“Missy Moana is perhaps the finest bladeslave to ever rise from their ranks. Her combat prowess was legendary, her skill sublime, and she inspired loyalty like few others.
When her owner grew nervous of Missy Moana’s growing influence, she attempted to have her killed. In retaliation, Missy Moana rallied those with her on that desolate moon, and overthrew her oppressors. These days she owns the moon that was once her prison, and commands a private army of significant size.”
The Legacy of Bladeslaves
“So yeah, I’m hard to detect,” Nova finished. Mat managed to turn away Reg’s blow, but only barely. Rather than take advantage of the opening he had left, Reg returned to defend, waiting for the next strike. “Not like my creators wanted some random doctor to copy me, you know? Really, I’ve implied this multiple times now.”
Mat slid back, leaning on his enhanced balance to kick out towards Reg. The man caught it, but Mat twisted further, losing sight of his opponent but forcing him back. He lashed out as he turned, but Reg had already created distance, not falling for the feint.
That was the pattern with Reg. Always cautious, always waiting. It made the man frustrating to fight, and a good survivor. But not, Mat was coming to realize, a particularly good fighter.
“So anyway, it’s almost time for you to level up again. Level two. Isn’t that exciting?” Nova didn’t appear to take Mat’s lack of answers to heart. “Exactly. I’m putting the finishing touches on your next set of perks while you sleep. I can use more of your mind that way, you know? Not all of it, of course, but not every part of the human brain needs to rest every night. Just most of it.”
Reg stepped to the side when Mat lunged, and the transword shot out. Mat shifted, and his overextended form flowed to the side, not overextended at all. Reg missed, and Mat’s own weapon swept forth, impacting Reg against his side.
The man blocked at the last moment, but only just. Mat barked out a triumphant laugh, cut off abruptly when Reg’s leg snapped out to sweep his leg. He dropped both his weapon and himself to the floor. Fucking hell I’m tired.
“You’re doing well,” Reg praised, taking a sip of water before offering it to Mat. He drank greedily. “It’s disconcerting to watch another adapt to my style of fighting. Thank you for pressing me to do this.”
Mat snorted, forcing himself into a crosslegged position. “I doubt I can force you to do much of anything, and even if I could, I wouldn't want to. The board is still the same?”
“It is,” Reg replied, eyes flickering to it. “Four against four, starting at four. The Judge is in a humorous mood today. Deathmatch, and— Oh. There’s an added warning. ‘Self harm to avoid assigned assignments will be punished with death’. No one had tried that in about a year now, I’d say? Topas is out, replaced by Benard.”
Mat didn’t know that one, but that would make his teammates Darion, Stephen and now Benard. “Don’t know him.”
“I don’t either, not well.” Reg shrugged. “The plan remains the same. Play it slow, be careful, and work together. Darion and Stephen know this, so it won’t be hard to press Benard into line, should it be needed.”
He hoped so. Deathmatches were pretty rare to start with, let alone one involving four people on either side. That meant, as Reg had explained it, that some rich asshole had shelled out for a custom request. “Wish I thought of breaking my own arm to avoid it, or whatever Topas did.”
“No you don’t,” Reg replied, tone heavy. “Obedias tolerates quite a bit, but not that. Topas is dead, or will be soon.”
A flare of cold, worn rage flickered to life, then starved just as quickly. Mat sighed. “Naturally. Fucking hell, Reg. I almost wish this place looked like the deathtrap it actually is. At least then I wouldn't slip up and forget.”
“Life goes as it does,” Reg said, with the air of a man quoting. Mat raised an eyebrow. Reg coughed. “Have I ever told you that I used to be a priest? Well, I suppose I still am, in many ways.”
“Toncon, right?” Mat hummed. “Don’t know much about him. Something about black hole symbolism.”
“A common misconception. Toncon is a black hole. A sapient one, to be specific. The Toncon Theocracy is named after him, and it is where I was born, kept safe in orbit around his majesty. Pardon any insult, but you do not seem particularly well educated on the wider galaxy.”
