The roar of the Colosseum crowd was still shaking the foundations of the arena when Toby Mallow sprinted across the sand toward the ringside media broadcast console. Tucked securely beneath his arm was the heavy, military-grade encrypted data drive they had captured from Logan Sterling’s command bunker in Sector 8.
Beside the console, two ApexBio technicians in white lab smocks were wildly attempting to sever the stadium’s external broadcast feeds, their trembling hands hovering over the master disconnect switches.
“Step away from the console!” Instructor Valerie’s voice rang out like a rifle shot.
Valerie racked the slide of her tactical shotgun with a crisp, terrifying CLACK, planting her heavy combat boot between the technicians and the end-post. The two corporate workers froze, raising their trembling hands as they looked into the hollow black bore of the 12-gauge barrel.
“Back off and keep your hands where I can see them,” Valerie growled, her eyes narrowing behind her high-speed goggles. “Touch one wire, and I’ll personally ventilate your knees.”
The technicians stumbled backward against the concrete barrier, pressing themselves flat with white knuckles.
From the sunken media pit just below the console, an older broadcast engineer wearing the grease-stained overalls of the Municipal Signal Guild looked up. His name was Hal. A thirty-year veteran of the stadium who had spent decades watching corporate censors cut the audio whenever commoner tamers protested fraudulent calls.
