Defiance

by Bear Ross

  Another checkpoint, this one an armored teller's window flanked by another pair of veteran guards, awaited him inside the building. The booth and walls around it were festooned with the severed heads of every race of sentient and sapient found in Junctionworld. Some were bare skulls, others in various states of rot. Some were separated only a short time beforehand, their dark clotting trails running down the walls. The chamber reeked of death, but a Nine was not moved by such things.

  The Model Ninety-Nine in the teller booth put down his computer tablet and regarded him with equally black eyes.

  “Blues, long time. Welcome. Query: visitation purpose?” the Ninety-Nine said. Model Ninety-Nines like the teller and himself did not have to communicate in the short, clipped speech of the more basic Nines, and non-essential words could slip into their conversation. Things were still curt. This was important.

  “Greet, Nolo. Data. Potential intrusion. Priority utmost,” Blues said, holding up the small memory device he carried.

  “No doubt. Boss standing by. See Blues now. Proceed after search. Transport pending after briefing,” the Ninety-Nine said.

  “Acknowledged. Grateful,” Blues said.

  Blues held his hands and the data-chip out to his sides. One of the guard Nines covered him with a weapon while the other searched him with a scanner device. They switched search and weapons positions and repeated the process. Redundancy was built in to the Nines. The boss could handle anything that came at him, short of a nuke, but it was the way things were done.

  Blues proceeded down the large, shot-out hallway. Skulls with lights mounted in them lit the former industrial concourse with a faint glow. Human, Myoshan, Redfolk, even Nines were represented. Most were unknown to Blues. He was gene-formed as a drone mechanic, not a xeno-biologist.

  The hallway led to a large, pitch-black room with a single beam of light emanating from the ceiling. Blues stood in the pool of the spotlight. Something big rustled and whirred in the darkness.

  “Blues, I'm told you have something for me? Something Utmost?” the smooth mechanical voice asked.

  “Affirm, Boss,” Blues said. “Selfsame unit pulled vid feed off drone after patrol. Data alerts intruder, two times, plus softskin vehicle. Known subordinates, Beliphres. Location, Berva Proxima area, Sixth Gate Zone. Data offered, solo copy.”

  Blues held the data-chip up into the light. Large, vibroblade-tipped fingers, each the size of Blues' forearm, reached out from the darkness. The giant red hand plucked it from Blues's outstretched palm with deft precision. The flat piece loaded into a slot on the claw's main wrist with the help of subordinate serpentine tentacles. A pair of black, glittering eyes, the same color and size as his own, opened in the darkness. The soft glow of a screen illuminated the room, showing off the Headhunter's menacing form and surroundings.

  The giant red cyborg had started life as an experimental type of Nine, but that was where the similarity between him and the average bioprinted trooper ended. The rumors at the barracks said he was actually a special type of One-Oh-Nine. He had been a Centurion, once, a combat adviser and bodyguard to the GateLords themselves. They turned him into this, and he escaped, setting up his own dark kingdom in the Sixth Gate Zone.

  Parts of the Headhunter were still Niner. His face, brain, spine, and other assorted bits of reinforced meat were original, though enhanced. The remainder was custom-fabricated, unstoppable killing machine. His body was like an Unlimited mech from the arenas, a pulsing, writhing conglomeration of red armored plates, weapons components, and armored sinew. Multiple types of weapons, claws, launchers, and scything blades covered his armored hull, making him a lethal threat at any distance, near or far.

  Blues was genetically conditioned to know no fear, yet still he shivered at the sight of the renegade crime lord. If Nines could feel primal panic, the Headhunter would be the thing that inspired it.

  “Let's just see what you've got here, Blues,” the Headhunter said, going over the data in front of him. “Oh, that's interesting. Skreeb and Velsh seem to have lost their map and sense of direction. Maybe even their minds, trolling around in my sector of control.”

  “Selfsame cogged you lay optics on first, boss,” Blues said. “Selfsame cogged priority utmost.”

  “And you thought right, Blues,” the cyborg said, his metal body shifting in his oversized seat. “I really did need to see this, right away.”