“I blame my mother,” Mat replied dryly. “At least I can read and write, so that’s something.”
Reg nodded encouragingly, holding out a hand. Mat took it and was hoisted to his feet. “Rest for now. You have a few hours to get ready, and you did all you could with Darion and Stephen.”
“I’ll go see Benard,” Mat replied, nodding to himself. Reg neither offered support nor condemnation, which was something. “I won’t be mean to him.”
“I never thought you would be. I just doubt that he will be in a state for productive meetings.”
Mat snorted. He sure hadn’t been, in those first few hours. But this was a special event, and those few hours had been days ago. So he nodded to his friend and stepped out of the ring, which was immediately taken by a waiting trio of bladeslaves.
Being forced to fight in deathmatches at least got you some consideration, Mat supposed. Like priority access to the sparring rings. And… No, that was pretty much it. Still nice. Sparring out in the open was possible but discouraged, and he felt very little desire to piss off the Judge right this second.
He found Benard on the highest tier of cells, but not alone. Both Darion and Stephen were already there, the latter half turning to look. Darion, a shorter man with cords and cords of muscle, didn’t. Stephen was plain in every sense of the word, and a bit of a dick.
The newest member of their clusterfuck was tall, which was good. He was also crying, which was less good. Stephen growled at the man. “Get your shit together. You got dealt a fucked hand, and now you have to play it.”
“It isn’t fair,” Benard managed, heaving a great sob. The sheer despair in his eyes almost made Mat take a step back. “It isn’t fair.”
Darion grunted. “We’re fucked. If the droids hadn’t already taken Topas away, I’d kill him myself.”
Harsh, but looking at Benard now, Mat couldn't imagine the man would be ready to fight in a few hours time. Reg would no doubt feel compassion, and there was some of that. But it was Mat’s life on the line too, and now their team was saddled with someone a mean word away from a complete breakdown.
And to think Stephen had declared him the weakest of the group. Mat was almost tempted to throw that back in the man’s face. Almost.
Honestly, he hadn’t cared much for Topas either. If not for the deathmatch, he wouldn't have spent more than a single conversation with them.
“You’re growing harsh,” Nova muttered, a considerate tilt to his tone. “Has power already corrupted you, or did the shock and stress of… everything simply revealed your dickish nature?”
What do you do when you’re not insulting me, anyway? Mat asked, honestly curious. With how long we go between levels, I doubt you’re spending all your time making new perks.”
Nova sounded honestly surprised that he’d asked. “Uuhm, I swim through some of your core pleasant memories, I guess? Boredom isn’t the same for me as it is for you, since I lack all the appropriate hormones and endorphins and such. I just… wait, I guess.”
Interesting, but not overly relevant. Mat put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder, who seemed moments from tearing out Benard's hair. The man turned and walked out of the cell, muttering under his breath.
Mat stepped up to Benard, and the man looked up when Mat snapped his fingers in front of his face. Snot ran down onto his knees, and his eyes were red with tears. Mat sighed. “Look, this is fucked. You know it, I know it, hell, the Judge probably knows it. But it doesn’t change that you will fight, and so will I. And I don’t want to die, Benard. My life is partly in your hands now, just as yours is in mine. So I need you to do what none of us had to: set aside this panic attack so we can plan.”
Benard paused, and for a moment Mat felt hope. But then the man just kind of kept staring at him, uncomprehending, and after a ten long, uncomfortable seconds, Mat turned away.
Stephen turned back to them, apparently done cursing every single one of his ancestors. “Alright, three against four. Bad, but maybe workable. Matmat, I hope you didn’t tire yourself out against Reg.”
“I’ll be fine in a few hours, Stepstep,” Mat replied. Hopefully, if he just kept not reacting, the universe would forget that particular nickname. “You find out what kind of weapons we’re getting?”
The man shook his head. “No, and I don’t like it. Four against four means at least four deaths, and probably more. That’s expensive, so I doubt the customer is fine with us wearing whatever. Worst case, it’s a history nerd, and we’re walking into the fight wearing copper armor and wielding clubs.”
