Year 2050

  Month 3

  Mercier Training Facility

  Simulated gunfire echoed across the range as holographic targets materialized and vanished in complex patterns. Twenty recruits lay prone, tracking the glowing figures through their weapon sights.

  Through the transparent wall of the observation deck, Corso Mercier watched another squad of armored operatives breach a mock corridor, clearing corners with precision.

  “Too slow on Room 2,” he said, arms folded, eyes locked on the feed. “Rivus hesitated at the door. You hesitate in live fire, you bleed out with your hand still on the latch.”

  The squad leader nodded, making a note on his pad. “We’ll run it again, sir.”

  “Three more times,” Corso ordered. “I want entry time under five seconds.”

  He turned to the holographic display showing the prone recruits at the firing range. With a gesture, he zoomed in on a recruit whose form had slipped during the last sequence.

  “Proper trigger discipline, Kins!” His voice carried through the facility’s comm system. “In the field, that kind of sloppiness gets you or your team killed. Or worse, costs us our reputation.”

  As he monitored the recruit’s adaptation to the increased difficulty, Corso sensed someone entering the observation deck. He turned to see the thin man with wire-rimmed glasses approaching, tablet in hand.

  “Mr. O,” Corso acknowledged, his attention not leaving the monitors.

  Behind Mr. O followed five figures in specialized black tactical gear.

  “Your recruitment program is showing promise,” Mr. O said, adjusting his glasses. “Though I note several candidates still struggle with the advanced scenarios.”

  “They’ll be ready,” Corso replied. “Another week of conditioning and they’ll meet the standards.”

  Mr. O made a small notation on his tablet. “Your father will be pleased with the progress.”

  Mr. O then began to leave.

  Corso switched the feed to another training zone, where recruits navigated a complex obstacle course under simulated enemy fire. “Vasquez!” he called through the comm. “Take over monitor duty. Continue with the level three scenarios, then transition to the battle of IV Altemar simulation.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  Corso turned and walked after Mr. O, who had only taken a few steps. “I need to speak with you privately.”

  Mr. O glanced at the five operatives.

  “Certainly,” Mr. O replied. “Though there is little that cannot be said in front of the Children of the Arena.”

  Corso’s jaw tightened at the mention of the title. One he had always hated. “I think I would better aid my father if I was brought into those special missions I’ve heard about,” he said. “More to the point. I want in.”

  Mr. O’s expression remained unchanged. “That operation has already been assigned a team.”

  “Reassign it,” Corso insisted. “I need to be there. My father needs to see my skills in person, to know I can do more than what I currently am.”

  A faint smile crossed Mr. O’s lips. “You mean you need to be seen taking action. To strengthen your position as heir.”

  Corso’s muscles tensed, but he maintained his composure. “My motivations are irrelevant. I’m the best qualified to lead that operation.”

  “Are you?” Mr. O asked, his voice mild. “These Children of the Arena would disagree.”

  Two of the operatives shifted slightly, their stance subtly changing from neutral to ready.

  “Stand down,” Corso ordered them, irritation clear in his voice.

  The Children of the Arena didn’t move. They didn’t even blink. Their eyes showed no acknowledgment of his command.

  “They don’t answer to you, Corso,” Mr. O said quietly. “Only to your father. And to me. But you should already know that perhaps hubris has taken its claim of you.”

  The realization stung like a physical blow. “Is that right?” Corso stepped closer to Mr. O, using his superior height to loom over the smaller man. “And what gives you that authority? You’re not a Mercier.”

  At some unseen signal, the other three operatives moved, forming a loose circle around Corso and Mr. O.

  “I don’t need to be a Mercier,” Mr. O replied, unperturbed by Corso’s proximity. “I speak for the strongest of the Mercier. Your father entrusted me with the Arena program decades ago. These Children are the result of that trust.”

  Corso glanced around at the five expressionless faces surrounding him. Unlike his mercenaries, who carried themselves with the swagger of elite soldiers, these operatives projected nothing. No emotion, no individual personality—just coiled readiness and absolute discipline.

  “You think you can threaten me?” Corso growled. “In my own training facility?”

  “This isn’t a threat,” Mr. O corrected him. “It’s a reminder of the hierarchy your father established. The Children of the Arena serve a specific purpose in his vision. Your mercenaries serve another. Both are valuable, but they operate in separate spheres of authority. You should know this yourself, as you and your siblings underwent the Arena. However do not foolishly believe that you had the highest scores. But you already know that don’t you? The fact that Katarina was one of those with scores higher than yours.”

  “That will be all, Corso,” Mr. O said with finality. “Focus on preparing your mercenaries. Leave the operations to those who are assigned to them.”

  For a moment, Corso considered pushing back—physically or verbally. But surrounded by five Arena graduates whose capabilities he couldn’t fully gauge, discretion won out over pride.

  “This isn’t finished,” Corso said, stepping back. “I’ll speak with my father directly.”

  “Of course,” Mr. O nodded. “He’s always valued your initiative.”

  Corso watched as Mr. O walked away. Blood dripping out slowly from a tightened fist.