by Bear Ross
“So, you're a benevolent crime lord,” Jessica said. “Heart of gold, and all that. Got it. I've still never heard of you.” Prath covered his forehead with his hand.
“Well, that's kinda the point, human,” the Headhunter said, an intrigued look on his face, his claws flexing like they had lives of their own.
“Hmmph. Whatever,” Jessica said, unimpressed. “So, is this going to take long? I have a match tonight.”
“I've heard of you, sir,” Prath said, stepping forward. “Or should I say, Headhunter, Centurion and Warlord?”
“Really? How formal. Do tell, Ascended,” the cyborg’s black eyes were full of delight, having been addressed by his full, formal title under the Old Code.
“Don't let my youthful good looks fool you, sir,” Prath said. “I have been around the arena a time or two, so to speak. He gestured to Jessica. “Please forgive Mech Pilot Kramer. She doesn’t know the stories they tell of the former Enforcer who protects an underground kingdom that the Gatekeepers refuse to acknowledge even exists, lest it wound their pride and reputation. Word is, your reach is extending past the Sixth Gate Zone, now. Most impressive, sir.”
The Headhunter shrugged, smiling.
“I must admit, I’m... flattered, Master Ape. Amused, even. May you never find yourself on my wall,” the red cyborg said, clicking one of his sets of vibroclaws like a giant pair of scissors.
The Headhunter turned his sleek armored body to face Jessica. “Kramer, eh? I see the resemblance, now. I knew your-”
“Everyone knew my old man,” Jessica said, her flat voice cutting him off.
“Huh. Well, of course,” the Headhunter said. “Nolo, take her name down. I think I might want to keep up with her arena career.” Nolo, his right-hand Ninety-Nine, duly noted her name on the tablet he carried.
“Now, to business,” the Headhunter said, his mood and weapons arms shifting. “Master Vervor, I am led to believe that your technician... Kitos, is it? Is he here?”
Kitos's already-quivering fur laid down, and he tried to become smaller, to shrink from the sight of the red cyborg.
“Kitos, you seem to have had an awful patch of bad luck, lately, betting on the back-alley mech matches,” the crimson titan said, a tinge of sympathy in his voice. “Word is that you're into debt to Honored Beliphres for more than a hundred thousand credits.”
A small squeak of defense fluid peeped out of Kitos. Prath and Vervor both took a small step away from him.
“’Beliphres.’ Where do I know that name from?” Prath said, under his breath to Vervor.
“One of the lower-status Gatekeepers,” Vervor said, trying to be discreet. “He’s made trouble for us in the past. The GateLords put him in charge of rebuilding the Fifth Gate Zone, but he’s a bit of a rogue. Fancies himself an underworld heavy hitter, of sorts.”
“Fortunately,” the red cyborg continued, ignoring the whispering duo, “you and Master Vervor's shop are on my side of the line, Niff. As long as you're here, you're under my protection.”
“Very noble of you,” Jessica said. The cyborg caught the sarcasm in her remark, and grinned. She returned the look with a smirk. The Myoshan shop owner raised a small, scaly claw.
“And Beliphres, Honored Headhunter?” Vervor said. “I assume if you found Kitos, the Gatekeeper is also aware of his location.”
“If Beliphres crosses that line, well,” the Headhunter said, turning back to Vervor, “I just might need to kickstart the next stage of my expansion plans a bit early.”
“'If?' 'Might?'” Jessica said, a sardonic, mocking tone in her voice. “I'm hearing a lot of 'maybe,' here, Headhunter.”
“You've got fire, human. I like that,” the Headhunter said. He pointed a large set of claws at Prath. “Keep the Ascended, over there, close to you, though. I can tell you like playing the tough loner, but you're going to need beings you can trust around you when things get rough. Fire only gets you so far.”
“Oh, and one more thing, pilot,” the giant cyborg said.
“Yeah?” she answered.
