Defiance

by Bear Ross

  “Gorth, you keep missing like that, and Hepholios is going to take the repair bill out on your corpse,” Masamune said.

  “There's only one corpse in this conversation, human,” Gorth answered back over the comm channel.

  “Come out from behind that barricade, bone-squid, and let me see your pretty face.”

  “I'll show you 'pretty,' primate. Enjoy the sparkly lightshow.”

  The whine of a rotary cannon spooling up came to Kyuzo's external sensors, followed by the muzzle flash and tracer streaks of hundreds of rounds arcing at him. Masamune threw his mech to the ground, trying to get under the incoming hail of fire. Rounds stitched across his hull and armored cockpit. It was like being in a tin shed during a depleted uranium hailstorm. Damage reports flashed in his brain, but he ignored them.

  “Incoming, Gorth,” Masamune said, raising his mech's right arm. A bulky compartment's hatch slid open, and a rocket-propelled bunker-buster emerged from below the forearm. With a loud thoonk sound, he sent the awkward cylinder spiraling through the air. It was big and slow enough to track with the naked eye, and Masamune heard the crowd's applause build as it soared across the arena floor.

  Arching high over the direct stream of Gorth's gatling fire, the heavy demolition charge hit the distant barricade cluster dead center with a krumpf. The surrounding area disappeared in a brief flash of explosive. A roiling cloud of dirt and barrier fragments swallowed the spark of light, the spherical shockwave caught by his cameras for his personal highlight reel. Nice shot, he thought.

  His battle computer butted into his musings. The main jet boosters on his mech's back were torn to shreds by Gorth's fusillade. He had leg jets only. A series of loud pops from the site of the explosion ended his damage self-assessment. Black smoke billowed from the shattered structures that once hid the squidmech. Was he knocked out? Was his ammo cooking off?

  No. The black mech streaked out of the cloud of even darker smoke, sparks and burning parts trailing as he jetted back around the hill. It was a smokescreen. From a quick glimpse through his sensors, the rotary gun's barrels were ripped off, and his missile racks looked empty.

  Masamune urged his mech into a run, his autocannon pursuing the squidmech with fire. Two rounds found their target deep in the side of the enemy, and plasma gouted from the metallic wound. Gorth tumbled out of the line of fire, his tentacles flailing to maintain control. A turbine hit! They were both now without main jets.

  The overhead counter flashed into holographic existence again, and the undamaged portions of the arena floor began to blink red. Masamune paid the mines no mind. The channel carved by Gorth's gatling fire formed a long, straight path to the ruined barricade and the edge of the central hill. Kyuzo's mech charged up the narrow, beaten zone of cleared explosives. The area all around the long scar turned to blinking red, but Masamune's agile handling brought him through the danger zone unscathed.

  The Skevvian's mech clambered to the top of the arena's central hill. Gorth activated plasma blades that slid from the tips of two of his front tentacles. Masamune saw the unsteady stance of his opponent. The black and orange monstrosity made small corrective jolts, compensatory measures for two tentacles damaged earlier by the mines.

  Masamune raised his mech's autocannon.

  “I could drill a hole clean through your cockpit from here, you know,” he said.

  The two glowing plasma blades beckoned him up the hill.

  “You could. Your rep says you like it up close, though. Unbutton, and let's finish this,” Gorth said.

  “Close is where I do my best work. You're about to find out,” Masamune said. He slammed the retraction button, and his cockpit armor began to come apart and stow itself away. As his mech set its giant metal foot on the base of the hill, the entirety of the arena's flat plains turned to red blinking minefields, all armed, all active.

  “I still owe you, you know, for that match at Topaz Narrows Arena. Do you remember it?” Gorth said as his cockpit armor pulled back to match Kyuzo’s. The glass underneath was spiderwebbed and cracked from the demolition charge's concussion, but Masamune could still see the Skevvian. He was wounded. Burned. The damaged plasma turbine must have blown back into the cabin.

  “Not off hand. Topaz Narrows? Was that our draw?” Masamune said, his mech's autocannon flipping and folding back into its stowed position. He unlocked his sword, and brought it into his mech's armored right hand. He redirected plasma from his remaining jets to the blade, and it began to glow.

