by Alana Khan
“You’re right; I’ve been catapulted into a different universe. No one could remain completely sane after that, right?” she asks with a small, questioning smile.
As quickly as the storm came, it has passed. Good. I think I’ve reached the limit of my ability to pretend to have or understand emotions.
I’m keenly aware of her thigh touching mine. I freeze and just pay attention to everything I’m conscious of. I breathe in deeply and smell her essence. She has a crisp, unique scent that is intoxicating.
I’m paralyzed for a moment. Part of me, a large part, wants to rise from the bed and go back to my corner where it’s safe and there are no demands on me.
But another part—a tiny undeveloped part—is sitting up straight inside, keenly interested in this developing connection shimmering between Anya and me.
Slowly, I find the courage to draw my gaze to hers. There is a spark of energy flickering through me. My heart pounds in fear, but I order myself not to look away. All the noises of the cell block cease. The sight of the drab gray walls recedes. All that exists in this vast universe is Anya and me.
I reach out and touch her curls, surely the most courageous thing I’ve done in my entire life. I fight the urge to flee.
She doesn’t move, just sits and maintains this delicious eye contact, savoring this intimate link we have.
My fingers slide through her hair; it’s like silken springs. Then, my hand is on the back of her head. I pull her closer and lean toward her, unhurried. Finally breaking eye contact, I press my lips to hers. Sweet. There is no future, no past, just this moment of drowning in this female and this wondrous connection.
My lips feel hard on hers. Too hard. I soften the contact and her body responds instantly. Just soft lips against softer ones. Her shoulders relax. A sweet sigh escapes her.
I try to slow down. I don’t want to scare her or push farther than she wants. The back of my mind knows it’s kind of ridiculous to worry, considering we’ve already consummated things. But this, what’s happening now, is totally different than what slaves are forced to do.
I could kiss her like this for hoaras, drowning in the intimacy of lips touching lips, but she presses at the seam of my mouth with her tongue. At first it shocks, then tickles, then it ignites a fire inside me. I open to her and she sweetly invades my mouth. The tip of her tongue encounters the rasp of mine. I’m entranced by her soft slickness, and I wonder if she’s equally fascinated by the gentle scrape of mine.
Her taste is intoxicating. There’s no holding back; she is so open to me. Her little tongue begins to war with mine. Ah, a battle with no loser, only winners—I like this. Her hands finally leave her lap and clasp my shoulders. Her palms sweep to the back of my neck and tangle in my mane, pulling me even closer.
I’m besotted, not knowing whether to pay attention to the intimate battle our tongues are waging or the fact that her palms are now on my pecs, pressing on my muscles, her thumbs finding and gently flicking my nipples.
My cock is kicking against its constraints, demanding release. My blood thrums insistently there.
I tear my full attention back to my mouth and lips, our tongues. What’s happening here is too delicious to hurry. I want to be fully immersed, memorize every modicum.
Our tongues are still sparring. She thrusts, I parry. She encounters one of my fangs and pulls back quickly, eyes widening. Her teeth are flat—she must not know how to navigate around my sharp canines.
“Don’t worry,” I croon, “I would never hurt you.”
And then I’m gone. I’ve tumbled out of the present moment and down the deep well of time into the darkest part of my past. I’m eleven. Or at least I think I’m eleven. Born a slave, you don’t exactly have anyone joyously celebrating your birthday. I’d been at the ludus my entire life and never had a meaningful relationship with another being.
One day a new shipment of boys arrived. Like all newcomers, their fear was palpable; I could smell it. But the most amazing thing was that standing there was another of my species. I’d never seen another being like myself, but there he stood. We were so similar he could have been my brother.
I had only seen myself in a mirror once, but I could instantly identify another who looked like me. His fur was slightly darker than mine. His eyes were green as opposed to my golden ones. My muscles were better defined. But, yes, a stranger would have thought Pallatin and I were brothers.
I sat beside him at the first meal and introduced myself; after that we were inseparable. We trained together, slept near each other’s pallet on the floor, and helped protect each other from attacks by the older boys.
As much as we looked alike, we were so dissimilar in personality. I was strong and brash and angry. He was smart and deliberate and unsure of himself. I’d been raised a gladiator and had exercised, worked out, and sparred seven hoaras a day since I was old enough to understand language and follow instruction. From birth, I had been fed a scientifically-formulated diet designed to put on muscle and no fat. My reflexes had been honed from annums of grappling, sometimes with males twice my age. Pallatin used to joke that I had eyes in the back of my head.
Pallatin had been raised in a life that sounded like a storybook. Frankly, I had trouble wrapping my head around it. He described a loving mother and father. He lived in a house where he had a bed in his own room with walls and a door. He ate what he wanted and described delicious foods I couldn’t even imagine. He had gone to a school where they didn’t teach him fighting all day, but where he read books and learned about our world. It sounded wondrous to me. I admit I was sometimes jealous of his easy life and upbringing.
