“Entertainment Networks are common. Most deal with mundane, regular things. I’m sure all of us here know those. TV serials. LongVids. But as in all of human history, there exists a darker part of entertainment. Blood sports and vileness that defies human decency. That is what we are fighting here. It won’t be glamorous work. It won’t be happy work. I can’t even promise that we will remove this darkness wholesale.
But I will try, and I am heartened to see that I will not be alone.”
Inauguration speech of the Fourth Crime Unit, Cyber Division.
The kiosk was not a grand thing. Square and the size of a person, it was half embedded into the wall, and despite the lack of guards, no one crowded around it. In fact, crime was quite low overall, aside from the minor fists fights that tended to break out.
Their illustrious owner wanted them fit, apparently, and so the droids came every time a serious fight began. The domus was supposed to be a place of training, not violence. Ironic, Mat mused.
He shrugged at nothing, stepping up to the kiosk. A small slit allowed for the coin-like tokens to be fed, and a screen displayed options. Curiously, he opened the menu for wooden tokens, finding a list hundreds of items long.
A few snacks were here, though nothing that he could call great. No chocolate or nuts or candy. Hell, the best thing he found was ricewine, which would have been great if it hadn’t been the size of a small cup. Some cheap looking toys, one of those not-books, and…
“Is that a spoon?” he asked, confused. Reg shrugged. “Alrighty then. This… this sucks. Toys, tennis ball, is that a banana slicer? Can you even buy fruit here?”
Reg snorted. “In the bronze menu. It’s a nice treat, I’ll admit, but people usually prefer alcohol or… other options.”
“I shudder to think what those might be,” he replied, tone dry. Reg offered a serene smile. “Moving on.”
He skipped the bronze selection, going straight for copper. Iron was after, though nothing for steel. Those could only be exchanged by Obedias. Considering they couldn't be exchanged either up or down, it didn’t matter.
The list was shorter, this time, though still dozens of items long. Food again, including meals and more luxurious snacks like ice cream and boxes of cookies. Smart, if basic. Feed them—us—nutritious but bland food, then reward them with the good stuff.
There were no weapons, of course, or even many items. Nothing permanent or long term, though there were several entertainment services he rolled his eyes at. At least those didn’t seem to involve unwilling humans, which was something.
Gladiators were fine, but the flesh trade was a step too far. How noble.
“You want boring?” Reg asked, unprompted. “Probably best to get a training voucher. At copper they last for eight hours, which the Judge put in after we tried to make our own system. Yon’s time is worth it, that I can promise you. Or you can eat a nice steak dinner, I won’t judge. Toncon knows you’ve earned something nice. Perhaps a book, if you read, though those are on loan.”
Everything was on loan. Everything permanent, anyway. Mat hesitated, then sighed. The kiosk rumbled quietly and out came a voucher, which he would be handing over after his two weeks were up. Yon would be overjoyed.
Reg clapped him on the shoulder, a friendly, open gesture. “A good choice. Fine food and soft skin can wait for when you are raking in coppers by the dozen. Oh, we best move.”
Mat followed when Reg tugged him aside, avoiding another man who had been waiting not so patiently. Mat shook his head, but before he could speak Tobi and Pabol were there, flanking Reg on both sides.
“You’re not dead,” Pabol rumbled, annoyed. He flung two bronze coins at Tobi, who plucked them out of the air with a grin. “Annoying little shit, aren’t you? Guess I’ll have to get used to it.”
Tobi smiled. “Come, we have a tradition. You are blooded now, so we have to spar. Don’t worry, I made Pabol promise he won’t send you to the healer.”
“Much,” Pabol added, rolling his shoulders. “Yon is a fine fighter, you won’t hear me say otherwise, but he’s an expensive piece of shit, and I need to keep in shape. You’re still dummy shaped, so you’ll have to do.”
Reg rolled his eyes, nodding towards an empty sparring ring. “The sooner we get started, the sooner Pabol will calm down. Toncon be good, he needs to learn how to relax.”
“Shut up about Toncon.”
So run this by me again, Mat thought. Because you’re not making much sense.
“So, the experience you gain per… defeated enemy is shallow,” Nova explained. “In fact, while you should be a little under a third towards level three, you aren’t even a sixth of the way there. Your soul is growing resistant, which means more is needed, and the variable level of experience rewarded per kill is muddling things further.”
