Defiance

by Bear Ross

  Their shattered chassis components and punctured spheres fell, along with a tidal wave of concrete decking, chairs, and the shattered corpses of other spectators, on to the lower stands below. The crowd-level force fields held up, at first, to the titanic assault of cascading rubble and overlord parts. Eventually, they had collapsed under the onslaught.

  There had to be hundreds, maybe thousands dead or injured in the general public seats. The arena's main overhead lights were knocked out, replaced by red emergency illumination that reminded her of when Jered died. Bedlam reigned.

  The arena's internal crew of crash-bots rose from their ringside garages, floating up to assist the bleachers full of panicked wounded and the shredded dead.

  She had more pressing concerns. NoName was missing a hand, a leg, and his main weaponry was inert, toothless after taking a sniper round through the motor. A sizzling trio of plasma blades hovered inches away from her cockpit glass.

  “Yield,” Masamune Kyuzo said, his voice booming over the mech's speakers.

  “No,” she answered, coughing from the smoke and wisps of fire suppressant still wafting through her cockpit.

  “I have you,” Masamune said, his speakers turned up to overcome the raucous pandemonium coming from the arena's wounded and their rescuers. “By the Code, you're mine to end.”

  She pointed NoName's broken chainsword towards the calamity in the stands. Kyuzo followed her mech's outstretched weapon, taking in the disastrous scene. He turned back to her.

  “The gate-damned upper decks just exploded,” Jessica said, her burning neck adding to the viciousness in her words, “along with Mikralos's little bubble and all those Gatekeepers, and you're quoting the venting Code to me? Are you insane?”

  The stone-faced human in the other cockpit gave her no response, his fingers drumming in repetition as he grasped his manual controls. Jessica popped her cockpit glass off with the press of a button, the thick slab of transparent armor ricocheting off a tumbled column. The rush of air was superheated from the proximity of the plasma claw, but cooler than the acrid atmosphere of her buttoned-up, smoldering cockpit.

  She undid her restraints, climbed out of NoName, and stood by her fallen mech. Kyuzo's claw followed her, but did not strike.

  “Well, just don't break into a speech, or anything stupid, you puppet,” Jessica said, her fists balled up at her sides. She threw her helmet to the ground in defiant disgust. “Get it over with. C’mon, assassin, do what they paid you for, already! Give the Gatekeepers their money's worth!”

  She saw his expression change. He mumbled something to himself, then pulled back the plasma claw to strike. She kept her eyes open, staring straight at him. Though she hated the name, she was still a Kramer.

  She would not cower. She would not beg.

  Masamune Kyuzo found himself torn, both literally and figuratively. A sharp, blinding pain from his prosthetic arm's shoulder told him it was probably dislocated. His scanners, those Kramer had not carved off with that damnable blade of hers, showed massive casualties in the stands. There were Gatekeepers among the scores of dead and wounded. It did his heart no good, knowing that his son was still in jeopardy.

  His mech's computer also reported gunshots and energy weapon discharges in the stands. A zoomed-in still frame popped into his head via the neural link, superimposed over his vision. The image showed a Niner, gunning down a fallen Gatekeeper. What the void was this? He thought.

  He shut off the loudspeakers and external microphones of his mech, ending his conversation with the angry girl below.

  He wracked his brains, his will and conscience at war within him. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew who he was. He was a killer, yes, but not a murderer, even with his family threatened.

  The Kramer girl yelled something back up at him. It was just as well that Kyuzo couldn't hear it. She had a knack for enraging him.

  “They have my Kenji,” Kyuzo said, talking to himself as she continued to shout muted defiance. “I have to end you.”

  He tried to move his controls, to pulverize her into meat, straight through the arena's deck plates. He couldn't. Something in him wouldn't let it happen.

  “No. I... I won't be their tool, any longer,” Kyuzo said, his voice cracking as he talked to himself. “Anora, my love, forgive me. I'm... I'm sorry.”

  He powered down the battle claw's plasma feed, and raised his cockpit glass as far as it's damaged hinges would go. Bracing himself, Masamune slammed his shoulder against the side of his cockpit. The dislocated joint popped back into place, the pain fading to almost nothing.