I was so interested in his books and his learning that he began to teach me the alphabet, then how to read and write. I loved learning new words and we made a game we played during meals to see who could tally the most synonyms for everyday words.
Although he always won, he said I took to it quickly, but I felt clumsy and incompetent. He never derided me, though, and seemed genuinely pleased when I mastered something new.
Nor did I ever make fun of him in the ludus. He was slow and lumbering and did not have eyes in the back of his head. He had trouble striking with one arm while defending with the other. He didn’t seem to even want to attack. At night, after he’d taught me things about the universe, or the history of my people, the Ton’arr, I would gently coach him about his performance in the ludus. Perhaps he didn’t understand that what he taught me was interesting, but not important. What I taught him could one day save his life.
Before I met Pallatin I’m sure I’d heard the laughter of others. Certainly, I had. As I think about it now, most of that laughter was derisive, making fun of others’ misfortune or loss. Being raised in slavery does not bring out anyone’s higher purpose or better instincts.
I’d never actually laughed before he arrived. He told me a pun once that was so funny I burst out laughing. I had never heard a joke before; I was literally shocked to hear a bark of laughter escape my mouth.
After that, I begged him to tell me more. He couldn’t. He told me he didn’t have many jokes memorized. So we began to make things up, silly things, ridiculous stories, anything that would bring even a small smile to our lips. Before him, I had been an automaton. Pallatin introduced me to my soul.
It was the best time of my life—to know someone had my back and that one other being in the galaxy cared whether I lived or died. To have another person interested in the thoughts that went through my head, who listened to my opinions, who cared about my emotions was a completely new experience. Those were heady times.
He hadn’t been at the ludus quite an annum when one day we were issued new loincloths—never a good omen. It meant someone had come from off-world interested in either a show or to purchase one of us.
Can’an, the head gladiator, looked thunderously angry when he strode into our quarters that morning clutching his clipboard so hard his knuckles were white.
“There will be two contests t
oday, a spectacle for off-worlders. The docket has already been decided. Annot and Guarmond will fight first.” Can’an’s face squeezed in some emotion I couldn’t read. “Zar and Pallatin, you are matched second.” A long pause. “To the death,” spoken so low I almost couldn’t hear it.
To this day, I could swear my heart stopped beating. Surely this couldn’t be true. I had never heard of anyone under fifteen fighting in a match to the death. And had only heard of one match of fifteen-annum-olds, which was punishment for an escape attempt.
I knew the masters and owners didn’t care about the ethics of fighting sentient beings to the death. They treated us cavalierly. So many times I had heard of a master who was down on their luck but not ready to sell, who would put his fighters on half rations without recognizing we athletes need to be at peak performance to save our very lives.
I’d seen every callous behavior that could be imagined perpetrated on my peers, but I had always counted on our owners’ greed to keep us alive for at least several more annums. It wasn’t cheap to acquire fighters. Nor was it inexpensive to feed, train, house us or keep us healthy enough to fight. Killing us just didn’t make financial sense.
But I knew I'd heard Can’an correctly, because the look on Pallatin’s face must have matched my own. His jaw hung loose, his eyes widened, his shoulders slumped.
“Surely this can’t be true,” I spoke up. “You must know this is not a fair match!” What a pitiful argument it was then, how hollow it sounds now.
Can’an’s teeth clenched. He didn’t respond. I realized later that he, a former gladiator himself yet still a slave, must have dreaded delivering this news almost as much as we hated receiving it.
“One hoara from now, in the ring,” was all the teacher said, his jaw tight. He then turned on his heel and left our barracks.
Pandemonium rang out, all the young males talking at the same time. They were all angry, shocked, and afraid, but Pallatin and I only wanted each other’s company. We went to a corner and stood, my hands on his young shoulders, his on mine.
There was no use trying not to cry, Pallatin was already doing so. We both knew he was no match for me. We both knew who would die in an hoara. We both knew we were powerless to do anything about it.
“I won’t do it,” I announced stubbornly. “They’ll have to kill us both.”
“No, my friend. Only one of us needs to die today.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t…” I couldn’t see anymore, my vision was clouded by my tears.
“We are slaves, Zar. We live and die at their mercy. I must die today.”
To this day, I will never know how he found such courage and wisdom.
“We must give them a show, draw it out. I know you could finish me in thirty modicums, but perhaps whoever is paying for this spectacle will appreciate your prowess, buy you, and take you from this hell hole.”
“This hell hole or another, what does it matter? You’re the only thing that makes life bearable.”
“Stay strong,” he said, even though he had to already be shattering inside. “Promise me two things…” He paused until I nodded. “When it is time, do it swiftly.”
“Of course.” I still die a little when I remember this conversation. It breaks my heart to think the greatest gift I could give my best friend was a quick death.
