by Bear Ross
Jessica chewed her lip as she shifted in the plush chair. The upholstered seat was now far less comfortable than when they started negotiations two hours ago. The black-edged screen of the glass table separating the two sides was a cluttered display of 2-D images, documents, and diagrams covering the broad legal and financial spectrum of contract negotiations between Gatekeepers and their fighters. Mom used to handle all this for Dad, and made it look so easy, she thought to herself.
“It's a 'Gatekeeper's Cross,'” Prath whispered in her ear. “A classic underhanded ploy of theirs, building you up just to drop you, with a minimum of evidence. Walk away. We'll have other ways, little human, other opportunities.” Jessica leaned over, covering her mouth as she whispered back to him.
“He invoked 'last, best, and final,' ape,” Jessica said. “We have to do something, or it's all over. It's their damned Code. I have one last play, I think. Watch.” She cracked her knuckles, one by one, and spread her palms on the table.
“Point of order, Mikralos,” Jessica said, “on the matter Prath was trying to bring up. They're stickers, Mikralos. Endorsements. Visual indicators of Gatekeeper confidence in the fighter they've paid so many credits to equip and train. Why is the Celestial Kingdom putting up the money to front this endeavor, but won't authorize their logo on my mech?”
“Our concerns are our own, Pilot Kramer,” Mikralos said, “as we have continued to state for the better part of the last two hours.”
“I call burden-beast dung on that, Honored Mikralos,” she said, raising her voice. “These concerns of yours should be shared between both parties. What is this whole thing, a set-up? A distraction from a larger issue? Or am I being used as part of some old vendetta? And why isn't the other fighter, this 'Masamune' character, here?”
Mikralos's running lights turned a cold blue at the mention of the word 'vendetta.'
“We invoke Internecine Parley, retaining all rights, and so forth,” Mikralos said. Jessica held up a hand in acknowledgment before the Gatekeeper drowned her in 'Old Code' negotiation babble. Dionoles, the Gatekeeper entrusted with the Celestial Kingdom casino, hovered close to his fellow overlord. The flicker of an anti-surveillance bubble blurred them both from view as they huddled together to consult.
She turned to Prath.
“First time they've done that, and we've been at it a while. I must have hit a nerve. They... they can't hear us, either, right, Prath?”
“Correct,” Prath said, “but they may still have recording devices in the room, and will probably play back any side conversations for later listening.”
“But it's a neutral room,” Jessica said.
“Nothing is neutral with the Gatekeepers, you know that,” Prath answered.
“Fine. 'Screw you, Mikralos,' for the record,” Jessica said in a louder voice.
“Childish, but not unwarranted, little human,” Prath said.
“So, you still think this might be a Gatekeeper's Cross?”
“A classic one,” Prath said. “If they fund you, and don't slather you in their logos, they're betting against you, or setting you up. The fix is in. Fortunately, we knew that going into this. They might know that we know, too. This all might be a charade, a front to provoke you into the final match. The preliminary matches they want to put on are just to build hype for the final death match with Masamune. This ‘Desecrator’ is no being to take idly, love.”
“Wait, what do you mean, ‘a charade?’ So, am I wasting my time here?” Jessica said, her eyes flashing with frustration and anger. “I just want them to admit it, damn it.”
“Admit what, little human?” Prath said, his hand gestures wide and questioning. “The negotiating table is not the place to pry facts or admissions out of them, or try to make them squirm. This is their arena, of sorts. This is where they do some of their best work. You've held them off for an hour, Jessica, and I commend you, but this is getting us nowhere. Their words are one thing. Their actions are another. Follow the actions, and be ready.”
“Remind me why are we intentionally putting our head in this noose, again?”
“Jered,” Prath said softly.
“Jered. Right.”
The bubble surrounding the two Gatekeepers strobed and dropped out of sight. Both hovering alien overlords were now at the negotiating table.
