by Alana Khan
I stare through the bars of my cell, affording me a view directly out onto the arena itself. I heave a gust of air through partially-closed lips. “Looks like I might not make it out of this match alive.”
Usually, we don’t see the gladiatorial arena before we enter it to fight, but this arrangement of barred cells ringing the uppermost outer edges of the viewing stands allows me to scope out the entire setup. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Nor I. It appears planet Bellona takes the prize in creative arena design.”
We silently inspect the area. It doesn't have the typical flat, circular expanse of sand surrounded by spectator stands. This open-air arena is about sixty yards in diameter. There’s a stony artificial mountain about four stories high in the middle. Trees and dense shrubs cover most of the sloping elevation. A fast-rushing waterfall cascades down through the thick foliage.
On the flat, surrounding land I see four separate mechanical contraptions with twenty-foot-high scimitars swinging constantly at varying intervals. Who knows? There might be other traps and pitfalls hidden amid the thick vegetation.
“This looks deadly, I know,” Loveno confides, “but this might be a lucky stroke. You’re small and weak for a gladiator, but you’ve survived this long because of your assets—you’re cunning and quick.”
I glance over at my trainer. We’ve worked together for the two years I’ve been in captivity. He’s small for a male, about my height. His race looks slightly amphibious—he has almost no nose, just a slight bump with two nostrils in the middle of his khaki-colored face. He never fought as a gladiator, but is a skilled coach as well as a brilliant strategist. I’ve won many matches because of all he’s taught me. I know he’s fond of me and doesn’t want me to die in the ring.
“The layout of this arena plays to your strengths, Nova.”
We discuss in great detail locations to hide, places to lead my opponent in order to trap him, clever maneuvers to deceive him or perhaps force him directly into those deadly, swinging swords.
I nod my head, “You’re right, this might give me an advantage, Loveno.” I glance left and right, trying to see through the bars of the adjoining cells and guess who my opponent might be. I’m imprisoned in a row of cages rimming the top of the spectator stands. Behind me is a stone wall, but the two sides of the cell, as well as the front, are metal bars from floor to ceiling. Gladiators are transported from dozens of planets for these events. Some are humanoid, some are straight out of a sci-fi movie.
“Looking for your opponent?” my trainer asks. “The name on the program is Vex. There’s no description. Not sure what species or sex. The administrator says Vex is touching down on Bellona shortly before the games begin. You won’t get a glimpse of him or her until the match itself.”
I note the fear gathering in the pit of my stomach. This fight could easily be to the death. Until this match, Khour has always tried to spare me. I’m an oddity—a human female who fights ferociously. He’s always entered me in Cestus matches. These are almost-tame exhibitions slated prior to the real competitions which come later in the program—the deadly ones.
Cestus matches are grappling, more like Olympic-style wrestling back on Earth. Sure, there’s the possibility of injury; I was harmed in many of my fights. Dislocated shoulders, broken bones, a deep gash once when my opponent cheated and found a sharp blade hidden in the sand. But in most contests no knives, swords, or tridents were involved—there was no risk of death.
Although neither I nor my opponent will have a weapon today, the rocky heights, the oscillating knives, and the rushing waters pose deadly consequences. Perhaps I'm too hard-headed; at this moment I question my decision to rebuff my owner's sexual advances. I'm certainly paying the price for it today.
I hear the trumpets blare, signaling the beginning of the games.
“I have to help Rock, he’s in the first match,” Loveno says, then pierces me with a compassionate gaze. “May the Gods be with you, Nova.” The somber tone of his voice and the glint of sadness in his eyes tells me he doesn’t think he’ll see me again.
“Thanks, Loveno, you’ve been a good friend as well as a skilled trainer. Kill Daneur Khour for me if you get a chance.”
He winces, “I won’t tell him you said such a thing. That attitude is your biggest fault.”
After he hurries away, my agitation ramps up. I try to calm my growing terror, but how do I pay attention to anything other than my stomach clenching in fear and the endlessly looping visual montage of all the ways I might die in that arena today?
I run in place until I’m winded, trying to allay the dread tearing at my stomach and distracting my concentration. It doesn’t help. I think about how I got here—a better distraction. Sleeping in my bed in St. Louis one moment, abducted by aliens the next.
I was stolen to be sold as breeding stock, which I understand is why most human females are abducted. Our genetic coding is apparently bland enough that we make excellent breeders. Our offspring take on most, if not all, of the characteristics of the male we’re mated to. When the doctors found out I was sterile, they sent me to auction as a sex slave. I fought and overpowered all four of the huge alien males who tried to drag me on stage.
As the youngest and only female in a family with eight older brothers, I had to learn to fight at a young age. When all my siblings began training in Muay Thai and Brazilian jiu-jitsu with dreams of becoming Mixed Martial Arts fighters, I enrolled, too. It was more self-defense against my brothers than a true interest in combat fighting. It wasn’t long before I discovered I had an aptitude. I could beat all but one of my older brothers, but I never really developed a taste for it.
