Defiance

by Bear Ross

  Mikralos grounded his chassis in shame, his running lights off.

  “We will make our amends, Lord,” Mikralos said. “Of this, we can pledge our solemn word and honor.”

  “Pledge what you will, just see that it happens, Mikralos,” GateLord Novalos said, extending a claw in warning and dismissal, “for your own sake, and the lives of your comrades.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS

  “What the void is that supposed to be?” Jessica Kramer said, looking at the weapon suspended overhead in a pair of rigging slings. “I'm a blade fighter, not a hammer-dragger. What venting idiot thought this was a good idea?”

  Kitos, the blue Niff technician, was ready for her this time, and kept his internal fluids internal. Master Vervor turned from the controls of the shop's gantry crane. His lower fangs jutted out at her, a counter to her bluster.

  “The contract was forwarded to us after you signed it, human,” the Myoshan said. “Your first bout is classified as a Multi-Combatant Brawl, Modified Shield Match, Close Combat Only. You're going to need more than blades. Besides, it's what you agreed to.”

  “Prath? Prath!” she said.

  Prath poked his head up, turning his attention from the holographic news display at a nearby workbench.

  “The fine print, little human,” the sitting Ascended said. “You were so busy doing your inquisition bit on the Gatekeepers, you forgot to read the fine print. The second Gatekeeper changed the first shield match from a Light Exo Class, All Ordnance, Single Combat to something much nastier, and on a much more crowded arena floor. There will be four combatants, to be exact. You agreed before I could bring it to your attention.”

  “A slug-brawl? Seriously?” she said, stomping her foot. “Why a mallet, though? I didn’t really sign up for that dung, did I?”

  Prath changed his holograph projector from the news to the contract. A few manipulations, and the fight agreement floated in front of them, the section in question outlined in garish red print. Jessica's brow wrinkled as she read it.

  “Oh, void,” she said.

  “I told you, love, the negotiating table is their arena,” Prath said. “'One corporate logo for the Celestial Kingdom Casino, tasteful and inconspicuous in nature, to be mounted on the face of a hammer/cudgel/kinetic impact device, sufficient to be held with both of the specified mech's manipulator hands.' It's right there, in the contract you signed with such confidence and gusto.”

  “You were supposed to be watching my back in there, ape!”

  “How could I,” Prath asked, “when you agreed right away to a last-second concession made by Gatekeepers? They never fully agree to something. There's always a poison pill in their negotiating tactics, some clause or condition that must be pried out, like a rock in a piece of candy.”

  “Well, void. This is some dung, gate damn it.”

  “Language.”

  Jessica huffed and blew her hair out of her face. She stared at the hammer, trying to melt it with her gaze.

  “Well, it looks like a wonderful kinetic impact weapon, regardless of our pilot's eager zeal to sign documents,” Prath said, dimming his news hologram. “Master Vervor, what is it called? I don't think I've seen a skull-thumper that big used in any of matches before.”

  “It's a bgdh-1,” Vervor said, his small chest puffing with pride. “One of my own designs. I put it in the fabricator to run as soon as I received the contract.”

  “What does that acronym stand for?” Prath said.

  “'Big Gate-Damned—'” Vervor started.

  “'Hammer One,' I get it,” Jessica said, smirking.

  “I-I thought hammer name was clever,” Kitos the technician said.

  “I didn't ask, Squirty,” Jessica said. Kitos's four shoulders slumped, and he looked down to return to his work. Prath shot her a look which she tried to ignore, but couldn't.

  “Ugh. Okay, there’s some potential, there, I’ll give you that,” Jessica said. “I like the spikes on the opposite face of the hammer surface and the pommel on the shaft. I need some heat, though. I really wish I could go back to my blades.” She stared up at the hammer, then over at her mech NoName’s original plasma-edged weapons. They were still in pieces after the match with Zerren Beff at Red Iridium.

  “Contract doesn't say we can't modify it, right?” Jessica said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nope,” Prath said, rebooting his news hologram.

  “Well, then,” she said, “let's get to it. I have an idea, Squir—”

  Prath made a loud, fake cough, rippling the air flowing through his floating sports and news hologram. Jessica rolled her eyes at him, then turned to the meek and frightened four-armed being.

