The phone was ringing.

Stephanie, looking up from her magazine, stared at it. It was not wise, she told herself, to answer that. More than likely it was Jackson, and more than likely he wanted her company, and more than likely he wanted to have sex, and there were very few things Stephanie liked to do less than have sex with Jackson. She could be out, she told herself, maybe in a theater or something where the cell phone didn't work. She was permitted that much.

To a degree, anyway. It hadn't been more than two weeks since Jackson had given her a solid dressing-down for being unavailable when he called. She sighed, pursed her lips, and picked it up.

"Hello?" she said.

"Yes, hello, could I speak to Stephanie Wilson please?" a female voice asked.

"This is Stephanie."

"Stephanie, it's Mindy Morris. I hope it's okay for me to call."

"Mindy! Of course it is... but how'd you get my number?"

"Justice Department directory. Lucky for me Stephanie isn't all that common a name, I couldn't remember your last name. You're the only Stephanie working for Justice."

"Well, I'm glad you found me!"

"Yeah... look, Stephanie, I was wondering... are you busy tonight?"

"Tonight? No. Why?"

"Can you meet with me? I hate to bother you, but..."

She blinked. This was unexpected. "Mindy, it isn't anything like a bother. When and where?"

"Let's make it easy. There's a place on New York Avenue, not far from RFK, called Luigi's, an Italian restaurant and bar."

"I think I know where it is, yes."

"An hour from now okay? I mean, I don't know where you live..."

"I could be there in half that, actually."

"Half that is great. Thanks, Stephanie. I'll see you there."

Thirty minutes later, Stephanie found herself sitting in the bar area at Luigi's, slowly sipping a whiskey sour and wondering where Mindy was. She did not have to wonder long; five minutes later the ex-tennis player turned up. She waved to Stephanie, then spoke to a waiter, and seconds later all three of them were seated in a booth in a somewhat out-of-the-way corner of the bar.

"It's good to see you, Mindy," Stephanie said honestly. "How're you doing?"

Mindy shrugged. "Physically, fine. Like I told you. They can do wonders these days; my side's all healed up, there's just a little scar there and that'll be pretty much gone by next Sunday." She paused and shook her head. "Mentally's another matter. It's been only a little over a week since I killed a good friend of mine. I sure as fuck haven't come to terms with that. I'm not sure I ever will."

Stephanie touched her hand. "You did not have a choice," she said. "If you hadn't done it they would have sent out a Finisher; I've seen it happen. And you would have been arrested."

Mindy looked down at the table. "I'm not sure that wouldn't have been better in a way," she said. "Yeah, I know, Elaine would be just as dead, but--"

"Elaine would not have had the quick clean death you gave her," Stephanie countered. "Like I said, I've seen the Finishers in action. You have too, I know you have. They don't wear those harlequin suits for no reason. They act like clowns and they take their time finishing off a downed gladiator."

"Yeah. They do. And Elaine and I had an agreement. If she'd won I was going to lie down and let her pierce my heart with her trident."

"And she'd be suffering just as much as you are right now if things had gone that way."

"Probably. Maybe more. Elaine was a softie. I'm not."

"Bullshit."

Mindy laughed. "First time I've heard you curse, Steph," she said. She regarded Stephanie closely. "Funny... I feel a kinship to you, but you're not a gladiator..."

"I don't fight in the arena," Stephanie said, "but I'd guess that in some way you sensed we're in the same boat." Over the next few minutes, and over another drink each, she told the ex-tennis star her story. "But I have it better than you do," she finished. "All I have to do is fuck a slimeball and his buddies. I don't have to kill my friends."

"Yeah. There is that." She sighed. "Elaine was my second kill, Stephanie. The other girl, Alice, wasn't a close friend. But I knew her, and she was a decent sort."

"Who would have killed you if you'd lost that match."

"Yeah. She would have." She sighed again, much more deeply this time. "I made a mistake, Stephanie. Some girls are smart enough not to do it; not me. You can play the system. You can keep fighting in prelims, with the stun rods. They hurt like all hell--being hit solidly with a stun rod hurt one hell of a lot more than getting stuck by Elaine's trident--but they won't kill you or injure you. To keep fighting in prelims you have to lose a lot, you have to scatter your wins out. I know girls who've been in the games for more than three years and have never been in a final. You scatter your wins out, you slowly accumulate your ten, you retire. All in one piece, and you don't have to kill anybody."

