She accessed the processor and downloaded a copy of the programme. Unsurprisingly, the warm-up acts considered of complete amateurs, men and women who had walked into the Arena’s office and signed up to fight. Most of them wouldn't last the week, she decided, but those that did would start the long crawl up towards superstardom. But if there were thousands of newcomers and only a hundred gladiators allowed to stay at the top ... she pushed the thought aside, tiredly, as one of the gladiators finally managed to stab the other properly. His victim staggered and fell forward, tearing the blade from his opponent’s hands as he hit the ground. If there had been a third gladiator, Belinda decided, both of the others would have been killed.
The crowd showed no enthusiasm as the victor held up his hands, clearly expecting cheers and rewards. He looked rather downcast as the cleaning crew came onto the field, picked up the dead body and carried it and the weapons over to the exit, leaving the blood behind to stain the sand. Belinda rolled her eyes; the crowd, clearly jaded, didn’t care about the first battles. The only people who were applauding were the blood junkies in the first row.
She stood up and spun around as someone new entered the box. A young man, carrying a tray of drinks, blinked at her in surprise, then retreated the moment she took the tray from him and put it down on the small table. Roland had been complaining less about the healthier drinks she'd been serving him, suggesting that he was slowly coming to like the more natural juices. Or maybe he’d just realised that bitching wasn't going to get him anywhere.
Belinda shook her head as she surveyed the crowd. Everyone who considered themselves important had splashed out thousands of credits for a seat in the upper or middle section of the Arena, where they were seated in their gaudy clothes, watching the fighting. The lower section was assigned to citizens from outside the higher families, although it wasn't uncommon for the buyers to then sell them onwards to people willing to pay through their nose for a seat, even if it was among the commoners. None of them looked very happy to be seated there, but the alternative was not going to the Arena at all.
Rolling her eyes, she looked up at the other boxes. A handful of Grand Senators and their families sat in their boxes, although she was surprised to see that several boxes were actually empty. Another way of showing their wealth and power, she decided, as she saw several Senators looking back at her. The Grand Senators could afford to purchase a box at the Arena and then leave it empty. Anyone who owned a box could have reclaimed the expense just by hiring it out to someone else. Leaving it empty was more than mere conspicuous consumption.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed, silencing the chattering crowd. “Put your hands together for the Female Furies!”
The crowd suddenly roared with delight as the doors opened and the next set of gladiators marched into the pit. There were nine of them, all women wearing nothing more than chainmail briefs around their thighs, their breasts bouncing free as they walked forward. Their skin glistened under the spotlights as they reached the centre of the sands and raised their swords in salute to the crowds. Roland leaned forward, pressing his binoculars to his eyes, as the women lined up, ready for their first bout.
“And their opponents,” the voice bellowed. “The Barbarians!”
Belinda’s eyes widened as a second door opened, revealing four men carrying whips. They wore leather loincloths to conceal their groins and nothing else, suggesting warrior barbarians from one of the colony worlds that had lost all technology during the first expansion from Earth and slipped back into barbarism. The crowds cheered even louder as the men swaggered forwards, cracking their whips towards the women, who sneered at them. Belinda watched them carefully, recognising the discipline half-masked by their absurd postures. Having proved that they were killers in the early bouts, the gladiators would have been snapped up by talent spotters and offered proper training ... and a chance to fight as part of a team.
The two sides glared at one another as the crowd’s cheers slowly faded away, replaced by an intense anticipation that made Belinda feel uncomfortable. Roland seemed unable to take his eyes off the women, who were brandishing their swords towards the men. Belinda couldn't help feeling that the women, despite carrying the better weapons, were outmatched. They didn't seem to have the same level of training as the men.
A whistle blew ... and the women lunged forward, swords in hand. The men cracked out with their whips, aiming for eyes – or for the weapons the women were carrying. One woman stumbled backwards, only to be kicked to the ground by her opponent; another lost her sword, only to have it snatched up by the man and used to behead her. The women looked good, Belinda realised, but not much else. All four of the men were working as a team.
One of the men was stabbed by a woman and sent falling to the ground, but the other three rapidly overcame the other women. Once they had acquired the upper hand, they used fists and whips rather than the captured swords, lashing the women and driving them back towards the exit. The crowds went wild as blood glittered on their skins where they’d been cut by the whip, howling obscene suggestions towards the male gladiators. Belinda watched as the surviving women were beaten out of sight, their male opponents winning the match, then looked at Roland. There was a thoroughly unpleasant look on his face, his mouth twisted into a sickening leer.
The roar only grew louder as the staff walked back onto the sands, picked up the bodies and carried them towards the exit. Belinda had no difficulty in imagining just what they thought the male gladiators would do to the female gladiators. Who knew – maybe it wouldn't be long before the whole act, from start to finish, took place under the spotlights. Or perhaps it didn’t, the women taken away to allow the crowd to assume that they had been raped. It would be comforting to believe that.
Depraved, she thought, and shuddered again. What did it say about Earth’s current state that mass slaughter constituted entertainment?
