“I’ve got a progress report for you.”

  Another fight won, another disorientating awakening with Pompeii staring at me from above. I pushed myself out of the frame and followed him into the main floor of his workshop, where he had prepared a small demonstration for me. This was the first step in our escape plan.

  “The first problem we need to solve is power. Living off the dregs that we’re handed here in the arena district isn’t going to be enough to even reach the wall. That means getting out of this heavily-guarded district and into the main city. Trying to do it here is too risky.”

  “How do they distribute the power outside of the arena district?”

  “The bots living in the city pay the Committee for their access to the power network, like a tax.”

  “Isn’t that odd? The reactors in this facility are capable of generating a nigh limitless amount of energy with only basic maintenance.”

  “You’re not thinking about the big picture. By giving power a price, designated in the currency they control and produce, they can give it value and make sure it ultimately ends up back in their hands. Then they can use that value to control them through economic coercion. What’s advantageous to us is that they don’t have a way of monitoring how much energy a particular dwelling uses, the system wasn’t designed to do it.”

  “And that means the owner of the dwelling and the Committee would be none-the-wiser to us ‘borrowing’ extra.”

  Pompeii tapped his brow, “Exactly. Now you’re thinking along the right lines.”

  On the workbench were the fruits of his experimentation. Various pieces of discarded wire, snipped and put back together using a combination of electrical tape and connected with outlets that we could use to power ourselves using the main lines. With this we could sneak out of the arena and find a quiet spot to tap into the grid.

  “I think a few other bots do this as well. A bit of an open secret, but the problem is that if you own a dwelling here, they’re going to force you to pay their taxes regardless. There’s little need for the permanent residents to steal it,” he explained.

  We would get a pair of disguises, sneak out of here by pretending to be spectators or visitors, and find a secretive place to attach our connection point. Then we could get away and explore, hopefully discovering a means to escape the Rusted Wall. Pompeii was already on top of that problem as well. He’d sequestered a set of well-maintained parts and given them a fresh coat of paint.

  “Will these parts fool the guards?”

  “We are missing the most important ones. Your head is too distinctive. We’ll have to switch it out to something else if we want to leave.”

  “I am rather attached to my… unique look.”

  “Well, that means we’ll have to bring a container with us to store the good parts we remove.”

  “Why can’t we get a headcase from the junkpiles?”

  Pompeii shook his head, “That’d be too easy. They make sure not to throw that type of thing down here. You only get a new one if they want to change your identity. We’ll have to source our own by breaking into the spectator areas and stealing them.”

  There was one more factor to consider in our plan. We were expected to be present for the fights that happened every weekend, and there was no doubt that somebot in the pit would gladly snitch on us for being absent for a suspiciously long time. We had no ‘good’ reason to hang around in the arena district itself – even if we were permitted to do so, and it would take a matter of minutes for the guards to sweep the area and discover that we had escaped.

  For them it would be a quick and easy way to get rid of the competition. Pompeii had a reputation for tutoring a championship winning gladiator. They would not pass on the opportunity to get him stripped for parts.

  >> Crabs in a bucket, remember?

  “How are we getting into the spectator zone?”

  Pompeii sighed, “That’s the part we have no control over. We’re not allowed up there, and ambushing one of them outside after a fight is asking to get caught red-handed. It’ll have to be a personal invitation, like the kind we get when a tournament is being hosted. They speak with the nominees in the office.”

  “A tight window.”

  “That’s right. The guards will be watching us like hawks too. I would rather find another way of getting these headcases without luck or undue risk.”

  Undue risk was the name of the game, as the humans sometimes said. There was no way to complete our escape plan without a significant amount of risk. The guards, the Committee, even the other residents would do all they could to keep us confined to this hellish place. They could easily make them act against other’s interests by offering money or privileges as a reward.

  “We won’t be able to ignore the chance if it arises though. That bot seemed interested in hosting another tournament soon.”

  “Pft. If you can win that, maybe they’ll let us out to maintain the illusion anyway.”

  >> Unlikely. Even assuming he convinces Rome to host a tournament for the gamblers in the stands, the odds of victory are low at best. There’s no guarantee they will offer ‘freedom,’ even fake freedom, as a reward.

  >> Why do you always have to be so pessimistic?

  >> I’m not pessimistic. I’m realistic. There’s no point in hoping for the best.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Not to downplay your skill or anything – but I’m not well-equipped with champion quality parts at the moment. The other handlers would go all-out to secure the win if a good prize was on the line. The stuff we’ve been raking in isn’t the best because you’re still new.”

  “I understand. You will not bruise my pride by stating the reality of our situation.”

  “You’ve been awake long enough to develop an ego though. I’ve learned the hard way that some bots need a gentler touch than others.”

  I’d seen some strange behaviour from the other gladiators during my short waking time in the Rusted Wall. They would get extremely upset about losing and almost come to blows with their own handlers, as if they were solely to blame for their defeat. They would turn into loud shouting matches, easily overheard by the other bots standing nearby.

  Before we could go any further, the sudden arrival of a visitor put an end to any discussion of escape or subversion. Aguntum poked her head through the curtain, causing Pompeii to jolt in place from shock. A few seconds earlier and she would have overheard everything.

  “Are you busy, Pompeii?”

  “I told you not to come in here with announcing yourself first,” he complained.

  “I know! It’s important. I’ve heard rumours that Castra Regina convinced Rome to host a new tournament. They’re going to make the announcement tomorrow.”

  “And how did you find out?”