  “It was a draw, but only because you pulled a cheap move,” the Skevvian said, his voice full of venom. “It was a coward's play. You feigned dead until I came within range, and then you did one of these—”

  The sinister metal beak on Gorth's mech opened, and another pair of impaler missiles presented themselves like fangs. Masamune was halfway up the hill, exposed, and Gorth had the high ground. Dual flashes signaled the missile launches, one after the other. Kyuzo's battle computer was pulling his mech to the side, discharging what plasma it could spare from the sword. Masamune read the path of the incoming missiles, staggered half a step, drove a jet to meltdown just in time, and avoided the first missile's strike. The other, however, slammed through his cockpit glass. The blow was deafening, and the rocket's solid shaft and solid fuel motor embedded itself next to Masamune's neck and through his seat's headrest.

  The physical pain of the hot rocket motor next to him jolted Masamune's real eyes open, breaking his control. His mech spun and staggered down the side of the hill, its left arm trying to pull the burning spike out of the cockpit. The crowd jumped to their feet and flippers, the roar of their thousands of voices drowning out his own cries of pain. Gorth's projectile ran deep through his circuits, and Kyuzo's vision swam with doubled inputs from the mech's sensors and his own eyes.

  Gorth leaped from the top of the hill, his two plasma blades slashing and angling for the exposed cockpit of Masamune's stricken mech. The impaler missile's shaft pulled free from the cockpit with a shriek of metal, a thick streak of Masamune's blood running down the side of the spike. Kyuzo clamped his eyes shut, trying to ratchet down on the pain, to regain his connection with the mech's computer. Gorth was damn close. Masamune felt primal fear and adrenaline pull his shoulder blades together, and the battle computer shielded the shattered cockpit with the right arm's sword and forearm.

  Gorth's claws and tentacles were all over him as the two mechs slammed together. The Skevvian sank both plasma blades deep into the protective forearm, carving molten chunks from the composite armor. Sparks and heat rained down on Kyuzo, and he yelled in frustration again as the pain threatened to break his fragile control connection.

  The momentum of the collision sent both mechs tumbling down the hill in a whirling pile of limbs, tentacles, and shredded, slagged armor. Masamune's mech was still wrapped up by Gorth's, the armored limbs of the Skevvian knotted around him, slashing at any available targets of opportunity. Kyuzo could hear Gorth screaming and laughing as the snapping beak of the enemy mech tore horrific bites from the top of Masamune's hull. Their mutual tumble came to a rest on the edge of the minefield, the Skevvian mech trying to snare, strangle, and stab the human's machine as it tried to right itself and protect its vulnerable pilot.

  Gorth disengaged. He could no longer see through his canopy, and it ejected with the short bark of explosive bolts. Pulling back a short distance, he charged again for a leaping attack, his tentacles whipping, probing for openings. Masamune's computer found an opening of its own. Kyuzo agreed, initiating the attack. He reached his mech's scarred and slashed left arm through the swarm of tentacles, crushing the hull connection socket of one of the plasma-blade limbs. The blade powered down just before it could sever the right wrist and sword hand of his mech, and the blow glanced off the armored gauntlet.

  Masamune pushed through the pain of his physical body, retaining the punishing grip on the underside of Gorth's mech. He shoved the seething black and orange squidmech out to arm's length, hol
ding it there while his plasma blade glowed to life. Gorth continued his maddened ranting, his remaining plasma tentacle stabbing white-hot holes in the side of Masamune's mech over and over again.

  Masamune Kyuzo smashed the front of Gorth's mech with the pommel of his blade, three blows landing in rapid succession. The final impact ripped the beak from the hull, stunning the Skevvian as his helmet bounced off the forward control panel of his cockpit. Gorth's battle computer continued to flail the mech's tentacles in an attempt to attack, but a brutal pair of slashes by the glowing blade's edge peeled them off, one by one. A charred tentacle exploded as it fell into the minefield, its metallic coils sent flying in a spray of armored rings and conduits.

  The roar from the crowd filled Masamune's mechanical and organic senses. Flash strobes washed over him as he held his helpless opponent in mid-air, its few remaining tentacles making only limp, feeble attempts to attack. A chant began to build from the stadium's seats, slow and steady from a multitude of different throats and communication systems.