  “I used to patrol that area when I was just a rookie Enforcer, before they modded me,” the Headhunter said. “Old Vervor's mech shop is across the street. Looks like they're scoping it out for something.”

  His steel muscles coiled and reconfigured as he spoke. The charging station he sat on was shaped like a nightmarish throne. Its black-chromed surface was covered, like most of his décor, in skulls. Most prominent among the trophies were two pink glass spheres, their ruined flesh-and-bone contents settled to the bottom of the liquid-filled containers in ragged piles. The sight of them always troubled Blues. It was not easy seeing Gatekeepers, the supposed apex beings of their civilization, mounted like trophies. He pushed the uneasiness aside.

  Imprinted doubts. Mass-produced lies. Loyalty to Sameself's own unit-type first and utmost, Blues thought. The Headhunter was the future of Junctionworld. The Headhunter was going to lead them to freedom.

  The data feed reached its end. The being known as “Headhunter, Centurion and Warlord,” if one subscribed to the Ways of the Old Code, flicked off the holo display.

  “My thanks, Blues,” the cyborg said. “Please let Nolo, up front, know that I need him back here.”

  One of the Headhunter’s lower set of arms raised a hand in salute to the drone technician, who returned it as he bowed. Blues turned and made his way to the teller booth, accepting the credit stick Nolo offered him. He exchanged a nod with the Ninety-Nine adjutant, and stepped into the hover car waiting out front.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  THE HEADHUNTER’S LAIR

  “Beliphres, you loathsome blob, what are we going to do with you?” the Headhunter said aloud to no one in particular. “I suppose the hardest part will be finding room for a third trophy mount without throwing off the design flow of the room.”

  The red cyborg accessed the data and images again. They poured from an emitter in one of his hands. The pictures projected against the far skull-covered wall like a lumpy-screened cinema.

  Nolo, the rebel Headhunter’s adjutant and an advanced Model Ninety-Nine trooper, appeared at the entrance to the chamber.

  “Wanted to comm with Selfsame, boss?” Nolo said.

  “Nolo, we're going to send a message,” the Headhunter said, one set of his giant claws flexing. “I know Beliphres's territory in the Fifth Gate Zone is nuked, but it looks like his boys are looking for greener fields in our little patch of heaven. Find me a list of targets.”

  “Oh, and pull what we've got on Vervor's mech shop,” the Headhunter said before Nolo could turn to leave. “I'm going to pay a visit. How's he doing on his protection payments?”

  “Selfsame will prep transport, and brief Boss en route,” Nolo said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS

  The impact of the mech’s hammer striking the reinforced target shook the entirety of Master Vervor’s shop, even through the insulated, force-field-protected testing booth.

  The data fed into a computer station, where his large, orange body stood over the Niff technician, Kitos. Master Technician Prath skimmed the input displays, stroking his chin as he evaluated the wide spectrum of information.

  “That left arm is just a touch out of synch on the downstroke,” Prath said. “And the torso twist needs more follow-through. Adjust the acceleration and voltage up by half a percent for that combo. Specifically, these actuators here, and here.”

  The tall Ascended reached a large, brown hand over the shoulders of the Niff technician, pointing out signal points on the displa
y’s readout. The data spikes and graphs streamed in from Jessica's mech's internal sensors, and NoName verified the changes via the shop’s hardwired link. They wouldn't be able to do this once the upcoming match started. Unlike mech racing or team sports events, there were no maintenance or adjustment pit stops in the arena. It was just an all-out brawl.

  Prath nodded after Kitos confirmed the recalibrated settings. He keyed the microphone on his headset, looking up at the angry little human in the mech's cockpit.

  “Again,” he said.

  “Prath, I hate using pre-set hit combos,” Jessica Kramer said over the comm link, disgust and boredom dripping from her voice. “You, of all beings, know they're just blind, clumsy routines that can get you killed.”

  “It's going to be ugly out there, Jessica,” Prath said. “There will be all manner of mech-sized swords, flails, and fists flying everywhere. You've never fought a match like this before. We're just entering these combinations in case you are incapacitated. The control components we've implanted from Judah into your NoName computer will be able to compensate if you're staggered and dopey. Now run it again, half speed. Just air, this time. I don’t think that strike plate in the booth can take much more.”

