Blaise- Doppelganger-3000

by Alice Coldbreath

  Blaise choked and lowered his drink,

  “Come again?” For a second he thought he might not have heard him right. The bar wasn’t particularly rowdy for sector 12, but that wasn’t saying much. The dregs of the Nova Byzan Republic sank to the bottom of the pile and sector 12 was it. Rock bottom. The slim blonde male sat opposite him who had introduced himself as Crispus Appolonius the proprietor of the notorious The Pleasure Palace, crossed his leg and smiled, looking completely at ease amongst the clientel of pimps and murderers.

  “I think you heard me friend, but I am more than happy to repeat it. I have been approached by Poppaea Severanius with a commission for a top-of-the-range personalised sex-droid in your likeness.”

  Blaise stared.

  “Poppaea Severanius?” he repeated.

  “Daughter of Tiberius, late owner of the Severanius Ludus,” expanded Crispus smoothly. “Your old patron I believe?”

  Blaise snorted.

  “Yeah I’m not likely to forget the old bastard,” he pointed out. “I remember the daughter too,” he added scathingly. “Trailed in her old man’s wake like his little shadow.” Big vulnerable violet eyes, he thought remembering one time in her father’s office when she’d almost fallen over her feet to get away from him. “Every time I so much as looked at her she damn near pissed herself with fright.” There was another memory too, of smoke and fire but he pushed that one from his memory unwilling to revisit it.

  Crispus coughed discreetly.

  “Well, it seems Miss Severanius may have had a change of heart.”

  “Change of heart?” he screwed up his eyes. “Is that what you call it?” he rested a heavily muscled arm along the back of the booth. “If she was more honest she could have asked me to service her like those other rich bitches but she didn’t have the guts.” He drained the last of his glass. “So it’s a sex-droid she wants?” he sneered. “So she can call the shots no doubt.”

  Crispus gave him an appraising look.

  “It may be difficult to make you look like a droid,” he said regretfully. “You have so many scars.”

  Blaise shrugged.

  “Did she want me airbrushed?” he asked cynically. “Made more pretty?”

  Appolonius shook his head.

  “No.”

  Blaise smirked,

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Why not?” asked his companion curiously.

  “Because,” he explained crudely. “When a woman pays to be seen to by a man like me, she doesn’t want me for my pretty manners. She wants it rough.”

  Appolonius pursed his lips.

  “As a matter of fact there were some body modifications she wanted.”

  Blaise paused, narrowing his eyes.

  “What?”

  “She wanted your ownership brands omitted.”

  Blaise tightened his fingers around his glass.

  “She what?”

  “For some reason, she doesn’t want her sire’s name branded all over your torso,” explained Crispus.

  Blaise expelled a breath through his teeth, it sounded like a faint hiss.

  “If you want them removed you’ll have to pay for the lazering.” He flexed his heavy muscles. “These are genuine indeli-brands. There’s no way to move them completely.”

  Crispus nodded regretfully.

  “You’re right it would leave massive scarring. I think it would be more expedient to simply say we forgot the request.”

  Blaise shrugged, doing his best to conceal the fact he was rattled. He nodded at the exotic beauty drifting by every so often.

  “Will your friend be joining us?” asked Crispus following the direction of his gaze.

  Blaise smiled, not pleasantly.

  “Not till the end of her shift. She’s a whore.”

  Pomponius he noticed, showed no surprise. Still, he was in the skin-trade himself, even if it was all synthetic. Blaise had never been to the Pleasure Palace, an ex-slave gladiator he’d never had the money for something so decadent. He’d had been curious why the notorious Pleasure Palace owner was chasing a meeting with him. Now he knew. Another rich bitch wanting him to act the stud for her.

  “So how does this work?” he asked feeling in a suddenly ugly mood. “You tell her you’ve manufactured my robot twin …”

  “The Doppelganger-3000,” interjected Appolonius swiftly.

  “And then what? I service her at her convenience.”

  “Always at The Pleasure Palace. There would be a maximum of five visits, a minimum of one.”

  “Trust me, she won’t want a repeat performance,” he answered ominously.

