“As such, it is the ruling of this court that the practice colloquially known as ‘Bladeslave Fighting’ is hereby prohibited in all Federation territory. Each bladeslave, upon entry in Federation territory, is automatically granted freedom and fourth-tier citizenship, and any organisation, individual or other caught in the act of owning bladeslaves will be prosecuted under the Slavery Act of Red Rights.
Allow me a short personal addition; Every man is born free, and it is my opinion, and the opinion of my fellow justices, that this right is engraved into the very soul of humanity. This ruling will not only enable our government to more effectively combat the practice, but in fact, three hundred million credits have already been approved in additional funding.
We will stamp this practice out of the very fabric of the universe, ladies and gentlemen. Now and always, the Federation stands for the people, by the people.”
Transcript of session eight four one nine of the Federation High Court.
Exhaustion. Mat thought he knew what that was like. He’d skipped nights, worked twenty four hour shifts, and forced himself through tiredness more often than he could count.
He was far from superhuman about it, nor one of those people who could nap for two hours and be set for the rest of the day, but neither did he need ten hours to even function.
Three days, and he was starting to question his sanity. And this was with sleep. Six, seven hours each night, no less. Yet that barely seemed to matter, not after hours upon hours upon hours of sparring.
“Get up,” Yon instructed. Rather than sounding strict, or demanding, or even encouraging, the man sounded bored. Always bored. “If you don’t get up, I’m going to hit you.”
Mat groaned, disliking the pain of transwords slightly more than he liked the idea of falling asleep right then and there. “I suck at this.”
“You’re untrained,” the man corrected. “Something a number of days, or even weeks, isn’t going to fix.”
“Then what in the holy hells have I been doing here?”
Yon shrugged. “You kept coming, so I kept training. At least you’ve gotten some practice using your biomod in a fight.”
Holy shit, Mat was going to murder someone. Who, he wasn’t sure, considering that everyone around him was a well trained killer, but someone. It must have shown on his face, because Yon snorted.
“Keep that energy for your first match,” the man advised mildly. “They’ll put you against someone in your own skill range, and at your level, aggression and strength matters more than just about anything.”
Nova snorted. “Level. Funny.”
It wasn’t. In fact, nothing about this was funny in any shape, way or form, and if it wasn’t for an increasingly well-honed survival instinct, Mat might have done something… unwise.
Like lunging at a man that was, objectively speaking, helping him. Or demanding why nobody seemed to care that his blood was black. Nothing screamed ‘I belong’ like freaking out about something everyone else found normal, right?
Mat sighed, about to speak when Reg appeared from nowhere, clapping him on the shoulder, his tone friendly. “Mat, friend. How goes the training?”
“He has decent balance, nearly all thanks to his biomod, and has a relatively impressive pain tolerance,” Yon replied for him. Mat inhaled and exhaled to avoid the mental breakdown that he couldn't afford. “He will die within his first five matches.”
Mat’s… friend? Reg smiled encouragingly. “He came back every morning, did he not? I’m sure there must be some potential in him.”
“He came because he thought he had to, though I’ll concede the fact that he has potential. So does every man, woman and child in this galaxy. We’re done here. Let your body rest.”
With that, Yon turned, vanishing into the crowd. Probably towards the kiosk, Mat reckoned. The man liked his snacks. Reg led him back to their cell, catching him when Mat’s leg failed the final step of the spiral stairway. “Easy there. Some rest will do you good, I think, and don’t you mind Yon. He is a frank man, and if he thinks you have no future here, he would have stopped training you, compensation or not.”
Mat didn’t respond, dropping into his bed with a tired sigh. Pabol grunted from the top bunk, probably reading his enotics. Comics, though the bladeslave had gotten horribly insulted when Mat had called them that.
“Eat,” Reg said, shoving a bowl of literal slob in his hands. Mat groaned but obeyed, because his first night here he’d refused. No matter how tasteless, it was better than waking up ravenous. “Pabol, friend, how about a game?”
Pabol seemed to consider that for a moment, though Mat barely paid attention. After a few seconds the bladeslave swung out of his bed, landing lightly on the floor and joining Reg at the table.
After eating his fill, Mat prepared to sleep, only to find that he couldn't. Nova was still busy ‘using residual energy traces’, whatever that meant, which left him with nothing to do. So he turned and twisted, trying not to let self-pity swallow him whole, until Reg spoke up again.