  “Dese-crate... Dese-crate... Dese-Crate...”

  “DESE-Crate... DESE-CRATE... DESE-CRATE!!!”

  The rolling tide of the arena-wide call for blood flooded over him. The crowd whipped itself into a frenzy, chanting over and over until it was a blurred cacophony of madness. Gorth came to his senses, awakened from his knockout by the tumultuous din of the mob. Kyuzo's own natural eyes opened as he severed his command link with the mech's battle computer. The manual control yokes reemerged from the cockpit's side panels, filling his blistered hands. He glared at his enemy, cold hate streaming from his scorched and bloodied face.

  “Masamune, please, I beg you!” Gorth said, his burned and battered tentacles spread in an appeal for mercy.

  “I remember Topaz Narrows, now, Gorth. I was knocked out, on automatic controls. I came out of it and disabled you. It was ruled a draw. It was nothing like the dung you just pulled,” Masamune said.

  “You're right. I'm sorry. Please, please spare me.”

  “'An insidious gambit shall not go unanswered.' That's the Old Code. You know that,” Masamune said. “Besides... we have an obligation as gladiators to our audience.” He motioned to the frenzied masses chanting for death.

  “NO! No-no-no-NOOOO!” Gorth's voice shrieked as Masamune's mech held up the dismembered enemy hull like a prized decapitated head, displaying it for the rabid throng. The crowd's noise swelled as Kyuzo dropped his mech to one knee, spiking his opponent cockpit-first into the minefield. The explosions sliced through the armor, pressure waves and fragmentation tearing the pleading Skevvian to pieces. Secondary explosions rang Masamune's ears as parts from the mech flew in different directions, detonating their own mines.

  The crowd chanted “desecrate” louder and louder as the victorious mech stood upright and placed an armored boot on the shattered remains of Gorth's mech. Masamune braced his mech’s stance to counter the upcoming acceleration, and flipped off a safety on the manual controls. His tired plasma turbines spun up, and he dilated the focus of the leg's jet nozzles wide open. The plasma cascaded over the broken Skevvian mech, bathing it in flames. Armor softened, structures bent, and Gorth's body peeled away to cinders under the star-hot assault. The crowd filled the arena with the sound of delirious insanity.

  Master Mech Pilot Masamune Kyuzo shambled his damaged mech back to the main elevator, passing through a partition under the audience stands. The arena ground crew guided him on to the platform, signaling to stop when he was centered in the round lift pad. As the edges of the elevator glowed, they rose. He leaned back in his damaged seat, his fingers feeling over his shoulder at the edges of the hole torn by the impaler missile. A thousand feet higher, they reached their destination: Ferro Fortress's mech pits.

  A bottle of water fell into his lap, breaking his aching daydream. His crew chief waited on the mech pit's main floor, her arms crossed. Hepholios, the Gatekeeper who owned the arena, floated alongside her. A wall of armored Nines with rifles was in the background, staged in a skirmish line behind his packed-up tool boxes and other equipment. What the void is going on here?

  Kyuzo, moving slow from the pain of the recent fight, climbed down from his cockpit. Hepsah and his crew usually gathered around him in celebration after a kill. None dared move while under the guns of the Nines.

  “Well done, Desecrator, well done, indeed. We greet you in the Ways of the Old Code,” the Gatekeeper's voice speaker said.

  “Honored Hepholios, it is not often that you visit the mech pits at your own arena,” Masamune said, taking a deep pull from the water bottle. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this personal visit?”.

  “Well, as they say, 'life is change,' Desecrator,” Hepholios said. “We are rather fond of you, of your ability to generate revenue and ratings, so we wanted to give you the news in person, being to being.”

  “And what news is that?” Masamune asked.

  “In light of the recent unpleasantness, we regret to inform you that your contract with us is canceled,” the Gatekeeper said. “Your sponsorships, your endorsements, your exclusivity with this house, all are terminated.”

  “Terminated?!!? What the void is this? I just—”

  Weapons safeties clicked off from the squad of bioprinted troopers. Hepholios held up a claw from his chassis, ordering them to hold their fire.