Kill. Yeah. His training with Yon had run out yesterday, which meant he’d been here two full weeks. It felt longer, somehow, but it was enough that the storm of emotions had settled, though his dreams were strange. Twisted and dark, like his subconscious was trying to make up for his lack of guilt.
So you’re saying gamifying this doesn’t work, and we should just give up on it.
“No, no,” Nova interjected hastily. “I can make this work. So, if we assume an average of fifty experience but account for your current level to measure resistance, then—”
Mat let the babble wash over him, finishing his last pushup. Twenty, and proper ones. The last time he’d been able to do that had been… never, and this was his third set. He was starting to suspect either Nova nanobots were aiding his muscle growth, or otherwise the doctor had done more than remove genetic diseases.
Reg might know, or he might not, in which case Mat might as well write ‘I’m special’ on the walls with his own blood. Which was black, though that at least nobody seemed to find that strange.
“—and we carry the one, we get to six hundred and ninety four point seven eight six experience until level three,” Nova finished. “That’s about double what I calculated before, yes, but now that I have more data, I’m sure that’s the final number. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Nova?
“Yes Mat?”
I don’t care. Mat felt a surge of guilt when Nova drooped in disappointment. Sorry, didn’t mean for that to be so harsh. It’s just… I have no reference for any of what you’re talking about, and that’s aside from remembering all the other shit you’re teaching me. Just keep track of it somewhere, and tell me when I can pick a new perk, alright?
“But that’s boring. I’m stuck here watching you do stuff, and when I’m not bored I’m terrified for my life. This is all I have, you know? All I was made for.”
I get that, but I’m not exactly swimming in idle time here, you know?
Mat finished a pushup , rolling to the side then up. Nova spoke after a moment, his tone smaller than before. “I’ll let you know when you can choose from another selection of perks.”
Mat nodded, and that was that. Things were settling, maybe, but they were not settled.
He washed, ate, played poker with Reg and Tobi, then slept. And the next day, rising before most of everyone else, Mat made his way towards the screen. Its official name was the duty roster, but most people called it the screen. It was where the Judge put the day’s fights, usually about two dozen of them.
At least in their own domus. Four others were in the ship, which his predecessors had apparently only figured out because people from the same domus didn’t fight one another. With, sometimes, but never against.
Considering that it had been a while since his deathmatch, Mat expected to see his name any day now, and he didn’t want to be caught off guard again.
When he arrived, he wasn’t alone. Most of the other men were young, some younger than even himself, but older souls too. Yet all were young in a sense that had nothing to do with age, and each of them were nervous.
Mat was almost surprised at his lack of nerves. Reg had assured him he wouldn't be scheduled for two deathmatches in a row, so the worse he could face was pain. After the terror and agony of a deathmatch, pain was a distant concern.
The screen took up perhaps three feet, embedded shallowly into the wall nearly at the top. He scanned the names, not finding himself in the top ten. Then not in the top twenty, and his eyes skipped to the last name, almost expecting his own to be right there. As usual, he ignored the LandTech logo.
Nothing. Mat sighed, and he scanned it once more, lazily this time. Maybe one of his friends had been scheduled, or something.
He found his name on the twenty fourth place, with a starting time at… half an hour from now. The second earliest.
I fucking hate it here.
If he hadn’t woken up early, a droid would have dragged him out of bed again. Apparently that was fine, consequence wise, but it would have left him ill-prepared and off balance. Now he had a whole half hour to panic. Or plan. Both.
Before he really knew it, his feet had brought him back to the cell, and he realized he was hoping to speak to Reg. Except the man’s cot was empty, and Pabol was still asleep. Only Tobi was there, steadily working his way through a bowl of slop.
“I’m fighting again,” Mat said. Tobi blinked at him, bleary and slow, before straightening slightly. “Yeah. So, I’m not sure what to do.”
Tobi shrugged, paused for a second, then returned to his breakfast. “You fight, obviously. It’s nothing so unusual. Pick a weapon if they offer one, follow the light, try to beat the shit out of whoever they put you up against, and try not to get your teeth kicked in. Simple.”
Well, whatever he’d been hoping for, that seemed to be that. Mat turned, not seeing a point in staying. So down again he went, and he loitered near the door. Near the only door, which drew some looks. Not that anyone bothered him. Surprisingly, there was a logo near the bottom that didn’t belong to LandTech. The word Mauldove was coiled around a tree, with the branches bleeding into a half circle.
