12


We followed Henshaw into the main room of the yacht. He immediately stepped to one side and out of my reach.
I saw dozens of gamblers and their entourages. One man was flanked by a squad of Union commandos—a detail that definitely meant I was in trouble. He wore a robe with a hood to conceal his face in the dark shadows.
“That's why I tried to make your friends wait outside. I don't have a choice. They would have been better on their own,” Henshaw said. "I told you I didn't have a choice."
I held my breath and ignored him. This wasn’t the time or place to argue semantics.
I aimed my HDK short rifle at the six men doing the same thing at me. There were only six because two of their squad mates were somewhere in the crowd flanking me—a basic but effective tactic taught in infantry school.
Dropping my aim several inches, I focused on the hooded face of the stranger. “Are you Nightmare?”
“I am, and not just because these fools require everyone who plays to have an alias,” the figure said.
“It’s a stupid alias. I’ll just call you the hooded douchebag,” I said, trying to unbalance him.
He didn’t react.
I reevaluated the crowd and saw several other gamblers and their fight champions. All of the warriors had one thing in common: they were beaten and defeated. Arms in splints, heads bandaged, or with stitches holding wounds closed. Some of the people I assumed had brought champions to the gladiatorial fights but were now missing them.
“Well, here we are,” I said. “Explain to me what exactly we’re doing.”
Henshaw started to talk, but Nightmare cut him off with a wave of a hand. “Everyone has their own reason for being here. You want your Reaper augmentations to work. Mr. Henshaw probably told you your limited AI was going to crash. I know him and how he works.” He paused. “Most of my companions are here for the thrill and for the money. I’m here to recruit talent.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “But I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last hooded douchebag with too much money in the galaxy.”
Spectators laughed nervously. Henshaw again tried to intervene, this time moving between Nightmare and me. The strangers’ champion stepped forward, also concealed in an expensive cloak, and shoved Henshaw back. The ocular engineer flew off his feet and landed flat on his back. He groaned, then struggled to stand.
“I’ve already found my champion. Killing you will be his final test. The betting has already concluded. Would you like to know the odds?” Nightmare asked. He was a big man beneath his cloak. I could see his thick shoulders and muscular arms through the fabric despite his rough voice. The man sounded old but looked like a specimen of physical fitness.
“I don’t really give a damn about odds. But since I’m such a nice guy, I’ll tell everyone to change their bets. Because I don’t lose,” I said.
Some of the spectators laughed, others cursed and called me an arrogant fool, but Nightmare and his champion said nothing. I didn’t know if this was an act or if they were actually that sure of themselves.
“The contest will be with blades,” Nightmare said. “We’re too close to you as it is. None of us want to get shot by a couple of gunslinger hotheads.”
I clipped my HDK to the body armor I’d been given for the Dreadmax mission and always wore under my coat. A short, hard twist of my left wrist extended my arm blade. “That works for me.”
A hush went over the crowd.
Nightmare’s champion dropped his hood, then shrugged off the cloak.
“A fucking sword saint?” Elise sneered. “How is that fair?”
The swordsman facing me had long hair in flat braids with gold wires woven through. He had the same piercings that Path was so proud of, but more of them, and the metal of each glowed more brightly.
I cast a glance at Path.
He answered without me having to ask the question. "He is a master. Many times better than I am. More importantly, he has a mask.”
Practically on cue, the tall, well-muscled sword saint reached over his shoulder and pulled a Reaper mask from his back.
“How did you know he had a mask,” I asked Path under my voice.
“I’m more observant than you are, apparently,” Path said. “And I’ve seen him with it before this.”
I forced a laugh. “You’re not a Reaper, and even if you were, that thing would eat your face.”
The man responded with a thick accent I didn’t recognize. His voice was soft and confident. “I’m not a Reaper. I’m what comes after.”
I knew what he was saying but decided to be difficult, stalling for time as X-37 processed information and I decided on a plan that wouldn’t get us all killed. “After what? I get what you’re saying, but clarity is a virtue. You should say something like, I’m what comes after all the Reapers are gone.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to suggest he say,” X-37 assured me. “And while we’re on the topic, my analysis of your skills versus what is known about a sword saint of this caliber isn’t good. I suggest renegotiating terms. Perhaps a spelling contest would be safer.”
“I am Uriah,” the swordsman said. “It will be an honor to kill you.”
“Not gonna happen,” I said, retracting my blade, swinging up my HDK, and taking aim.
“Not so fast, Cain,” Nightmare said, raising one hand for me to stop what I was doing. "We anticipated your complete disregard for the safety of the bystanders. In your mind, we're nothing but a bunch of decadent rich fools who deserve to die. So we paid some volunteers."
With a flick of his hand, a row of children were led out to stand around the ring.
"Be mindful of the backdrop, Cain," the stranger said. "You wouldn't want to murder more innocent children."
"I've never killed a child," I said. It was true and one of the reasons I had fallen out of favor with the Reaper Corps.
Finished with the discussion, Nightmare motioned his champion forward.
Uriah put on a mask that was very different from the one I’d left on the Jellybird. It resembled a smooth visor more than the skull. The eyes and sensor ring glowed green.
"Come on, eat his face," Elise murmured, hands balled into fists.