  “Ugh... Kitos, dear technician, I would like to discuss with you a possible modification to Master Vervor's wondrous design,” Jessica said, batting her eyelashes at both the Niff and his Myoshan boss, making sure her crew chief saw her exaggerated display.

  “Better. Keep working on it,” Prath said from behind his news hologram.

  Chapter Sixteen

  FIFTH GATE ZONE

  VOID’S EDGE REFUSE DISPOSAL COMPLEX

  Beliphres had many claws contained in the hull of his carrier chassis. He had always been a more practical Gatekeeper, more at home on the battlefield or the streets than command bunkers or network offices. This particular manipulator was crude in form and function, a leftover from a previous generation of Gatekeeper war-chassis. It was heavier and stronger than current models, though, able to crush and tear armored hulls in close combat. He had others, of course, smoother and sleeker, but when this battle claw emerged from his hull, its brutal shape sent a message: he meant business.

  “Very well, Cleeg,” Beliphres said, gesturing with the heavy implement. “You have refused to answer our questions to our satisfaction, and have exhausted the last of our good will. You sleep in the void, tonight. Farewell.”

  He starting the machine up with the large mechanical claw. Cleeg burbled and wept as the monstrous garbage compactor spooled up. Its blade-covered drum turned faster and faster, preparing to shred Cleeg's exoskeleton to chitinous chunks and splinters.

  Gatekeeper Beliphres's dark eyes maintained their cold gaze as Cleeg moved down the processor's conveyor belt. A large bag of trash, rancid and bulging with drippings and sludge, burst when it hit the whirling blades of the compactor. The putrid smell of rotten meat and sour milk filled the loading dock. Cleeg screamed, pleading, as his turn came up next.

  “Honored Beliphres, I swear, I swear, on the life and love of my spawnlings—”

  “Hmm, yes, there is that unattended matter, too,” Beliphres said, stopping the machine. “How many?”

  “How... how many what, Beliphres?” the insectoid being asked.

  “Spawnlings, Cleeg. How many?” Beliphres said.

  “My mate and I have a brood of seven,” Cleeg said, desperation in his voice. “Seven, Honored Gatekeeper, seven little sets of mandibles to feed, seven little hearts that need me to come home. Please, I, I had no idea that my business partner was up to something. He skimmed the set-aside accounts, Beliphres, not me! I'm just the financier, a fellow victim of that idiot's plan. I'll gladly pay you back, double, triple, just please don't—”

  “Double? Triple?” Beliphres said. “The time for the negotiation of monetary compensation, dear Cleeg, is in the past. We are now in the executive phase of our transaction.”

  The Gatekeeper started the machine up again, but dialed down the speed of the conveyor belt. Cleeg's feet became a green blur of shell and splattered blood, and the loading dock was filled with chittering screams.

  “You see, Cleeg,” Beliphres said, pontificating, ”a business partnership is a joining of resources and wills, an agreement to shoulder the pain and profit of a venture.”

  Cleeg's four knees went next. They burst like ripe fruitbulbs, yellow fluid gushing as the blades split them.

  “Your partner, T
ophor, thought keeping three sets of books would go unnoticed by us,” the Gatekeeper said. “He paid for that last night, but was kind enough to enlighten us to your location after some... unpleasant persuasion. You, Cleeg, knew the character and demeanor of your partner. Even if you claim ignorance to Tophor's transgressions, you cannot claim to be surprised. You chose this being to join on your business journey, and in doing so, you chose your current plight.”

  The tugging, cutting motion of the processor’s drum blade ripped Cleeg's translucent wings from their sockets, filling the air with glittering bits.

  “Your own poor judgment is the cause of this present consternation, Cleeg,” Beliphres said. “We are merely the logical consequence of the choice you made when you began this misadventure.”

  The gore-splashed blades sang a deeper note as Cleeg's head and torso were pulled into the garbage processor.

  “Congratulations, gentlebeing, you have arrived at your chosen destination,” Beliphres said. A smirk formed on his distorted features. “No more tears, Cleeg, only dreams.”