“I’ll take a concussion,” Darion offered. “Maybe the doc will patch us up afterwards as long as we look like we’re dead.”
Stephen waved his hand dismissively. “Not important. Point is, we don’t know what we’re walking into, so we stick to the plan. Stay together and hit hard. With some luck the other side spent the last few days panicking, and we score an easy win. Everyone comes back alive.”
“And in the event that this daydream doesn’t occur?” Mat asked, tone dry. Stephen glared at him, and he shrugged. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“Then hypothetically, we do the best we can, and pray to Toncon that we make it out alive.”
Toncon. Toncon and his Theocracy. The Federation, the Starspawn, the Collective. More. The Free Companies, rogue pirates, a thousand more minor factions the galaxy over. The human race had spread to the stars, and there was a good chance he was never going to see any of it.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Not the five original planets of the Federation, or the eleven rotating in stable orbit around a sapient black hole. Rogue AI fleets that traded ore for stories, and corporations owning entire moons. All of it locked away from him, and now he was fighting to the death for the entertainment of people who he would never meet.
“Focus,” Stephen barked. Mat blinked, shaking his head. “I’m not losing two of you to panic, you hear me? You might be a green, untrained, condescending cunt, but you’re what I’m stuck with, so you will focus.”
Focus. Yeah. So Mat focused as they tried to drag Benard out of his own mind, failed, did some light sparring to warm up, then forcibly dragged the man towards the door. Well, forcibly implied the use of force, and Benard walked when they pushed him onward, but just like Mat, none of the others wanted to annoy the Judge either. Not now.
Exactly at four, the door opened, and they moved inside. Two would fit fine, three would make the space feel cramped, so with four there was barely enough room to turn around. Mat endured, because there was no other choice.
“Focus on your own survival,” Nova encouraged. “You barely know these people, so don’t go dying for them, you hear me? Nothing good comes from death, especially since my creators are poking around that realm. Oh, wait, does that mean we’re immortal? Nah. Unless? Uuhm. Let’s not run into battle assuming we’re unable to die, alright?”
I wasn’t planning to.
Yet focusing solely on his own survival felt wrong too. Oh, it wasn't like he overly cared about his teammates. They barely knew one another, and would have continued to be strangers if not for the deathmatch. But he’d been here a while now, and Reg was a bad influence.
He didn’t want to see these people die. Call it tribalism, call it pack mentality or a dozen other things, but Mat was prepared to kill to keep them, and himself, alive.
“I think that’s called the human spirit,” Nova said, much quieter than before. “I— just don’t die, please? I don’t want to die.”
I don’t want to die either.
Mat had always considered himself a laid back guy. A general sense of apathy helped, as did the fact that his self worth came from within, not without. So when another person had taken residence in his brain, he had taken that in stride. Had taken it as something he could tolerate, especially considering the circumstances.
Now, for maybe only the second time, he was honestly glad that Nova was with him.
The second door opened, and Mat found himself the first to step into the armory. This space was bigger, thankfully, but the increased space didn’t matter to him so much. Instead, four pieces of what he was generously going to call armor were lined on the wall, with four hooked swords next to them.
Cloth armor. Cloth armor with decorative sashes and tassels and what appeared to be an actual skirt. And hooked swords.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Stephen said, sounding more tired than angry. Mat glanced at him, and the man waved his hand. “I know. Trust me, I know. Just get dressed, and try not to hit eachother with those stupid fucking pieces of shit they call weapons.”
Mat groaned, almost tearing one of the suits off the wall. Oh, and they came with frilly pants. Lovely. “Why not, you know, actually train us to fight with these things? Or anything but transwords.”
“Too expensive,” Darion offered, holding a buckle up with one hand. “I don’t think Obedias runs the most premier subscription service. Middle range, but more blood and gore than dancing. Does anyone know what this is for?”
A diagram bled out off the wall, which Mat supposed was good enough. Even Benard was moving, though he still seemed mentally zoned out. It took about ten minutes to actually get dressed, and Mat observed himself in the mirror.
