the arms that held him, so that only left one option. He gritted his teeth, reversed his sword and thrust it deep into his own side, out his back and on into the guts of the angel behind him.
The angel screamed, and blood coursed down between them. They fell from the air like a stone and crashed to the unyielding sands. The Gladiator hit first, and the impact drove the sword deeper into the angel. It pushed him away, and he jerked the sword out of both of them. The angel screamed again as they rolled apart, and their blood fell heavily on the sands, but the Gladiator had chosen the location of his wound, and though he was hurt badly, and bleeding like a stuck pig, still he wasn't seriously disabled. It wouldn't kill him for quite a while yet. He blocked out the pain with the ease of long training and spun on the angel as it lay thrashing on the sands, clutching at its bloody stomach, wings fluttering helplessly. The sword had taken it deep in the guts and opened up a wide wound when it was jerked free. The Gladiator knelt over it, raised his sword with both hands, and brought it down on the angel's neck with all his remaining strength. The sword bit deep, severing the spine, and the angel's movements collapsed into juddering twitches.
The Gladiator looked down at it, his bloody grin hidden behind his featureless steel helm. The angel was no danger to him anymore. He cut its head off anyway, just in case. He got shakily to his feet and held up the head for all to see. The angel's beautiful face was a mask of horror, and blood flowed down the Gladiator's arm from the severed neck. It felt warm and soothing. He turned slowly round in a circle, still blocking the pain, and the crowd went mad, cheering and shouting and baying their approval. The severed head showed up well on the giant viewscreen above the ranked seating.
The Masked Gladiator bowed courteously to the crowd's roar and missed a step as his head went suddenly light. Enough playing to the crowd. Time to get the hell out of the Arena while he still could. It wouldn't do his image any good at all if he had to be carried out on a stretcher. He couldn't feel the blood he was losing, but he could see it coursing down his legs. He stomped off toward the nearest gate, rocking dizzily with every step, but still clinging to the angel's severed head. Maybe he'd have it stuffed and mounted.
The crowd cheered as he went, a tall and lithely muscular man with no crest or insignia on his armor, and an anonymous steel helm hiding his face. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, as always. There were many who would have paid a pretty sum to know just whose face the helm concealed, but there were many more who delighted in his secret and connived at all levels to preserve it, even from agents of the Empress herself.
The Masked Gladiator strode through the gate, the force field dropping just long enough for him to pass, then springing up again behind him, invisible and inviolable. He strode on through brightly lit corridors, one hand placed protectively over the wound in his side. He nodded tightly to the fighters and trainers he passed, cool and calm and collected. It wouldn't do for word to get out that he'd been seriously wounded, especially by his own hand, even if it had won him the match. There were any number of vultures who'd attack in a moment if they thought he was weak. The Masked Gladiator had a lot of enemies. Mostly people who'd bet against him. He strode on, grunting at the sudden stabs of pain that were getting past his control, and his head seemed very far away. The angel's severed head bumped against his leg as he walked, leaving a spattered bloody trail on the Floor behind him, but he didn't give a damn. Let the Arena staff earn their money for a change.
Then the door to his private chambers was right there before him, though he didn't remember getting there. He'd be safe on the other side of that door. His privacy was ensured by the Arena management, and his own oft- repeated statement that he'd kill anyone who tried to spy on him or otherwise bother him. He hit the security plate with the palm of his free hand, and the door opened as the computer recognized his palmprint. He staggered through the door, and it shut itself behind him. His mentor and trainer, Georg McCrackin, hurried toward him, worry plain in his face. The Gladiator smiled and threw him the angel's head.
'Hi, honey; I'm home.'