  “It's over, Kramer. We need to leave this place,” Kyuzo called down to Jessica. “The Nines are turning on their masters. I have to find my son before Central Data nukes the entire arena.”

  Jessica gave him a questioning, untrusting look. She turned to the claw cooling above her head, then to the chaos in the stands. Flashes of laser and particle beam impacts shone through the red-tinged distance as Nines emerged from the arena's back hallways, killing everything in sight.

  “Yeah?” Kramer said, suspicion in her voice. “So?”

  “So,” Kyuzo called back, “I have more important things to worry about than you, or the Nines. I need to find my son.”

  From his higher vantage point in the mech's cockpit, Masamune saw Enforcement Directorate drones begin to filter into the colosseum. The aerial bots exchanged fire with the rebelling biotroopers, falling in masses at first, then swarming as their numbers became too great to stop. This was going to go from bad to worse, he thought. Kenji, wherever you are, hold tight.

  Jessica pointed at one of the arena's entrance gates. As she did, his computer superimposed another image over his vision.

  It was a mech hauler with a Myoshan at the controls. Something big and unrecognizable was in the shadows behind it. In the foreground, Kyuzo recognized Vervor, the fabrication shop owner, bearing down on the controls.

  The vehicle's control cab was packed tight, crowded with beings of different biocodes. Half a dozen other Myoshans, an Ascended... and one human juvenile. No, it can't be, he thought, as he pulled his connections from the cockpit interface. Scrambling out of the towering mech's cockpit and down its welded-on ladder rungs, he landed next to the Kramer girl. She gave him a once-over, and he did the same. Their weapons remained holstered, but their retention snaps were undone. Her back and neck were raw and burned, but she still had that ornery look in her eyes.

  Before she could say another one of her irksome remarks, Master Vervor pulled a screaming hook-turn with the mech hauler, the vehicle's archaic spherical tires screeching as it came to a rest next to the two damaged mechs. It was pulling a trailer, an empty armor transporter flatbed.

  Skidding to a stop, the Myoshans techs poured out of the forward compartment, working hard and fast to secure both arena mechs on to the transporter's flatbed. Master Vervor issued commands to them from the cab's open door, urging them to work faster.

  “Master Mech Pilot,” an Ascended's voice called to him over the tumultuous din.

  “Prath!” Kramer yelled, and she started to run towards the tall being as he climbed down from the mech hauler. The orange primate held up a hand, making her pause, then lifted a small bundle down from the cab.

  Kyuzo's heart leaped. It was his boy, Kenji, wrapped in some sort of banner, like a blanket. He nodded to Kramer's crew chief, who returned the gesture.

  Kyuzo wept tears of joy as he ran to embrace his son. He took him in his arms, trying to breathe him in, to never let him go.

  “Daddy, I lost my shoe,” the boy said, struggling under the crushing, loving embrace of his father.

  After his eyes cleared, Kyuzo tried to regain his composure. It didn't happen. The cast-iron Desecrator couldn't contain his emotions, and held his boy close.

  “Oh, I'm glad you're alive,” Kyuzo said, examining the boy from head to toe. Bruises, scratches... and a missing shoe. Anora was not going to be happy about that one, he thought to himself,
giddy with relief.

  Masamune turned to the Ascended, who was now holding Jessica in a hug.

  “How... how did you find him?” Kyuzo asked the Ascended.

  “We had help,” Prath said, pointing back to the area where the vehicle stormed through the gates. The tunnel led back to the arena's mech pits and back hallways. A distant red and silver power claw waved back to Prath. The brutal weapon was attached to a shapeless shadow that remained just out of sight. Kyuzo tried to rub the tears from his eyes, to get a better look, but the shadow blurred and bolted from sight.

  “Dad, dad, I saw a guy's arm get chopped off!” young Kenji exclaimed, eager to impress his father. “And there was this big sniper rifle, and the guy stole me from the learning center, and—”

  “Both mechs are loaded,” Vervor said, interrupting the young boy. “We need to go, before those drones turn on us. Get into the hauler, you blubbering mammals.”

  Masamune loaded his son on to his lap, and sat in front with Vervor.