  “Do not interrupt, Master Pilot Masamune,” the Gatekeeper said. “We understand this may be upsetting, but it is merely business, and your business here, unfortunately, is at an end. You and your crew have twenty minutes to remove your belongings from the mech pits here at Ferro Fortress Arena.”

  “Oh, and there is the matter of this...” The Gatekeeper gestured another claw towards a thin sheet of plastic being held up by Masamune's livid crew chief, Hepsah.

  “Oh, come now, such pouting, such visible discontent, Hepholios said, his pod's running lights pulsing gold and orange. “Not all is grim and doom, gentlebeings. These are your new instructions.”

  “Instructions?” Masamune said, his voice edged with cold rage. “Instructions from whom, since I am now cut loose? If our contract is over and done with, I answer to no one.”

  “Oh, that is precious, underbeing, it truly is,” Hepholios said with a cool purr in his voice. “No, do not presume you are loose, adrift, or masterless, Master Mech Pilot. You are simply... reallocated.”

  Enraged at the thought of being reduced to property, Kyuzo felt his prosthetic arm reach for a holstered pistol that was not there. It took all he had to keep focused on the mincing Gatekeeper's condescending words.

  “These commands are from your new contract holder, and they are to be obeyed,” Hepholios continued. “Tend to your wounds. Ensure your people and property are moved. Then, report to the address written there within the hour.”

  “We bid you farewell, Master Mech Pilot,” the Gatekeeper called back, pulling behind the line of Nines. The gunline of troopers kept their weapons at the ready.

  Hepsah handed the plastic sheet to Kyuzo. He scanned it briefly, then threw his helmet against a toolbox, bellowing in pain and anger.

  Chapter Ten

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  BERVA PROXIMA ARENA

  Masamune eyed the leather couch, the polished furniture, the chandelier made of intertwined, over-stylized alien nymphs floating above him. The two Model Ninety-Nine guards on either side of the thick armored door remained motionless. He picked up his glass of cold water from its ornate coaster, took a sip, and set it down on the glowing glass of the tabletop. A servant bot emerged from the side of the table, refilled the vessel, and placed it back on the coaster, chirping a small electronic fuss at him.

  Masamune smirked, ran his hand over the new patch of skin printed onto his neck, and put his tired feet up on the couch. Before the domestic appliance could re-emerge to scold him, the large doors to the Gatekeeper's office opened.

  “We welcome you, Masamune Kyuzo, Master Mech Pilot, in the Ways of the Old Code,” Mikralo
s said. Another Gatekeeper hovered behind the arena master. Masamune remained stone-faced. The address Hepholios gave him was to Berva Proxima Arena, so Mikralos was an expected encounter. The second overbeing, though, he recognized as Dionoles, owner of the Celestial Kingdom casino. It's been a few years. What brilliant cluster-copulation do these two have in mind, now? He thought.

  Masamune Kyuzo bowed after he crossed into the spacious but spartan room, a decided contrast to the luxurious and gaudy waiting area. Screens filled the concrete walls, some frozen as artwork, others showing current or past mech gladiator contests in looped replay. A large rusted chainsword dominated the back wall of the office, behind what Masamune presumed was a combination of desk and armored pillbox. The gnarled and battered combat implement was the length of a passenger car and covered in faded alien emblems that Masamune did not recognize.

  “We have asked you here, Master Mech Pilot, because we have an offer,” Mikralos said. “Allow us to skip the normal pleasantries, and come directly to business. What is the remaining balance of your life-debt, and do you know who currently carries the note?”

  Masamune felt his jaw and remaining organic hand clench. He relaxed, and said, “Honored Mikralos, I no longer, personally, carry the life-debt. My balance was paid in full some time ago. I thought this was common knowledge, and rather well-known.”

  Mikralos waved a pudgy, dismissive hand inside his armored fishbowl. Bubbles trailed in the thick liquid behind the gesture. “Yes, yes, Master Mech Pilot, we are aware of that particular line item. The reconstruction debts from your wounds in the arena, though, what of them? The breeding tax on your offspring with your pair-mate, her transdimensional extraction fee, your mech's operational costs now that we have peeled your sponsorships away. These debts accumulate, and still force you to work in the arenas. We wonder if you know the sum total?”