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 % Gladiator

   The stadium roar had filled Shek's ears for so long that he no longer
thought about it.  The voices that contributed to the din were, like most
crowds on Torei, composed almost entirely of women.  High class women in
gleaming wet-look couture, working girls in glossy uniforms, gaggles of
slaves kneeling about their Masters or Mistresses, and the desperate hungry
girls in cheap laminations begging fortune to smile on their chosen
champion.

   The Client nudged Shek's side with an elbow, gesturing up to a
particularly desperate woman who squirmed against the punishments her
locked-on armour seemed to deal out.  The Client's words barely broke the
barrier of crowd noise, giving Shek an appreciation of the combined female
screaming reminiscent of an itch reminding you of the presence of a shirt
by being difficult to scratch.

   Shek admired the panicked figure up in the cheap seats, then turned his
attention back to the fight.  The two gladiators were still dancing around
one another, forming impromptu loops and bights with the ropes in their
hands.  The roar of voices surged each time they lunged together, catching
each other in Oshazi quick-binds before twisting out again.

   "This part is always just the appetiser!" The Client's voice scratched
dully at Shek's ear.  "No one ever wins with the martial rope stuff at this
level."

   As if to illustrate The Client's point, one woman got the other in a
modified Spiral Hug weave.  Her opponent squirmed helplessly for a few
seconds to the audible delight of the audience, but suddenly kicked a knee
up to her own chest and twirled through it.  Fibres of combat-grade rope
sprayed outward as the sharp surfaces on her costume tore through.  In
moments she had her opponent in a similar position, with nearly identical
results.

   "If we're lucky," The Client howled mutely, "they'll send in the
animals!"

   Shek waited for the arena to shift, quietly hoping for a steelshow
instead.  He'd seen recordings of one of the gladiators in a match where
she'd sheared her own hair to escape the grip of a thrown snap-cuff.  She
was famous for chaining herself to her opponent, which worked in her favour
more often than not.

   The women in the arena circled like dogs, lunging occasionally into
obscene holds and twisting out of them again.  It seemed for a while that
the game would remain an ordinary wrestling match, but then the Isolates
walked through.

   The crowd hushed immediately upon their appearance, and the gladiators
caught what sideways glances they dared.  Large rubbery devices were
dragged into the field, and seemed to be *planted* in the ground, more than
anything.  Tubes and bulges of black viscous sap swelled from the floor and
set in the shapes of unknown devices.

   The lesser of the two gladiators dove behind a glistening black bush and
grabbed a gun-shaped fruit from one of its branches.  Holding it out in
front of her, she dropped to one knee and squeezed the trigger.  Her
opponent dropped prone and rolled sideways, but needn't have bothered.

   The gun device melted into twin spheres of black rubber, like ball
mittens around her fists.  No projectile was fired, and she rubbed them
together frantically as her opponent rose and charged.  She fell to the
ground, arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to launch the other
gladiator in a throw.

   Once the ball mittens hit the other woman's chest, they slithered under
her costume like oil dribbling down glass.  She clawed at her breasts and
belly furiously, her hips bucking at what was happening between her legs.

   With her hands now free, the first woman dashed straight for a large
device suspended from a framework of glossy vines.  It was shaped like