by Bear Ross
“The exact number on my debt ledger escapes me at this moment, Honored Mikralos,” Masamune said. “I am a fighter, not an accountant. Wait. Did... did you say you've removed my sponsors? NeuroCyber and Titan Finance both dropped me... because of you? You were involved in that? The rumors of the cheating, the electronic jamming, the nanites?”
“Of course, the smear campaign and subsequent dropping of your sponsorships were baseless,” Mikralos said. “We created it, after all. It was effective in separating you from your previous contracts, and brought you to our service. As to the financial particulars, pay them no mind. You'll be happy to know that the exact number is known to us, since we are now the holders of your note.”
A credit number in the low seven figures flashed on one of the screens in the room. It was the sum value of everyone and everything he loved, reduced to mere digits.
“We also purchased your exclusivity contract from Ferro Fortress Arena,” the other Gatekeeper, Dionoles, said. His voice speaker emitted a higher and more anxious tone. “A not inconsiderable expenditure, despite your recent scandals. We created the tumult, and now that we have purchased you at a discount price, we will also make it go away. For this, you may thank us.”
The figure on the wall screen nearly doubled. Masamune's eyes narrowed, and his fists, flesh and synthetic, tightened in silent rage. He breathed in, forced himself to relax, and faced the two overlords.
“Honored beings, I must make something perfectly clear before there are any misunderstandings,” Masamune said, his tone deliberate and measured. “I know what is happening here. I have never thrown a fight, and I never will. I live and die by your Old Code, as I have sworn. Since you have gone to great pains to bring me here, you should know this.”
“Oh, noble 'Desecrator,’” Mikralos said, “we would never imagine of asking a fighter of your stature and record to engage in inappropriate dealings in or out of the arena, despite your freshly-spoiled public record. This meeting serves only to introduce you to the fact we are now your patrons in the endeavor to redeem your soiled reputation.”
“'Patrons?'” Masamune said.
“Well, patrons, benefactors... owners,” Mikralos said, the trace lights on his chassis flowing in a magma-like pattern of black, red, and orange. “However you wish to frame it. Regardless of the context you choose, you belong to us, now, and we have a small assignment that benefits all involved.”
“Never mind the 'reputation' babble from our esteemed colleague, Master Pilot, we can also make this happen,” Dionoles said. The floating credit number flashed, then dwindled to zero.
Masamune scowled. Dealing with Gatekeepers was a sordid, ugly business. Even when glimmers of hope appeared, the goalposts moved, the rules changed, and the counter-attacks came at you from all directions. They held all the cards in a rigged game.
“Let's hear it, then, honored sentients,” Kyuzo said.
“Ah, be mindful of your tone,” Mikralos said, holding up a pod claw in caution. “Reach back in your memory, Master Mech Pilot. Do you remember the name Jered Kramer?”
“I do,” Masamune said. “One of my first matches in the Hammer Leagues, after I made the move up from Light Exo. Pitiful, for such a feared opponent. His reputation far exceeded his performance.”
“Well, there is more to it than just that, Masamune Kyuzo. Allow us to explain,” Mikralos said. Dionoles's running lights shifted to a yellow and purple pattern, and the armored door to the office closed with a grinding thump.
Chapter Eleven
SIXTH GATE ZONE
VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS
“What in the name of the Eight Gates do you think you're doing, Niff?” Jessica Kramer said, her 20mm revolver pointed at the furry, multi-armed blue being hunched over the workbench.
At the harsh sound of her voice, the Niff technician looked up from the jumbled control components of her mech splayed before him.
He startled as he focused on the huge muzzle. His pupils dilated, and magnified by the opti-visor on his face, they appeared to be the size of fists. He cringed, his four hands pulling back from his work on the electronics test bench.
She probably should not have snuck up on the squirrel-like being, but she was not in the mood for niceties. Her Prath-imposed dry spell, and ethyl-alc withdrawal, was making her miserable.
His species, the Niff, had a disgusting way of dealing with potential attackers. His body's defenses kicked in before he could rein in the reflex.
“Please, gentlebeing, I-I mean no harm. I-I am Kitos, Combat Systems Technician, a simple worker in this place of trade,” he said.
