by Bear Ross
Kramer? Was the Kramer spawn dead? Had the plan worked? He recalled pressing himself up against the glass of his viewing pod, urging the Master Mech Pilot Masamune Kyuzo to deliver the killing blow, when... when something happened. Something rather sudden. And, now, here he was, half-buried under concrete and shattered debris. And why did he hear gunfire?
He raised a claw. That still worked.
An arena crashbot chirped at him, then pulled him out from under the fractured pieces of arena. Mikralos looked around. He was in a collapsed segment of the general population stands, hundreds of feet below his normal station. Dead, crushed beings surrounded him, some common, some his fellow Gatekeepers.
He looked up, squinting against the red emergency lighting. The upper luxury decks and his private viewing sanctuary were a giant, smoking hole.
Dust and the choked screams of the wounded filled the air. Also, confirming his earlier suspicion, gunshots. The curt sizzling of lasers. Cannon fire and explosions erupted from the back hallways of his beloved Berva Proxima. The Gatekeeper’s world had gone mad.
Mikralos looked next to the arena floor. Both damaged mechs were powered down, their cockpits open. Neither control center was smashed or bathed in blood. Kramer and Masamune were actually loading their walkers on to a heavy hauler with the help of a group of Myoshans. Vervor, he thought. Damnation.
Enforcement Directorate drones, their emergency lights flashing, poured in through the pedestrian entrances by the dozens, then the hundreds. The uniformed members of his own gate-damned security staff engaged the aerial bots with weapons, trading high-explosive shells, lasers, and even particle beams amid the wreckage and bodies. The printed troopers were tough, but they were losing. The drones and their overwhelming numbers began to slaughter the Nines.
Mikralos spotted GateLord Novalos, his own special guest of honor, lifeless and broken in the rubble. Novalos's shattered carrier chassis lay still, his life support bubble only half-full, draining from a scorched hole. There was not much left of the Sixth Gate Zone overlord. The Council of Eight would not be happy.
A burst of fire stitched across his position. The crashbot which pulled him from the wreckage exploded as armor-piercing rounds drilled through its thin hull. He was exposed, here.
The Myoshan crew were done piling the two mechs on to the heavy carrier. The massive vehicle was now headed straight towards him, trying to make its way into the mech pits below the stands.
There was not enough time to make his way to his heavy battle chassis, to suit up in his conqueror armor. If he didn’t contain this uprising soon, Central Data would paste a clawful of pressure nukes on his arena’s roof. Kramer would have to wait, he thought. Double damnation.
Mikralos seized control of the nearest dozen aerial Enforcement drones. With a thought, he rearranged them into a protective screen, their hulls providing a barrier between him and incoming fire from the rogue Nines. He unleashed a plasma blast at a nearby pile of rubble, killing a weapons team of Nines, along with the dozen wounded civilians around it. His aerial guard poured laser fire into anything that moved, cutting a swath through rebel and survivor alike.
Mikralos had to escape this slaughterhouse. He had to coordinate the recovery and counter-insurgency efforts, and he couldn't do that if he was a burnt smear inside his bubble like that pompous fool, Novalos.
This was not how the plan was supposed to have worked, but perhaps something good would come of this. He might still be able to snatch victory from the mandibles of defeat. His ambitions would have to wait, though. First, he had to kill every last one of these rebellious Nines.
BERVA PROXIMA LOADING DOCKS
Blues kept his pistol drawn, and stayed out of sight. The drones were now killing Nines indiscriminately, no questions asked. He nailed three, so far, but his normal load-out did not involve multiple spare magazines full of ammunition. Discretion would have to be the better part of valor.
Another flight of drones appeared, cruising by the loading docks, checking the digital permitting for the Headhunter’s large armored transport. When its ident code failed to correspond to any known Enforcement Directorate database, the drones paused their patrol, encircling the black, armored hulk.
Two bots floated into the open rear hatch, scanning the contents of the warlord’s transport vehicle. When they concluded their search, they joined the rest of the drones in a floating perimeter around the craft.
Blues, heavily outnumbered, stayed in cover, unwilling to move or breathe.