  “Oh? You’ve had previous experience of the sex industry?” asked Appolonius mock-innocent.

  Blaise eyed him up, cocky bastard. He gave his most chilling smile.

  “My friend, I don’t know how much you know about Gladiators but it’s a well-established way to earn extra cash. Severanius tried to act as my pimp on a few occasions.”

  “Tried?” asked Crispus.

  Blaise nodded slowly.

  “Rich matrons - only the most jaded appetites would want a piece of me,” he growled. “And they never asked twice. I wasn’t interested in giving pleasure, just taking mine. Hard and fast. They left with their hips bruised nearly as badly as their dignity.”

  Crispus’ eyebrows rose.

  “As a sex droid, your primary aim would be to give sexual pleasure. You might have to er, refine your technique for Miss Severanius.”

  Blaise’ mouth flattened into a hard line.

  “Like I said, if she wants to be fucked by Blaise then she ain’t expecting hearts and flowers.”

  By the time the bastard had left, a deposit had exchanged hands which didn’t affect the slow-burning anger Blaise could feel in his gut. Little Poppaea Severanius, he thought with quiet fury as he signalled to the bar tender to re-fill his glass. Her slave-trading father was barely cold in his grave and here she was frittering away his millions on a state-of-the-art sex robot in his most infamous protegee’s image. What a fucking joke.

  Talia slid into the booth opposite him.

  “You wanna party?” she asked him, licking her lips.

  Blaise eyed her without enthusiasm. She could clearly smell the money in his pocket. Suddenly her sloe-eyes rimmed with black and painted mouth held no appeal. He slid a note over to her.

  “I’ve got something else lined up,” he lied. “Have an early night on me.”

  Her eyes flickered to his in curiosity. He shrugged. It wasn’t like he ever spilled his guts even if they had shared a few good times. He’d be shit company right now and he knew it. He needed to go and pound a sand bag in the gym. Even though his time as a gladiator had come to an unexpected end two years ago, he still kept up his punishing training schedule. Old habits died hard and he had, had his deadly art drilled into him to the bone. Even before he’d been captured as a prisoner of war and forced into the gladiatorial ring he had been a soldier, a disciplined killing-machine. His career in combat had come naturally to him. His big, strong body had unnatural grace for his size and he was light on his feet. His dexterity surprised his opponents even when he was famous for it. His skill with weaponry was a natural talent he had honed into a lethal skill. His surly, moody bearing had made him a popular figure in the arena – one they ‘loved to hate’. All the crowds of Nova-Byzan wanted to see him bested and taught a lesson. When that had not been forthcoming he had grudgingly become a crowd-favourite almost in spite of himself. Where others courted the crowd, he defiantly spat in the sand. Where others were feted and celebrated, he was booed and jeered. Still, he was top of the bill. Heel or face, everyone loves a winner. Especially an unmerciful, brutal bastard who would not
permit himself to lose. Ever. And yet here he was allowing himself to be pimped out by that beardless hermaphrodite from the Android Sex Palace. He shook his head. A sex-bot. Poppaea Severanius must have discovered a whole different side to her since her daddy died and left her his fortune he thought coldly. Under that pretty, plump surface she was a chip off the old block. He walked the ten blocks downtown to the low grade muscle gym in a quiet back alley. It wasn’t wise to venture out after dark in sector 12 but anyone who took a look at Blaise’s scarred face and huge physique would have to have a death wish to tackle him. Especially with the ugly sneer he was wearing tonight when he thought about whoring himself out to the heiress of House Severanious. As he stripped to his bare chest in the changing room he glanced down at the ownership brands proclaiming that self-same name along with their crest, the hooded eagle. He spat before taping up his fists in slow deliberate actions, as he quietly seethed. His freedom couldn’t erase the markings anymore than they could the five years he’d sent training and bleeding at the Severanius ludus for the entertainment of the baying crowd. Was he really going to act the stud for the spoiled little bitch, he pondered as he secured his locker? He slammed the door. Hell yes he was. He’d finally booked his passage to the Outworld a month ago. He’d scrimped and saved to earn enough to get a new start. Every crappy job he’d taken since he’d left the arena, every back-busting gig would finally be worth it. Even though his dream was humble enough, some land, his own farm, he couldn’t refuse to turn down that kind of money. Life was tough outside the empire. Tough and lawless. But there was freedom there. Freedom that his kind would never find in Constantinopolis. He prowled his way through to the main gym, rolling his mighty shoulders and clenching his fists. Luckily he’d have no problem protecting what was his. Once he’d staked his claim he’d guard his territory ferociously. He headed straight for the punching bags and started pounding until the sweat was pouring so freely he had to clear his vision by wiping his forearm across his brow. No matter how hard he smashed the sand-bag he couldn’t get the same image out of his head. Poppaea Severanius with her timid, pretty smile. Poppaea Severanius appearing out of a cloud of acrid smoke and single-handedly saving him from burning to death in his isolation cell. Poppaea Severanius with her stupid fucking obvious crush on him. He delivered one last crashing left hook to the sack before shifting back on his right foot and scowling ferociously as he finally lowered his fists, panting.