“Two lead-up fights and a main event, yes? We agree to one inconspicuous Celestial Kingdom logo with sponsorship mention during the announcements for the first fight, five small logos if you make the second event, and full corporate regalia for the main event. Do not embarrass us, human. The changes have been made in the relevant clauses,” Dionoles said. The casino operator’s small claws, more suited to counting currency and shuffling paperwork, downloaded a scroll of modified conditions and clauses to the negotiating table’s screen.
Prath frowned at the new terms worked into the contract, and started to raise his hand.
“Fair and done,” Jessica said without even looking down. Her lack of instant disagreement, which had characterized the last two hours, made both Gatekeepers look at each other in muted surprise.
“Then... then, though it is quite sudden, we are bound in agreement,” Mikralos said, a silvery claw extending from his carrier hull. “Excellent. All parties and witnesses will now place their manipulators on the table for scanning, and these proceedings will be recorded with Junctionworld Central Data.”
She slapped her hand down on the table to be scanned, and turned to Prath.
“Well, ape, into the noose we go,” she said.
“You were too quick to agree, little human,” Prath said, placing his hand, palm-down, on the witness pad to be recorded. “However, sometimes it's the best way to give the hangman one last kick in the balls.”
Chapter Fourteen
JUNCTIONWORLD CENTRAL ZONE
CENTRAL DATA TOWER
Gatekeeper Mikralos hated these meetings with his superior, GateLord Novalos. The being had once been his commanding officer, and, after years of scheming, maneuvering, and backstabbing politics, now ruled the entire Sixth Gate Zone. Novalos demanded constant updates on the Kramer situation, and the GateLord made it his personal quest to see the family ground under heel. Well, to claim the glory for it, anyway, Mikralos thought.
Like his previous life, centuries ago, Novalos had once again ‘volunteered’ Mikralos for a mission. This time, instead of conquest, the GateLord tasked Mikralos with arranging the downfall of the Last Kramer, but only in strict adherence to the Old Code. Arranging the complicated parts of enacting the vendetta had not been easy. The effort was a huge credit and time soak, requiring his close attention. The distraction made his already-suffering arena business lurch even further towards receivership.
Nevertheless, Mikralos did as he was ordered. He and Solomon had years of bad blood between them. If the plan resulted in the extinguishment of the Kramer lineage, he was happy to do it.
Mikralos’s grav-yacht cruised in on flight approach to the foreboding mass of Central Data, its slick black skin pocked with massive turrets and launchers. Mikralos borrowed the sensory feed from the craft’s sensors, channeling the data into his own vision.
He scanned the barrels of the many cannons studding the surface of the network headquarters, but paid them little mind. He had already seen what they were capable of. The nuclear-devastated wastes of the Fifth Gate Zone, and the accompanying millions of dead, were testament to the damage they could cause.
Mikralos’s craft continued on its carefully-chosen path through the aerial defenses of the Central Zone. Below them, thousands of feet below, he passed over the blinking lights of that garish mercenary gathering place known as Captain York’s. It was a notorious mega-bar, a rancid pit of ethyl-alcohol consumption, a place where mercenary mech pilots and their arena-based gladiator counterparts could meet for companionship and new job offerings.
Mikralos hated the eyesore, and wished he could personally drop a cluster-grip of pressure nukes on the miserable loc
ation. He knew, though, that it was a vital intelligence-gathering tool for the Gatekeepers, giving them a centralized location where they could monitor conversations and keep tabs on the brutal, vicious fighters they “employed” to keep the viewing masses tamed.
His craft glided, smooth and silent, into one of the gaping hangar decks of the Central Data tower. His flight crew stayed with the craft while Mikralos hovered down the rear ramp.
“We greet you, Mikralos, Master of Berva Proxima Arena,” a Gatekeeper’s voice said as he left the ramp. A trio of other Gatekeepers, their armored conveyances all gleaming and spotless, waited for him on the hangar floor. The center being was the one who greeted him. Mikralos extended a claw in response.