"Why don't more girls do that?"

"Because once you get up above six wins they really start pushing you toward the finals, and you have to lose a dozen times in a row to stay out of them. You're guessing about it, too, there's no hard and fast rule. I know one woman who's at eight wins right now. She's lost twenty-five straight prelim matches. She's afraid to win, she's afraid that when she does she'll get tossed into a final, and if she loses there she's dead."

"You just wanted out."

"Yeah. I just wanted out. I was trying to play it, I'll admit. But I'm really not a bad fighter; I'm a small target and I'm really quick. I won three prelims in a row by being mindless about it; some of my hits were just automatic, like returning a baseline lob. That was it, I got moved to the finals." She shook her head. "Now, I'm ranked 'champion.' I have a final win and a total of five wins. I'm in mixed combat Sunday night; my opponent will be a guy. If I beat him--if I kill him--I'll be Division Seven champion, and that means that I'll go into the tournament of champions a month from now. Round of eight, round of four, championship--three matches. If I win through, I'll have killed five people. I'll have killed five people and I'll still only have nine wins. They'll manage to put me back in a women's final and make me kill one more before they'll let me retire, I can guarantee you that." Her eyes grew moist. "I do not know if I can live with that, Stephanie. I'm not sure I can sit here and say that my life is worth six others. You know what I mean?"

"I do," Stephanie replied. "But you can't think of it that way, Mindy. These are gladiators, and they're finalists. If you fight them and don't kill them, they'll kill you. If someone else fights in your place, someone dies anyway. It's not as if those six people would live if you killed yourself right now."

"You're right, so I guess I won't do that." Mindy finished the last of her Scotch. "I guess you're wondering what I wanted to see you about."

"Not really, Mindy. If you just needed to talk, that was enough. I'm not in as bad a trap as you are, but I sure as hell know what it's like to be in a trap."

"I appreciate that," the tennis player said. She stared at the table for a moment, then looked up. "Look, I'd like you to come with me--to a place up the street. It isn't far, just two blocks."

"That's fine," Stephanie said. "Why didn't we just meet there to begin with?"

"Because," Mindy answered, getting up, "not just anybody can get in there."

A few minutes and two blocks later, Stephanie understood. Mindy had led her to a building--it appeared to be an old theater--just off New York Avenue which had an easy-to-understand sign posted on the door: "The Gladiator's Club. Private. No Admittance." With a small smile, Mindy walked up to the door and keyed a series of numbers on a pad beside it. Then she pushed it open.

"Welcome to a world few ever see," she said as she ushered Stephanie inside.

As the door automatically closed and locked behind them, Stephanie could see that her assumption, that this place had once been a theater, was correct. A long-unused concession counter remained; there were even a couple of ragged posters clinging tentatively to the walls, advertising movies long ago released to DVD. No one was in sight; Mindy led her on, past the point where an usher had once taken tickets and into the theater proper.

Except for the first row, the seats had all been removed. The floor--which slanted down toward a smallish stage, above which the screen, yellowed with age, remained--was now set up like a bar, a series of tables and chairs, all leaning slightly toward the stage. Many of those chairs were occupied, and the occupants looked up curiously as Mindy and Stephanie came in. One girl, sitting at a table nearby, Stephanie recognized as Jenna. Apparently she had indeed won her fight, as Mindy and Elaine had predicted. At the time Stephanie had paid no attention.

On the stage were two couples, one consisting of two girls and the other of a girl and a man, all in full arena dress, were engaged in what to Stephanie looked like, for a moment, real lethal combat. A second look, however, told her the weapons were made of rubber. As she watched, the man in the mixed couple succeeded in knocking his opponent's shield aside and driving the tip of his rubber sword against her chest. They stopped; immediately, several people seated in the front row started explaining to the girl what she'd done wrong--and stressing that her error would have been painful in a prelim and fatal in a final.

"I understand and I don't," Stephanie said, gesturing toward the stage. "Your lives depend on your skills, so I can understand practicing. On the other hand, all that really does in the end is make the show better for the audience. Why do you care about that?"