  “Blaise, thought that was you, my boy,” wheezed a voice behind him before launching into a phleghmy sounding coughing fit.

  Great, just what he needed. Agrippa. Still, he didn’t quite have the heart to send the old bastard packing. Instead he nodded and caught the towel the old trainer threw him, mopping his own brow.

  “How you keeping Agrippa,” he asked grudgingly. Truth was, the old buzzard had always had one foot firmly in the slave-master’s camp. The gladiators mostly saw him as an informer to Severanius, yet he could also show kindness when it suited him. Blaise didn’t exactly owe him, but he knew better than to flat out resent him.

  “Oh so-so,” the stooped figure shrugged. “Eking out a living here, cashing in on past fame.” He cocked an eye at Blaise who was more than well aware the old trainer survived on days-gone-past. So many gladiators did, they were fit for nothing else. As if he could read his thoughts, Agrippa leant forward and tapped his nose. “You heard the news about Caractus?” he asked.

  Blaise shook his head. Since his decommission two years ago he had lost touch with that world. It had been deliberate. He should have known if he’d come round these quarters he’d meet his ghosts head on. But then maybe that’s why he’d done it. He was feeling restless. Aggravated. The past did that to him.

  “He bought back in.”

  Blaise’s head snapped up,

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Picking up the mantle again. Going back in the ring.”

  “As a free man?”

  Agrippa spat on the ground.

  “Free?” he cackled. “This time around he’ll have to find his own sponsors, hire his own trainers, negotiate his own fee. You lot didn’t know when you had it good.”

  Blaise trained a look on the old man that made him drop his gaze.

  “Is that right?” he asked coolly.

  Agrippa coughed again, his face turning purple.

  “You never been tempted kid?”

  “To go back in the ring?” he paused heavily. “I’d be chasing my own death and you know it. All those young bastards wanting to make their names on making my end,” he snorted. “Let them build their own goddam reputations like I had to. From the ground up.”

  Agrippa clicked his tongue.

  “Yeah, you might have something there,” he admitted scratching his hooked nose. “They say you know, that you’ll be a legend in ten years. That you were among the Big Four.”

  “That so?”

  “My grandson’s got a goddam hologram of you, it’s the star of his collection.”

  “Yeah? Well sadly I don’t get a cut on the merchandise,” cracked Blaise straight-faced.

  Agrippa shook his head.

  “That’s a piece of fame I tell ya. It’ll last long after you’re nuthin more than dust boy.”

  Blaise let his mouth twist into a bitter smile.

  “I’d rather have a legacy like yours,” he admitted.

  “What’s that?” rasped the old man.

  “Kids. Grandkids.”

  Agrippa spluttered.

  “A killer like you? You wanna be a pater familias?”

  “Why the hell not?” shrugged Blaise flinging the towel down on a bench.

  The older man gave a startled crack of laughter. He shook his head.

  “I did hear a rumour about you sinking your money into land, becoming a prospector, but I never thought for even a minute that it could be true.”

