Despite Lanis’ disbelief, Mirem assures her that the shower has no cutoff timer and that she can use all the hot water she wants. Absurd, Lanis thinks. She thinks about the hostel cubicle she’s been renting, and the daily shower allocation of thirty seconds of recycled cold water. She idly wonders what exactly Mirem’s job entails. Maybe I just live here now, Lanis thinks. 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, leaning against the warming tile wall, watching the water run in rivulets down Lanis’ naked body through the steam.. “Who knows, maybe the colonies too.”

  She shakes her head with a kind of wonder. “You’ve really never seen a match?”

  Lanis shakes her head as she lets the water run over her short hair, occasionally gurgling the shower water as she responds.

  “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 Armored Suit fighting, isn’t it? Slugging it out? Always seemed a bit crude, even to a thirteen year old.”

  Mirem sighs. “It is a competition between two Armored Suits, but it’s only crude on a superficial level.” She flutters her hand. “Without getting into all the subgenres, the three and five ton weight classes are the most popular, and most Suits are pretty similar to what Planetary Admin uses with their Specialized Reaction Units. Fleet has a ground combat version, don’t they? The Heavy Insertion Units?”

  “Right. Yeah, I trained a bit on HIUs before being put on a different track,” Lanis answers. “I was never physically inside one, but you know… we had sims.”

  Mirem cocks her head at Lanis, eyes narrowing. “You trained on Insertion Units?”

  “Of course,” Lanis answers, running shampoo through her hair. “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 forces.” Mostly quick-fingered lugheads, in Lanis’ opinion, but she doesn’t say that.

  “Huh. Makes sense, I guess,” Mirem says, her opinion of the young woman, currently squirting copious amounts of very expensive shampoo into her small hands, shifting uncertainly yet again. “Well, the Arena Suits are different of course. They’re not nearly as lethal, but lethal enough. Pretty much all the top suits are corp sponsored, so the tech is top class, and it’s a never ending source of drama, what with the industrial espionage and even the occasional sabotage, though no one would ever admit to it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  “Besides the Armor, the onboard AI system is the major differentiator, and how well it and the pilot work together. In most major 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 in .The Arena has a few ex-Fleet personnel, and they’re always some of the best, but they’re all ex-Heavy Insertion Unit cadets who never actually shipped out for whatever reason. Anyway, even if you weren’t an HIU pilot, 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 of AI and the following crackdowns. The most advanced systems, like those in the Demeter, now require 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 is the oversight of the plethora of lesser systems, not only on ships, but planet-side too, like the Planetary Administration AIs.

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  “Yes. That’s the main thrust of it,” 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 Mirem, 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.

  Also, there is the matter of money.

  And her discharge papers.

  Ugh, my discharge papers, Lanis thinks, shuddering even under the hot water. The digital footprint that Fleet imposed upon her when she demanded to leave their convalescent embrace is… well, it’s less than glowing, to put it mildly. She decides she’ll cross that bridge with Mirem when the time comes, if it ever comes to that.

  Lanis says, “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. Her voice grows softer as she continues.

  “And what about you? This apartment, this water? Recruitment for, what was it…” She brings up the ping she received earlier. “Versk Energy? Are they a megacorp? 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.

  Mirem hesitates a moment. “No. Not quite, though they’re on their way well enough. And 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?” Lanis says. “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 she suddenly feels the need to clean more than just 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, what, just let you leave?” Lanis snorts in disbelief. She knows that walking away from a megacorp is a bit like walking away from Fleet, except probably more dangerous considering the industrial espionage and occasional shadow war that goes on.

  “Yeah. Well uh, my uncle, he’s sort of high-up. So, yeah,” Mirem answers.

  Ah, Lanis thinks.

  Mirem washes off more quickly than Lanis, the magic of endless water long since having worn off on her. Lanis, deep in thought, scarcely appreciates Mirem’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, sticky with club-sweat and smoke, having been kicked into a neat pile against the wall.

  Mirem gives Lanis a quick tour of her apartment, and then they sit on her living room 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, and the growing pains of a new Arena-focused Suit division.

  Lanis 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 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 asleep. 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.