  Jessica sighed over the radio and gave the command to her mech to run the sequence. Her armored machine ran through the paces of a pre-programmed hammer attack, one composed of an overhead slam, a hooking slash with the claw on the back of the hammer's head, and then a stab with the spiked base of the handle. The mech's slow pantomime of an attack hit only air.

  The chassis’ new armor, enhanced components, and fresh paint job impressed the small group of Myoshan techs assembled outside of the test booth. They watched the mech move through its paces, enraptured. It was slow-motion mechanical poetry, the result of days of hard, tough work under Vervor's and Prath's intense supervision. Too bad it wouldn't last past the first few seconds in the arena. Such was a mech tech's life.

  Prath reviewed the new data, and turned to Kitos.

  “Perfect, Kitos. Good work,” Prath said to the Niff.

  He turned his headset on again.

  “Garbage, pilot, pure garbage,” Prath said. “Are you even trying, up there? Run it again, once more, with feeling.”

  Kitos blinked his large eyes in confusion. Jessica yelled out in frustration over the radio.

  “I-I does not understand, Master Technician Prath,” Kitos said, trying to keep his voice low. “I-I made the correct adjustments as you wished.”

  “I know that, and you know that, Kitos,” Prath said, his lips peeling back from his fangs in a smile. “But you know pilots. They can't be told how wonderful they're doing. Their egos are horrific enough in normal situations. If we let her know she's doing well, there'll be no dealing with her once she gets out of the cockpit.”

  “I heard that,” Jessica said over the comm. Kitos cowered.

  “Only because we let you. Remember that,” Prath said.

  He clicked off the link and turned to Kitos. He arched a large orange eyebrow.

  “You think we're ready for a full speed test?” Prath asked. “Powered and un-powered?” Kitos gulped and nodded.

  “I-I believe so. Systems are showing optimal,” Kitos said, wringing his two pairs of hands together.

  “Jessica, we're going to run a full speed test, now,” Prath said. “We're up against the deadline for reporting to the pits.”

  “Master Vervor!” Prath said, calling down the hall to the shop proprietor.

  “Yes,” said the Myoshan business owner, his voice grating through his small office door.

  “Your attention and approval are requested, please,” Prath said.

  Grumbling, the short, reptilian shop owner stalked towards the back of the large fabrication facility. Jessica's modified mech filled the giant testing booth. The transparent armor and flickering force fields of the testing chamber were expensive, but necessary.

  The once-homely mech stood ready. Vervor’s crew modified it to such an extent, its resemblance to what first came into the shop was superficial, at best. Prath had to admit, the Myoshan proprietor and his staff knew their stuff. Kitos proved to be an expert in grafting Judah's hardware into the NoName computer. Jessica's choice for a base mech, a cargo unit which shared a number of systems with the Enforcement Directorate's armored police units, also proved to be a wise choice. This had come together nicely, he thought.

  “Come, have a look, Master Vervor,” Prath said. He keyed up his headset, “Little human, full speed run, kinetic only. Engage.”

  “Roger, Prath,” Jessica said.

  Jessica engaged the subroutine, and her mech became a blur. Three resounding clangs of the aptly-named bgdh-1 thundered throughout the shop, passing, once again, through the test box's armor and soundproofing. The hammer sent deep gouges into the test booth's metal strike plates, the circular logo of the Celestial Kingdom casino driven deep into their armored surfaces.

  Vervor took a step back at the unexpected thunderstrikes. Prath clapped. Kitos clenched, his pupils dilated in alarm.

  Recovering, Vervor's fangs jutted out in satisfaction, and both set of eyes, forward and back, squinted.

  “Satisfactory. And energized?” Vervor said.

  “First, your Technician Kitos is to be commended,” Prath said. “Running the plasma channels from the reactor through the arms, and making the power coupling flush with the palms of the hands was a stroke of genius. His craftsmanship is brilliant, especially considering the time limitations.”