I didn't think we were going to get that lucky.
Uriah drew his sword, advancing into the center of the ring. He held the blade above his head, elbows slightly flared but still pointing toward me. The sensor ring in his forehead seemed to rotate, the variations in the green light mesmerizing me.
"The mask will assist him. He may feel as though time has slowed. From your perspective, his reaction time will be incredibly fast," Henshaw said from the sideline just loud enough for me to hear.
I pretended to ignore the ocular engineer because this was important information right now. Getting distracted by his motivation to help me after working so hard to trick me into coming here wasn't something I had time for. My gut reaction was that he felt guilty.
I stepped into the ring, still holding my HDK carbine. "I'm not sure who your tactical advisor is, but having kids in the background doesn't mean anything. A headshot from this range with a shoulder-mounted weapon is easier than sipping whisky and nearly as much fun.”
I pulled the stock of the HDK tight against my shoulder as I spoke, training the barrel on Uriah.
Nightmare laughed darkly.
"Something is wrong," Elise said.
"You won't be able to hit him," Henshaw warned.
I fired, confident the round would strike him in the throat where he had the least protection. The bullet sailed through the area he had just been.
"Your intent was obvious," Uriah said, then lunged forward, slashing downward from his new location. He had sidestepped only a few inches but it had been enough for me to miss—winging a bullet through a diving crowd of gamblers. The sword smashed the HDK from my grip, which alone was enough to surprise me. The force of the strike had been like getting shot with a heavy slug gun or hit by a train.
I thought for a moment that he'd severed the barrel, but it had just been my imagination. I tried to bring it up but was too slow. Snapping my blade out at the last second, I deflected Uriah's next strike.
He came at me like a blur. There was no wasted movement and he seemed to think three steps ahead of me.
Abandoning the HDK, I focused on using my Reaper blade. I rushed forward, crowding him to offset his technique. He adjusted nimbly, slashing and stabbing too fast to be seen. X-37 dumped adrenaline and other hormones into my system to help with my speed and reaction time.
I blocked two out of three strikes, and was soon covered in slashes and stab wounds. If any of the injuries were fatal, I hadn't realized it yet.
Jumping forward, I left the ground and executed a flying punch they didn't teach in the Reaper Corps. I plunged the blade down for my first successful strike on the man. The blade that extended from my left arm was shorter than his, but more than long enough to pierce his upper arm through and through and take a chunk out of his rib cage.
He twisted, his body holding the blade for a second as he delivered a counterstrike with his elbow.
We separated. He put one finger in the wound and stopped the flow of blood. I stumbled sideways, leaking red fluid all over the ring.
"Is now a good time to point out he stabbed you through your ballistic vest two times?" X-37 asked.
"Not helpful," I grunted, then charged. The man had infinitely better technique and was clearly a killer. I needed to bulldog him, rough him up like we were in a street fight.
He slashed and sidestepped. I kicked at his groin, forcing him backward. It was a miss, but it impacted the inner part of this thigh enough to stagger him.
I looked forward, stabbing with the Reaper blade like I was punching his throat. He moved so fast that I only managed to nick his shoulder as he got out of the way.
“You have to grab his sword," X-37 said.
I took action before my brain caught up. In my mind, I was thinking about how it was going to hurt when the blade slashed through the flesh of my right hand. But of course I wasn't going to use my right hand.
My Reaper blade retracted as I snatched his sword near the hilt and twisted sideways. I could feel myself losing the grip even as I began punching him repeatedly in the face with my right hand. It wasn't made of metal, but that didn't help him.
The mask absorbed the surface contact, but I could tell I was ringing his bell. He staggered back, giving me the opening needed to trip him to the ground and straddle him.
I put my left knee on his sword arm, pinning his limb and the weapon to the ground. Then I stabbed my Reaper blade into his mouth and twisted.
"Was that actually necessary?" X-37 said. "It definitely lacks precision. But if you're wanting to look like a murdering psychopath, congratulations. You win.”
"Mute yourself, X-37," I snapped, tired and in pain and still not convinced I had survived the ordeal.
Panting, I looked up to see a large number of people exiting the room. Nightmare and his squad pushed through the crowd. I saw their rearguard looking at me as though resenting the order to retreat. The spec ops soldier thought the eight-man squad could take me, and he wasn't wrong.
For some reason, Nightmare had decided to just leave with his champion lying behind him in a growing pool of blood.
Elise brushed my side, immediately pulling the first-aid kit from my belt and tending to my wounds. Path stood over me, sword drawn, guarding the both of us.
Henshaw sat on one of the now vacant benches, an exhausted but satisfied look on his face.
"I really hate you right now, Henshaw," I said.
"It’s all right," he said brightly. "Now I have all the money I promised you. It turns out I did know who to bet on.”
"You think we’re going to trust you after this?" Elise snapped, not stopping her bandaging efforts.
"You don't have to trust me, but your mentor’s limited AI will need me to turn off the failsafe that shuts them down in less than two months," Henshaw explained. "And I'm more than willing to pay the cash and credits as well. You don't know what it was like to be under that man’s control."
That man. If Henshaw’s story was true, I thought I knew the true identity of Nightmare.
"Let's get to your laboratory and fix X," I said. “Everything after that is negotiable."