“And second,” he waited for me to look into his piercing stare, “do not take responsibility for my death upon your heart. It may be your hand that holds the sword, but it is upon their order.”
How could a twelve-annum-old be so wise? Or so wrong. To this day, I have never been able to follow his last wish. I’ve never forgiven myself.
I watch our final match in my mind’s eye, seeing every blow, hearing every raucous cry from the stands, smelling the coppery scent of my best friend’s blood, and reliving down to the most minute detail the depths of my pain, grief, and guilt.
And then the memory comes to a halt. The metallic smell of my cell block intrudes. I’m aware of my thighs on the bed. I open my eyes and come back to the present, sitting still as a statue. I focus on my breathing; it’s the only thing I can bear to pay attention to.
I would do best to leave the human alone. I don’t know what possessed me when I told her I would never hurt her. What a lie! All I do is hurt every single being that I touch. I kill people who care about me.
I walk to the back corner of the cell and slide down the wall until I’m squatting on the floor. I’ll sleep here tonight. I will not share my bed with the female until the next order to mate and that will be from behind. As quickly as possible.
I go away. Disappear. I’m not in pain. I simply don’t exist.
Anya
Squatting in the corner, he’s still as a marble sculpture. If that statue had a name it would be “Agony.”
I may not have an advanced degree in psychology, but I think my cellmate has a definite case of PTSD. I can’t think of any explanation other than a stroke that could pull someone so completely out of an embrace so enthralling.
His face is a mask of total despair. I have no idea where his thoughts went, but his look of anguished misery speaks volumes. This large Atlas of a man is so fragile at this moment that I just want to reassure him—but I don’t know how.
In my twenty-five years on Earth, I’ve never been at such a clear choice point. I could sit on the bed and dive into my own misery. I could count all of the things I miss, from cotton-soft clouds in the blue sky to my favorite song, to my friends and family. Or I could get my ass over to the corner and connect with the male in this cell who has tried very hard to make this as easy as possible for me, and who is clearly lost in his own internal torment.
I walk to the corner, slide my back down the wall next to him until we are hip to hip squatting on the floor. He’s motionless and paralyzed—that’s okay, it gives me time to wallow in all the things I miss. But that gets maudlin and boring.
My thoughts veer to the aborted kiss we shared. I touch the pads of my fingers to my lips as I relive those quick, intense moments. I’ve never experienced that level of arousal from just a kiss before. I don’t think it was simply due to the amazing, rough burrs on his tongue. We were sharing a connection.
I might not want to admit it, but I’m becoming more attracted to him every day. There’s a tempting combination of rough strength and gentle vulnerability that I find hard to resist. Sadly, though, he doesn’t seem to share the attraction.
Chapter Four
Anya
I’m abruptly awakened from a sound sleep the next morning with the order to “complete the act.” It’s actually a blessing to startle straight awake into the bleak reality of my existence, rather than come slowly out of a sweet dream, still believing I’m in my own bed back on Earth. Nope, I’d rather wake right up to the grim reality of my life.
I’m not still cramped in the corner on the floor next to Zar. I dimly remember him carrying me to bed in the middle of the night. I slept, my back burrowed snugly against his warm front, his arm gently braced across my stomach to keep me from falling off the tiny mattress.
I flip around so that we’re front to front and catch him looking at me. For a moment he doesn’t appear to be a statue at all, but seems tender, his gaze gilded and warm. Then I can almost hear the clang of his emotions shuttering down, and he is stone again.
He slides along the wall, to the end of the mattress, then stands at the back of the bed. I shuck my bottoms, assume the hands and knees position under the covers and truly understand Zar’s dead eyes for the first time. He’s had to do things like this his whole life. I’m only on my third day and I’m beginning to feel my humanity and all hope slip from my grasp.
I’m not sure it was even possible, but Minute Man was quicker about his business than previously.
We only have a few minutes before one of us is dragged off at gunpoint, but I need to talk to him about Grace.
I lower my voice, not wanting to embarrass her. “Zar, have you noticed�
�” how do I approach this? For all I know he and Grace’s guy are besties. “Have you heard the female in the next cell crying?”
“I wondered if that was what I was hearing.”
Okay, good, he’s talking to me, even if he’s giving me zero eye contact. Talking is better than the silent treatment.
“I spoke with her yesterday and she says her guy is rough.” He gives me a questioning glance. “You know, rough in the mornings…” I wait until understanding dawns on his handsome face. “You guys are big,” I explain somewhat unnecessarily, “it takes some finesse.”
He nods slowly, “I’ll speak with him. He can be brash and thoughtless sometimes. I understand this hasn’t been easy for any of you females.”
Although he didn’t say it, it’s clear this hasn’t been easy for him, either.
The Urluts appear and I’m unceremoniously marched to medbay by tusky, hairy boars.