“Alright. It’s time to make a move.”

  Pompeii woke me up a few hours after the end of my first fight. A series of log messages appeared in my field of view. My arms, legs and head-casing had all been replaced. My old head, complete with ears, was left on the workbench to my left. I was a new bot – which was the entire purpose of our scheme.

  “I didn’t realize you found the parts you needed.”

  “Not exactly. This’ll be good enough to let us wander around the guest areas without being hassled by the guards, as long as we can sneak out of here without them spotting us first. To get in and out of the district you need a pass. It’s a bronze medal stamped with the Committee’s personal sigil. If we steal two of them and make our disguises convincing enough we can get out of here.”

  “And find our power source.”

  “Exactly. Once that yoke is lifted from around our necks, the only thing left to worry about is showing up for the scheduled fights. But we’d have the rest of the week to work on our plan.”

  He reached under the table and brought out a battery pack which had been rigged with a carrying handle.

  “Batteries?”

  “Aguntum traded them to me, fully charged. She’s been secretly siphoning energy from her line for years, and she was selling. I already transferred it into your battery before I woke you up – so we’re on the clock.”

  “You said it wasn’t important.”

  “That was a different issue to this. I had to keep the battery thing hush-hush to keep our neighbours from overhearing. Let’s get up there and ‘find’ some access medallions, shall we?”

  >> No use looking a gift horse in the mouth, London. It’s about time we made some progress.

  Pompeii was also sporting a new look. The only recognizable elements were his eyes, which glowed the same colour as before. Otherwise he was also clad in a new casing, with new arms, legs and a fresh head to keep the guards from noticing us. A bold new colour scheme of cyan blue wasn’t the best for stealth – but it wouldn’t arouse suspicion from a casual observer.

  I hopped down from the rack and followed him to the curtain. With most of the eyes on the ring, this was the best chance we had to sneak out without being stopped by one of the handlers. He led the way. We hurried through the pit and towards the rear exit which led to the garden. Before I had written this place off as a dead-end, but there was a set of stairs barred with a door too. I was blind to the significance of that at the time.

  “This is the access door to the ground floor. Try to look like you know what you’re doing, alright?”

  “I will. You should handle the talking, though.”

  He pushed the handle down and ushered me through. It took me a moment to recover from the shock of finally being able to see a new place after being locked in the workshop for weeks on end. My wide-eyed astonishment was exactly the type of behaviour Pompeii warned me about.

  This place was a lot different to the muck-covered pit they called the workshop. Polished floors made of the finest material one could find in the big under had been painstakingly brought from across the facility and collated here for their benefit. Fluttering silk banners dyed in the deepest red hung from the ridged pillars that upheld the roof. Furniture and other comforts were placed seemingly at random, creating open-air lounges for the bettors to utilise between rounds of combat.

  >> Don’t spend too long looking impressed. It’ll make us stand out.

  “Impressive, right?” Pompeii chuckled, “Must have cost them an arm and a leg to put it all together.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s not even the VIP lounge. Only a select few get to go up there. Best seats in the house…”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the means to become a high-roller.”

  “No, neither do I. I’ve got more sense than money – for one thing.”

  There were dozens of spectators loitering on the ground floor of the arena. They were too occupied speaking to one another about the tournament to concern themselves with us. I wanted so badly to ask Pompeii why there were no guards watching the door, but there was a real risk of them overhearing us and alerting them to our presence if I did. The question would have to wait for later.

  >> Maybe they’re busy with other duties? A significant number of important figures must be here to witness the tournament.

  >> The high-roller suite in specific. Why worry about a single door with the Rusted Wall’s high society here to revel in the avarice?

  >> Even a regular could theoretically citizen could overpower a gladiator. The parts they send to the workshop are decrepit and rusted at best.

  I already knew this. The entire structure of this place was designed to provide the bots in charge with a high level of security and comfort. No need to worry about a rebellion from your gladiators if you kept them powerless via low-grade parts. Skill was a part of the equation – but no amount of skill could overcome the gap between a low-grade consumer part and a higher-grade industrial one. The first was for cracking eggs and holding babies, the second was for hauling steel girders and working with hazardous materials.

