Chương 12: Arrival arc

"Some considered Federation citizenship tiers to be an outdated, barbaric system. And yes, it is true that being born in the fourth-tier won't grant the same privileges as those born in the third, and those not the same as those born in the second. This ignored reality. The Federation controls a hundred worlds. It governs a trillion people. Such a vast populus required careful genetic engineering to remain stable, which in turn has given rise to generations of brilliant scientists. Fearless leaders.

There had to be a distinction between those born within Federation lands, and those born outside. Then there had to be a distinction to those born in natural births, and so on. Four citizenship tiers exist, but even the lowest of the fourth-tier live hale, fulfilling lives." Addressing criticism on Federation citizenship tiers The laughter died long before they reached the colosseum, but it had made the guards nervous.

More than once had a lagging bladeslave been roughly forced back into place, and the third time that happened, the guard broke the woman's leg. Interestingly, one of the droids had stepped closer. And not to the woman, but the guard. Mat noted that for later. Compared to the glimpse he'd seen from inside the arena, Obedias' people seemed rough around the edges. The bladeslave with the broken leg still hobbled with them, supported by whom he suspected to be her friends.

Mat supposed there was a good reason the guards didn't really come into the domus. When they finally streamed into the colosseum, descending into a surprisingly well hidden underground entrance, Mat came face to face with a rather unwelcome sight. Doctors. Five of them. One of the guards stepped up, and the droids shifted until they formed a cage around both Mat and his sixty three fellow bladeslaves.

"For security reasons, each of you will be temporarily injected with a globeleash. Do not resist." A what?

"A globeleash," Nova explained, "is a sort of… leash. Not helpful. Uuhm, think of a bomb collar but for your blood, but more lethal and less easy to get off. It's technically nanotechnology, but it's crude. Effective, though. They can set the parameters themselves, and it's much more flexible than the bomb they put in your neck. Go outside a certain range, approach the wrong people, etcetera, etcetera, you die. No explosion, or gore, or fuss. You just crumble like a puppet with its strings cut."

Mat was far from the only one displeased by that. Still, the droids loomed close, and the doctors clearly weren't being paid to ask for consent. Five drones, sleek and vaguely medical looking, moved from where they hovered over the doctors, and those in front had no choice but to let themselves be injected. Obedias was usually much more subtle about treating them as slaves. When the drones reached Mat, nothing changed.

Only one hovered behind him, and it injected something into his neck just like it had done with everyone else. But it felt different. More real than watching it happen to someone else. He suppressed a flare of instinctive panic, wondering how everyone else was staying so calm. He had Nova and a potential way out. They didn't.

"A bomb in your upper spine, and now a globeleash flowing through your blood," Nova said. The AI giggled, a rather disturbing sound.

"I'll keep track of it all, but I can't remove them." The not yet went unsaid, and Mat tried not to focus on it. Thankfully, once the last bladeslave had been injected, the droids broke their ring of encirclement, and the guards relaxed. A good distraction. Their captain, or so Mat assumed, stepped forward, his voice clear and brooking no disobedience. More than a few of his fellow bladeslaves seemed amused more than intimidated.

"Soon, each of you will fight in a tournament to showcase your skill and ability to our honoured customers. You will obey when summoned, fight when ordered to, and while doing so, you will not address, interact, or otherwise acknowledge the guests, or staff, unless commanded to. Any disobedience will result in death." A hard hand indeed. It was the wrong approach to take for long-term stability, but Mat had no doubt it was the right call now.

Killing even half the bladeslaves would be cheap compared to provoking disfavor from whom he had no doubt were extraordinarily rich and powerful clients. That appeared to be that, thankfully, and Mat followed as they were led into temporary holding cells. Shared holding cells. Mat kept waiting for men and women to be separated, and that never happened. Seven other people in his small cell, three of them women. Mat looked around, and not minutes after the guards had left, no less than four other pairs were getting…

busy.

"Disgusting," Nova spat.

"At least back in the domus they have enough decency to find an empty cell and hang up a curtain." Back in the domus, there were only men. Sure, the number of people attracted to their own gender went up when no alternatives were around, but now the guards had introduced those very same alternatives back into the environment. Mat turned back to the cell at large, finding the three outnumbered women standing together and facing the other four men. And Mat, for that matter.

One of his fellow men spoke up a moment later, arms folded.

"I'm just going to say this so that it's said," he began.