Jessica pulled the hammer back on the giant revolver. Her eyes started to water as the scent hit her.
“Master-Vervor-assigned-I-I-to-this-work-for-gate's-sake-don't-shoot,” the four-armed, lemur-like being with the huge eyes cried.
“Vervor!” Jessica called, her voice carrying down to the shop master's office with the waist-high door. The Myoshan peeked his scaly head out, his main set of eyes pointing at her and the Niff.
“What is it now, mech pilot—what in the gray void do you think you are doing, pointing that primitive weapon at my technician?” Master Vervor said.
Kramer decocked the pistol and holstered it in one smooth motion. She covered her nose from the acrid smell now in the air.
“Okay, just checking,” Jessica said. “Nothing personal, there, drippy. Void, that stinks.” The technician excused himself, a blue puddle of ichor trailing him to the relief facilities.
“You were much easier to deal with when you were drinking, human,” Vervor said.
“Blame Prath. He's the one making me go without,” Jessica said, picking up Judah's dented control casing while avoiding the puddle she scared out of Kitos.
“Blame Prath for what?” an Ascended’s voice said as a large shadow filled the doorway. Prath had a beverage carrier with a foursome of stimulant drinks in it. He surveyed the situation, saw Vervor's agitation with Jessica, and the blue trail of slime. He traced the trail to the restrooms, and looked back at Jessica.
“You didn't,” he said.
“She did,” Vervor said.
Prath sighed and set the coffees on the bench.
“You can't keep doing this, you know, little human,” Prath said, looking at Jessica. She blanched, looking down at her feet while stroking the butt of her gun.
“'You will not besmirch our reputation with Master Vervor,' my dear Ascended,” Vervor said, his fangs jutting out in defiance. “Those were the same exact words we both heard from the hologram. This is not the first incident of such a nature, you know. You and your 'little human,' here, are proving to be menaces to my shop and staff. We should weld a muzzle into that junk-mech's cockpit, for our own safety!”
Jessica's posture stiffened and her eyes narrowed. The fingers on her draw hand flexed.
“Why, you—” she started, before Prath cut her off.
“Not. Now. Jessica. Compose yourself. You're a Kramer. Act like it,” Prath said in a deep, forceful tone that echoed through the cavernous mech bay.
Jessica flushed, the look she gave Vervor now shifting to Prath.
“This is burdenbeast dung, and you know it, Prath,” she said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “How the void was I supposed to know who the tech was? All I saw was he was working on the one key we have to solving—”
“He is named Kitos,” Prath said, interrupting, “and he's one of the best mech techs in this gate zone, and a natural with Arkathan circuitry, even damaged items. He's going to blend your current battle computer with what we can salvage from Judah. You would have known that, if you hadn't stormed off yesterday in an unprofessional huff, pilot. Now, go get a shop towel and clean up the mess you made.”
Jessica's expression turned from anger to disgust, and her freckled nose wrinkled.
“The mess I made? There's no gate-damned way I'm—”
“You'll do it and like it, or I walk,” Prath said, his fangs now half-bared
. “You can use your charming personality, and find a way to get your beat-to-void cargo mech back to Red Iridium.”
Jessica's mouth was a snarl, paralyzed with fury, and she sought for the right crippling retort.
Vervor turned his back on the two of them as Kitos emerged from the multi-species toilets, but his rear-facing eyes kept them both in view. Kitos pulled a mopping machine out of a nearby closet, making a loud racket as other cleaning supplies fell off the shelves.
“That won't be necessary, Kitos, thank you,” Prath said. “Our humble pilot was just about to give you a heartfelt apology and clean up for you, weren't you, Jessica Kramer, of the Fourth Gate Kramers?”
Jessica's fists were clenched tight, and her eyes full of daggers for everyone in the room. She snatched the control pad for the mopping machine from Kitos and started to punch the buttons with short, stabbing motions.
The mopping machine powered up, hovering on a glowing field. Jessica sent it racing over Kitos's slime trail, sucking the noxious mess up with an array of scrubbers and vacuum inlets. Miniature arms and hoses emerged from its stained shell, cleaning the work bench without disturbing any of the delicate instruments or work pieces. She cleaned the seat last, restoring it to factory-new condition.