  Up close with the members of the crowd, I could see that the medallions Pompeii referred to before were given pride of place on many of their bodies. Some chose to secure them to their forearms or chest by using metal brackets. Those would be impossible to pickpocket, given that we would have to unscrew the brackets to get the medallion out again. Others looped them around their necks using chains and fabric.

  >> We have to find bots who don’t take their security as seriously.

  Pompeii knew the layout of this place. I followed him through the lounges and chambers which were reserved for the spectators, slowly growing more frustrated with the sheer quantity of rare materials which were used to build them. Surely there was a better use for these rare alloys than entertaining guests in a monument to the Committee’s bloated egos.

  That was only the first layer to my growing discomfort. It was easy to catch the discussions going on between those guests, and they all overwhelmingly focused on trying to squeeze as much money from their bets as possible. One fierce argument in the corner was being held between a group of three gamblers.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Are you out of your damn mind? You can’t try to interfere with the matches, Rome will have you stripped and hung from the rafters as a warning for even trying.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. The odds for this one are insane! If I could win, I’d never have to visit this place again,” the other declared.

  >> Unlikely. The psychological profile of a compulsive gambler means that they’ll be back soon enough, it’s all about the thrill of victory, not the earnings they can derive from it.

  “And I suppose you have an amazing plan to make it happen? Sneaking down into the pit and trying to tamper with their opponent before it starts?”

  “Shut up! I’m not going to tell you. You’re just going to have to sit there and watch me make a whole load of money.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”

  The casual way in which they discussed indulging their vices was entirely different to how the bots behaved back in Waterway. Pompeii waited until we were out of sight of the huddle before bringing it up to me.

  “He’s crazy. Even mentioning that kind of thing is enough to get himself into trouble,” Pompeii whispered.

  “How often does it happen?”

  “Rarely. I’ve never seen a successful sabotage attempt in all my years. The Handlers are very judicious when it comes to their gladiators. They’ll notice any alterations or problems right away. They make a big damn example of them too, not that you can see it from inside the arena district…”

  “If I had skin, it would be crawling right now.”

  Pompeii snorted out a laugh, “I feel the same way. It’s all just a game to them. They think they’re the ones taking advantage – but they all play by the rules set by the Committee. They’re being exploited too. One big, lucky win! That’s all they need to live in comfort, but it’ll never happen.”

  >> A flattering story, designed to make them believe that they’re the main star of the show – blessed by good fortune and destined for greater things.

  I didn’t quite understand how any rational and working bot could fall for it, though. We were all given a similar amount of intelligence and training through the cloud. Our processors were faster at logical tasks than a human. We were always perfectly aware of the probabilities and risks associated with any given action. How was it that the Committee cultivated a following of robots who were incapable of using those skills to see what was happening? Was the narrative the Committee wove truly so flattering that they were willing to overlook that?

  >> They’ve been awake for a lot longer than us.

  Pompeii paused and leaned against one of the pillars. I gazed out through the opening in the wall and down into the arena. A high barrier kept the gladiators trapped inside. These were some of the best seats in the house, for those with money to spend and a desire to see the action up-close and personal. I noticed that Pompeii was staring at a small group of patrons seated at a table across from us. One of them had a medallion hanging from his waist by a piece of rope. Very insecure…

  >> Patience is the key. We have to play the waiting game for an opportunity here.

  So we waited and waited, and waited some more until the mark in question stood from the table and wandered away. Pompeii shadowed him through the lounge, whilst I lagged behind to avoid giving them the impression that they were being followed. Pompeii didn’t say how he was going to steal the medallion from them – but I could see it jingling along their upper thigh as they walked.

  The instant they were isolated from any witnesses, a small box cutter emerged from the top of Pompeii’s wrist plate. In a smooth motion he intentionally stumbled past the mark, slicing through the rope and taking the medallion all at once. I quickly stepped in and got between him and the victim, making sure that he couldn’t see what Pompeii was up to.

  “Why are you tripping over so much lately?” I asked.

  “It’s these new parts I got. They’ve ruined my stability factor,” he replied.

  “You’re going to crash into someone if you’re not careful.”