  Blaise shrugged. He hadn’t parted with his precious savings yet, but that was his ultimate goal. Somewhere outside of the stinking confines of Nova Byzan. Somewhere in the untamed barbarian lands beyond the borders. Somewhere he could buy a few acres and put down some roots. He’d need these muscles when he had his own land. He had no illusions he was heading for an easy life. But then easy had never been part of his vocabulary. His thoughts flitted back to the astronomical sum Crispus Pomponius had offered him to act the stud for the Severanius female. It would certainly be useful. He’d need machinery, for both corralling and defences. The lawless unknown held no particular fears for him. He knew there wasn’t anything scarier than him. He eyed his massive, hulking physique in the mottled gym mirror. Mean, nasty, big and scarred. Would. Not. Mess. With. Unbidden those big eyes like swathes of violet velvet slid into his mind’s eye. What the fuck was that little doe thinking, wanting him to act the stag for her? He’d break her in half. Dimly he realised the old trainer was still rambling on. Bemoaning the fate of the Severanius Ludus he realised with scorn.

  “…Nothing left of it now, course.” He sighed. “All broken up and sold off. Crying shame. And he doted on her too.”

  “What’s that?” he asked sharply.

  “The Ludus, the old master’s place. Nothing left of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Blaise didn’t keep track of the Gladiatorial world these days. It had been two years since old Severanius had died. He knew the daughter had freed all the older gladiators as part of her father’s funeral rites but was surprised to hear the Ludus was completely folded.

  “She did it in waves, sneaky like. First she freed the veterans, you included. Then the second generation of fighters, then the first, then the trainees. Crafty. Nobody noticed she was breaking up her own sire’s empire.”

  Blaise stared at him.

  “I was given my rudis as part of his funeral rites,” he said slowly.

  The other man snorted.

  “That a fact?” his bushy grey eyebrows shot up his face. “You really think Severanius would write a codicil for the likes of you?” />
  Blaise pushed away from the wall he was leaning on.

  “Are you saying..?” he frowned. “Wait… what are you saying exactly?”

  Agrippa spread his hands wide.

  “I’m not saying anything. It is what it is.”

  “Are you saying his daughter.. broke up the ludus from the inside?”

  “Certainly looks that way don’t it? He tapped his bumpy nose. “I always noticed things, me. Observant. From a young age.” Agrippa shot him a crafty look. “I noticed the way she looked at you. When she thought no-one else was looking. Very taken she was.”

  Blaise stiffened.

  “Saved your life too didn’t she? That time… when the training ground caught fire?”

  “She let me out of my cage if that’s what you mean,” he admitted grudgingly.

  The old man nodded.

  “That weren’t all she used to do for you.”

  Blaise’s eyes narrowed.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he growled. “If you think I …”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the other man clucked soothingly. “I meant she paid for your medicine out of her own purse when you got injured like. Supplemented your diet with meat. No-one else knew. It was her little secret from her daddy. After all,” he added snidely. “He never did let her have a pet.”

  “How do you know all this?” he asked tightly. How many other people at the ludus had known the master’s daughter had a hankering for him?

  “Relax,” cackled the old man. “Few are as observant as me. Besides,” he scratched his balding head. “My own daughter Pina was her maid.” He tapped his nose conspiratorially. “So I had eyes on the inside so to speak.”

  “That so?” he grunted. He trained for another hour, pounding the sandbag while his ears rang with the Agrippa’s words. Why? Why the hells had she taken such a shine to him? He’d never done anything to earn her favour. Hell, once he’d thrown a bloody severed head into her box, right at her feet after he’d beheaded some poor bastard in the ring. She’d nearly fallen off her seat. He’d had lashes for that once he’d been taken back to the compound. Ten of them across his back. And now he knew she’d paid for the salve they’d brought him to make the pain bearable. Why? No ready answer sprang to mind but by the time he’d arrived back at his utility flat he realised he’d changed his mind about Pomponius’ proposal. After all, over the years she’d more than paid for the servicing she desired. He’d have probably been carried off with infection or fever many times without his unknown benefactress. And besides, why shouldn’t he take the money that was offered? He’d earned plenty of those coins from her father’s coffers with his blood, sweat and pain. If she wanted to fritter away the family gold on playing the high class whore it was her decision after all.