“Join us for a game,” the man suggested. Pabol scoffed, so partly out of spite, Mat got up again. Reg smiled. “Entertainment nourishes the soul. Toncon be good, may we be well fed tonight.”
Pabol slammed his hand on the table. “Can you please, for the love of everything you hold dear, stop talking about Toncon?!”
Asking who Toncon was, Mat felt, would probably get him attacked. The angry, impulsive part of him almost relished that. The rest of him thought that getting his neck snapped by an enraged Pabol sounded a few degrees south of horrible.
Still, Mat joined the table, finding an seemingly ordinary deck of cards in Reg’s hands. “Poker?”
“Texas holdem,” Pabol replied, settling down. “I’m not going to explain the rules.”
Mat shrugged. “I can play. What do we bet with?”
Reg handed over a small pile of wooden tokens, which made Pabol scoff again. “You’re too soft on the fresh blood, Reg. It makes them weak.”
“This place is hard enough without me adding misery,” the man replied, smoothly shuffling the deck. Two cards were dealt, and Mat peeked at his own. Two seven unsuited. That seemed about right. “Pabol, you’re big blind.”
Mat threw in his small, Reg raised, and Mat folded. Three rounds later Mat spoke up, regretting it the moment he did. “I’m surprised it’s still played the same.”
“The eternal game,” Reg said, flipping the river. Trip kings. Mat raised, and Pabol called him. “Played the same here as it is everywhere, no matter how far you go.”
Reg folded, and Mat flipped his cards. Pabol snorted and threw his own back to the deck, unshown, and Reg pushed the pot to Mat after a moment.
Once, half an hour later and having lost most of his tokens, he even caught himself smiling. Ten minutes after that, he fell asleep on the table.
“Braindead hunk of metal,” Nova hissed. Mat jerked awake, not having heard that level of venom in the AI’s voice before. “Don’t you dare touch us, you lobotomized toaster.”
A figure loomed in his view, metallic and large and alien. Mat flailed as two large hands dragged him from his bed, panic and fear overcoming reason. He lashed out, and his fist hit cold, unyielded metal.
“Do not be alarmed,” the thing said, sounding perfectly human. “You are being collected.”
Nova hissed again. “Kill it with fire. Any moment now its neural network is going to decay and we’ll get twisted into a fucking pretzel. A pretzel, Mat. Mark my words.”
Mat found his feet, scrambling to stand. The droid loomed over him, easily three heads taller. He cleared his throat, somewhat proud of the fact that he didn’t stutter. “Collected?”
“Your first match is in seven minutes and nineteen seconds,” the… droid said. Yon had called them droids. Security robots. Mat calmed further, and then he processed the actual words. His heart rate spiked again, and the droid spoke. “Do not resist.”
The machine lightly pushed him out of the cell, and all Mat saw was a brief flash of Reg's face, drawn in worry. Which was weird, because not even last night, shortly before he’d fallen asleep on the poker table, the man had said his first match would be easy.
No, not easy. Simple.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Don’t worry too much,” Nova said. Mat could easily imagine the AI glaring at the droid, though the why would have to wait. “It will have to wait, yes. Likely forever. But this is our first fight, and our owner spent a lot of time and money acquiring us. We’re not going to die.”
I shot someone a few days ago. And I’ve been sparring with Yon for what feels like actual, real life years.
“I meant a real fight, and you’ve sparred with him for a total of nineteen hours, twenty one minutes and fifty three seconds. I already subtracted the breaks, panting, and desperate pleas to make him stop hitting you.”
Only nineteen hours? Mat shook his head, resisting the urge to shake off the droid. He probably couldn't in the first place, and even if he managed it, then what? Hide?
No, this was happening, and Mat surprised himself by how calm he suddenly was. Maybe he shouldn't be. Hell, he probably shouldn't be, but once the moment came, anxiety usually left him, replaced by numb, cold apathy.
An old friend of his—I’m never going to see him again, holy shit—who studied psychology had described that as an ‘unhealthy coping mechanism’, but what did that asshole know, anyway?
“You’re using humor to distract yourself,” Nova noted. The AI was silent for a moment, then continued. “I’m not feeling… great about this either. How do servers greet one another? With a handshake.”
Mat had no idea what that meant. He also found himself laughing, which seemed to concern a few people, and then he started concerning himself when the laugh turned into a hysterical cackle. The droid cared little, guiding him to the only exit to this place.