  The crew of Myoshans piled back into the cab of the mech mover. It reminded him of archived circus footage from his youth, of a dozen painted entertainers all trying to squeeze into a ridiculously undersized wheel-car.

  “Everybeing exhale,” Prath said as the bodies crunched together. Kyuzo found himself with Myoshan scales from some tech rubbing on his arm. Kramer was pressed up against his other arm. The two mech pilots exchanged stares. Kramer lost the contest, and broke into a grin.

  “So, how does this go down for our stats?” she asked, smirking. “Do we call this a draw?”

  A pain in the rump till the end, Kyuzo thought.

  “'Match called on account of external interference,' Kramer,” Kyuzo said, smirking back. “We'll need to schedule a rematch with Mikralos, if the blob's still alive.”

  “Yeah, don't bet on it,” she said, surveying the carnage of the arena's spectator area, and the fresh firefights breaking out between the two factions of Gatekeeper servants.

  “Can we go get my shoe?” Kenji asked, squirming to get a better view through the hauler's front view-ports.

  “Everybeing, hold on tight,” Master Vervor said, his claws gripping the burdened vehicle's controls, urging its encumbered mass towards the exit. The arena's stands blazed with explosions and gunfire as they approached the tunnel entrance. A cluster of drones broke off, their angry red sensors targeting the vehicle.

  Before Kyuzo could block Kenji's body with his own, the drones pulled off, re-engaging the standard and Recyke Nines in the debris-choked stands.

  Masamune swore he saw Mikralos's protective sphere and chassis, just before they punched through the gate into the pits.

  BERVA PROXIMA MECH MAINTENANCE PITS

  From his vantage point in the arena's mech pits, The Headhunter kept watch as Master Vervor's lumbering vehicle moved like a skinwing out of the void to make it to the two broken mechs.

  His sensors could see Masamune Kyuzo run to embrace his little boy, Kenji. A good kid, that Kenji, the Headhunter thought.

  The red cyborg smiled to himself as the touching reunion unfolded. Prath pointed back to him in the tunnel, and he waved a claw in acknowledgment.

  An explosion sounded overhead, causing a small cluster of rubble and dust to fall down on his shielded skull.

  “Yeesh, things are getting rambunctious, up there,” he said. He gave a command to his hull-body. A wedge-like combat helmet unfolded and deployed over his exposed cranium. He liked this bit of armor, but rarely had a chance to use it. It was going to see some use, today, for sure.

  “Red Actual to all units,” he said over his comm link, “provide cover fire, as necessary, for the mech transport. I want it out of here.”

  “Now, who has eyes on Beliphres?” the warlord said. “Give me a vector.”

  ARENA CONTROL ROOM

  Gatekeeper Dionoles knew he should have stayed and watched the match in his casino's sports book area.

  After the explosion, the Nines of the arena staff acted like crazed insects defending their hive, attacking everything in sight.

  The bioprinted troopers were everywhere, nipping and sniping, hacking and dying. The entire ordeal was senseless to Dionoles.

  Was this some design flaw in the latest batch? We have always treated them so well. Why would they act in such a puzzling manner? We will have to consult with our old colleagues in Biological Combat Resources, he thought.

  He recoiled as a charged particle cannon painted his spherical shields in a spectrum of colors, the radiant light curving all around him. Dionoles shot randomly towards the direction of the incoming fire with his new plasma cannon, then diverted down another hallway. The back corridors of Berva Proxima were a maze to the panicked Gatekeeper, and he hustled and hovered as best he could to stay away from the echoing sounds of conflict.

  Turning a corner, he screamed when he saw a shadow in the dark. He calmed down when he found the shape was a familiar chassis.

  “Oh, Gates preserve us,” Dionoles said, “Beliphres, you survived!”

  “Give us room, Dionoles, you abject worm,” Beliphres said, snarling at him. “Can you not see we are engaged in a firefight?”

  Grenades and armor-piercing projectiles spattered off Beliphres's hull, deflected by his heavy plating and shields. The Fifth Gate Zone Recovery Specialist returned fire with a plasma cannon, its heavy energy bolts shredding targets when they presented themselves, even through their Nine-portable shielding.