The Model Ninety-Nine heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind him. The giant being known as ‘The Future, The Way’ made his tired way down the hallway. It was the same entrance through which the red titan had sprinted earlier, scouring the walls clean. Now, he looked fatigued, run down, his armor scorched by multiple plasma strikes.
Nolo, the Headhunter’s adjutant, was by his side. The crime lord's chief of staff juggled his tablet, and a sack full of decapitated heads.
Before Blues could sound a warning, the aerial patrol drones turned as one as the cyborg came into sensor range. They charged through the air at the Headhunter, their lasers hissing death.
The crimson nightmare held up a weapon arm, blocking the beams from his shielded head. Quick bursts from a pair of rotary cannons knocked the swarm of drones from the air before Blues or Nolo could raise their pistols.
“Hey, Blues,” the Headhunter said to the rebel drone technician. He sounded sleepy.
“Greet,” Blues answered. “Multiple drones likely inbound, boss. Suggest exfil.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” the Headhunter said, exhaustion in his voice. He motioned to his armored transport. “Me and Nolo are going to get in the old brick, there, and take off. I think we’ve done all we can, here. You want a ride?”
“Affirm,” Blues said. The Ninety-Nine noticed a spherical object grasped in one of the Headhunter’s larger claws. It was a Gatekeeper, carved from his carapace.
They loaded on the transport. The Headhunter slumped heavily on his charging rack. Nolo took the controls up front. Blues sat in the back of the transport, across from the abducted overbeing, who was secured to the wall with a section of cargo netting.
The Ninety-Nine spent the trip back to the Headhunter’s lair trying to avoid eye contact with Beliphres, who continued to listlessly beat his flippers against the side of his armored life support bubble.
Chapter Sixty-Five
SIXTH GATE ZONE
VERVOR'S FABRICATION WORKS
Jessica Kramer used her pistol’s muzzle to pull down the blinds, peeking through the gap to see if there was any traffic outside of Vervor’s shop. Nothing. Still.
“Jessica, love, what are you doing?” Prath asked, not looking up from his news hologram.
“Those Gatekeepers are going to come and get us, ape,” she said, “any minute now. I know you said not to worry, but I just have a bad feeling. Something's not right.”
“We’ve already been over this, human,” Vervor said, clacking his fangs. “The Gatekeepers won’t attack you openly, now. They can't. You’ve shamed them, according to their Old Code. Their... protocol, their contractual honor, demands that they can’t openly move against you. It would be seen as an admission of weakness, to them, and possibly endanger their hold on this entire place. Just like they can’t acknowledge the Headhunter’s existence, or his involvement at Berva Proxima. Don't worry. They’ll come up with some cover story. They always do.”
“You’re sure?” Jessica asked. “Better yet, how can you be sure?”
Vervor crossed his arms and sighed, his jaw and fangs jutting out with impatience.
“Their code hamstrings them,” the Myoshan said. “They still have you in their sights, but you’ve forced them to regroup. Besides, rumor has it they have more serious problems on their nubby little hands. Your red friend seems to represent a much larger problem for them, and their control over the Nines. Well, the ones who weren’t butchered, wholesale, at the arena, an
yway. The Gatekeepers will be more worried about him than you or the Desecrator.”
“The Centurion and Warlord did as much as one can, without starting an all-out war,” Prath said, nodding to Vervor. “Like Master Vervor explained, the Gatekeepers will still be gunning for you, little human, but they’ll have to pick another path for their operations of vendetta. You’ll still have to keep your guard up, when things settle down.”
“Great,” Jessica said, holstering her revolver and sitting down in a shot-up chair. Jessica put her new red boots up on a workbench and poked a playful finger at Vervor.
“I looked up that choovah thing, you know,” Jessica said, giving the Myoshan a sly smile. “I am not a foul-tempered, six-legged mammal from your home planet that fights horn-snakes in their own burrows.”
“Of course, you aren't, Pilot, don't be silly,” Vervor said. “As anyone can plainly see, you only have two legs, and there are no stripes in your fur.”
The three of them shared a smile at the Myoshan's deadpan remark.