"Anyone tries to rape anyone else, I'll break their spine." Mat snorted, feeling the tension bleed out of the space.

"Hear hear. Being treated like animals is no reason to behave as such. So, did anyone manage to smuggle a pack of cards with them?" One of the women flicked her hand, and a deck appeared. Another flick, and the cards were in hand, dancing as she shuffled them. The man who had spoken sat, legs crossed, and swept the ground free of dust. Mat joined them, and for lack of anything better to do, so did everyone else. Without chips it was a somewhat strange game, but it was better than being bored.

God knew how long it would be before they were summoned. Mat stepped into the arena, feeling the sand under his boots. He had stood in these kinds of buildings before, really. But back then it had been a projection onboard the Challenger. Nothing but a room with screens and drones. Now there was a real arena maybe half the size of a football field. It was ringed by a chiseled wall rising some ten feet high, above which stood the small islands of stone.

Some held only a single person, others ten, but each dripped with luxury. Expensive seats, plush carpets, food and drink aplenty. It was, Mat supposed, what ancient Rome would look like if a group of rich people recreated it. Unlike ancient Rome, there was a phase shield battery on his hip, and he held a moleblade in hand. His opponent held a large, blocky gun, and a knife gleamed on her hip. The pair of them made for the eighth match of the day, and for one of them, it would be the last.

"Dark," Nova praised.

"Not like this is a deathmatch. You just won't be able to fight in the other brackets. Considering we get nothing for winning, and losing doesn't get us punished, I vote that we give up." He could see the allure, he could. But something in him, something that had been growing over the last six months, wanted to win. Wanted to test himself not with weapons of iron and steel, but with molecular blades facing modern weapons. A man, overdressed and far too loud, spoke up, interrupting his sightseeing.

"Matthias Brook against Elaise Nevergreen. Sword against projectile. Shall the master of blades triumph, or will humanity's oldest advantage stand victorious? By your command, we shall find out today." Someone waved their hand, an older woman, and Mat got shot. The stream of energy impacted his phase shield and slid off, but the shock of it echoed. He just kind of stood there, half stupefied. I've never been shot before.

His shield intercepted another stream of bubbling, searing energy, and Mat kicked off, sand shifting under his feet. A third and then fourth beam missed, and while he had never practiced to avoid gunfire, the principle was simple. Hop around like a bunny on crack. Phase shields hardly lasted forever, so while it equalized the playing field, it would only do so for a while. When it ran out, he was dead.

Even with every fifth shot landing, or every tenth, it was a large arena, and he couldn't run straight towards his opponent. When he caught a glimpse of her, she was a stranger. Not surprising. Four hundred called his domus home, there were another three of them besides, with little contact between them. If he had known this random stranger, that would have been the greater surprise. She was pretty, in one sense. Not something he overly concerned himself with.

But her hair had been cut short, and badly, while a hateful sneer pulled at her face. Another reason Mat didn't try to befriend every bladeslave he came across. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. A fair few of them were batshit insane, and slaves not only to Obedias, but to tribalism. Mat rolled to the side, dodging one shot, then jerked aside again before he was halfway through.

Only his enhanced balance let him avoid falling flat on his face, but with that and the steady thrum of energy bleeding into his muscles, he could do this for a long while. After twenty seconds, he had crossed half the distance, and his opponent's accuracy was falling. She could shoot, and accurately, but she clearly didn't like doing so. Yet all she had other than the gun was a knife, and Mat wielded a moleblade. It would cut through her like a knife through butter.

So she backed away, and Mat followed, slowly getting used to the erratic movements keeping him safe. His phase shield took three more shots then vanished, recharging, but that was enough. Mat leapt over a low shot, and then he was close. Too close. The woman drew her knife, parrying his first stroke, low and broad. Another molecule weapon, but she lacked reach. Mat stepped back, then sliced up, taking her arm just below the elbow. Easy enough for the doctors to reattach.

She screamed, then lunged, but it was wild, so he slid around her and put his blade at her throat. She stilled, frozen in fear as the unnaturally sharp edge dug into her neck.

"The blade is victorious!" the herald cried, and a smattering of polite applause echoed through the arena. Mat withdrew his blade, stepping back and offering her a nod. She snarled, then returned it, jerkily and halted.