Mat shrugged, turning to watch the people instead. All in all, for a bunch of space gladiators, everyone was pretty chill. From the basers to those with bulging, biomod enchanted muscles, fighting was rare, and heavily frowned upon. Apparently Obedias didn’t want to waste his doctors on injuries not sustained in the pursuit of profit.
And yes, that sounded sarcastic, but Mat was happy enough for it. He couldn't imagine lasting very long if he not only had to dread the official matches, but feared going to sleep every evening. It wasn’t like their cells locked. Or had doors.
Far too soon, the door opened, and Mat stepped through. He forewent his juice, this time, because it was early and because he didn’t like the mental conditioning. Fight and get a free tasty treat. He wasn’t a fucking horse, to be fed sugar cubes as a reward.
“But juice is tasty,” Nova admitted. It was the first thing he AI had said since their argument. “And you refuse to spend your wooden chips on snacks.”
The only wooden chips I have are gifted, Mat pointed out. Besides, I’d rather save them up.
“I know. You once used a broken laptop for eight months instead of buying a new one, because it ‘still worked’.”
That screen only had one tear, and the battery being fucked was fine if I kept it on the charger. And you know this whole ‘I know your every memory’ is worse for you than it is for me, right?
Nova shuddered, and Mat could all but feel him retreat from his long-term memory. “Don’t remind me.”
The second door slid open, and Mat stepped through, finding the small armory decidedly less full than last time. In fact, aside from a trio of shields, there were only swords. Longswords, greatswords, shortswords, and what he was pretty sure was a katana, though he couldn't be sure.
He picked up one most similar to the transword he trained with. Not quite a shortsword, but not as long as a longsword either. Sharpened on both sides and with a wicked point, it was practical. Versatile.
“And boring,” Nova added. The moment Mat picked up the blade the remaining weapons folded away, and the last door opened, revealing the twisting hallway behind it. “You know this is an entertainment network, right? It’s less about being the best, and more about being the favorite. Also, what’s with the light? I keep meaning to ask. Why not sign boards? Or guards to make sure you don’t just wander around for a few hours?”
Maybe Obedias is a drama kid.
Nova snorted, and that levity lasted all the way until they got to the end, where a small, bare room greeted him. Opposite himself was another man, perhaps a head taller but reed thin, with an axe held lightly in one hand, and the fear returned like an avalanche.
Mat pushed past it with a surge of will that surprised even himself, stepping into the room. Maybe it was acceptance of his fate, or maybe it was resignation. But he stepped into the room, and the other man did too.
Axe against sword. Man against man. It was almost… boring. “Violence begets violence, death begets death. I’ve only done this twice, and I’m already tired of it.”
“Then don’t fight back,” the man replied, unconcerned. “And find someone to debate philosophy with, preferably in your own time.”
Mat shrugged. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d agree, and we band together to overthrow the ship, leading our fellow bladeslaves into glorious freedom.”
“Funny,” the man said, barking out a laugh. “Nah. I’m going to beat you, and I’m going to use the bronze to buy fried chicken.”
“I’d say I was disappointed, but fucking hell, I could go for some chicken.”
The man laughed again, shaking his head. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Mat, and I’m twenty eight. You?”
“Gabriel.”
The Judge interrupted before Mat could reply, tone distant and almost robotic. Not something the AI was paying close attention to, clearly. “This is a fight to incapacitate, not kill. You will stop when I order you to stop. This fight will be recorded and edited. Begin.”
Yon liked doing that too. Defend yourself. The man would say. Sometimes it was obvious, like when Mat had just stepped into the sparring ring. Other times had been during lunch, or when the man was giving feedback. Sudden, explosive violence.
So Mat only spent a split-second hesitating, then rushed forward, keeping his center of gravity low and bringing his blade up in a high stab. Gabriel stepped to the side, bringing his axe around to slash at Mat’s side. Continue the attack, or dodge?
Mat threw himself aside, rolling smoothly back to his feet. His blade whipped backwards to cover his own turn, and Gabriel jerked away, the blade inches from his face, a flash of surprise clear on his features. Balance. Balance Mat could do.
That was also very close to a killstroke, if it had connected. Mat could all but feel the two drones drifting closer.
Gabriel swung again, and Mat stepped aside, only to miss the leg snapping out to kick him. It landed hard on his knee, which buckled, but aside from a flare of pain, nothing broke. Mat twisted with the blow, slashing out with his weapon. Gabriel moved, but a thin line of blood flicked against the wall, and a cut appeared on his shoulder.
