On day ten, with more than a few clapped shoulders and bleary-eyed grins, Lanis watches as the Versk Suit is ceremoniously rolled out of the hangar and loaded into a waiting heavy transport shuttle. With a metallic groan the Suit settles into the transport’s bed, and a low cheer erupts from the assembled technicians who have labored day and night to see the mech built.

  Even Renfol briefly emerges from his atrium office, accompanied, as ever, by his hulking valet Reginold, who holds a delicate parasol over the Versk director’s gleaming bald head. A strange silence descends as the two men make a slow circuit around the shuttle, Renfol nodding to himself like a daydreaming schoolboy. After a silent minute of this, Renfol approaches the shuttle. He reaches up to one of the hexapod’s black legs and runs a pale hand across its cold, matte metal.

  He smiles, and then, without a word, drifts back into the Versk hangar.

  It’s as if a spell has suddenly been broken: the Versk workers spring into movement once again, cinching down the Suit and heaving shut the metallic shutters that will keep the cargo safe from prying eyes.

  “Good God, don’t think I’ve ever seen the man in the light of day,” Sander says as he approaches Lanis, shaking his head in disbelief. “Anyway, we’ll get the Suit situated in the air shuttle, and then have the rest of the team follow,” Sander continues, peeling his gaze away from where Renfol has disappeared to look fondly at the hive of activity that surrounds the hexapod Suit.

  “A couple hours to get to the staging area’s skyport, another few to unload. We’ll install the Cauldron’s rifle and blade tonight, and should have it running for last checks and the competition’s thrice-over by tomorrow morning. Then a couple days to get you inside and troubleshoot the inevitable issues…” Sander drifts off mid-sentence, jogging over to a technician who isn’t quite securing the Suit to his exacting standard.

  Looking around, Lanis spies Booker and his sec team taking up position as well. Gone are their fitted Versk Security shirts, replaced now by black armor and retracted visors. Lanis has managed a few more pre-dawn visits to Booker's workout sessions since their initial encounter. She’s avoided joining in—best not to push her luck on these final days—instead gathering more intel that might be useful if everything goes sideways.

  “Hey, I wasn’t sure you were coming!” Lanis says excitedly when their eyes meet. Booker’s beard shifts as he grins.

  “Got our marching orders two days ago. Would have told you, but I didn’t see you yesterday. Or the day before that. Busy with this thing, no doubt,” Booker says, jerking his head toward the enveloped Suit.

  “Yeah, been trying to get all the sleep I can these past few days,” Lanis says, grimacing. It’s sleep that has become increasingly fitful; thankfully, she’s still barely dreaming, but she can feel the nightmares trying to crawl back, like horrors grasping on the locked windows of her mind. The minutes she once had reserved to visit Booker are now designated for meditation, or for crawling into Mirem’s bunk to be tightly held.

  “We’re bringing in some support from Versk HQ this morning to secure the complex, and some other teams will get us to the skyport. Renfol’s even called in a favor from Murkata-Heisen for an armored escort, which seems like overkill, but I won’t even say no to a Murkata shuttle tank. But then it’s just us at the competition,” Booker says, hefting his rifle. He reads Lanis’ questioning look, and continues. “Yeah, the event provides its own security, but every team generally brings a sec team, even if guns aren't allowed,” Booker explains. He gives a knowing wink. “Just in case.”

  “This is a high-profile event though. Surely nothing would… happen?” Lanis asks, caught off guard by the idea. When will I learn how vicious these corps can be? she thinks.

  Booker shrugs, the black visor of his helmet hissing shut. “You’d be surprised.” Booker says, his deep voice now overwritten by a distorted monotone.

  “Definitely not something else I need to think about,” Lanis mutters to herself as she watches Booker and his team confer with two other Versk secteam.