And then the strength went out of his legs, and Georg dropped the head and caught him just before he hit the ground. Things got rather confused after that, and the next clear thought came as Georg was helping him out of the regeneration machine. He was still wearing his armor, but the pain in his side and back was gone, along with the injuries. There wouldn't even be any scars. He grunted his approval. Excellent device. Worth every penny of the medium-sized fortune it had cost him. He grinned at Georg McCrackin, who was busy fussing over removing the armor, and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. He looked pretty damn intimidating, if he said so himself. He stood there quietly a moment, winding down, emerging slowly from the persona of the Masked Gladiator, and letting his other self come to the surface again. And then he took off his helm to reveal the calm face of that most notorious fop, Finlay Campbell.
If his father could have seen him, he'd have had a stroke. The thought never ceased to amuse Finlay. He'd been playing his double role long enough that he took much of it for granted, but that particular wrinkle never failed to raise a smile. He stripped off the last of his armor and let Georg take it away, and then stood nude before the mirror and stretched slowly, as unselfconscious as a cat. Sweat was drying on his chest and arms, and he absently accepted a towel from Georg and mopped at his body while his mind was elsewhere.
Georg McCrackin had been with him for years, as was his right. He'd been the original Masked Gladiator, before he finally tired of it and bequeathed the helm and the legend to his pupil and successor. No one ever knew. He mopped at Finlay's back with another towel, a dark and brooding figure muttering quietly about the stupidity of taking needless risks.
'I always feel good after a kill,' Finlay said almost dreamily. 'It cleans out the system, purging all the dark thoughts and impulses.'
'Just as well,' said Georg dryly. 'If you couldn't quench your thirst for blood in the Arena, no one would be safe. Probably wipe out half the aristocracy in duels. I knew you were a natural-born killer the first time I saw you fight.'
Finlay looked at him. 'Are you telling me you didn't enjoy your time on the sands as the Masked Gladiator?'
'No. But I fought for the challenge; you do it for the thrill. There's a difference. Which is why you'll find it a lot harder to step down than I did. But eventually even your appetite will grow cold, and then it will be your turn to pass on the helm and the legend to another fool with blood in his eyes and a devil in his heart.'
'Maybe,' said Finlay, in a tone that suggested he rather doubted it but didn't feel like arguing. 'It's all my father's fault, you know. I knew I was born to be a warrior, even as a child. I'd fight anyone at the drop of an insult, no matter how much bigger they were. I won a surprising number of tights, too. I'd have been happy in any branch of the Service, fighting the Empress' enemies. But no, I was the eldest, and the heir, and that meant I couldn't be allowed to do anything that might risk my precious skin. I still received excellent training in the use of the sword and the gun, that was part of my heritage and couldn't be denied me, but it was never enough. Not nearly enough. I needed something more to fire my blood, stir my senses, make me feel alive…
'I fought my first duel when I was fifteen. Cut the poor bastard to ribbons. It felt so good, so
'It was a long time before I thought of the Arena. I slipped my bodyguard's leash, bribed my way past the Arena staff, and fought my first match under a hologram mask. Nothing fancy, no frills; just sword to sword. And when it was over, and I was alive and he was dead, it was like coming home. I developed my fop persona to keep anyone from finding out about my little secret. After all, if it became public it would be a major scandal: an heir to one of the greatest Houses, fighting all comers in the Arena… dear Father would have an aneurism on the spot.'
'You never told me any of this before,' said Georg. 'I knew most of it, of course. Made it my business to know. But you never wanted to talk about it, so I never pressed the point. What brought this on all of a sudden?'
Finlay shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe I just got a taste of my own mortality out there today.'
Georg sniffed. 'About time. Just because you've always won, it doesn't mean you can't lose. You've been getting cocky lately. If there's one thing the Arena teaches us all, it's that it doesn't matter how good you are; there's always someone better.'
'Like who?' challenged Finlay, throwing aside his towel and reaching for his other persona's clothes.
'Well, Kid Death, for one. He's the new Summerlsle now. You keep well clear of him. He's crazy.'
'And that makes him unbeatable?'
'In practice, yes, because he wouldn't care about dying himself if it meant he could take you with him. For once in your life, listen to what I'm telling you. I didn't train you to be the best in the Arena just to lose you to a