“Ah, Ketrius, Lead Director of Arena Network Programming, we greet you in the Ways of the Old Code,” Mikralos said. “Actually, if we may correct you, our full title under the Old Code included the additional clauses of ‘Champion of the Conquest and Bearer of the Blazing Sword Cluster, Fourth Award.’ Alas, we regret we cannot tarry. We have an appointment with Honored Novalos.”
Mikralos kept a polite, formal poise in his claw arrangements and carapace body language. We trust you as far as we can hurl your carcass, backbiter, Mikralos thought.
“The war was a long time ago, Mikralos,” Ketrius said. “Life after battle is not always as glorious. Some beings never reach those rapturous heights again. We understand such was the case with yourself.”
The two Gatekeepers by Ketrius’s side exchanged looks, reveling in the subtle snark directed at the arena master by their fellow executive.
“What brings you to our lovely Central Data tower, this beautiful day, Mikralos?” Ketrius said, his invective sickly sweet. “Have you come to beg for more support funds? Has that rusting arena dome of yours finally collapsed? We do not recall broadcasting an event feed from your establishment for some time. Oh, do tell us, how goes the convention business?”
The pair of junior network Gatekeepers continued to chitter, their running lights showing their amusement at the senior executive’s wordplay. Mikralos suppressed his first impulse to stitch a line of plasma bolts across the threesome.
“It warms our circulatory system’s main pump,” Mikralos said, feigning a smile, “To see the GateLords’ precious pets being so well taken care of, here in the hallowed halls of Central Data. We have not seen such gleaming, unsullied sets of armor in quite a while.”
“A regrettable consequence of living in the distant, forlorn Gate Zones, no doubt,” Ketrius said, now defensive at Mikralos’s insinuation, “Do not blame us if you cannot find, or afford, a sufficiently-proficient bot to keep your chassis in immaculate condition. Some of us care about our appearance and visual professionalism, Mikralos.”
“Ah, Ketrius, ever the dandy,” Mikralos said, his lights pulsing red and black. “We doubt you would have lasted more than a few minutes in actual combat, during the invasion of Junctionworld. Remind us, again, where were you stationed during the campaign to take this place?”
Ketrius started to sputter and back up, his companions no longer sharing in their laughter.
“Ah, never mind, the memory comes to us, now,” Mikralos said, savoring the sudden tension as the decorated combat veteran berated the executive. “Ketrius, we recall you were a staff officer for that fool over the Fourth Corps. What was his name...”
“Favarius,” Ketrius said, a snarl finding its way into his voice. “Lord Favarius, to his subordinates, like yourself.”
“Yes, yes, ‘Lord and Corps Commander Favarius,’” Mikralos said, a wicked glint in his eye. “Was he not killed by a Ja-Prenn assassin drone in the middle of his dormant cycle? Are... are junior staff officers not charged with the sworn duty of protecting their commanders at all times? It has been several centuries, so you must forgive us, as we were never assigned to a comfortable headquarters command billet. We, as you may recall, were at the front lines, tearing apart brood queens and warrior drones with our armor’s chain-blade.”
Every Gatekeeper fought against the biomechanical Ja-Prenn during the prolonged battle to wrest the pocket dimension from their control. Few front-line warriors survived contact with the nexus units of the hives, the brood queens and their colossal protection drones. Though three hundred years had passed since the conquest, all Gatekeepers wore their combat status as a badge of honor, and Mikralos was no exception. He may not be a shrewd arena operator, but he was a verifiable death dealer at the controls of a main battle armor.
“Well, we would love to continue reminiscing of times past,” Mikralos said, “but we must not keep Honored Novalos waiting. We look forward to exchanging pleasantries again, Ketrius. Farewell.”
Mikralos made his way past the dispirited trio of network executives to the hangar level’s elevators. He confirmed his upstairs appointment at an armored desk staffed by a combat team of elite Model Ninety-Nine guards, and entered the mile-tall lifter. The vertical journey took only seconds, the grav-compensators under the elevator’s deck plates shedding the effects of the heavy acceleration and deceleration with ease.