“Ugh,” Jessica said, trying not to scratch the spray-skin on the back of her neck and shoulders. “The burns suck. My head is still ringing from that match, Prath, and my back aches. I think it was that last tumble off Masamune's shoulders.”
“It was quite a fall, love,” Prath said, reading his news hologram.
“I commed him yesterday, I don't know if I told you,” Jessica said, turning in her chair to Prath.
“Did you?” Prath said, now looking up with interest. “How is our Master Mech Pilot friend doing? He disappeared with his son as soon as we unloaded his mech from the flatbed. I didn't have a chance to say good-bye to him or the boy.”
“He told me he spent the entire day soaking in a hot bath,” Jessica said. “He says he's not going into hiding, either. He's like you two, and thinks the Code will protect him. I don't buy it. I think he hit his head too hard against the inside of his cockpit. I guess I really rattled him hard with that last jump maneuver.”
“Yes, well,” Vervor said, “I must admit, it was an artful move. Too bad about the sniper ruining it. The Headhunter took care of the shooter, though. He showed me the head, along with another round bauble he had.”
“Whoa, Vervor, back up,” Jessica said, surprise on her face. “Did... did you just pay me a compliment? You?”
Vervor shrugged, and limped over to see what Kitos was working on. Jessica watched the Myoshan peer over the Niff's shoulder. Kitos had the NoName module on the test bench, with several of the new Arkathan strings of circuitry protruding from it.
“Hey, Niff, what are you doing, anyway?” Jessica Kramer said, adjusting her pistol. Her whole body was sore from the beating in the arena, and her new boots from the Third Gate mall pinched on the outside of her toes. They still looked good, though.
“Circuits still require examination, Pilot,” Kitos said. “I-I want to salvage as much as possible from damaged chassis. Have ideas for new, integrated circuits, if nodes can be convinced to grow new pathways.”
“If you can jump-start some sort of production method, Kitos,” Prath said, “you stand a good chance of becoming a very rich being. That Arkathan circuitry is worth its weight in the precious metal of your choice.”
“Well, we're going to need some sort of revenue source,” Vervor said, grumbling. “This shop doesn't run on hopes and dreams. The bills, payoffs, and taxes still need to be paid. My income stream from the Gatekeepers is most likely reduced to nothing, thanks to you two.”
“Got ya covered, Vervor,” Jessica said, holding up the credit-stick the Headhunter gave her. “Two hundred grand should get us by for a while.”
“Hmmph,” Vervor snorted. “Well, it will have to do, for now.”
“Jessica, love, where did you—” Prath tried to ask.
“You don't want to know, Prath,” Jessica said.
“No, after all this, I probably don't,” the Ascended said.
“Well, I don't know about any long-term plans you two have,” Jessica said. “but I think Kyuzo had the right idea. I'm going to head back to my hab-pod, pay some extra credits for a hot bath, and have a good soak. Maybe drink something cold, too, while I'm at it.”
“Are you trying to talk yourself into a beer, love?” Prath said, looking over his reading glasses.
“Maybe,” Jessica said, stretching out in the chair and smiling. “I think I've earned it.”
Master Vervor heard a buzz from the front door of his shop. Jessica's moment of relaxation ended, and she jumped from her chair, pulling out her pistol.
“The damned blobs,” she said. “I knew it.”
“Settle down, Kramer,” Vervor said. “We have a visitor.”
The Myoshan shop owner pressed the release button in his hand, and they all heard the door open and close.
A tall, lanky being approached them. He held a tablet under one arm, a red box under the other.
“Greet,” the Model Ninety-Nine said.
“Nolo!” Jessica said, putting her large handgun away. “Hey, Rockrib! How goes it?”
“Gift from boss, Pilot,” the Headhunter's adjutant said, offering her the scarlet gift box. “No combat stims, sorry. Needed for future fight.”
“I have enough bad habits, as it is, Niner,” she said, accepting the box.
“Well, go on, open it,” Master Vervor said. “Enough idle chit-chat.”
It was a non-holographic picture in an ornate frame. A giant red claw held up an armored glass sphere for the view of the camera. The bubble's occupant did not look happy.