  “Hey, what are you thinking about?” Mirem says, squeezing Lanis’ shoulder as she comes up behind her. She has a large bag slung over her shoulder, a combination of both her and Lanis’ belongings. Lanis smiles as she squeezes Mirem’s hand. It seems that with every move she sheds more of her transient belongings, which suits her just fine.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Lanis says with a casual shrug. “Just Booker’s suggestion of the possibility of some minor sabotage once we’re at the Cauldron.”

  Mirem sighs, and gives Lanis a slightly forced smile. “Well, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t happen, but the Cauldron’s prospectus makes it look really tight on security. Certainly nothing you should worry about.” Around them Versk Suit team members start to load their personal possessions into the other shuttles that have been assembled.

  The Cauldron allocates thirty team members to accompany each Suit in the staging area. At first there was some question as to whether Mirem qualified in this regard; she is, after all, essentially a glorified recruiter. To Lanis, however, Mirem’s presence was non-negotiable, a stance that elicited more than one exasperated sigh from Renfol.

  “I feel like I’m coming along as your emotional support animal,” Mirem says with a rueful grin as she hoists their shared bag into one of the shuttles.

  Lanis shakes her head, scoffing. “No way I’m getting through these last days without you. Anyway,” she says, trying to smile back, “someone is going to have to put me back together after this is all over.”

  Lanis jerks her head to Heinrich, Ash, and several of the other AI technicians who are diligently stacking their personal bags into another shuttle. A small argument appears to be breaking out over the most efficient packing method. “Because it certainly isn’t going to be one of them.”

  The first thing that strikes Lanis is the smooth efficiency of it all.

  Several large transports meet the Versk air shuttle almost immediately after their landing. There's a quick conference between Sander, Booker, and a Cauldron official in a black and gold uniform, and then the Versk Suit and their belongings are meticulously unloaded with Fleet-like speed.

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  Lanis strains her neck during their brief moment on the tarmac, trying to catch a glimpse of some of the other teams or their Suits. There are several other air shuttles nearby that sport different corporate colors, and she can see another taking off, and yet another one on approach. However, much like the Versk hexapod, their mechs are being quickly loaded into the Cauldron's transport shuttles, cloaked in metallic covers to hide any detail of their function or form.

  Less than ten minutes later, Lanis’ breath catches as the Cauldron’s transport shuttle crests a low hill, and the staging area comes into view. It looks like something out of one of her military texts, an army’s logistical bridgehead into hostile territory, or a miniature city unto itself.

  Ten miles outside the perimeter of the competition’s exclusion zone, a series of five massive awnings have been constructed, each appearing nearly as large as the Versk hangar. These, in turn, have been subdivided into six private Suit bays, each containing all the requisite scaffolding and equipment needed for the team’s Suit, along with attached living quarters for the thirty team members.

  “How much does this thing take to put on?” Lanis quietly asks Mirem as the Cauldron’s shuttles deposit the Versk team to their bay. The white and blue coated Versk technicians immediately set to work opening up the Versk Suit’s transport covering, peeling off the rolls of translucent tape and foam that had cushioned the hexapod on its journey like worker ants unwrapping a queen from its cocoon, while other technicians set up the terminals needed to run the final checks.

  “This? At least a billion credits,” Mirem says. She follows several technicians into the attached living quarters, tucks their bag under a bunk bed and then rises, stretching her back with a series of pops.

  “And it’s… profitable for everyone?” Lanis asks, following Mirem’s lead in trying to stretch her stiff neck. It’s been slowly dawning on her that, for all the preparation she’s done, she’s still woefully uninformed as to the actual work that goes into the Arena games, or their financial implications.

  “Well, the top five teams will get enough prize money to recoup expenses,” Mirem says slowly. “But really the main reward is exposure. Remember, having a Suit operation is sort of a prerequisite to being taken seriously in the corporate world.”

  “Right, I remember.” Lanis hesitates. “So, how much do the organizers make then?”

  Mirem considers the question, and then squints at Lanis with a knowing gleam in her eye. “I sense a different question underneath that one.”

  Lanis sighs. “Ok, fine. How many people are going to watch this damn thing?” she asks, swallowing.