“I did some looking into things, called up a few old friends,” the Headhunter said. “You're being set up by Mikralos, but you probably already know that. There's even money on you going into tonight's big brawl, but my numbers guy says things are looking pretty bad when you get put up against Masamune Kyuzo. Even the Celestial Kingdom, your own sponsor, is taking heavy wagers against you. You're not even in long-shot territory. Watch yourself. It looks like a—”
“—Like a Gatekeeper's Cross. Right. Got it, Mister Headhunter, sir,” she said, giving him a sarcastic impersonation of a salute.
“There’s that fire, again,” the Headhunter said. “I don’t know if it’s fake tough or crazy brave, but I like it.”
The Headhunter turned to Nolo, who held his tablet in hand.
“Put a half-million credits on her for tonight's match,” he said to his Model Ninety-Nine adjutant. “I'm going to keep my sensors on you, Kramer. Don't let me down.”
The Headhunter pulled back into the transport vehicle, his steps thudding through the shop’s mech bay as he went up the ramp. The Recyke Nines withdrew, falling back in overwatching pairs, their weapons still targeted in every direction. The hovering armored truck's rear door closed with a hiss, and they were gone.
“Mech Pilot Jessica Kramer, a moment of your time, please,” Prath said, a thick brown finger curling for her to come near. Jessica rolled her eyes, dreading the incoming lecture. Great, she thought.
The heavy mech-carrier to Berva Proxima hovered up to the loading doors just as the Headhunter's transport left. Vervor began barking orders to the shop's other Myoshan technicians and fabricators in his native tongue, and prepped the modified cr-400 mech for transport to the arena.
Chapter Twenty-One
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
The summons from Gatekeeper Mikralos was ill-timed, and Masamune Kyuzo did not enjoy being searched or kept waiting. Kenji, his oldest child, was sick in bed at the habitat pod. The boy always managed to bring home a new affliction or ailment from the local neighborhood’s learning center. Little Miko, his daughter, wasn't ill, yet. However, she tended to come down with whatever malady her big brother caught, given enough time and exposure.
Junctionworld was a whirling dervish of diseases that could wreak havoc on young immune systems, human and otherwise. Pathogens from millions of dimensions kept the autodoc databases busy.
Masamune fumed. He should be at his mech garage, repairing the damage from the Gorth match, or tuning his battle computer for the upcoming event, or helping his wife Anora at home with the children.
Instead, he stood in the upper spectator section of Berva Proxima arena, sharing an antechamber with a Skevvian and a hacked-up reptilian cyborg.
What were those beings called? They weren’t Myoshans. Too tall, and not enough eyes. Skasar? Shasarr? No matter, he thought.
The area was more cramped than Mikralos’s main office on the lower levels of the arena, where he last saw the arena master and Dionoles, the Gatekeeper casino owner. The tall being in front of him insisted on sucking on a foul-smelling vaporizer implanted into its forearm, filling the small room with the exhaust from its gills.
The exhaled fumes made Kyuzo’s eyes twitch and burn. The crested sentient seemed to take delight in blowing in his direction.
Is this moron trying to provoke me? He thought.
Masamune's pistols were checked with the two Ninety-Nine bodyguards at the previous door, but from the looks of these two, the guns wouldn't be necessary.
Masamune made the calculations. He would take out the bone-squid first when the lizard took his next puff. A roundhouse kick to cave in the side of its skull would be a nice start. He then imagined himself strangling the crested lizard-thing with the Skevvian’s tentacles until those acrid little clouds stopped coming out of the Shasarr’s gills. The idle daydream took his mind off the pain from his irritated eyes.
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sp; The two sentients murmured to themselves, their voices low. Their attention turned to the entrance of Mikralos’s office and viewing pod. A Gatekeeper who Masamune did not know floated out from the metal-curtained archway, his protective vessel stopping halfway through the partition. His hull was different, less gaudy and ornate than most. It wasn’t chromed and gleaming, more matte and subdued. The unfamiliar overlord called back through the curtain.
“We are grateful for your trust and remembrance of us, Mikralos,” the Gatekeeper said to Mikralos, who Kyuzo could not see. “This assignment reminds us of the heady days of our conquest of this place. It pleases us to have the old combat triumvirate reunited, again. We shall proceed, with your permission. Farewell.”
Pivoting into the waiting room, the Gatekeeper paid Masamune no mind, as if he were just another piece of furniture.
