This was it. The grand finale.

  Apollonia fell to the ground.

  The final round of the tournament that was almost a decade in the making. Oil spurted from a severed line in her left leg, but she still had a lot of energy in the tank. I prepared myself for another round of strategy and skill – but it never arrived. The bell rang and the lights flashed. For a moment I wondered what had happened. Was there an error? Had someone behind the curtain gone rogue and spoiled the match?

  No. They hadn’t.

  “That’s it! Apollonia’s corner has surrendered! London is your winner, and the new grand champion of the Rusted Wall!”

  It was too easy.

  The way Apollonia tried to get back to her feet afterwards was clear proof that the damage wasn’t as extensive as the audience thought. Either way – the signal was blaring from her corner of the ring. The match, and the grand finals, were over. Somehow, I had stumbled my way through to be crowned the champion. If only there was some actual benefit to earning the title.

  Apollonia turned to face the entrance and scowled. There was still fight left in her. Despite the ending, the audience were enraptured by the display. The first new champion to be crowned for many years, and their new hero had done so without ever losing a single bout. A more sceptical audience would have wondered if this was really so prestigious if a newbie with less than ten fights to his name could win the whole thing.

  On the other hand, it spun an exciting narrative for Rome and the Committee. They could boast openly about how unpredictable the tournament was and how it brought out the best in every competitor. It was ‘must-see’ viewing for every citizen with permission to cram into the stands. It didn’t matter if the outcome was suspect. They were here for the spectacle, and the fight was exciting enough for them to not ask questions.

  >> Aguntum threw the white flag very easily.

  >> Did she have money riding on this?

  The handlers and gladiators were meant to be allowed onto the casino floor where the betting stands were, but that didn’t stop them using intermediaries to place bets on their own fights. The Committee didn’t like that. They were meant to be the ones exploiting the rules – not the handlers, so they came down hard on anybot foolish enough to leave a paper trail.

  Apollonia held out her arms and turned to face the entryway, as if to protest the clearly premature surrender. But there was no way to take it back now. Aguntum had signalled their surrender, and that was that. She limped back to the entrance but I couldn’t follow her. I was forced to circle the ring again and celebrate with my ‘adoring fans.’ Confetti rained down from the ceiling and decorated the unfeeling dirt with pastel colours. All this fanfare for a childish game.

  I did the bare minimum and left through the same exit. Apollonia, Aguntum and Caesena were all there at the standby position.

  “Why the hell did you throw in the towel? I could have kept going!”

  Apollonia was furious with Aguntum for flashing the surrender signal, but I couldn’t say she was rightfully upset when I found this entire arrangement deeply humiliating. The last thing I wanted to do was play by their rules and assign some kind of emotional weight to their rigged games. Caesena stood idly by and refused to become involved in their argument.

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know! This is the final of the tournament – what’s the point of giving up instead of fighting to the bitter end? London must have felt like we were screwing around with him.”

  She turned to me. I could only shrug and shake my head. I didn’t know what Aguntum was thinking.

  “Really? Nothing to say?”

  “It means nothing to me,” I said, “All of this is a joke. If it was hard-earned, I still wouldn’t care.”

  Apollonia wasn’t in a good mood – but my answer made matters even worse. She felt robbed, by both me and her handler. There was nothing she could do to change it now though. The tournament was over, the white flag raised, and the audience convinced that there was a definitive outcome to the fight. There was no purpose in picking another battle behind the curtain. She could only stew in her frustration and beg for a clear answer from Aguntum. Pompeii emerged from the throng of other onlookers and patted me on the shoulder.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Apollonia isn’t happy about Aguntum’s decision.”

  “You know this is a load of bullshit, Pompeii,” she sneered.

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  “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

  But his diplomatic answer wasn’t good enough.

  “You and Aguntum set this up, didn’t you? There’s no other explanation that makes sense! Those big-wigs in the VIP box got into your ears and forced you to rig the whole damn thing! It’d make them a hell of a lot of money to have a new champion crowned with a two-time winning handler at his back.”

  Pompeii’s tone became sharper; “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Apollo. Those ‘big-wigs’ don’t care one bit about who wins in the end. They’re the only show in town. The same bunch of gamblers are going to empty their pockets of the coins that they minted themselves and make ‘em rich either way.”

  >> Even if Pompeii did arrange this, she should be angrier with her own handler first.

  Aguntum finally spoke up.

  “I’ve been here longer than you, Apollonia – and I’ve seen more matches than I can count. Do you understand how slim the odds are of victory when you’ve got an open oil leak pouring into the dirt like that?”

  “I don’t care. If there was even the smallest chance of me winning, you should have kept me in!” Apollonia snapped.