  Dionoles saw, from a sign on the wall, that Beliphres was shooting back into the arena control room. The remaining staff of Nines in arena control charged, hurling grenades in the enclosed space that did more damage to them than the Gatekeepers.

  “The Nines!” Dionoles said. “They have gone mad. Why are they doing this?”

  “Do not question their motives, you gutless fool,” Beliphres said. “Kill first, contemplate later!”

  Uniformed members of the arena’s security staff, all armed like interdimensional combat strike units, joined their printed comrades in the direct assault on Beliphres. These are not regular underlings. This must not be a spontaneous reaction to the explosives above, Dionoles thought. It must have been coordinated. Oh. Oh, dear.

  A Recyke Nine rounded the corner and leaped at the two of them, a satchel charge held above his head. Dionoles screamed at the sight of the brute. Beliphres’s large battle claw snatched the Recyke in mid-air, snapping the trooper’s neck with a flick. The Gatekeeper threw the Recyke’s body and explosives back around the corner. The detonation sent a cascade of body parts and concrete flying back into the hall.

  “Make yourself useful, casino keeper,” Beliphres said, firing down the dark hallway, “and summon assistance from the Council! Our comms are jammed.”

  A rocket propelled grenade bounced off Dionoles's hull. The hallway filled with dust and rubble from the deflected explosion. The glancing blow, combined with the realization that a rebellion was happening around him, caused him to ground his chassis and maximize his shielding.

  “We... we did not know...” Dionoles said, feeling the fear from years ago return to his bones. “Nines... turning on us... no...”

  Beliphres wheeled his plasma cannons on the Celestial Kingdom operator.

  “Do not think you can pull this stunt again, Dionoles!” Beliphres yelled at him. “You are needed! Come, join the fight, or we shall rip you to pieces ourselves!”

  The shuddering Gatekeeper used his manipulator claws to pull himself back behind a fallen section of wall, trying to put it between him and the fight. A rocket rang off Beliphres's armored bubble, causing Dionoles to flinch.

  Beliphres turned one plasma cannon back to the source of the attack, and opened fire with the energy weapon's muzzle at full dilation. A scorching river of plasma filled the hallway.

  Something waded upstream through the torrent of star-hot energized gas. Something big.

  An armored figure now filled the corridor, its wicked mass covered with various claws, saws
, and weapon barrels. Dionoles wanted to soil himself as he recognized his old creation: Special Command Prototype Eight-Dash-Six. The Headhunter.

  “Beliphres!” the red cyborg said from behind a combat helmet. “Well, this is a day for surprises, isn't it? No, no, don't move. Here, hold still...”

  The Headhunter slammed a massive serrated claw through the front of Beliphres's chassis, impaling the Gatekeeper to the floor. Beliphres continued to torch the Headhunter with one plasma cannon, then brought the other up to join the fight. The contact-close energy blasts had no effect. Beliphres’s large claw deployed again. The Headhunter caught the heavy manipulator in mid-strike. He ripped the rugged weapon from its tentacle mount, throwing it behind him down the hall.

  “Abomination! No! No!” Beliphres screamed.

  “Bel, Bel, Bel,” the Headhunter said. “That's no way to talk to an old friend. You're half the reason I put on this whole show, you know. Seriously, though, you should have stayed on your side of the line, Beliphres. Now, I have to add you to my collection.”

  The red titan went to work, tearing Beliphres's chassis apart as the Recovery Specialist continued to howl.

  While the rogue centurion took his time in extracting Beliphres from his carapace, Dionoles's claws quietly, calmly pulled down sections of the wall around him, forming a cocoon of rubble. The casino operator powered down his chassis, trying to merge with the debris that hid him, whispering silent prayers into his life support fluid.

  The prolonged pleas and screams of Beliphres being severed from his conveyance’s support lines overwhelmed Dionoles. The cowering Gatekeeper shut his external microphones off, covering his organic ears with his flabby, stunted limbs.

  Maybe the red monstrosity wouldn't notice him.

  Maybe it would move on.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  BERVA PROXIMA ARENA

  UPPER DECKS

  Rubble and flames covered Mikralos's peripheral field of vision. His chassis responded to various diagnostic checks, but not all. Pandemonium and painful screams overloaded his external microphones. This is not good, he thought.