAIN PERFORMANCE FLOOR

  Jessica Kramer didn’t feel the killing blow strike after the blinding flash and its accompanying shockwave. Instead, her neck burned and her eyes stung. She still felt pain, so she must be alive. She opened her eyes.

  It was raining Gatekeepers.