“Come, Skreeb and Velsh, we must attend to other matters,” the Gatekeeper said to the two other beings in the antechamber. “Time is of the essence. Let us depart this place.” The crested reptilian with the cybernetic eyes gave one last deliberate, derisive puff in Kyuzo's direction. The Shasarr and the Skevvian followed their master out through the antechamber's main door.
“Master Mech Pilot Masamune Kyuzo, we will see you now,” the smooth voice of Mikralos called from the interior of the viewing pod.
Kyuzo parted the curtain of chains leading into the private viewing bubble. He bowed to Mikralos, whose back was to him.
“Honored Mikralos, I hope I am not interrupting,” Masamune said, now standing up straight. The view of the Berva Proxima arena's interior from the armored bubble was all-encompassing. Smaller oval holographic screens blistered the interior of the transparent armored pod. Feeds from different sports networks and arena drones played on them. One display had Masamune's own publicity picture on it, a rotating profile of him from all angles while listing his fight record and mech stats.
“Masamune Kyuzo, Master Mech Pilot, ah, a delight to cast our gaze upon you,” Mikralos cooed. “No, no interruption, just some pressing business that concerns the upcoming match. Honored Beliphres is an old friend, and was just leaving. He was part of our combat team, along with Dionoles, in days of yore. We conquered this sector of Junctionworld together, many, many centuries ago. Help yourself to any intoxicants at the bar that are code-compatible to you.” The running lights on the Gatekeeper’s chromed carrier chassis were a slow-running blue and white pattern.
“Thank you, but I cannot indulge,” Masamune said. “My match with Kramer is less than two weeks away.”
“Ever-focused, as always, eh, Masamune? Well, no matter,” Mikralos said. “Would you care to sit with us to view Pilot Kramer’s next match? Tonight’s preliminary Light Exo fights are done. Our staff is resetting the arena for the main event.”
“Will Honored Dionoles be joining us?” Masamune asked.
“No, unfortunately, Dionoles must to tend to other matters at his casino,” Mikralos said. “The spectacle of arena combat was never really his object of fascination. He would rather review his revenue tallies, the house’s wins and losses, and audit his staff's bookkeeping. He lives for contests of finance, not the clash of arms.”
“Hmmm,” Masamune said, feigning interest.
Silence passed between the two beings as advertisements flicked across the interior of the arena in both two and three dimensions. He caught his name in Gatekeeper spelling, dancing in holographic flames with what he assumed was Kramer's name in a mid-air commercial.
“How is it you came to Junctionworld, by the way, Master Mech Pilot?” Mikralos said, breaking the silence. “We are sure you have told us before, but indulge us.” A wry grin came over Masamune's face.
“The usual story. Almost a Junctionworld cliché, to be honest,” Kyuzo said. “I was scouted by a talent team. The drone and hologram message showed up at the right time, just before my death. I accepted the deal, terms unread. Now, here I am, working off a debt that can’t be—”
“Yes, yes, but before,” the Gatekeeper said, waving a dismissive claw. “Your occupation before the standard offer. What exactly did you do?”
“Oh, well,” Masamune said, biting his tongue. “I was the offensive weapons officer on a Kaiju Buster, the Panzer Rex. It was a Devilbreaker-class mobile fortress. A much larger version of the mechs in the arenas. Much more powerful, but slower. My world had undergone a terrible war, an invasion, and we were defenders of one of the last of our cities.”
“It sounds lovely,” Mikralos said.
“Yes, well, it was home. When the offer was made,” Kyuzo continued, “we had gone up against this vicious armored thing, hundreds of feet tall, with tusks the size of city buses. It emerged from the wastelands, and it beat us to pieces. For an animal so large, it was incredibly agile and strong.”
“Larger or smaller than the creatures that emerged through the Fifth Gate? Those tentacled monstrosities that were nuked by Central Data?” Mikralos said.
“Much larger, and much more resilient,” Kyuzo said. “It seemed to soak up the damage and become stronger. We had compact nuclear weapons, pressure nukes, able to create a fission reaction with a minimum of material by using an internal force field.”
“Yes, we are familiar with them,” Mikralos said. “We developed our own version. Quite handy in urban areas. So, back to your story.”