“Aw, how sweet. He shouldn't have,” she said, grinning.
“More underneath picture,” Nolo said.
“More? More pictures, or—”
She pulled out the rank insignia of an Enforcement Directorate Centurion, an older version from some time ago. The brass-colored rank tab was scorched on one side.
“Commanders will be needed, pilot,” Nolo said. “Next waypoint not easy.”
Jessica Kramer looked to Prath, whose eyes went from hers to their other compatriots. Kitos and Vervor both responded with a nod.
“Tell the red guy I have some things to do first,” Jessica said, “but I will be ready when he needs me.”
“War not starting anytime soon. Boss just wants to know, can count on Last of Kramers, when time to execute,” the black-eyed trooper said.
“He can,” she said, smiling.
Chapter Sixty-Six
CENTRAL DATA TOWER
COUNCIL OF EIGHT CHAMBERS
The tall, golden doors parted, and Mikralos entered the chamber of the Council of Eight. The wraparound view of Junctionworld from this height was spectacular. This would have been his ultimate goal, his final position. Now, he was in custody, facing a death sentence.
The captive Gatekeeper's grav drives were shackled with moderators, his compartments bound, his weaponry stripped. The elite Ninety-Nines, the Council's Centurion bodyguards, led him into the large hall at a solemn, regal pace. Every eye and sensor facing him radiated hatred.
The Centurions completed his humiliation by chaining him to the floor, locking him down in an illuminated circle of judgment. The shamed Gatekeeper could tell the Council's debate had been raging for some time.
“We continue to maintain that he is an incompetent,” Lord Xenebris, the Eighth GateLord, said, pointing a manipulator at the defendant. “We advise he be butchered, publicly, and at once.”
“You speak boldly for someone who lost an entire Worldgate!” said the Fourth GateLord, Verenus, pointing his own accusatory claw at Xenebris.
“You know damn well why our Worldgate was shut down,” Xenebris shot back. “That situation was untenable, beyond our control, and we shall not take the blame for it. Nor shall we have our glass rubbed in it by the likes of you!”
“Fellow Council members, please,” the Third GateLord, Polomius, said, bringing the session to order with the pounding of a claw on his podium. “You may continue this conversation after the pr
oceedings. Let us now address the defendant. Centurions, you are dismissed.”
The elite Nines in their unique armors bolted to attention, then filed out quietly of the room. The massive hall's doors closed with a soft, deep boom.
“Mikralos,” Polomius said, raising his chassis to a commanding height, “you are summoned before this Council of Eight, though we are only seven in number at this time. You, alone, are the cause of this shortcoming, along with the resultant rebellion in your fallen superior's sector of control.”
“If we may be allowed to speak—” Mikralos tried to say.
“And you are culpable,” Polomius said, talking over the protesting defendant, “in the deaths of over a dozen members of our noble race. Our thorough investigation finds you to be complicit with these murders, by way of incompetence. Worst of all, your bungling has resulted in the triumph of Solomon Kramer, from beyond the grave.”
“We just spent the last two days,” Mikralos said, holding up a set of pudgy digits, “putting down the rebellion of the Nines, and you have us arrested for it, in the moment of our triumph! Those bombs were set without—”
“You will maintain silence,” Lord Xenebris said, “or we will have you boiled alive in your own protective housing. Do you understand? Rebellion, we can handle. It is the nature of control. However, your mishandling of the Last Kramer is unforgivable. She still lives, thanks to you. She survived. Triumphed, even, by fighting your hand-picked ace assassin to a standstill.”
“Then remove these chains and let us finish the task,” Mikralos said. “Let us kill her, let us crush her with our own claws, just as we did in purging the uprising at Berva Proxima. Give us access to our main battle armor, and we will—”
“It is not our way, Mikralos,” GateLord Verenus said, “and you have done enough damage. Your rage and blind arrogance threaten everything we have built up in this place. Our goal was to see the name of Kramer brought low, to keep the masses in check. Killing her now would be a transgression against the Old Code, and would make a martyr of her. We wish for the battle slave Solomon Kramer's legacy to be extinguished, not exalted.”