The operation was over in a minute, including the flight back into the tight storage closet, and she tossed the control pad back to Kitos.
“Sorry,” she said in a low growl. Kitos caught the tablet and looked to Prath and Vervor.
“There, you see, you're a natural, little human,” Prath said. Perhaps we should start a new arena sport for piloting cleaner bots. You'd be a star.”
“Not funny,” Jessica said, her arms crossed.
“No, not at all, when you think about it. These beings are here to help us, and you should keep that in mind. By the way, you dropped something,” Prath said, motioning to something by her feet. She looked down, and found nothing.
“What?”
“It's your attitude. Pick it up, and straighten it out.”
Vervor tried to disguise his sudden laugh by coughing. It didn't work.
“Here. Take the sting out of your crabbiness and ethyl-alc withdrawals. Have a cup,” Prath said, passing out the drinks he brought. “We have to figure out a way to up-armor your mech's legs and re-route the plasma blade lines to the reactor so they're not so exposed.”
“After that,” the Ascended continued, “I want the command module from the old chassis implanted directly into the cr-400's control board. I designed those adapters myself, years ago, and they'll help with the interface. So, drink up and look alive. Our first conditioning match is in four days.”
Chapter Twelve
SIXTH GATE ZONE
Skreeb Fourth-Hatched’s cybernetic eyes whirred as they focused, searching for the target.
“He's in there, huh, Skreeb? Whattaya see? Can we go, yet?” the Skevvian asked.
Skreeb ran a metallic hand across the top of his head, smoothing down his finned crest. He was a Shasarr, from a race of large, reptilian warriors. A few rough-and-tumble years on the mean streets of Junctionworld had resulted in him replacing a few parts.
“Yeah. That's what my info guy says, Velsh,” Skreeb said to his partner. “The boss wants this guy brought in. He's late on his loan payments. Either he covers the balance, or we start sending pieces of him back through the Worldgates to his loved ones.”
Master Vervor's mech shop was across the street, its windows and retracted blast shields lit by the blinking neon lights of the bar down the street. No sign of their mark, yet, but he did see something that made him grit his fangs. A dozen Myoshan techs clambered on a framework of scaffolding and movable repair decks, all of them busy installing parts on to a shrouded mech chassis.
“Oh, great,” the Shasarr said.
“What?” Velsh asked.
“Myoshans. I hate those damned spuds,” Skreeb answered.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that? ‘Cause folks is always gettin’ Myoshans and Shasarr mixed up?” Velsh said.
“Yeah, that’s part of it,” Skreeb said. “We’re nothing alike. Just because we have scales, morons think we’re related, or somethin’. Completely different species.”
“And another thing, Skreeb,” the Skevvian said, “how come they’re always called ‘spuds?’”
“‘Spuds.’ You know... little, brown, lots of eyes...”
Velsh returned Skreeb’s explanation with a blank look.
“I don’t get it.”
“‘Spuds,’ like potatoes.”
“What’s a ‘potato?’”
“Forget it, Velsh.”
An exhaust fan kicked on, startling him and his tentacled partner. The alley filled with a hot draft that pushed at him, making his concealed weapon visible to anyone passing by. He looked around, self-conscious, and ruffled his coat, breaking up the outline of the heavy laser carbine hidden beneath it.
He looked up with his camera eyes, and ducked into a shadow, pulling Velsh along with him. An Enforcement Directorate drone flew high overhead, its red running lights blinking bright against the dark Junctionworld sky.
They waited, neither being making a sound. Once Skreeb saw the drone wasn't coming back for him, he took a long puff on the vaporizer implant in his forearm, breathing the fumes out of his gills.
“Skreeb, what the void are we doing here?” Velsh said. “You know this is the Sixth Gate Zone. It’s the Headhunter's turf, for gate’s sake. Is the boss trying to start a war, or somethin’?”
“The boss says it, and we do it, faster than you can... can...” Skreeb trailed off, at a loss for words.
“Can what?” his partner asked.
“Don't worry, Velsh. You just do it, do it quick, and when I say so,” Skreeb said. “I'm the shot-caller, here. You worry about the job, not the ventin’ Headhunter.”