It was a flowing, beautiful piece, he could admit that. A rainbow of colors from red to blue, yet never garish or out of place. A suit fit for nobility, though from a culture he had never heard about, let alone seen. His hooked blade, only sharpened on one side and horrifically unbalanced, completed the ensemble.
“Use it as a club,” Stephen commanded, seemingly in general. “Don’t get fancy, don’t split up.”
As if on cue, the final door opened, and Mat hesitated a moment before following the others into the hallway. He breathed in then out, but though his stomach was full of nerves, and fear pulsed at the edge of his mind, he was relatively calm. Ready.
“There's something your scientists called the warrior gene,” Nova offered. The AI still sounded somewhat off, and clearly forced the dry sarcastic tone. “And I mean your scientists, back from the long long ago. It isn’t really a thing, of course, but the fact remains that some people simply have the thing. The something that makes them good at violence, and less susceptible to its mental consequences."
Are you calling me a killer, Nova?
“No, of course not. I’m calling you a psychopath.”
Mat snorted, which caused Darian to glance at him. Mat shrugged to cover for the lapse. “It’s just— I never imagined my life turning out like this.”
“I hear that,” Stephen muttered. Louder, he said. “It looks like this is it.”
The lights ended near a larger door, and Mat expected it to be different. Ornate, maybe. But even as it silently slid open, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Nor was the chamber beyond, though it was one of the larger ones he had set foot into.
Screen lined the entire chamber, set to some manner of stone amphitheatre, with vast, breathtaking countryside stretching beyond. Mat forced himself to focus, even though some part of him wanted to link the area to their uniforms.
The other group had entered the same moment they had, which meant they had probably been waiting. Female to the last, they wore the exact same cloth they had, though tailored to their form. The same hooked blades were set in hand, and though none looked happy, each looked determined.
The Judge spoke before Mat, or anyone else, could speak. “This is a deathmatch. Until all members of the opposition group are killed, it does not end. The wounded will not be collected until one side has achieved victory.”
“What the fuck is up with these cloths?” one of the women asked, a sneer on her face. “It’s bullshit.”
“They are ceremonial garments worn by a political party you will not have heard of, and who resided on a planet you do not need to know about. Kill. That is all that is required of you. Post production will ensure that the client is satisfied. You will begin in ten seconds.”
Mat tightened the grip on his weapon, feeling more than seeing his three allies doing the same. Benard, gods be good, seemed to have snapped back to reality, though from the brief glance Mat shot him, still seemed shaken and unstable.
Five seconds. Mat tensed then forcefully relaxed, like this was just another spar with Yon or Reg or Tobi. Four against four meant he had to avoid being singled out at all costs, but otherwise the Judge would have made sure their groups were relatively equal.
Easy beatdowns were boring, after all.
Two, one. The moment his mental countdown ended, Mat stepped forward, and the group joined him, Stephen a split second faster than he was. The other group screamed, partly in fear and partly in anger, but didn’t change, huddled close just like they were.
Adrenaline surged and Mat took a moment to force himself to calm. Stick together, hold steady, and—
Benard screamed, a sound like a man possessed, and charged blindly, his every movement bleeding fear fueled anger. Mat grasped after him, as did Darion, but neither had been expecting it, and Mat missed by two inches. The other group reared back, surprised, but they were too far, and by the time Benard would get there, they would be ready.
Stephen cursed and charged after him, three steps behind. Mat did too, forcing Darion to follow. No choice. No time. Not to think, or plan, or curse out Benard’s entire bloodline. The fool was going to get himself killed, and probably drag the rest of them with him.
Yet, a much colder part of himself noted, their opponents were turning to the man. All of them. Something Stephen seemed to have noticed before he had. Benard was loud, crazed and swinging his weapon like a weedwacker, which meant that he was the perfect distraction.
When the enemy noticed Benard wasn’t alone, it was already too late. Stephen's weapon lashed out like the club it really was, smashing aside a tall, scarred woman. She went down like a sack of bricks, and Mat himself aimed at the enemy beside her, who managed to get her own weapon up to block.