The elevator doors opened, and Mikralos made his way through the decorated halls of the GateLords’ upper levels of the Central Data tower. His superior, GateLord Novalos, awaited him in ornate office chambers trimmed in neon green and gold. Well, there is certainly no accounting for taste, he thought. He paused before continuing into Novalos’s executive suite. Damnation, that sounds like something Ketrius would say.
“Mikralos, our faithful subordinate,” GateLord Novalos said, skipping the formal title greeting. “Come, come, join us.”
What an impolite, decrepit old toad, Mikralos thought, masking his ire at the elder statesbeing’s informality. This will be our office, some day. After some redecorating, of course.
“Tell us, young one, how goes the Kramer affair?” the older Gatekeeper asked, beckoning him forward with a vintage-model claw.
“GateLord Novalos, GateLord of the Sixth Gate Zone, Supreme Planner of the Invasion,” Mikralos said, adhering to custom, “we greet you in the ways of the Old Code.”
“Yes, yes, the Old Code,” Novalos said, settling into his combination of command docket and respiratory assistance module. “Do not belabor us with protocol. Update us on the situation.”
Mikralos sighed inside. You are just going to forget, he thought, then lapse into stories of glories of yesteryear. Still, here we are…
“The plan to eliminate the Kramer name is proceeding at its normal, strategic pace, Lord,” Mikralos said.
“Heh. Glacial pace, you mean,” Novalos said, scoffing.
“Lord Novalos, we believe we are on the cusp of drawing the Kramer daughter into the arena, and to her humiliating death,” Mikralos said. “The trap has taken years to spring, as we have waited for her to re-emerge into view. We believe that time is soon.”
“‘Soon,’” Novalos said with a gentle, mocking tone. “If we had a credit for every time we heard the word ‘soon’ come out of your speakers, dear Mikralos, we could build another Central Data tower. You were a superb warrior, but long-term plots such as these require a more subtle touch. Perhaps we erred in tasking you with heading up this endeavor?”
“Lord Novalos, we assure you,” Mikralos said, bobbling his chassis in embarrassment, “we are confident the plan will come to fruition. All we require is a small infusion of—”
“Ah, here it comes, at last,” Novalos said, interrupting. “More funds?”
Mikralos hovered in silent shame.
“We will, once again, transfer a few million more credits to you,” Novalos said, boredom in his gravelly voice. “We assume the normal arrangement, through your confederate at the Heavenly Palace Casino?”
“Through Dionoles, yes, Lord,” Mikralos said, lowering his chassis. “It is only to obfuscate the source of the funds, so none may dare question our direct involvement in her eventual fate.”
“As the Old Code requires, of course,” Novalos said, his running lights
pulsing blue and purple. “It will be done.”
The old GateLord stared ahead in contemplation, bubbles slowly streaming from his additional life support hookups.
“There are few regrets we have in this life, Mikralos,” Novalos said. “One of those regrets is ever hearing the name ‘Kramer.’”
“We will destroy her for you, Lord Novalos,” Mikralos said, trying to salvage his pride. “We request your permission to reassemble our original combat triad. The funding will assist in securing the assistance of our old comrade, the Fifth Gate Zone Recovery Specialist, Beliphres.”
The GateLord dismissed the notion with a claw-flick.
“Do not bore us with details, Mikralos,” Novalos said, “when our greater meaning seems to escape you. No, we speak not of the offspring, Arena Master. The daughter is but a symptom of the original disease. No, we speak of the patriarch, Solomon Kramer. If we had known then, what we know now, we should have left him to die where the scout teams found him. We should have known, based on his last-ditch resistance to his genocidal enemies, he would be a stubborn, stiff-necked prospect. Little did we know at the time, eh, Mikralos?”
“We agree, GateLord Novalos,” Mikralos said. “Though our reasons for hating the Kramer clan are our own.”
“Ah, yes,” Novalos said, “that sordid arrangement the two of you had, where the battle slave tricked you into his absolving his life-debts and other taxes in perpetuity. We remember that match. A disappointing affair.”