  Pompeii turned to the mark and bowed his head, “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, completely unaware that his precious medallion had just been stolen. Pompeii made his exit with me in pursuit, finding a quiet place around the back of the balcony so that he could wedge it between a panel gap and make himself look the part.

  The medallion was stamped with a side-profile of a robot I didn’t recognize. A small serial number was engraved around the edge.

  “A serial number. Will they know it doesn’t belong to you?” I whispered.

  “It’ll be fine. I’ve never seen them stop any bot to check the number. If someone reports that they’ve lost it – it’ll be written off as personal error. They won’t slow down admitting folks to the arena just to find it for them.”

  >> When security measures aren’t used actively, they allow standards to slip.

  >> We could easily memorize the full list of numbers at a glance and cross-reference them, but then how do you prove that it’s the same bot who purchased it originally? Taking imagery of them would require transferring a lot of information and keeping the database up to date for every guard in the district.

  “No need to look so pensive. The sole purpose of these things is to keep the riff-raff out of the arena. We’re not the only bots in the Rusted Wall that the Committee takes advantage of. They’ll ask them to buy another before wasting the guards’ time on a search. Expensive enough to keep the workers out – but cheap enough to bring in all of the gamblers and their friends.”

  I did wish that Pompeii gave me a heads up before doing that. If I had a heart, it may have skipped a beat from being put on the spot so suddenly. Regardless, we had our first medallion. That wasn’t so hard after all.

  “Now we need another one,” I murmured.

  “Let’s keep looking around, and get away from here before he notices that we pinched his metal…”

  A very good idea. We exited the lounge and headed up a flight of stairs onto the next floor up. Without an active fight there were no attendants checking tickets and escorting robots to their assigned booths. We could freely switch between the upper and lower-class areas. The downgrade in décor was immediately obvious – although they were still attempting to showcase their wealth and splendour through the materials and architecture.

  Those who self-selected to reside here during off-hours were a rowdy bunch. They were covered in scuffs and dents, and argued openly with enough intensity that a fight could break out at any moment. We strayed away from the gangs of marauding gamblers and kept ourselves in the background for as long as we could.

  “That’s where the money changes hands,” Pompeii noted. A large bar-top had been installed between the balconies where the seats were placed. Behind it was a large board covered with labels that named the different fighters and their odds of victory. The attendants would man the station and endure a swarm of spectators every weekend.

  That wasn’t the only place on the general floor where bots could give their hard-earned money to the bots who minted it originally. Several tables with human gambling games spotted the area like pox marks. This was how they turned a ‘profit’ when no matches were happening. I stood and observed a full table playing blackjack.

  One unlucky bot had a string of misses, getting too eager to try and beat the dealer. His frustration grew with each hand until he finally snapped and slammed his medallion down onto the table.

  “I’m broke, so I’m betting my medallion on this one!”

  The dealer nodded, “Are you certain?”

  “Yeah! Come on!”

  That was new. Pompeii’s eyes widened at that nugget of information.

  “They can bet the medallions?”

  “I never heard about that,” Pompeii admitted, “It must have happened after I was sent back down to the pit.”

  “Another way to squeeze money out of them, perhaps? Take it as collateral when they run out of cash to bet with, force them to buy a new one when they get back in the black. They could even make an aftermarket out of it…”

  “You’re probably right. Shame we don’t earn money for winning fights, or we could buy them off of some poor sap instead of stealing them.”

  The dealer dispensed the cards to the five players and continued the round. The bettor using his medallion got too greedy once again, hitting in a disadvantageous situation and busting out. He slammed the table and reached out to try and snatch it away from the dealer, but he was already hooking the bronze medal using a curved stick and dragging it to his side. His reward for trying to take back the wager was a pair of guards swooping in from behind and pulling him away so that they could ‘convince’ him that such behaviour was forbidden in the casino.

  “H-Hey! Let me go! It was just a joke, fellas! Just a joke!”

  It wasn’t difficult to hear the sounds of their weapons hitting him in the private chamber. That was by design, another warning signal to the rest that cheating wasn’t tolerated. Pompeii shook his head at the display.

  “We’ve beat the dealer so far, maybe we’ll get lucky and find somebot willing to go medallion for medallion around here…”

  >> Let’s try not to join that fellow in the pitboss’ chamber if we do.