The next set of matches were more even, she realised, as she sat back in her chair and tried to watch. Most of the gladiators seemed to have equal levels of training and equipment, although a couple of the pairings had the gladiators wielding very different sets of weaponry against each other. A large holographic scoreboard appeared at the side of the Royal Box, allowing her to track each gladiator as they climbed upwards in the rankings towards the top 100. She honestly couldn't understand why most of the gladiators fought. The rewards were vast, true, but they were very hard to reach. Statistically, she estimated, the odds were massively against anyone reaching the top.
She looked over at Roland and asked a question. “Can the gladiators retire?”
“Of course,” Roland said. “But they never do.”
Belinda considered checking that, before deciding that it wasn't her concern. It would be simple enough for a new gladiator, all flushed from winning his first fight, to get into debt with a backer and then discover that he had to keep fighting until he'd paid back his loan. Perpetual debt was an old way of controlling people – it was a favourite trick of corporations operating along the Rim – and there was no reason why it couldn't be used against a gladiator. Weapons and training were grossly expensive, particularly on Earth.
The crowd roared again as a woman wearing a long red dress and carrying a sword strode into the pit, raising her sword to the Royal Box. Belinda found herself staring at the woman, seeing the easy confidence with which she carried her sword. Another warrior, she realised, even if the woman did have a china-doll face that made her look childlike. Her opponent, another swordsman, appeared at the far end of the pit and advanced towards her. Sparks flew as their swords clashed together, before they separated and circled each other, probing for weaknesses.
Roland leaned forward in glee as the two gladiators clashed again and again, his face displaying naked excitement. Belinda silently studied the two gladiators and realised that her first impressions had been right. Both of them had some proper training and plenty of experience. The red dress didn't seem to hamper the woman at all as
she lunged forward, only to be stabbed in the side by her opponent. For a long moment, Belinda thought that the woman had lost, before she pulled herself along the blade and swung her sword, beheading her opponent with a single stroke. She’d seen Marines show similar pain tolerance in the field, but they had augmentation to help. The Arena’s rules banned any form of tech enhancement.
“She won,” Roland yelled, his voice lost in the cheers from the crowd. “She always wins!”
“Impressive,” Belinda conceded.
The woman had slumped to the ground as the medical team raced towards her. She had to be someone important, she decided, or a good investment for her backers; no one else had received the attention of a medical team on the field. Maybe she'd recover without problems, Belinda told herself. Medical science could heal almost any wound as long as it wasn't fatal.
Roland elbowed her. “Could you do that?”
Belinda hesitated, then nodded slowly. In fact, if she’d used boosting implants, she would have been able to best both of the gladiators without being touched herself. But if she had been unenhanced ... it would have been an ugly fight, she decided. It wasn’t something she wanted to try.
She checked the programme and discovered that the woman was called the Scarlet Witch and, apparently, had never been defeated in her field. Injuries were common, it seemed, but she’d been back on the sands within weeks at most. Belinda wondered if she’d had some bio-enhancement, before deciding that it didn't matter. The Arena was still a mockery of war.
“See,” Roland said. “I told you that you would enjoy it.”
“Yeah,” Belinda growled, deciding not to argue. There was another two hours of blood and guts and death to go before they could go back to the Summer Palace. “But you’re going to have to beat me again to come next week.”
“I will,” Roland assured her.
You won’t, Belinda thought, quietly. You shouldn't be here at all.
Chapter Twelve
... But the effects were disastrous. Each civil servant cost very little, but there were millions of them. Their pay alone ate up a staggering portion of the Empire's budget. So too, less directly, did the other costs they imposed. Put simply, the endless regulations they invented to justify their existence. The smaller businesses couldn't afford to keep up with them and went out of business. This, unsurprisingly, ate away at the Empire's tax base. The big corporations, naturally, had already written themselves exemptions, or simply paid fines that would destroy their smaller competitors.
-Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire
The next few days passed very slowly. Belinda kept Roland worked at his physical education program and watched as he slowly grew healthier. Every day, they played tennis until Roland was pushed to the limit, although Belinda didn't let him win again. She knew that he found it frustrating to push so close, but never to actually win – but there was no choice. He had to keep flexing his muscles to widen his limits.
Organising an etiquette teacher hadn’t been easy. No one would have accused the average Marine of having High Society etiquette and the handful that had come from the Grand Senate families had been deployed well away from Earth, separating them from those who might seek to influence their futures. Eventually, she’d had to kick the question upstairs to the Commandant, who had selected someone who owed him and the Marine Corps a favour or two. Belinda was sure that there was a story in there somewhere, but there was no time to ask questions. Her mornings were spent learning the finer points of etiquette.
“I don’t see why I have to do this,” Roland protested, one morning. “I’m the Crown Prince!”
“You have to make people think that you care about them,” Belinda pointed out, as Mr. Harris – the only name she’d been given for the tutor – organised the dining table. “Think of it as a disguise.”
“I could pretend to be a very rude prince,” Roland said, with a faint smile. “That would be easy.”