He’d seen that door open before, of course. The scheduled fights hadn’t stopped just because he had arrived. But there had been another one a few feet in, almost like an airlock, and the first closed before the second opened.
Now he was the one stepping through, and the droid followed him without a word. The door closed and then the second one opened, and Mat blinked at the small waiting area that greeted him, couch and all. The droid moved to it, and for a delirious moment, Mat thought the thing was going to sit down.
Instead, the machine bent down and opened what Mat had assumed to be a block of grey metal, retrieving a stiff plastic bag complete with straw. It turned to him, holding out whatever that was supposed to be. “Would you like a soda?”
Mat stared, uncomprehending, and took the drink while his mind was busy twisting itself in an endless circle of whiplash and confusion.
“The fight will begin in approximately five minutes,” the droid continued, standing aside and gesturing to the couch. Mat sat, moving on autopilot. “As this is your first fight for the Duras Entertainment Network, I will explain the proceedings. You will enter through that door when it opens, where you will equip yourself with the provided weapons. If there is no provided equipment, wait until the next door opens. Do you understand so far?”
He took a sip of his drink, finding it surprisingly pleasant. Chilled and fruity, though strangely artificial. “Yes.”
“Thank you for confirming. Once you enter through the door, you will arrive in a hallway. Follow the light and enter the indicated room. Once the fight begins, you will do as the Judge instructs, and you will not purposefully damage recording equipment, infrastructure, or decorative features. Failure to follow these instructions may result in penalties.”
Mat nodded slowly, and the droid never continued. The minutes ticked by, which allowed him to center himself, but after the drink was gone and he could fully appreciate how sore he was, the door leading to god knows were clicked open.
Fear returned now, but the droid rose in the same moment the door had opened, and Mat liked his chances against that thing less than whatever was waiting for him on the other side.
So he stepped through, and found… nothing. Just another room, with a small table and no chairs. Featureless, smooth walls were all around, and if he opened his arms wide, each hand could touch the wall, if only just.
With a soundless hiss, a side panel opened, and an exact copy of the clothing he wore appeared. Brown, simple and sturdy. Mat glanced back, finding nothing but a closed door and no droid.
Seeing no reason to be obstinate so early, he picked up the clothes, finding that, despite looking identical, the material felt thicker. Almost hollow, as if it was armor instead of clothes. Mat shrugged, and Nova spoke while he changed.
“They’re giving us armor. Is that good? I’m not sure if that’s good.”
It’s probably not good. If I die here, do you?
“Of course,” the AI replied, sounding surprised. “I’m living in your brain. That wasn't a metaphor, you know. We’re sharing this meatsuit you call a body, like it or not.”
Yeah. I’m not happy about that, Nova, especially since I didn’t agree to it. But, I almost hate to say it, I’m happy not to be wholly alone.
Nova didn’t reply, and unlike the AI, Mat couldn't read his mind. So Mat finished exchanging clothes for what might be armor, then turned to face yet another door. Room after room, then the door opened into a hallway.
Lights guided his way, set into the ceiling like rails sunk into the ground. Mat followed, because there was nothing else to do. He was a stranger in a strange time, surrounded by strange people in a strange ship. Not only was compliance safe, there was no other alternative.
For now.
Once he came to the indicated door, Mat took a breath. Whatever was inside would be what was inside, and nothing would change that not. Fear was there, but fear he was starting to get used to.
The door opened, and his feet wouldn't move. Another door on the opposite side revealed a man much larger than himself, frame bound tight with muscle. The fear redoubled, and some small part of him cursed every single decision that led him here.
Three days of sparring did not make a fighter. He knew that very well.
Unlike himself, the stranger stepped inside easily, never looking away from him. Mat hesitated more until a cold, disinterested voice echoed from inside the room. “Step inside.”
He considered fleeing, but he wouldn't get far. The only way out was through. The only way out is through. Just take a step. One step.
Mat took a step, then another one. By the fourth the door closed behind him, and the voice spoke up again. The Judge, he realized. “We will begin recording in ten seconds. Begin once I say, and stop once I say. Failure to follow my commands will result in punishment, which may or may not be instantaneous death.”
“Is it a deathmatch?” the stranger asked. Mat fucking hoped not. “I would request for it not to be, if possible.”