"And such sportsmanship! Truly, I cannot wait to see what this bladeslave will do in the next round." Mat turned, and he knew he was done for the day. Sixty four had entered, thirty two came out. Well, all sixty four came out, but thirty two had advanced to the next round. After that would be sixteen, then eight, then four, then only two, until one winner remained. Mat didn't really care.

Oh, this was good practice with proper weapons, which was very useful, but what did he care about entertaining rich, fat socialites? Ones that didn't even have the decency to be fat, at that. Mat suspected they could eat whatever they wanted, for however long they wanted, with no negative effects. He would be jealous, but honestly, it was getting harder and harder to remember who he used to be.

Happier, yes, but the thrill of a good fight had been absent before, and a hundred small annoyances of daily life had been wiped clean. Not a good trade, but not quite so bad that he spent his every moment longing for home. When he stepped into the arena again, he faced a man perhaps two heads taller than himself. Unlike before, both of them had a range of weapons, from pistols to guns to swords and shields.

Hell, the armor they wore seemed almost military, and would protect flesh even after the shields ran out of power. Mat dropped the guns the moment the match started. They would only slow him down, and he had very little practice. His opponent didn't copy him, opening fire with a three-burst thrum-thurm-thum. He rolled to the side, settling his face into a mocking grin. This might as well be what he was built for.

His balance ensured that he wouldn't fall, and his enhanced stamina meant he could push further than ever before. So he danced across the sand, and his opponent didn't seem to be a particularly skilled shooter. Less so than his previous opponent. His phase shield took a few blows, but nothing that would disable it. He wasn't even halfway across the sand when the man barked out a curse, throwing his weapon aside and taking hold of his own moleblade. Now this was something Mat would focus on committing to memory.

As long as he didn't die, the doctors could put him back together again, and he needed experience fighting against that disturbingly common tool of death. Moleblades would slice off his own limbs as easily as his opponent's, and the phase shield would do nothing to stop that. His opponent finally came into full view, and with a start, Mat recognized him. Willhelm. The man was one of those who had taken enthusiastic advantage of the temporary unity of bladeslaves, finding a woman after his own heart.

Even before that, they had fought, once. I like to eat, fuck and fight. That was it. It was the first thing Wilhelm had said to him when they met, after beating him nearly to death. But then, that had been months ago. Willhelm shot forth just when Mat prepared to close the distance, and the man's moleblade keened for his head. Mat twitched to the side, slicing his own blade down. It caught the edge of Willhelm's leg just as his blade caught the edge of Mat's shoulder, and for a moment, his balance was thrown off.

He had expected some resistance, especially with the armor. Instead the moleblade passed through like the stuff wasn't even there, and flesh proved just as sliceable. Willhelm shot past him, and Mat stepped forward, knowing that the man was too good of a fighter for his turned back to be anything but a trap. Turning, Mat inspected the cut, just like Willhelm inspected his own. After a moment, recognition bled into the man's expression.

"Matmat?!" How the fuck had that nickname made it to the other domuses? Mat shook his head. Not important. Then he nodded, because shaking his head after someone said his name made him look like he was denying his own identity.

"Adrenaline is a hell of a drug," Nova whispered, starting at Willhelm.

"Don't lose focus." Mat grunted, as much to Nova as to his opponent.

"Willhelm. I'll do my best to avoid killing you."

"How gracious!" The man boomed, raising his blade and leveling it at him.

"I shall do the same. It is a fine audience, tonight let our show enthrall real spectacularly, shall we?" Mat blinked at the whatever the fuck that meant, but Nova snorted.

"Fat losers. It spells out an insult. He's more clever than he appears." Willhelm shot forward, a long scar pulling his smile into a sneer, though even if it hadn't, the smile wasn't overly nice. Mat ducked, feeling the moleblade going over his head, and just about managed to block the knee aiming to shatter his nose. He retaliated, nearly slicing his own hand off in the process. His opponent was a hair too slow to dodge, but even so, Mat would score nothing but a mildly deep slice on the man's stomach.

A hit, but not a debilitating one. So he jerked the blade down instead, losing power and precision, and at the perfect time, Willhelm lashed out with a kick. His fighting style hadn't changed much, it would seem. The force behind the blow was limited, but Mat's blade still cut nearly to the bone, savaging muscle and more. Willhelm howled, headbutting him in blind rage. Mat reeled, blood spurting from his nose as his eyes watered. Agony bloomed in his left arm. He jerked to see, finding much of the limb gone.