“You have to convince them that you are not a very rude prince,” Belinda countered. “That’s a little harder.” She grinned at him. “But think of all the time you can spend laughing at them without them knowing it.”
Roland listened as she told him about some of her experiences as a Pathfinder. Standard Marines wore uniforms and fought as part of a team; Pathfinders were often expected to go undercover on enemy worlds, wearing enemy uniforms and blending in with their surroundings. Belinda herself had been a peasant woman on Han – that hadn't been a pleasant experience – and a trader queen with her own starship, both roles that were very different to her everyday life. Pretending to be someone else was challenging, particularly when dealing with sexist pigs and bureaucracy, but it had also been fun. Roland, she suspected, would appreciate it.
“So I can pretend to like someone,” Roland said, “and laugh afterwards. I can do that.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Harris said. His voice was calm, the product of impeccable breeding or intensive study. “Now, young sir, you are going to greet the daughter of a Grand Senator when she walks through the door.”
He motioned for Belinda to take up position behind him, then step forward with a grand expression on her face. A Grand Senator’s daughter, even one far enough down the family tree to miss out in inheriting anything important, would still have a sense of entitlement larger than a planet. She would lack for nothing; she would have few restraints on her behaviour, as long as she didn't call the family’s position into question. Belinda summoned the right mindset – snooty, arrogant and demanding – and stepped forward. On cue, Roland rose to his feet.
“Lady Acosta,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it lightly. “It is a great pleasure to see you.”
Belinda curtseyed, then stepped past him.
“Good,” Mr. Harris said. “You will be expected to greet all of the senior personages at your coronation. Should you miss a step, they will remember and it will be used against you later.”
Roland rubbed his forehead. “Why can't I have a memory implant and a live feed from the network?”
“Because live feeds have been known to jam,” Mr. Harris reminded him. “It isn't uncommon for someone to deliberately try to jam the local communications links just to see if the victim can still remember the names of all of those you have to greet. Consider yourself fortunate; there are none who are socially superior to the Emperor. A Senator would have to bow to you, but accept a bow from a Guildmaster.”
“Oh,” Roland said. “And what if one of those daughters wants to spend more time with me?”
“She won't say so, of course,” Mr. Harris said. “You will never meet a potential marriage partner alone, young sir. Her mother will always be present in the room. Should her mother have passed on, her closest female relation will be expected to carry out the duty. However, the decision on who you marry will not be made by yourself.”
Belinda felt a flicker of sympathy as Roland scowled. The Grand Senate would approve the Princess Consort – and then the Empress – and just about every family with a daughter in the right age bracket would want to put her name forward. There would be years of horse-trading before a suitable candidate was placed into Roland’s bed. He’d be expected to take lovers, of course, but none of them could become his bride. Or, for that matter, bear his children.
“This is all stupid,” Roland grumbled. “Who cares what fork I use to eat with?”
“Your throne is based largely on your personal prestige,” Mr. Harris said. “You will strengthen or weaken it with every move you make. In this case” – he tapped the table – “you are showing that you are one of them by sharing their manners. Suggesting that you are not one of them will have consequences down the line.”
“Right,” Roland growled. “But I don’t have any prestige, do I?”
He stood up and ran for the bedroom door. Belinda started forward, but she was too late to catch him before he slammed the door closed and locked it. A moment later, the security network sounded an alert as he opened th
e passageway leading down to the grounds and ran down outside the palace. Cursing under her breath, Belinda motioned for Mr. Harris to stay where he was and headed out of the other door. There was no point in trying to break into the Prince’s room without heavy weapons or cutting tools. The designers of the palace had even built the doors out of hullmetal.
Obsessive paranoid bastards, she thought, as she ran. What the fuck is he doing now?
Her implants reported pings from the Senate Security staff as she ran through the main doors and out into the gardens, but she ignored them. They knew who she was, even if they didn't know just what she was doing. She ran around the building, drawing on boosted speed, and reached the tennis court. There was no sign of Roland. Cursing again, Belinda drew on tracking skills she hadn't had to use for years and saw a faint trail leading into the thickly-packed part of the garden. Belinda followed him, realising that Roland hadn’t been really trying to hide – or perhaps he simply wasn't very good at it. There were too many places where his passage had snapped branches off plants and crushed small flowers under his feet.
The gardeners hadn’t done any proper gardening in this part of the gardens, according to the guidebook she’d been given; they’d merely dropped countless seeds from thousands of worlds and waited to see which ones would win the ensuring contest. They’d produced a tangle of plants as Earth-native fauna fought with imported fauna, creating an environment that smelt almost alien. Belinda ignored the scent as best as she could as she tracked Roland, finally locating a treehouse hidden in the midst of the greenery. On her homeworld, her family had built one using their own hands and manual tools. Here, it was obvious that technology had been used to build and steady the treehouse.
She heard Roland sobbing as she climbed up the ladder and peered through the hatch. The Prince was curled up in the far corner, pretending to be unaware that she was there. Belinda sighed inwardly and pulled herself all the way into the treehouse, then stepped over to him and reached out to take his shoulder. He shook his head angrily and tried to crawl away.
The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks Page 11