Luckily, the fact I disabled all four of my alien captors attracted the attention of my owner, Daneur Khour. Instead of condemning me to a life of sexual servitude, he added me to his gladiator stable, placed me with a trainer, and entered me in gladiatorial contests all over the galaxy. That was a couple of years ago when I was twenty-one.
Right before he tried to rape me, Khour told me he’d threatened his staff and trainers with death if they touched me sexually. He saved me so he could have me first. He didn’t expect me to try to kill him when he ordered me to go down on him. This match, and possibly my death, is my punishment for rejecting him and his tiny, disgusting, mushroom-looking dick.
Dr. Drayke sun Omrun
I hate this. I don’t want to be here. I know I have to pull my weight on our vessel, the Lazy Slacker, but I’d rather stay on board and fulfill my duties as ship’s doctor. I didn’t ask for this assignment, but I couldn’t refuse. So here I am, impersonating a rich slave owner. My Lord God Anteros does not condone slavery. Of course, I don’t own my friend Dax who’s here to earn credits by fighting as a gladiator, but I despise even the appearance of such things.
Several months ago I was the doctor on a slave ship. Although I was tricked into signing a fully-binding contract, I couldn’t escape when I discovered we were hauling ten gladiator slaves across the galaxy. Then the captain kidnapped ten Earth females to mate with the gladiators and forced me to oversee the breeding program. A thin sheen of sweat beads above my upper lip just thinking about my participation in such contemptible deeds. Those were the darkest days of my life.
I wasn’t part of the plot to overthrow the vessel, but after it succeeded, the gladiators offered to keep me on as ship’s doctor. I didn’t consider, even for a minima, returning to my home planet. I violated so many sacred prohibitions that my family and I will be shunned if I ever touch down on Dacia again. So now I live on a vessel running from both Federation law and the ship’s prior owners, the evil and powerful MarZan Cartel.
I shake my head, pulling myself back to the present. Yesterday the fuel blaster blew a gasket and it was only through the skill of our mechanic that we were able to limp to planet Bellona. We have almost no credits, so we must use our few assets to earn money for repairs. Dax, our biggest and one of our best fighters, will battle in the arena t
oday. The purse will hopefully pay for parts and service so we can leave atmosphere before anyone discovers our call letters are faked and we’re fugitives on the run.
Captain Zar asked me to pose as Dax’s owner; the huge humanoid male certainly couldn’t stride in and enter a match on his own. Because I’m of the Dacian race, which is highly respected throughout the galaxy, I was deemed the perfect male for this mission.
The pain/kill controller on my wrist signals I have the power to kill “my” gladiator. Although it’s been disabled, it appears to onlookers that with one press of a button I could activate his slave collar and blow his head off his shoulders.
My shipmates have dressed me up like a rich nobleman. The collar is too tight and the fabric is too stiff to be comfortable, but I look the part. My blue skin and regal carriage signal my Dacian heritage as well as my highborn station in life.
Poor Dax, he’s finally a free male after years of captivity. He must hate acting the role of a slave far more than I hate playing the part of slavemaster. But we do this for the good of the group. He’s the one who’ll be risking his life in a matter of moments. I should be thankful my only job is to watch.
When Dax’s posture stiffens, I tune in to the administrator who is checking us in.
“This will be a claiming match,” the Anterion male explains when I ask the haughty green reptilian to repeat himself.
“I’m...I’m new at this. I just bought this male,” I reveal. “What exactly does that mean?”
When the Anterion condescendingly explains the stakes, I want to confer with Dax. After all, his life is on the line here. Me asking his opinion, of course, would blow our cover. He almost-imperceptibly nods at me, implying I should proceed and enter him in the match.
“I signed him up for a Cestus match, he’s an untried gladiator,” I complain. Dax coughs at the apparent insult.
“Daneur Khour himself changed the program. No one argues with him and lives to talk about it. It’s now a claiming match,” the reptilian arrogantly replies.
I pause for a moment and glance at Dax who subtly nods. I don’t agree with this decision. We really need the purse money should we win, but if he loses he might die, or become a slave again. The stakes are far too high for my liking.
He nods again, more obviously; I acquiesce and sign the entry form.
“Dax.” I shake my head as we walk out of earshot, “This is too risky. Let’s back out of this, my friend.”
“You have such little faith in me, doc. Do you think I could lose?”
“Anything is possible. If you lose you’ll surrender your freedom—possibly your life. There’s got to be another way we can earn enough credits to pay for the repairs.”
“It’s done, Drayke. If I lose I have no one to blame but myself. Don’t worry, I’ve seldom lost a match.”
There’s no arguing with him, his mind is set. We proceed to the small waiting area assigned to gladiators and their owners who've just arrived. Most participants are waiting in holding cells elsewhere on the grounds.
“I’ve never seen an arena like this,” Dax explains. His sharp eyes are examining every facet of the terrain. From his vantage point of close to seven fiertos tall, he’s inspecting every thorny bush, blade of grass, and every rock on the tall, fabricated hill. I’m certain he hasn’t missed the dracking mechanical scimitars whistling as they swing through the air.