Mindy shrugged. "We don't," she said. "We practice here--and we do it a lot--for just one reason: no one wants to die, and not many of us want to kill someone else, because of a stupid amateur error. For instance, a lot of the matches are like mine and Elaine's, sword-and-shield against net-and-trident. You try to deflect a net with your sword and bam! just like that you've lost your fucking sword, and the next thing you know you're shish-ka-bob."

"I hadn't thought of it like that. It makes sense."

"Yeah, it does." She gestured toward one of the tables near the stage. "Come on." Stephanie followed her, and was led to a table already occupied by three people, a man and two women. Mindy did the introductions; the man, a broad-chested Mexican, was Raoul Cordillo; one of the women, a very Irish-looking redhead with a name to match, was Kathy O'Brian. The other woman very much resembled Mindy herself, even down to the way her hair was cut--except that she was slimmer and younger-looking. Her name, Mindy said, was Fran. She did not add a surname.

Stephanie could not help staring at this girl. "Don't tell me..."

"Yeah. You got it. My totally dumb-ass fucking kid sister. Coming along very nicely as a tennis player, following in my footsteps. Then I get sent to the games, and so what does she do? She fucking signs up."

"You told the whole family," Fran said sullenly, "that you were going to stay in the prelims until you were eligible to retire. You told us you'd be okay. We all believed it. I thought, why not?"

"Well, I was fucking wrong, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were."

Mindy threw up her hands, then turned back to Stephanie. "She's a beginner," she said. "So far she's only been in three prelims, and she hasn't won one yet. Green as they come."

"You two couldn't... I mean... you couldn't possibly end up fighting each other in a final, could you?"

Mindy nodded. "It is possible. It isn't likely. Fran is classed as a novice. As I said, I'm now considered 'champion.' There shouldn't be a circumstance where I'd have to fight anyone ranked lower than an 'expert.' By the time Fran gets to expert rank--if she ever does--I'll either have won through and be retired, or I'll be dead."

"I'm never going to rank expert," Fran said. "I've learned my lesson. I'm going to space out wins and lose a lot, and stay novice until I retire or age-out."

"Age-out?" Stephanie asked with a frown.

"Yeah," Mindy answered. "It's in the contract. No female gladiators over forty, no males over fifty. You get to that age in one piece and they show you the door. No money, no fame. But you live, and you're free." She shook her head. "So far no one, not a single person, has ever aged-out. Part of the reason is that the games aren't yet all that old. But all the gladiators who've competed so far have retired, died, or are still fighting." She threw Fran a glance. "And that shows how much she knows about it--you heard her, she's going to stay novice and retire. One win and you're no longer novice, you're classed as 'fighter.'"

"You know what I mean," Fran protested.

Stephanie could only shake her head. "Well, it's good to meet you all," she said. "I am sorry you find yourself in a predicament like this."

"Our fault," Raoul said in unaccented English. "We're all three straight-up sign-ins. None of us were trapped into it like Mindy. We just didn't know what we were doing."

Stephanie looked from Kathy to Raoul. "Are you two--I mean, do you have to fight in the finals?"

"Not me, not yet," Kathy said. "I'm one win away, though. I'm trying to duck but you can't always, not when other people are trying to duck too. You ever watch the prelim fights, Stephanie?"

She shook her head. "No. I only go to the games when my boss insists. And he's only interested in the women's and the mixed finals."

"Yes, those are the popular ones, all right. The prelims can sometimes be funny. You have two people out there who are both doing everything they can to lose without looking like they're throwing the fight--you can't have the commissioners thinking that, they'll threaten you with a breach of contract, and then you about have to win. But you can't say someone stumbled and fell, or dropped their weapon, intentionally. So that happens, and it happens a lot. At the end of a lot of those, the winner looks miserable and the loser looks delighted."

"I can see that," Stephanie said with a smile.

"Now me," Raoul said, "I'm different. I have six wins, and I'm ranked 'champion.'"

"And," Mindy put in, "he's going to be my opponent Sunday night."

Stephanie's eyes went wide. "But... but... you can't fight him, Mindy! He's... he's huge!"

All of them laughed. "Oh yeah, he's all that, all right," Mindy said. Her mood instantly went somber. "But you don't understand. I've got a seven rating in the women's ranks; that equals a four in the men's. Raoul has an eight in the men's. Straight fight and I don't have a chance--he's a sword and shield man too, and his reach is a foot longer than mine at least--but they'll drug him to drop him to a four when he fights me. The balancing, remember?"