  “Master Prath, I know how good Kitos is,” Vervor answered. “He wouldn't be here, otherwise.”

  Prath smirked, and keyed his microphone again.

  “Energized test run, pilot. Full speed. Try not to slice through the test chamber. Engage,” Prath said.

  “Not likely, Master Ape,” Vervor remarked. “My testing booth’s shields are rated stronger than most arena crowd-protection fields.”

  Jessica looked at her wrist watch and swore. Prath sympathized with his pilot. They were cutting things close, and the transport vehicle hadn't even arrived yet. One last test. She flicked off the safeties and felt the mech's reactor keen higher in pitch.

  “NoName, ‘Firehammer’ sequence, engage,” Jessica Kramer said, and braced herself.

  Her mech's two large arms rotated back over her, the large weapon now superheated with plasma vented from her engine. Then, a swirl of motion and a deep boom as the full-strength blow pulverized the first strike plate. The bgdh-1 rotated in the mech's hands, and the glowing claw on the back of the warhammer's head tore through the side of the strike plate with a thick, hissing noise.

  The mech pulled back through the claw strike like a man trying to reel in an oversized fish. When it was leaning on its back foot, the grip on the hammer switched. The heated bottom spike of the hammer's handle now became a short spear, one mech hand holding the middle of the shaft like a chisel, the other driving force through the hammer's head like an awl through leather.

  The scorching spike sank through the strike plate and jutted through the entirety of the thick steel. With a quick jerk, the mech pulled back again into a defensive crouch, hammer at the ready. A white-hot hole was left through not just the plate, but the wall of the test chamber. Master Vervor didn't know whether to jump for joy or strangle Prath.

  A large shadow darkened the open loading dock bay at the rear of the warehouse-sized building. An enormous transport vehicle, armored and utilitarian in design, backed up to the shop's mech-sized rear entrance.

  “Ah, Honored Mikralos's transport must be here from Berva Proxima,” Prath said. He took off his headset and began to roll up his tools. Kitos put a pair of hands across the Ascended’s forearm, a gesture of caution.

  “Master Prath, I-I don't think that's the Berva Proxima transport vehicle,” Kitos said. His golden eyes were wide in alarm.

  “No, it's not,” Vervor said, balling his small clawed fists.

  Jessica climbed down from the mech's co
ckpit and hit the button to open the test chamber's large transparent door. A squad of well-armed, patch-armored Nines spilled from the back of the vehicle, their weapons covering every angle of the shop. Jessica's revolver was out, but a fistful of 20mm Mattis rounds were no match for a half-dozen heavy weapons pointed back at her. She decocked the weapon and held it over her head. The Nines kept her targeted, but made no move to disarm her.

  A series of thumping footsteps came down the ramp of the transport. A crimson, multi-armed titan the size of a small mech emerged from the shadowed rear of the vehicle, his organic face thrown out of proportion compared to the rest of his monstrous cybernetic body.

  “Master Vervor, I see you have guests,” the Headhunter said, his smaller weapons and appendages curled back by his sides, his main close-combat arms wide in greeting. “Forgive my sudden arrival. I won't be long, but there is something important I think we need to discuss.”

  Chapter Twenty

  SIXTH GATE ZONE

  VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS

  “I thought that blob Mikralos ran this sector?” Jessica Kramer said, holstering her weapon. She placed her hands on her hips. Prath held up one hand and called to her in a voice laden with caution.

  “Jessica, dear, maybe this isn't the right—” Prath said.

  “No, no, Ascended,” the Headhunter said, cutting him off. “She is within her rights to ask. I am, pilot, the local... ‘protector,’ for lack of a better word. I'm the being who gets things done. I run things here on the ground level. Mikralos just runs the arena. Badly, I might add.”

  “So, you're the local crime lord,” Jessica said. Prath started to speak, but an upheld secondary claw from the cyborg stopped him short.

  “Well... yeah, you could say that,” the Headhunter said, a small grin forming on his face. “Another way to say it is... I provide an alternative to the Gatekeepers' little slave-games of life-debts and dirty deals. Sentients need goods and services without the blobs being involved, and I provide them.”