“This thing shrugged them off, and came back us stronger,” Masamune said, his eyes looking past the holographic ads as his memory of that day returned. “We were defeated. The crew were all dead, save for myself. The talent scout drone must have decided that our defense of the city was worthy, even though we failed. I dragged myself through the portal, and here I am. Sometimes, though, I wish I had just stayed and burned with the rest of my crew.”
“Hmm. Yes, most compelling, pilot,” Mikralos said, his attention already drawn elsewhere. “We now recall having seen the scout team’s footage in your back-story montage Central Data enjoys inflicting on the audience. Most sponsors must slurp up that drivel. Ah, speaking of drivel, they are about to begin the pilot introductions for the main match. Here’s our ‘Last of the Kramers,’ now.”
Masamune Kyuzo's brow wrinkled, and he stood up. He walked to the hemispheric front of the viewing pod, placing his forehead against the cool armored glass.
“Mikralos, begging your pardon, but why have I really been summoned here?” Masamune said, his voice edged with dreariness. “Is something happening that I should be aware of?”
“Why, our dear Master Mech Pilot, of course not,” Mikralos said. “We would never dare to imagine changing our arrangement. You did well in the negotiations. Dionoles was most impressed, despite your shortcomings as a human.”
“You brought me up here, just to tell me that?” Masamune said.
“Oh, well, perhaps not just that...” the Gatekeeper said, a coy edge in his tone. “There is the matter of one of the terms of our contract. Tell us, how go the repairs on your mech?”
“My armor is damaged, but the repairs are well underway,” Masamune said. “The boosters took a lot of fire, and there was extensive damage to my command console. Rest assured, though, my team will be ready for the match.”
“Yes, well, speaking of assured,” Mikralos said, his running lights shifting to orange pulses. “We are exercising the 'Assuredness In Armament' clause of our agreement.” A hologram of the agreement Masamune signed with the two Gatekeepers flashed into midair, a blinking clause in small print highlighted for his attention.
Masamune turned from the glass, his fists clenched. A vein pulsed on the side of his temple. The two bodyguards appeared at the entrance to the viewing pod, their weapons ready.
“Your legendary discipline is slipping, Master Pilot,” Mikralos said, motioning to a human-sized chair. “Do sit down. You cannot make money for us or exact our revenge if our Nines fill you with holes.”
Masamune, his face flushed, sat in the offered chair. His hands held the sides and back of his head, his
flesh and plastic fingers meshed through his close-cropped hair.
“Your match with the son of Solomon Kramer... Jered,” Mikralos said.
“Jered Kramer, yes,” Masamune said through gritted teeth.
“Do you still have the power claw you used in that kill?” Mikralos said. Masamune shook his head.
“I’ve retired that weapon from my inventory, Honored Mikralos,” Masamune said. “That claw was my last sponsor’s idea, not mine. It has been five years, and I have moved on to the sword, as you may have seen during my last match. A plasma-edged blade is what I do my best work with, now.”
“Ah, how unfortunate,” Mikralos said, his menacing coo returning. “It would be a delicious bit of irony, killing both Kramer offspring with the same implement. We think you should bring it back, perhaps augment it, somehow. We know you do most of your own work with your own fabrication team, and we mean them no disrespect, but we suggest you consult Master Vervor at his shop. See if he can add his expertise in refurbishing and modifying the weapon for the match with the Kramer girl.”
“Honored Mikralos, as I said before, I've become much more proficient with—”
“It is not a request, Master Pilot,” the Gatekeeper said sharply. “There must be a certain poetry, a symmetric finality, to this match. The last Kramer deserves an ugly and punitive end, a fitting extinguishment to the blood line which has caused us so much pain and embarrassment.”
Masamune Kyuzo stewed. The Nines in the doorway did not shift their aim from his brain stem and spine.
“I've viewed the recordings of her matches,” Kyuzo said, sighing. “She's a brawling amateur, unworthy of her family name. She's not ready for the Hammer Leagues, her mech is a scrap heap with a veneer of new parts on top of it, and this feels like an execution, not a death match, Honored Mikralos. I did not sign up—”