Mat kicked out, smashing his foot into her knee. A blow came from the side and he leaned back, bending further than he should have been able to without falling. His sword came back, curving to the side to hit the woman in the shoulder.
Not a sword. The hook caught Stephen on the shoulder, and the man lashed out in sheer instinct, forcing Mat to drop fully to the floor. He kicked out and rolled back, just barely managing it, and thus was able to see the blade coming for Stephen.
Instinct must have warned him, because the man jerked aside. Then another blade came, one already coated in blood, and buried itself five inches into Stephen’s skull.
Mat shot to his feet, dragging a wounded Darion back by his clothes. The man stumbled, clutching one of his eyes, but didn’t get hit again, and Mat risked a glance at Benard, finding him crawling away on the floor, bleeding from his neck.
A broad shouldered woman chased the fool, an ugly cast to her face, while the two others rounded on him and Darion. Mat stepped forward rather than back, swinging like he was going to attack overhead, a heavy and powerful blow. The left woman—blue hair, nose piercing—flinched away, while the other didn’t fall for the feint, bringing her blade to the side.
It caught on her own ally, who had jerked wildly, and Mat’s hooked blade tore out her throat. Darion roared and tackled the other one, taking a blade on his arm to wrestle her to the ground.
Rather than move on, Mat stepped up next to them, and kicked her in the face. Her nose broke with a sickening crunch, and blood flowed even before Darion started punching, favoring his right arm. Now, where—
Agony burst into his world like a warhammer, and he crumbled to the ground, his knee shattering under the weight of the blow. The woman, the one Stephen had hit in the first exchange, glared at him, one of her eyes unfocused and with a lopsided snarl on her face.
His biomod let him sink to one knee rather than fall fully prone, and he lashed out hook first. It bounced off her skull without penetrating, so he hit her again, and then again.
Mat saw a shadow and raised his weapon, which was smashed aside by the broad shouldered stranger. Her foot lashed out, and Mat’s back hit the floor, driving the air from his lungs. His grip tightened rather than loosened, but he was a hair too slow in raising his weapon.
The sword hit his chest and sunk deep, straight through the cloth, and for a moment, he blacked out. Consciousness vanished then returned, like turning a tv off then on again. Mat stared, and a shape jumped the last of their enemy. The woman twisted her stance, a smooth, practiced motion, and took Darion’s charge, wrapping her arms around his neck, shifting into a chokehold.
Mat kicked out with his good leg, managing a glancing blow on her shin. Her stance buckled, but she held, so he threw his weapon. The weapon fell flat, Mat knew that even before it landed, but the woman turned Darion around to take the blow, which loosened her grip.
Darion twisted and bit down, tearing off two fingers with a seemingly iron jaw. She screamed, and through adrenaline and sheer, primal anger, Mat forced himself to his feet, hopping towards her. Her blade still stuck in his chest, and his own was on the floor, so he tore hers out, gripping it in a white knuckled fist.
Her arm rose, and the blade sank into it. Darion punched her in the stomach, and dove for a weapon while Mat wrenched his blade free, earning himself another howl of agony. He hit again, and again, and by the third blow Darion joined in, his blade slicing halfway into her neck before getting stuck.
For a long, silent second, the world seemed to freeze. Then Darion looked around, eyes wild, and spoke in a rasping, pained voice. “Someone’s alive.”
Mat didn’t waste time on asking questions. The broad shouldered woman was dead, but that was all his panicked, animal mind knew. So he sank his blade into the nearest female corpse, then turned to the next, hearing Darion do the same. Over and over they slashed, seconds stretching into eternity, and only then did the Judge speak.
“The match is done. Congratulations. For this feat, all survivors earn a steel token. Medical personnel will arrive soon.”
The door opened the moment the Judge was done speaking, and before he could fall, cold, unyielding fingers caught him, cushioning his landing. Mat stared at the featureless, unyielding face of the droid, and somewhere far away, Nova was shouting something.
He lost all reason to cling to consciousness, and for what felt like the hundredth time, he embraced the dark.
Afterword
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