  “Gates, I love those speeches you give when they get fed in the chipper, boss,” Skreeb Fourth-Hatched said. His vaporizer inlet glowed, and he pulled a gill-full into his system. His Skevvian partner, Velsh, nodded in avid agreement next to him.

  “We Gatekeepers were conquering poets, once, young Skreeb,” Beliphres said. “Our subjugation of this place,” he waved the heavy battle claw around, motioning at the whole of Junctionworld, “was recorded in song and verse, our deeds and methodologies formalized and enshrined in the oft-mentioned Old Code. Our race never excelled with the brush or chisel. We were warrior wordsmiths, talented with both plume and plasma cannons.”

  “Uh, 'plume,' boss?” the Skevvian asked.

  “'Plume,' young Velsh,” Beliphres said. “The shaft of a bird's feather, sharpened, dipped in ink. It was for extracting thoughts from the mind and placing them on parchment.”

  “Uh, boss... 'parchment?'” Skreeb, the tall, reptilian cyborg asked. “And, uh, how did the extraction process work? Did it, you know... did it hurt?”

  Small bubbles streamed in Beliphres's carrier sphere in a silent sigh.

  “Forgive us, dutiful, shopworn Skreeb,” the Gatekeeper said. “We know you are unburdened with an excess of vocabulary or intellect.”

  Both beings looked at the Gatekeeper with blank expressions on their faces.

  “Never mind,” Beliphres said. “Find this insect's family hive and make sure his progeny, seven plus a broodmate, we believe he said, are snug and secure inside. Then, torch it.”

  “Torch it. Right, boss,” Skreeb said.

  “These Khalixx like to build in hexagonal patterns, like honeybuzzers,” the Gatekeeper said. “Make sure the six hives around it are immolated, as well, but leave a smattering of survivors to tell the tale. You did the same with Tophor's residence and family, one presumes?”

  “Yeah, boss, we poured that incendiary goop down their throats and lit it, just like you said,” Skreeb said, his head’s crest rising from the joy of the memory. “It was fireworks city. I captured the vid on my eye cameras. Pour, light, then poof!”

  The Shasarr cyborg continued to stare with his unblinking eye implants at the Gatekeeper. Beliphres glared at both of them, annoyed as the moment dragged on.

  “And? Yes?” the Gatekeeper said.

  Velsh poked Skreeb with one of his tentacles, breaking his momentary stupor.

  “Huh? Oh, we also found the debt-runner, boss,” Skreeb said. “But, there's a hitch, though. Our tip-off gave us the name of where he works. 'Vervor's Foundry Works.' Real high-end mech shop over by Berva Proxima arena. He's in there, but we wasn't sure how to go about...”

  “You were surprisingly wise to not extract him, Skreeb,” Beliphres said. “Vervor’s establishment is in the Sixth Gate Zone, and that is the Headhunter's territory, is it not?”

  “Yeah, boss,” Skreeb said.

  “Were you seen? No challenges to your presence?” the Gatekeeper asked.

  “No, boss, we was careful,” Velsh said. The memory of the overhead Enforcement Directorate drone ran a chill through his nervous system, and his tentacles clutched and unclutched.

  A light signaled on the interior of Beliphres’s protective bubble, followed by a quick scrawl of text. After reading it, Beliphres pointed the heavy claw at one of his armored Nines standing on the perimeter of the loading dock. “Summon our transport.”

  The bioprinted guardsman saluted his acknowledgment, running to secure the nearby landing pad as he opened comms with the Gatekeeper’s grav-yacht orbiting overhead. Beliphres turned back to his Skevvian and Shasarr associates.

  “Download the video feed from your eyes to our craft's internal computers, Skreeb,” Beliphres said. “We wish for some in-flight entertainment while we travel to Honored Mikralos's abode.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  ENFORCEMENT DIRECTORATE BARRACKS

  Model Ninety-Nine Drone Technician 83556-a, known as “Blues” to his squadmates because of his eclectic musical tastes, checklisted the outgoing shift of Airborne Enforcement Drones before they launched. After running quick pre-flight checks on each of them, he sent them out on their patrols. Once they were gone, he turned his attention to the returned drones hanging in their racks.