  Mirem leans against one of the bunks, unable to suppress a grin. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  Lanis considers for a moment. She knows that the inside of her Suit will have a live pilot feed, which the organizers can switch to at any time, as well as several cameras burrowed into the carapace of her Suit for a kind of first-person view of the action. The battleground will be absolutely littered with camera drones as well—there’ll be nowhere to hide from the audience. Of course, none of this information will be able to be accessible to the competition’s pilots; they’ll be completely cut off from their teams and the outside world, except via Cauldron Admin communication.

  The whole point of this was just to find a pathway to integrate again, though that’s now been overridden by a need to become invaluable to Versk and its backers as a way of making Kaisho think twice before making a hostile move. Anything else is secondary, and the idea of some sort of fame, should she do well, is unpleasant. Dumb again, Lanis—doing well means being well-known, she thinks. She wonders, not for the first time, how Fleet will react if she actually triumphs. They’ll probably just try to ignore it all.

  Lanis slowly shakes her head, trying to suppress the idea that millions of people will be watching her every move.

  “Actually, no. I really don’t.”

  The final days at the Cauldron’s staging area are a sprint of preparation. And Sander was right—things do go wrong.

  The blade and kinetic rifle are attached with quick expertise, but the Suit, which Ether and Lanis have taken to calling Hex in these final days, is still having issues with its digging mechanism. The cutting lasers that the Suit is equipped with can’t truly be tested at this late stage—neither, for that matter, can the kinetic rifle, though Lanis does spend several hours tracking imaginary targets in the close confines of the bay and hearing the satisfying click of the gun attempting to chamber another round. She even manages a few extremely tentative swipes of the A.R.M. blade, Hex rearing back on its hind legs to double its height and then slowly coming down with the blade like a massive assassin while the Versk technicians huddle nervously against the wall.

  “Right, we’re only doing that once,” Sander says, his voice crackling in Lanis’ ear as the weight of the lurching Suit causes several expensive-looking pieces of equipment to rattle on their tables.

  We should end this right now! Ether says, her voice full of mock bravado. Lanis can feel Ether's shadow-form pirouetting with a massive blade, lunging at an unseen enemy. Crash through the wall, power up the blade, see how far through the other twenty-nine teams we can get!

  “Right, then I’ll really get sent back to Fleet’s psych ward,” Lanis replies, grinning at the thought despite herself. However, what Ether really wants to do is dig. She can practically feel the AI tugging at her own decision-making, to the point where even she is half-tempted to power up Hex’s mandibles and see if she can make a dent in the Suit bay’s concrete floor. It's slightly unnerving, even with her years of training: she can feel herself walking right up to the edge of ego dissociation with Ether as their integration grows even stronger in these final days.

  “You ready for twenty-four hours straight of this?” Lanis asks, as much to herself as to Ether.

  I can’t wait, Ether replies. Have you ever heard of the term ‘sleep-over’? It was mostly a late twentieth century phenomenon, Ether says, flashing a series of images of young teenagers curled up together on floors, watching stories together on antique screens.

  That = us.

  Lanis laughs.

  “What’s going on in there?” Lanis hears Heinrich say, exactly like some grumpy dad overhearing late-night bedroom giggles. She can imagine the man’s forehead furrowed in concern at the possibility of some last-minute integration spiral.

  “Oh, just Ether making jokes,” Lanis replies.

  “Well, please stop it. We’re trying to get some more baseline readings,” Heinrich grumbles.

  Lanis tries to contain another chuckle. She understands and appreciates the AI technicians’ obsession with fine-tuning Hex’s interface modules, but she also feels that it’s much too late for that. Once the competition begins, it’ll just be Ether, Lanis, and Hex. The Versk team will, of course, have far more insight into the Suit's operation than the general viewing audience, but until she’s eliminated or victorious they’ll have little to do besides watch like everyone else. Lanis imagines that this impending powerlessness is driving Heinrich a bit crazy in the final lead-up to the competition.

  A sleepover indeed, Lanis thinks.

  And all the parents will be gone.