“Dax, one more time, I beg you, reconsider.”
There are many types of ritualized gladiatorial fights, most pair two fighters, each with a different weapon to make the match interesting and balanced. This was supposed to be a Cestus match where contestants fight nude—no weapons, mostly grappling. Dax had signed on for a simple in-and-out; no real danger, just fight, win the purse money and leave. Now that we have a good look at the arena, it’s clear the stakes are far higher than we’d imagined.
His eyes narrow in concentration. He appears to be so consumed with plotting his possible moves and looking for hidden pitfalls he doesn’t hear me.
“Dax, let’s bolt. We’ll find another way to earn credits for the repairs.”
“No,” he shakes his head, still cataloging every ince of the arena. “We need the money. I can win this.”
It’s clear by the set of his strong, square jaw that this argument is over. We watch the next three matches. These are not timed events. They end when one participant is disabled or dead. My stomach is in knots. Dax hasn’t said a word; his eyes have barely left the action. I imagine he’s plotting every movement, every step he can take when it’s his turn. I also assume his opponent is doing the exact same thing.
“Next match, Vex, owned by Dr. Edash Merova and Nova, owned by the honorable Daneur Khour,” the announcer intones.
My stomach lurches in disgust. I’m glad I didn’t eat anything today. Hearing the name Daneur Khour over the loudspeaker chills the marrow in my bones.
My dear Lord Anteros, I hope the male himself is not on this planet. He owned every male and female on the ship except me before our insurrection. He still owns my contract to provide services as a physician. He’s placed a hundred thousand credit bounty on each of our heads. If he knew our real names, he’d probably kill Dax and I within a minima. I’m glad we each chose to use an alias.
“Mr. Khour,” the announcer says, “would you honor us by saying a few words before the beginning of this match?”
He stalks to the dais acting if he owns the place—perhaps he does. I’ve heard he owns half the fighting flesh in the galaxy as well as running most of the sex trade and drugs on the civilized as well as the outer planets.
His skin is pale purple, his vivid purple hair is shaved on the sides. Although he’s wearing a fine mourlot overcoat even in this heat, his bearing and hair, as well as his reputation, give him the look of the cutthroat killer he’s rumored to be.
“Males and females, welcome to these games. I’ve entered some of my finest gladiators in these matches with the intention that they will be the greatest games ever witnessed. Should my fighting stock die for your entertainment, so be it.”
He glances behind him for a moment. I wonder if he’s looking at his gladiators. No wonder he’s the most feared being in the galaxy, more so even than the President of the Federation. He’s positively feral.
“Vex and Nova, enter the arena,” he commands.
Dax stalks to the entry gate, looking for all the galaxy as calm and confident as a male can be. I can only guess that somewhere underneath his hard exterior there has to be some nagging doubt about his ability to win this fight, as well as concern about the consequences should he lose.
I don’t understand what my eyes are seeing as a female approaches the gate. At first, I wonder if she’s Nova’s trainer, but she’s dressed in what appears to be a sack of the cheapest fabric. Could this be Dax’s opponent? She stands next to Dax and the contrast is breathtaking. He stands near seven fiertos, a full two heads taller than her.
She’s human! Living with human females on the ship, I can certainly identify a human when I see one. Her skin is tan, her face is heart-shaped, her brow is smooth. Her shoulder-length hair is shiny and brown. What is she doing here on Bellona? And a gladiator, no less.
All fear for Dax evaporates as I realize he could literally kill her with one blow in the first minima of the match. What skills could she possibly possess that would make this an equitable contest?
For a moment I want to complain to the administrator. This is nowhere near a fair fight. But I know Dax is guaranteed a win, which is what we need. I couldn’t stop the fight even if I tried, so I stand here, waiting for the inevitable.
Since Cestus gladiators fight nude, both of them disrobe. Her body isn’t like the females on the ship; it’s hard and muscled. I can see numerous scars from surgeries where she’s previously been injured. This isn’t her first fight. Perhaps she has enough skill to emerge alive.
I scrutinize her as we wait for the opening trumpets to sound. Her expression is d
ogged, determined. She looks as proud and unafraid as Dax, which is sheer madness. Even though her features appear smart, cunning and confident, and every inch of her body is athletic and powerful, doesn’t she know she’s completely outmatched?
It makes no sense that the deep recesses of my brain want to root for this female instead of Dax. Perhaps it’s because she’s the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen.
Chapter Two
Nova
Okay, my adversary is big. Let’s face it, this guy is the tallest, strongest opponent I’ve ever encountered. That’s all right, I’ve fought and won against many muscular gladiators over the past two years. His forehead slopes back at an odd, almost Neanderthal, angle. I wonder if perhaps he’s all brawn and no brains.
“Focus, Nova,” I scold myself. I have to maintain my concentration. For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction, right? He’s huge; which means he’s slow—I’m probably quicker and more agile. That’s got to count for something.