“What's in the vape? More of that stuff Monfra sells?” Velsh said.
“Yeah. I don't know what the void it is, but it's smooth,” Skreeb said, releasing another smokescreen of fumes.
“You shouldn't be getting all clouded up, Skreeb,” Velsh said, worried. “We're kinda hangin' our breedin’ appendages out in the wind, here. I mean, what if one of the Headhunter's heavy hitters or snitches spots us here, out of our own territory?” His tentacles wrapped and unwrapped around his small pistol with a nervous fidget.
“If you're scared, go hide yourself up in the transport pod and change your color to match the back seat. I'm staying put until we know we've got our mark,” Skreeb said, his head crest rising in irritation. The vape was smooth, yes, but Velsh's whining was damaging his inhaled calm.
A target indicator blinked inside his head, forming a target in his vision. Skreeb's cybernetic eyes notified him that the desired target was inside the shop. He grinned, turning to Velsh.
“There, now, shush your little beak, Velshie,” Skreeb said. “My shiny eyes just picked him up in that repair bay over there. Our tip paid off.”
“Good. Now, we know where he is, and we can get the void out of here, and get back to the Fifth Gate Zone where we belong,” Velsh said, a colored pulse of relief flowing across his skin. “We gotta go get some more clothes, a lot of gloves, coveralls, drop cloths, you name it.”
“Why? We know he's here. I say we just snatch him up,” Skreeb said, his claws pulling back his coat to bring the laser to bear.
“You ever try to snatch up a Niff, Skreeb? They spray and splatter this nasty stuff all over the place as a defense mecha... mech...”
“Mechanism,” Skreeb said.
“Yeah, mechanism. We need something like an isolation tank or a coffin to put 'im in. At least a big garbage bag. Niffs are like feces-bombs, ready to let go at the slightest spook. And the smell,” Velsh said, shuddering.
Skreeb's head crest laid flat in annoyance.
“You sure you're not just dunging me 'cause you're skittered by the Headhunter?” he said.
“That crazy damned cyborg is one thing,” Ve
lsh said, raising a tentacle in a stabbing motion to make a point. “Grabbing a Niff covered in its own filth and slamming it into the back of my ride is another.”
“Which reminds me,” the Skevvian continued, “I need to install a liner in the trunk, something we can hose out, or rip out and burn. Damn, this is gonna be a nasty job. Why'd it have to be a Niff?”
Skreeb took another deep hit from his vaporizer, looked around to see that they weren't observed, and motioned with his head to go back to the ride.
“It’s always somethin’,” he said, a purple haze streaming from his mouth and gills. “Doesn't have to be right now, though. Like you said, we need supplies. Alright, we'll come back later. Let’s get something to eat, first.”
Skreeb’s blunted senses failed to notice the previous Enforcement Directorate drone after it doubled back. It hovered in silence, tucked under an awning a few blocks away. Once the two beings departed in Velsh's air car, the drone's telephoto lenses and microphone turret retracted back into its main hull. With a whining whir of ducted fans, it flew off to report to its maintenance stable.
Chapter Thirteen
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
The two parties face each other in the dark bunker, the only light coming from the glowing negotiation table between them. On one side, a pair of Gatekeepers. On the other, a human female and her Ascended crew chief.
“These are our last, best, and final terms, Mech Pilot Kramer,” Mikralos said, his running lights edging from light gray to black. ”Should you find them lacking, you are free to ambulate back through the portal and consider our accord sundered. All property involved will default to its true and rightful owners.”
“Yes, well, as we have stated before,” Prath said, “the terms are nearly acceptable, Honored Mikralos, it's just that we—”
“Master Technician Prath, as we have stated numerous times before,” Mikralos said, cutting the Ascended crew chief off. “We are in direct negotiations with Mech Pilot Jessica Kramer. We understand you are here in an advisory capacity, but protocol demands that you are to follow the established negotiation protocols. The last statement was intended for the Primary, Mech Pilot Kramer. She is to address the demand, or these proceedings will be considered adjourned.” Yellow, red, and black pulses ran along Mikralos’s chassis lines, indicating his annoyance with the tall ape. Dionoles, the casino operator Gatekeeper floating beside him, murmured something to the Berva Proxima arena master.