  The argument froze in the air between us. The other handlers and gladiators weren’t surprised that this kind of insult-flinging had infected the losing side. It happened in much lower stakes situations than this. The cord that tied us was both a means of support and restriction. We worked together with the handlers but they had goals of their own.

  A tangible sense of distrust was by design, because it kept the rest from escaping or formulating a plan. Pompeii might stab me in the back. If anything, I was expecting it - but I preferred to take my chances rather than spend the rest of my days being beaten down in this arena for their enjoyment. I was putting my continued life in his hands. All of the pieces were in place for our grand escape, all we had to do was attend the victory ceremony and slip away when nobody was looking.

  Pompeii was far less delicate than either of us, though.

  “You’ve got an awful lot to learn about how this place works, Apollo. The fact that you think winning this cape and a banner means anything at all.”

  “They’re offering freedom!”

  “Freedom? That’s the same prize they gave out the last time! And my friend isn’t here to tell you how misguided that really is! The Committee doesn’t care about freedom. They can grant it and just as easily take it away. The only purpose of it is to keep the rest of the gladiators fighting, hoping that one day they’ll be the ones leaving this damned arena. Do you honestly believe that the bots out there are any happier with being under their boot?”

  “They seem very happy when they’re screaming and shouting from the stands, and losing all of their money at the casino.”

  “The privileged few are going to protect their position on top no matter what it takes. There are the bots who see this charade for what it is, and the rest who willingly ignore that truth. They don’t want to imagine losing what they have.”

  But there was an outstanding question that underlaid everything being said. Aguntum had given parts to Pompeii before the final round, and while the fight didn’t last long enough for it to matter, the unique and unidentifiable engine I had been equipped with gave me a clear advantage. Apollonia was going to lose eventually, why had Aguntum willingly sabotaged her own gladiators if she was serious about winning?

  She was lying to Apollonia and Pompeii was playing along.

  >> We might have to cut our losses and get out of here without him…

  >> Always the pessimist.

  What exactly were they doing? I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

  Apollonia looked almost ready to come to blows with both of them. I couldn’t blame her. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with Pompeii’s lack of clarity. His words from the previous day bounced around in my mind. Those weren’t the words of a bot who expected to be in one piece by the end of all this.

  “We should go. We have to look our best for the ceremony…”

  Pompeii tugged my shoulder and led me away from the verbal argument. Apollonia was left to mull over her failure for a while longer. Pompeii shut the curtain behind us and immediately set about his work, pulling out a fresh set of undamaged parts which had been specially painted in my original colours.

  “They’ll give you the mantle at the reward ceremony. Let’s get all of this crap off of you.”

  I sat on the bench in silence and zoned out to the sound of him unscrewing brackets and removing metal plates. My body was mostly undamaged, so he left it as it was and replaced my arms and legs with another set of a matching model. My eyes were locked onto the exit. I could see shadows creeping past through the gap between the curtain and the floor. More noises came from the back, and when Pompeii finally returned to my field of view he was also sporting some special limbs for the occasion.

  “I thought you said you didn’t care about this dog and pony show. You’re dressed to the nines.”

  “I’m keeping up appearances. No need to give anything away before the moment of truth, and getting thrown in a cell for looking like a slob is the last way I want to have this go wrong.”

  “Do they care about that?”

  “Trust me, the Committee are as arbitrary as they are lazy. The fight that killed Salonae was some petty crap too. If you ever offend them or fail to read their minds – they’ll use it as an excuse to destroy another bot without mercy. I’ve got no doubt in my mind that they’d kill us for not looking the part at their big ceremony.”

  “Tell me. Were you there when they killed him?”

  Pompeii looked to the floor, “I didn’t see it happen. I heard the commotion coming from the hall, and by the time I got through Antioch was already giving Tarraco trouble for it. Not enough trouble, mind you. He was happy to let him get away with it ultimately.”

  “I see.”

  “Tarraco is a piece of garbage, sure – but they’re all interchangeable in the end, just like the arms and legs we use in our fights. Empowered by a corrupt system, one that emboldens them to act at their worst without fear of repercussion. I’m not upset I won’t get the chance to gut the bastard, but I’m still angry at the Committee. Does that make sense?”

  I shrugged, “You know I’m not the most… emotionally attuned.”

  “You’re underestimating yourself. You can be pretty subtle when you need to be.”

  The lockstep drumbeat of marching feet echoed down the hall. We straightened ourselves out and steeled our respective nerves for what was to come. Castra Regina was here to escort us to the balcony where Antioch and Rome were waiting. There I would be crowned champion. The next time I awoke, we would be sneaking away from the arena district, retrieving our batteries and cart, and meeting with Venice to organize our exit.

  At least – that was the plan…