Like there was any chance of that at all. The entire ride here, Cricket had been fretting on it. He’d been uploaded with all the combat software Abraham had in his collection, but the Ace of Spades was a stone-cold killer in the ring, years of WarDome experience collated in its memcore. A few weeks ago, Cricket had been hauling Evie’s tools and warning people not to call him little.
This was going to end all the way badly.
He didn’t want to do this. All those bots he’d seen die on the killing floor, all the bots he’d helped Evie perish…he could see them now in his head. A part of him had always questioned the wrong of it, but he’d never seen it as clear as he did when he was neck deep. That was always the way, right? Sometimes you don’t know you’ve crossed the line till you’re on the other side.
“THIS ISN’T RIGHT,” he heard himself say.
“What isn’t right?” Abraham mumbled, still fiddling with his insides.
Cricket tried to keep himself still. There was no point in complaining and he knew it—letting Abraham know how scared he was just risked blowing his cover story. But if he went up to that arena, he was going to get annihilated anyway. And what good would having stayed quiet do him then?
“ALL OF THIS,” Cricket finally said. “WARDOME. THE KILLING FLOOR. MAKING BOTS DESTROY EACH OTHER. IT’S CRUELTY. IT’S TORTURE.”
Abraham pulled his tech-goggs up onto his brow and peered at Cricket. “Paladin, without WarDome, what do you think these people would do on a Saturday night? Without a team to root for, something bigger to belong to, where do you think they’d be?”
“DON’T MAKE ME GO UP THERE,” Cricket pleaded. “TELL THEM I’VE GOT A MECHANICAL FAULT, AND YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT. I DON’T WANT TO KILL ANOTHER BOT. I DON’T WANT TO GET KILLED. I DON’T WANT ANY OF THIS.”
“What’re you talking about?” Abraham frowned. “You’re a Domefighter!”
“I’M FRIGHTENED IS WHAT I AM. I USED TO IMAGINE MYSELF DOING THIS WHEN I WAS LITTLE, BUT NOW THAT I’M HERE, I DON’T WANT TO BE. I JUST WANT TO FIND MY…”
The workshop doors opened, and Cricket fell silent as Sister Dee entered, surrounded by her black-clad Elite bullyboys. Her white cassock was immaculate as always, long hair flowing over her shoulders like poisoned water, dark eyes twinkling as she smiled.
“How fares our mighty Paladin?” she asked.
Cricket looked at New Bethlehem’s warlord. The fresh skullpaint and the spotless clothes, the plastic flower in her hair. There was no point in pleading his case to her. He doubted a woman who threatened to nail babies to crosses would give a damn about the fears and frailties of a simple machine.
But Abraham was different. He must know how badly this hurt. Maybe he’d get Cricket out of this. Maybe he’d tell his—
“Abraham?” Sister Dee asked. “Is everything well?”
The boy looked to his mother, the Brotherhood thugs around her.
“PLEASE…,” Cricket whispered.
The boy glanced at the big bot. “We may have a problem, Mother.”
Sister Dee blinked. “Problem?”
“I think there’s an issue with his persona routines.”
Sister Dee pursed her lips, looked up at Cricket. “We have a great deal riding on this bout, Abraham. Water. Credits. Seed stock.”
“I know that, Mother.”
“I’ve warned you about growing too close to these things. This robot isn’t a pet, Abraham. Simply because it speaks doesn’t make it alive.”
“…I know that, too.”
Sister Dee put her hand to Abraham’s cheek, forced him to look up into her eyes. Even with the Dome bout overhead, the thundering crowd, the cheers and the roars, the work pit seemed as quiet as a grave.
“It’s all for you, my love,” she said, dark eyes burning. “All of it. Every inch. Every drop. You know that, don’t you? You remember what I gave? The sins I committed to keep you safe by my side?”
“Of course I remember,” he whispered.
“I shouldered that burden gladly, my son. I paid that price because I love you. I did it all, and I would do it again. Because I had faith in you. More faith than he ever had. Was my faith misplaced?”
“No, Mother,” he murmured.
“Then our Paladin will be ready?”
The boy looked up to Cricket. Swallowed hard. But in the end, he nodded.
“Yes, Mother.”
Sister Dee smiled, like the first rays of dawn over the horizon. She leaned in close, kissed her son’s cheek, smearing his skin with greasepaint.
“Saint Michael watch over you.”
“…And you, Mother.”
Cricket watched Sister Dee stalk from the room, flanked on all sides by her bodyguards. Abraham watched her go, his shoulders slumped. But when the work pit door slammed shut behind her, he turned and kept working on Cricket’s insides.
“ABRAHAM—”
“I owe her, Paladin,” the boy said. “You don’t…you can’t understand. What she did for me. Everything she still does for me. She’s my mother.”
“SHE’S THE INSANE LEADER OF A FANATICAL CULT. THAT LUNATIC NAILS KIDS TO CROSSES, SHE—”
“Dammit, who do you think you are?” Abraham threw his multi-tool onto the ground. “You don’t get to talk about her that way! She’s human and you’re a damned machine! You don’t get to judge us. You do what you’re told!”
“I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS?”
“Silent mode,” he snapped.
Cricket fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “PLEASE DON’T M—”
“Enough!” the boy shouted. “I order you not to speak to me again unless I speak to you! You’re a machine, not a person. You’re not my friend, you’re my property! And when you’re up in that ring, once the countdown finishes, you will fight until you’ve destroyed your opponent or you’re OOC! Signal compliance!”
Cricket couldn’t reply—even with his growing ability to bend the rules, the boy’s command for silence was iron-clad. And so, he acknowledged the kill order with a small nod. Scowling, the boy snatched up his fallen tool and went back to work.
Cricket looked to the Dome above his head.
He wanted to speak.
He wanted to run.
He wanted to live.