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. In comparison, the hostel cubicle she’s been renting has a daily shower allocation of thirty seconds of shockingly cold recycled water, for which she pays a few credits extra. She idly wonders what exactly Mirem’s job entails for her to enjoy such luxuries. Maybe I just live here now. She turns up the heat and the pressure, steam quickly filling the tiled, tastefully lit bathroom, and 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’ 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 it, like a child who’s discovered a new trick, 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 Suits, but it’s only crude on a superficial level.” She flutters her hand. “Without getting into all the subgenres, the ten and twenty-five ton weight classes are the most popular, and most Suits are pretty similar to what Planetary Admin uses with their Special Security Units. Fleet has a ground combat version, don’t they? The Insertion Units? Of course, I’ve only seen the version they put out on their propaganda videos…”

  “Right. Yeah, I trained a bit on various Insertion Unit models 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, now running shampoo through her hair. “Just about everyone does, as a sort of screening process. It was just a three week overview 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.

  “Makes sense, I guess,” Mirem says, a tinge of uncertainty entering into her voice as she watches Lanis squirt a copious amount of very expensive shampoo into her small hands. “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 cutting edge, and it’s a way for corps to showcase new designs. That in itself is 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 weaponry and 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. The Arena has a few ex-Fleet personnel, and they’re always some of the best, but they’re all ex Insertion Unit cadets who never actually shipped out for whatever reason. Anyway, even if you weren’t an Insertion Unit pilot, that’s a lot of what Fleet training is all about, right? The AI integration? And you said you were even put into an integration track at Fleet Academy, right?”

  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. As an AI becomes more advanced, it risks becoming more unstable, entering into a recursive ego collapse of self-examination, or a ‘spiral’ as it’s colloquially known.

  The most advanced systems, such as those in Fleet ships like the Demeter, now require strict human oversight, and the deepest form of this oversight is a human-AI pairing known as ‘integration.’ With this, and enough training, a human and artificial mind pairing can produce a certain output that is greater than the theoretical sum of their parts. Integration 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 AI systems, not only on ships, but planet-side too. The AIs and the civilian Administrators who integrate with them help oversee everything, from waste-water management to mega-corp security.

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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?”

  If Mirem notices the change in subject away from Lanis’s Fleet training, she chooses to ignore it. “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.

  Adamite. That’s interesting, Lanis thinks. It’s horribly expensive stuff, used to shield the vital organs of Fleet ships, and is only mined off-world.

  She turns to face Mirem, actually rinsing off now, not quite as in thrall to the hot water. A game, a sport, a corporate pissing contest. 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 that she’ll cross that bridge with Mirem when the time arrives, if it ever even comes to that.

  “Ok. I’m interested,” Lanis says. “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 hardness in Lanis’ voice that brooks no argument, but it 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 doesn’t mean they aren’t a massive entity, Lanis knows, just not one of the Zaibatsu, the true mega-corporations that run 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 nearly laughs. 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, often co-opting local organized crime along the way, or at least that’s the rumor. They make Murkata-Heisin’s heavy weapons division look like choir boys.

  “They’re kind of bastards, aren’t they?” Lanis remarks. “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 sighs. She slides next to Lanis, running the water over her chest, though consciously avoiding getting her curly hair wet, as if 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—harder, even, and certainly more dangerous, considering the cycles of industrial espionage and shadow wars that have a habit of flaring up every few years.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s my uncle… he’s sort of high-up. So, yeah,” Mirem answers, avoiding Lanis’ searching gaze.

  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: a long hallway, an extra bedroom and office, and a high-ceilinged, open-plan kitchen and living room, and then they sit on her couch, idly nibbling on Mirem’s takeout from the night before. The city lights blink in the waning 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 integration since her incident, and despite the tests and doctors’ reassurances, she isn’t sure there isn’t permanent damage. She’s curious what corporate AI systems are like. A surly bunch, if Fleet was any guide, but surely they can’t be more difficult than the Fleet AIs she spent years training on.

  Mirem can pinpoint almost the exact moment Lanis falls asleep. Her eyes are closed, but she’s still clearly listening as Mirem speaks softly of rivalries and talent poaching, the way games can be a testing ground for industrial procurements. There’s 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.