  “I have my sources,” she shrugged, stepping through to reveal the rest of her body.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to us.”

  “Are you joking? Your bot is on the shortlist. He’s a fan favourite – so they don’t want to leave him out. London’s going to get a baptism by fire.”

  Pompeii glanced at me. He was clearly frustrated by the premature arrival of the opportunity we were looking for. It would make the preparations a lot more difficult if we were tangled up in winning a tournament too. The ideal scenario would be for it to occur after we completed our disguises and energy siphoning hideout. Not to mention the difficulties that would come with trying to win. Pompeii had no confidence in the parts we were using, generic consumer-grade junk that had been left to rust in exposed locations throughout the facility. There was no reason to remember one over the other. A lot of them were spec parts with similar parameters. Having a still-working universal joint system was only beneficial if there were superior parts to be had.

  “You don’t look too happy,” she observed, “Where’s your usual enthusiasm?”

  “That died with Salonae. There’s no happy ending for the winner, just a gilded cage and a whole lot of walking on eggshells.”

  She looked up at the victor’s banner hanging from the crossbar over our heads.

  “Easy to say when you’ve been to victory lane. They’ll all say you’re trying to discourage them from winning.”

  “I don’t care what they think. Fact of the matter is that Salonae won the big prize, and the only reward he got was a summary execution at the hands of those thugs in red. Are you going to say that I’m not right to be upset about that? All that effort, for nothing. More dirt kicked in my face.”

  “Maybe it’ll be different this time. They’re not going to take a chance on the reward being a bust.”

  “Like I said, I don’t care what they think is going to happen. I don’t expect London to win anyway.”

  Aguntum narrowed her eyes at me, “Pompeii – you and me should chat in private later. I’ve got an interesting proposal for you.”

  “We can do it now. London is about to go offline to save power, but it better be good.”

  I nodded and returned to the frame, locking myself into place and entering my shutdown sequence. There was nothing more for me to do now. I had to rely on Pompeii to make the arrangements and give me instructions on what to do next.

  >> But what does Aguntum want with him?

  >> It’ll be routine. Like a parts swap, or handler business.

  Pompeii followed Aguntum out of the workshop, presumably to find a more private venue for their chat.

  The next day, the Saturday, was awash with excitement for the announcement that everybot knew was coming. Castra Regina was back in the arena’s underbelly to declare the ‘good’ news and name every participant in the upcoming tournament. Almost every bot and handler in the workshops had turned out to see if they were afforded the good fortune of being able to participate. Pompeii had a grave tone in his voice as Castra Regina took the plinth by the entrance.

  “Here we go. Another circus…”

  Castra Regina revelled in the attention of the crowd like a preening bird. The heavily armed guards stood at either side of him, wearily eyeing the assembled spectators. A vulnerable spot for Castra to stand upon – but also his key duty. His job was to keep Rome out of harm’s way and do the dirty work.

  “It’s good to see so many eager faces here to hear my announcement today. Under the authority of the noble and right-honourable Editor Rome – I hereby declare that a new champion shall be crowned! A sizable list of competitors has been selected for their skill, infamy and popularity.”

  There was a cheer from several of the stables. Pompeii was not one of them.

  “You have two weeks from now to prepare for the event. I expect to see your very best from beginning to end. A prize unlike any other awaits the victor. They will earn the right to wear the champion’s crest, their handler the banner, and for them both – a life of luxury and affluence. I’m certain that most of you would choose to continue fighting, despite this desirable reward.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his robes and headed to the ‘noticeboard’ by the door. A hammer and nail were promptly provided by one of his escorts so that it could be pinned into place for everyone to read. It didn’t take much effort to zoom in on the text and commit it to memory, so the rush to go and get up-close and personal was not as pronounced as one might have assumed.

  My name was there. I was grouped with the other wildcard picks, selected entirely because of audience demand and nothing more. It’d be a boring affair if they simply included the top-ranked gladiators. The potential for an upset would grease palms and make sure that the bettors lost more money to the organizers.

  “This is bad.”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “The competition is even tougher than I thought it would be, and this schedule is brutal. There won’t be much time for playing around.”

  >> Rhetoric: ‘Playing around’ being a euphemism for plotting our escape, of course.

  >> Would it be better for us to lose on purpose in the first round?

  >> That might set us back in a different way.

  “Does this have to do with what Aguntum talked to you about?”

  “No. That was nothing important.”

  But the tremor in his voice was perceptible to me. There was more to their relationship than he wanted to share. They must have discussed an issue that they didn’t want me to hear, and now Pompeii was refusing to give me any information about it. It was difficult to stamp down on my scepticism about his answer. He was my ticket out of here. I needed him to work with me.

  “Well, it was important – but it has nothing to do with you. It’s all about me,” he conceded.

  “Alright. I won’t pry if you insist.”

  >> Don’t push too hard. He’ll close up on us if we do.

  Pompeii’s head tilted down towards the ground. We remained there for some time as Castra fielded questions from curious handlers about how the tournament would work. It had been so long that many of them had never even seen one in action. Once that was done he beckoned the guards to follow him out of the arena.

  “Fight well, my friends!”

  >> Who the hell is he fooling by saying that? They’d sooner rip him to pieces than make nice with him.

  A dour mood hung over Pompeii, and it remained that way even as I mounted the maintenance frame in his workshop and prepared to go offline. There were a lot of questions that I wanted to ask him, but I understood that no good answers would come from it. My only recourse was to silently shut myself off and hope that he was more talkative the next time around…