  Airborne Enforcement Drone 6-44 waited at its retrieval station, its red indicator light blinking in contrast to the solid yellow lights shown by its eight other compatriots in the local Directorate station's hangar. 6-44 was the last to be lubricated, maintained, and have its files downloaded.

  Blues reviewed the video feed from the drone on his forearm computer, skipping ahead to the segment highlighted by the drone's computer for evaluation. The images of an air car, a Skevvian, and a Shasarr cyborg flashed across the drone's patrol report, along with data summaries of their criminal records and mug shots.

  The Skevvian was named Velsh. The Shasarr was Skreeb Fourth-Hatched. No unusual activity was reported, but their past records and presence was cause for monitoring.

  Under normal circumstances, Blues would forward the matter to Intel section, where fellow Model Ninety-Nine who earned the rank of detective and would compile and follow up on the report. That report would possibly flow to the One-Oh-Nine Lead Enforcer or Centurion farther up the chain in the Enforcement Directorate, where a decision would be made about further action.

  Blues knew who these two beings were, though, and had other plans. Someone important, someone outside the normal channels, needed to see this.

  He dropped the video log chip from Drone 6-44 into a small pocket concealed in his maintenance coveralls. His shift report noted that the memory device in 6-44 was corrupted, and replaced with a fresh blank one.

  Blues ended his work shift and checked out of the Nine barracks with the Lead Enforcer on duty. Regulations allowed him only two hours outside of the hive-like building for personal time. He hustled to cross the Sixth Gate Zone to his destination on foot, checking often to see he wasn't being followed or drawing undue attention. He wore a hooded jacket and reflective visor to conceal his black eyes and softened Niner features. Since he maintained similar systems, he knew how to slip past the endless array of scanners and cameras studding the crowded streets of the dilapidated housing districts and commercial broadways.

  Blues arrived at the run-down neighborhood of Sebyus with half of his time gone. Sebyus was a mix of refugee camp and high-rise ghetto, packed full of sentients still homeless from the Fifth Gate nuclear strikes. Graffiti in a dozen languages covered the walls and trash filled the streets. No malevolent Gatekeeper schemes uncoiled here. No valiant mech-gladiators did battle, except on tattered posters and blinking hologram displays. Here, like in most of Junctionworld, there was only misery.

  He turned down an alley, arriving at an off-list checkpoint. The Nines manning the post wore standard Enforcement Directorate uniforms, but their gear was augmented, far more potent than arsenal-
issued weaponry. An initial challenge at muzzle-point was met with a short counter-phrase.

  “The Future, The Way,” Blues said. The Nines at the checkpoint acknowledged him, but did not scan him, and he passed with barely any notice.

  A ruined factory two blocks past the checkpoint was his final waypoint. As he drew nearer, rubble and cannon impacts became more prominent on the sides of the building, along with piles of rusted shell casings and the smell of decaying carcasses. In front of the factory a pair of Enforcement Directorate mechs sat toppled, their hulls shattered and burned. They were trophies of the building's owner from a battle fought years before, and neither the Sixth Gate Zone's Enforcement Directorate commander or even the GateLord dared order their recovery or retrieval.

  Older, scarred Nines guarded the charred entrances of the factory. They were vintage combat models, pulled from service due to excessive damage or age. Many bore cybernetic replacement parts. They were “Recykes,” renegade Nines who were off the books, extracted from the reprocessors before they were scheduled for destruction or broken up for parts. They, like this place, did not exist on any official map of ledger.

  One older Nine at the gate recognized Blues and raised a prosthetic hand. He held a big-bore projectile weapon, similar to Enforcement Directorate carbines, but customized. A large ammunition drum jutted from the side, and it was trained on Blues' bioprinted sternum.

  “Greet,” the older Nine said.

  “Confirm. Data. Boss optics. Solo,” Blues answered in the chopped language used by Nines.

  “Priority?” the Recyke asked.

  “Utmost,” Blues said.

  “Stand by, Blues. Access req inbound.”

  After a pause and a small burst of radio transmission, the Recyke guard opened the heavy door, his aim shifting from Blues to its prior direction down the street.