Willhelm swiped again, just as wildly as before, and it was muscle memory alone that forced Mat to move. One step let him dodge, and his moleblade took the limb, slicing Willhelm's own arm above the elbow. Mat staggered with the blow, and some cold part of himself knew he had only seconds before he would be hit with a wave of weakness. With a wordless scream, Willhelm grabbed his weapon with his remaining hand, and Mat tried to step aside.

He stumbled, fumbling for his weapon, and then he fell, his leg sliced through. In defiance more than strategy, Mat threw his own blade, somehow managed to lodge it into the man's stomach. He hit the sand, and Willhelm joined him not a second later. If the man said anything, it was lost on him as agony took over his senses. A mad, delirium fueled laugh escaped him, choking off after not even a second.

Guess there's a reason they don't give sabers of light to non-force— Nova shouted something, but consciousness fled, and Mat slipped into the cool, numb waters of oblivion. He awoke hale, thirsty and with the belief that he should be missing several limbs. Honestly, that was becoming a fairly regular experience. Probably not good for his mental health.

"You were declared the winner," someone said. Mat turned, and Sury stared back at him.

"You would have bled out first, but your last strike nicked his lung. The herald declared that you would have survived him by two minutes, and there can't be a tie. Therefore, you win." Mat hummed, rising to sit and stretching as much as he was able, one hand over his neck.

"Thank you, Sury. I've been meaning to ask; you're in the same domus as Bea, right? Why isn't she here?"

"Why would Obedias want that thing to perform?" Sury spat. Mat blinked, and her fury turned to fear.

"Don't tell her I said that." He snorted, rising fully to stretch. Doing that helped his mind accept the sudden return of his limbs, but even beyond that, there was little to do. From sixty four to thirty two, and now to sixteen. If it wasn't for the practice this whole thing was affording him, practice that he was going to need, Mat suspected he would have been rather annoyed. It was the next day when he stepped into the arena again, the fifth match of the day. Frankly, he was planning for it to be his last.

That decision was reinforced by the weapons they had given him. A whip was in his hand, with only a small dagger as backup. Neither were molecular in origin, which meant this was meant to be a long, drawn out battle. His opponent stood on the other side, a woman he didn't know. She held an identical whip in her hands, though he couldn't see if she also had a knife. She probably did. It was… boring. He didn't know how to fight with a whip, and apparently, neither did she.

Oh, some things translated, like footwork and balance and reflexes, but when he closed the distance, he hit the sand next to her instead of her torso. Her own blow missed and whipped back, nearly hitting her in the face.

"This is fun," Nova enthused.

"Don't worry about boring the audience. It's not like they hold your life in their hands, or anything." Mat ignored the AI, lashing out again. Again, he hit nothing, and neither did she. Funnily enough, she pulled her knife first, throwing the whip aside with a disgusted snort. He followed suit, pulling his own blade and flicking it around. He wasn't great with it, but anything was better than an actual whip. The woman stabbed, and Mat slipped aside, slashing at her shoulder. Even so, his heart wasn't in it.

He had resolved to lose even before entering, and that made it hard to care. She seemed stable, anyway, so he doubted she would slit his throat. It risked less than going through another bunch of fights, anyway. A foot caught his own, and he stumbled, forcing him to twist to keep upright. Her knife came down, and he was caught in an awkward position, so he let himself fall. His back met the sand, and he kicked out, grazing her knee. She reacted in time, kicking sand over his face.

Mat gagged, blindly rolling backwards. Slowly, comparatively speaking, but no metal entered his flesh. He spent a moment wiping sand out of his eyes, his ears twitching as her feet crunched over the arena, but when he did regain his sight, all he saw was a blur. Then her foot hooked around his knee, and he fell again, feeling cold metal press against his throat. Defeat. Nova rolled his shoulder, jumping up and down.

"We let her win. Totally different. Or not. We'll never know, will we?" Mat forced his mind to zoom out, like scrolling on a mouse wheel. This fight didn't matter. This whole competition didn't matter, save for what experience he could gain. Losing now meant nothing, and would hopefully avoid closer scrutiny. Two more events after this, and he could go back to the Challenger. Back to his friends and plotting and preparing.

He closed his eyes, refusing to let the stinging, irritating presence of sand ruin the glorious sunlight. While he was here, he would enjoy what he could. Afterword Patreon (No current advanced chapters for this story) Discord