Despite Lanis’ disbelief, Mirem assures her that the shower has no cutoff timer. Absurd, Lanis thinks. She thinks about the hostel cubicle she’s been renting, and its thirty seconds of daily shower water allocation. This might be the most impressive thing about Mirem’s apartment so far, and idly wonders what exactly Mirem’s job entails. Also, maybe she can just live here now? She turns up the heat and the pressure, steam quickly filling the tiled, tastefully lit bathroom, then steps delicately in, tugging Mirem behind her.
“You know, the Arena is only the most popular sport on Terra,” says Mirem. “Probably the colonies too.” She leans against the warming tile wall, watching the water run in rivulets down Lanis’ naked body through the steam.
“You’ve really never seen a match?”
Lanis shakes her as she lets the water run over her short hair.
“I mean look, I have heard of them. And I may have seen parts of matches, despite my best efforts. Remember, I was thirteen before I went into Fleet. It’s Armor fighting, isn’t it? Slugging it out? Always seemed a bit crude, even to a thirteen year old.”
Mirem sighs theatrically. “It is a competition between two Armored Suits, but it’s only crude on a superficial level.” She waves her hand. “Without getting into all the subgenres, the three to five ton weight classes are the most popular, and most Suits are pretty similar to what planetary Authority uses as heavy insertion units, or local Admin SARRPs. You’re familiar?”
“Right. Yeah, we trained on insertion units. What does Sarp stand for?”
“Suit armored rapid response police.” Mirem cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “You trained on insertion units? In Fleet?”
“Of course. Just a five week course though, so it was pretty superficial, but some people found that they were suited for that sort of thing and went into the planetary assault force leadership.” Mostly quick-fingered lugheads, in Lanis’ opinion, but she didn’t say that.
“Huh. Makes sense, I guess. Well, the Arena Suits are different of course, not quite as lethal, but lethal enough. Pretty much all the top mechs are corp sponsored, so the tech is there. It’s a never ending source of drama too, industrial espionage and even the occasional sabotage, though no one would ever admit to it. But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Mirem says.
“Besides the Armor, the onboard AI system is the major differentiator, and how well the pilot and computer work together. In most matches the audience even gets a cast of the interaction, the thought-patterns projected into imagery. Again, I could go on, but let’s just say that there’s a massive subculture around the best AI-pairings. That’s honestly what got me thinking, when I first overheard you.The Arena has some ex-Fleet personnel, and they’re always some of the best, but they’re all ex-assault unit members who never actually shipped out for whatever reason. But, that’s a lot of what fleet training is all about, right? The AI integration?”
Mirem isn’t wrong, Lanis thinks. She opens her mouth, letting the warm shower water pool over her tongue, over her teeth, slowly spitting. Actual sentient-autonomous AI systems are highly controlled and rare, ever since the runaway singularities of the early days and the following crackdowns, and the most advanced systems now required strict human oversight. But, with enough training, a human and artificial mind pairing can produce a certain output that is greater than the theoretical sum of their parts. A pairing with one of the massive egos of a capital ship AI was every fleet cadet’s dream, but just as important was the oversight of the plethora of lesser systems, not only on ships, but planet-side too, like the Planetary Authority and Administration AIs.
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“Yes. That’s the main thrust,” Lanis answers, simply. She goes on. “Do people get hurt in the games?”
“Not usually. Off the sanctioned circuits, sure. But in the sponsored leagues the cockpits are Theragel-cushioned and Adamite shielded. None of the allowed arsenals can cut through that,” Mirem says with confidence.
Lanis nods. She turns to face Miriam, actually rinsing off now, not quite as in thrall to the hot water. A game, a sport. It’s a far cry from space, from Fleet. But maybe it would be a good distraction while she recovers, while she figures out whatever she’s supposed to… do, down here.
“Well, I’m interested. And before you say anything about it being too soon after my medical discharge, you let me be the judge of that.” There’s a steeliness in Lanis’ voice that brooks no argument. “And what about you? This apartment, this water? Recruitment for, what was it…” She brings up the ping she received earlier. “Versk Energy? I haven’t heard of them.” Which didn’t mean they weren’t a massive entity, just not one of the true Zaibatsu, the true mega-corporations that ran the entire world alongside Planetary Admin and Authority.
Mirem hesitates a moment. “No. Not quite, though they’re on their way well enough. I’m more of… a consultant. Helping to get things up and running for their pilot program. I used to work for a megacorp though. Kaisho-Renalis,” Mirem murmurs.
Lanis snorts. Kaisho-Renalis, or KR Industries as they’re also known, are notorious even among the Zaibatsu. None of the mega-corps have their hands clean, but Kaisho-Renalis is especially known for shoving its squirming tendrils into every semi-legal hole it can find, usually co-opting local organized crime along the way. They make Murkata-Heisin’s heavy weapons division look like choir boys.
“They’re kind of bastards, aren’t they? I mean, even we heard about the Galtan mining disaster at Fleet, and not much Terra politics makes it there. Didn’t Admin try to break them up?”
“Yeah, I know,” Mirem says. She sighs, and slides next to Lanis, running the water over her chest, though consciously avoiding getting her curly hair wet, as though cleaning more than her body. “They are. Bastards, that is. Oh, some minor heads rolled, and some divisions were separated, but, you know, Admin doesn’t really like to stir things up. Not in a meaningful way, if industrial quotas aren’t involved. Anyway, I needed a change.”
“And they let you leave?” Lanis snorts in disbelief. She knows that walking away from a corp is like walking away from Fleet, except probably more dangerous considering the industrial espionage and occasional shadow war.
“Yeah. Well uh, my uncle, he’s sort of high-up. So, yeah.”
Ah, Lanis thinks.
Mirem washed off more quickly than Lanis, the magic of endless water long since having worn off. Lanis, lost in thought, scarcely appreciates Mire’s plush towels or the soft fabric of the overlarge joggers that Mirem tosses her way when she comes back into her bedroom, Lanis’ own clothes too sticky with club-sweat and smoke to even be considered.
They sit on the living room window-facing couch, idly nibbling on Mirem’s takeout from the night before. The city lights blink in the darkness outside, and they talk about the games, about the Versk subdivision that Mirem is consulting with, the corp just recently branching into Suit sponsorship. Why not, Lanis thinks, as she yawns. She hasn’t tried any AI-coupling since her incident, and despite the tests and doctors’ reassurances she isn’t sure there isn’t permanent psychiatric damage. She’s curious what planetary AI systems are like. A surly bunch, if Fleet was any guide.
Mirem can pinpoint almost the exact moment Lanis falls to sleep. Her eyes were closed, but she was still listening as Mirem spoke of the rivalries, the poaching, the way games could be a testing ground for industrial procurements. A subtle change in breathing; and then, the slow roll of Lanis’ head into the couch-corner’s cushioned caress. A soft snore floats out of her. She mumbles only the faintest protest when Mirem lifts her up and carries her strangely heavy body to bed.