Free Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech by C. L. Werner

from Rex’s vents. The Toro’s immense hands tightened into fists.
    “We’re okay, Rex,” Rutger called down. He turned his eyes out across the shouting crowd. Even in the trenches, he couldn’t remember seeing so many bloodthirsty faces. “We’re okay,” he repeated to himself.
    Across from him, the second cage was being winched into the air. The other operator was a stocky Morridane, who wore a shirt with the sleeves torn away to expose brawny arms stained black with bands of tattoos. From this distance, Rutger couldn’t read the letters; he could only tell that each tattoo was a word of some kind. His opponent noticed the attention. With a grisly smile he tapped the bare skin beneath the lowest tattoo with a four-fingered hand. Then he nodded at Rex in the pit below.
    “Marko,” Rutger said, “if Taryn doesn’t kill you, I will.” The letters he couldn’t read were names, the names of ’jacks. The tattoos on the Morridane’s arms were victory rings—too many to be easily counted. Rutger instead did a quick count of his adversary’s fingers. He was only missing two. So he could be beaten, just not very often.
    A thunderous cheer rose from the audience as the people rose to their feet and applauded. Even over the tumult, Rutger could hear the booming tread of the ’jack marching down into the pit. He stared down and cursed Marko vigorously. If the sight of the obviously experienced operator hadn’t convinced him this would be no easy preliminary, the brutal machine in the pit below now did.
    It was no stockyard laborjack but an armored warjack just like Rex. The brute had started its existence on the chassis of a Nomad, but since leaving the factory it had been so heavily modified as to be almost unrecognizable. A veritable forest of steel spikes was welded to its hull, jutting from its shoulders and chest plates at extreme angles. Only those spots where a hatch or vent opened on the warjack’s hull were clear of the spear-like protrusions. A fringe of longer spikes was bolted to the steel collar that protected the machine’s neck, surrounding its head in a thorny metal mane. Thick plates of iron had been bolted to the ’jack’s forearms, adding mass and striking power to its immense fists. A wicked spur projected behind each forearm, acting not only to partially shield the vulnerable pistons of the upper arm but also to rake an enemy should the Nomad’s fist fail to connect.
    Only one factor gave Rutger some measure of hope. With all the extra metal that had been bolted and welded to it, the Nomad was a ponderous, lumbering machine. From the start, Rex would have the advantages of speed and mobility.
    The crowd began to chant, “Bruno! Bruno!” The yell became a frenzied roar when the Nomad turned its head to stare up at them. Bruno vented a plume of smoke from its boiler, driving a fresh burst of excitement from the spectators.
    A steam whistle sounded. Bruno flung itself toward Rex, driving at the Toro with its monstrous fist. The Morridane hadn’t needed to order that attack. The experience locked inside the Nomad’s cortex told it how to react when the whistle sounded. Rutger and Rex were caught utterly off guard by the sudden assault. Bruno’s fist plowed into Rex’s chest, buckling the armor and denting the hull.
    “Guard!” Rutger shouted to his ’jack. Rex raised his arm, blocking Bruno’s other fist as it came pounding toward the Toro. The spur bolted to the back of Bruno’s arm slashed across Rex’s hand, scouring the metal and severing the guide cables in two of the fingers.
    “Grab it!” In tandem with Rutger’s howl, the unimpaired fingers of Rex’s hand closed around the spur. The shriek of crumpling metal rose from the pit as Rex bent the spur into a twisted lump.
    Bruno’s other fist lashed out and impacted against the side of Rex’s armored collar, popping several of the bolts and sending them shooting into the pit walls. Rex staggered. Again, the Nomad’s spur