That was nice of him. The Judge spoke after a long moment. “Five seconds before we begin recording. This is not a deathmatch. Fight until I tell you to stop.”
Not to surrender, or even submission, then. Fucking fuck. Mat rolled his shoulder, resisting the urge to look away. This room was small enough as it was, and Yon had more than drilled into him how important it was to hit first, and hit hard.
He didn’t want to hit first, nor hit hard, but he doubted this stranger shared the same opinion. Not a risk he could take.
The Judge ordered them to begin, Mat shot forward to the visible surprise of his opponent, and every step was perfectly balanced to deliver the maximum power into his fist. His hips twisted, his shoulder flexed, and his fist impacted the man’s chin with all the force Mat could squeeze out of his body.
His opponent took one solid step back, shook his head, then hit back.
Mat saw the first blow, turned to lessen the impact, and never saw the second one. Pain bloomed from his arm, radiating through the cloth-armor, but instead of falling backwards, which very well might have happened, he leaned back and shot out his foot. Balance was restored, and the man backed away from what he had apparently seen as an attack.
A long, still moment passed, and Mat wondered when things had started happening so very fast.
Then the man tackled him, and there was nothing for his balance to do but fail. They landed in a mess of limbs, but Mat hadn’t expected it, and spent a precious moment flailing about. A leg hooked under his right arm, pinning it, while Nova shouted something he had no time to listen to.
The stranger’s fist rose, and Mat barely got his other arm up in time. Even then he noticed how the man avoided his head, something Mat himself hadn’t done, but the blow landed on his chest all the same. Pain roared into his skull, demanding attention, and he almost gave in to that.
But instead he grunted, because over the last three days, Yon had hurt him far, far worse.
His fist snapped out, but the stranger blocked and hit back, two arms against one. One punch, then another, and another, and all Mat could do was try to intercept, though not once did the man go for his skull. He could have. He could have knocked him unconscious in moments, probably with a single blow.
The Judge stayed silent, so the man kept hitting. Chest, shoulders, stomach, arms, anything he could hit, he did. Mat only grunted, until he tried to shift his weight. The man’s leg came free, but instead of letting his arm go, it snapped into the wrong direction.
Mat screamed as bone broke through skin, trying to roll. But the stranger was heavier, and Mat went nowhere. He didn’t even notice. Pain was his world, and agony his only constant. Tears streamed down his face as the blows kept coming, though if he had been in any state to notice, they did so less heavily than before.
It was an eternity until the Judge spoke up, still sounding so very bored. “Enough.”
The stranger was off him in a flash, looking apologetic. Mat didn’t notice, not until a small drone emerged from the wall and injected a needle in his broken shoulder. The pain numbed at once, until his entire side was sluggish and weak. On its side, hovering briefly in his vision before moving away, was a logo of two birds facing a smiling man.
If the Judge wanted them to leave, it didn’t say so. The stranger spoke after a moment. “How much fighting experience do you have?”
“None,” Mat bit out, barely bothering to look over from where he lay. The man didn’t have a choice, he knew that, but his mind was a storm of pain and baseless judgment. Rage was easy. “I’ve been training for three days.”
The man winced. “Sorry. It was a good blow. Goodbye.”
Then he stepped through his door, which closed when he was through. Mat let his head fall back to the ground, uncaring whether he was supposed to leave or not.
“We’re alive,” Nova offered, voice uncharacteristically small. “I— that was nothing like how I thought it would be.”
Well, it went almost exactly how I expected it to go, so that’s something.
Nova retreated, and Mat regretted the venom at once. He might not have asked to share his brain, but Nova hadn’t sent slavers to capture him, nor pulled him from the past. He tried to be fair, to understand circumstances before giving judgment, but that sentiment was a lot easier when most of his days were boring at worst.
Not— Not this.
The droid, maybe the same one or maybe not, emerged from his door, offering a hand. Mat almost scoffed, then decided to stop caring about how the slavers that owned him apparently liked small niceties.
He was hoisted up, and the droid guided him away, tone bland. “Congratulations on completing your first fight. I will take you for a full medical checkup.”
Panic overran regret, because from the state of the ship, these people had money. Money which they would have very most likely spent on equipping their doctors with very good equipment.
Equipment that might notice the existence of Nova, who was worth more than a million of him put together. Suddenly, rage was the furthest thing from his mind.
Afterword
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