"Yes, I do. But I don't understand why you take the drugs!"

"No choice," Raoul said. "They give it to you by injection. Refusing is breach of contract."

"Still," Mindy said, "problem is, one of us won't be back here next week."

"I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say," Raoul commented, "that I hope that's going to be you, Mindy."

She made a sour face. "Raoul is chivalrous to the bone," she noted. She gazed at him fixedly. "You remember how I want it done if you take me down, Raoul. Don't let me down."

"I won't. If I do win. I've watched you fight, Mindy. I'm not confident. You take me down, you remember what I want, too."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll cut off your fucking head, just like I did Elaine's. In your case I might enjoy it!"

"No you won't," Fran said seriously. She looked extremely unhappy.

Mindy's manner changed. "Yeah. You're right. I won't, goddamn it. I'll enjoy dying out there less, so I'm going to try not to do that."

"This is just horrible," Stephanie said. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Not a thing," Raoul told her bluntly. "One of us or both of us, that's the choice." He looked up; just as he did, Stephanie felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned to see Jenna standing there.

"Oh, hi," she said, "I'm--"

"In my way," Jenna said coldly. "You're the bitch that came in with Jackson and Turkin Sunday before last, right?"

"Yes, I--"

"Then you're in my way."

"I don't understand. Is this your chair or something? If so, I'll--"

"It has nothing to do with the chair. It has to do with you. You're Jackson's fuck toy, aren't you?"

Stephanie didn't allow herself to bat an eye. "Yes," she answered flatly. "That's essentially true. Although not by my choice, I might add."

"Turkin brought your boss to me," Jenna went on, "to see if I wanted to play. I said sure, I'll play. And I won my fight that night. I figured the fix was in. But he hasn't called, and I'm figuring that you're the reason he hasn't. Which means my fight this coming Sunday ain't gonna be fixed."

"I don't know a thing about this," Stephanie told her.

"Don't matter," Jenna said. "If you were out of the way..." she trailed off. Then she flexed her arms. "You know how easily I could break your neck, bitch? It'd be an accident--we were trying you out--the gladiators have a code, they won't say anything..."

Stephanie could only stare in shock; it was Mindy who answered. "You touch her, Jenna," she said coldly, "and I'll fucking kill you. Promise."

"Got your sword with you, Mindy?" Jenna snarled.

"No. But you and I have to be in the same locker room Sunday, and I have it there. And you fight first, too. Think you can take me, Jenna? Straight-up, no balancing?"

Jenna glared. "Bitch!" she snapped finally. Then she stalked away.

"You're that sure, Mindy?" Stephanie asked in a shaky voice.

Mindy nodded. "Yeah. She's notorious. Strong as an ox--she wasn't kidding, she could snap your neck or mine like a twig--but she's slow as shit. She's ranked as a three, women's scale, because she's so slow and clumsy. Unbalanced I can cut her to ribbons and she knows it." She looked over at Raoul. "You look after her," she said, "when she's here, if Jenna wins and I don't. Okay?"

"Okay, Mindy. Although Jenna probably won't be interested if she wins."

"I don't think," Stephanie said, "that I'll be here again if you lose Sunday, Mindy."

"Well, I hope that's not so," Mindy said. "Because what I'm going to do, Stephanie, is give you my entry code. I want you to come here and kind of look after Fran, okay?" Both Fran and Stephanie started to speak, but Mindy held up her hand for silence. "Just listen, okay? I've always had these feelings, and they always come true. I've always known, going into a tennis match, whether I was going to win or lose. Fran, you know that's so."

"Yes... it always has seemed that way..." Fran agreed.

"Well, I had a feeling about this woman the first time I saw her. You can trust her, you can trust her absolutely. And someday, things will change and she'll be in a position to help you--or me, maybe, although that certainly won't be the case if I lose to Raoul on Sunday. Keep in contact with her, introduce her to the others--most of us don't last long. Make sure she keeps coming back here. You especially, Fran. I know you don't need a babysitter but you'll need her, one day. Trust me."

Stephanie stared at her. "Mindy, you're not saying that you have a feeling that you're--"

"Going to lose on Sunday night?" She smiled. "I'm going to try my best not to. But I do have a feeling that my best isn't going to be good enough."