No armor. Not for this fight. Gabriel backed away, wary, and Mat took a moment to breathe.
“First blood,” the Judge called lazily. “Continue.”
Mat didn’t charge, and neither did Gabriel. After a moment, impatience leaked into the Judge’s voice, and the drones buzzed closer again. “Continue.”
Gabriel stepped forward, bringing his axe up. Mat stepped to the side, first right then left. The blow missed, and Gabriel overextended, leaving a clear path to his neck. Mat’s instincts flashed, and his blade rushed forth, its gleaming point hunting for the man’s throat. Drones closed the distance, but before they could do more than whirl, Mat forcefully aborted the strike.
The man’s foot kicked him away, and Mat rolled with the blow, end over end. His body fell, but there was no loss of control, no flailing of the limbs. Mat twisted back upright, though he lacked just enough momentum to rise fully to his feet.
So instead he sat on one knee, watching Gabriel. The man had frozen, one hand coming to his neck. “Why am I fighting a kitted cunt, Judge?”
The Judge didn’t reply, and the man muttered under his breath, just loud enough to hear, before turning back to Mat. Unfair.
Mat wanted to laugh, but rose instead. Life wasn’t fair, and his balance was the only advantage he had. That and Yon’s training, which very nearly had made him kill again. But if it was honor the man wanted, he wasn’t going to get it, and Mat had overcome his temporary bout of poetic zeal.
He wasn’t going to die here, no matter what he had to do.
Gabriel shot forward, bringing up his axe again. Mat stepped aside, then was forced to block when the man twisted his weapon sideways, transferring the blow. Power was lost, undoubtedly, but it slammed into his hasty defense and pushed through, biting into his shoulder.
Mat grunted, kicking low to force the man back. Nothing but a deep cut. He rolled his shoulder and found it in working order, though sooner or later the blood loss would become a problem. For now, adrenaline pushed aside the pain.
Again they clashed, and again Mat stepped aside, this time followed by another kick to interrupt Gabriel’s footing. His own balance was perfectly stable even on one leg, and he twisted aside when the man’s fist snapped forward. Mat stepped back, bringing his foot down and taking a breath.
Gabriel rushed him, and Mat moved, closing the gap. He saw a flash of a smile and knew he’d made a mistake, so he rammed his head forward, hoping to break the man’s nose. Mat didn’t even notice the axe until Gabriel flailed back, blood splattering on the floor.
Mat’s head rang, but his mind caught up all the same. The axe had come inches from cutting into his thigh, where it would probably have gutted his femoral artery. Maybe the droids would have gotten him to the doctor in time, maybe not. All the same, a killstroke.
One that the man had aborted, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He nodded, and through a bloody nose, Gabriel grinned a red smile. They had the measure of each other now, Mat realized, so the next clash would decide the match.
“Look at you sounding like a real bladeslave,” Nova said, almost sounding excited. Gabriel flung blood at his face, and Mat flinched away out of instinct. Nova sniggered. “Or not. I’ll let you focus now.”
Flinching meant Gabriel had managed to close the distance, and Mat stabbed forward blindly. Gabriel was too close to dodge, and steel entered his belly, a wound his own momentum opened wide. Mat screamed when the axe landed on his outer thigh, some distant part of his mind noting that the blow was relatively shallow, but all the same he could feel his bones break.
Gabriel wrenched the axe back, then pushed it forward like a knife. Mat tried to jerk away and failed, and the blade entered his stomach, pushing the breath out of him. Yet he still held his own sword, and twisting it made Gabriel scream.
“We’re done here,” the Judge ordered. Mat barely heard the man, but the drones shot forth, pushing them apart. Mat stumbled and shifted his weight, taking it off his wounded leg and pressing one hand to his stomach. Gabriel fell. “Penetrating incised wound on the anterior abdomen. Penetrating injury to the right thorax along with large soft-tissue avulsion to the anterior thigh. I declare this match a draw. Both contestants will die within minutes without medical intervention.”
Mat groaned, ignoring the AI. Gabriel barked out a laugh. “You’re a tough bastard, I’ll give you that. Glad you didn’t kill me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t kill me too,” Mat managed to reply, gasping for breath. The door opened, and a droid picked up him, turning smoothly to exit. Gabriel was getting similar treatment. “Till we meet again, brother.”
Gabriel snorted, but before the doors closed, Mat swore he saw him smile a pleased grin. “Till we meet again.”
The door shut, and Mat focused on trying to breathe.
Afterword
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