Zar

by Alana Khan

  The Transformation.

  There, I said it. The Transformation, I say it again inside my head and then, “The Transformation,” I speak it out loud just to bludgeon my brain into believing it.

  I was born on planet Larian many annums ago, to a family of moderate means. We lived simply on a modest farm outside of a small town. My race hadn’t developed anything near computers or the ability to travel in space. We used a wheeled cart drawn by ortoni to travel for supplies. It was on one of these trips that I learned about the Transformation.

  I had a friend, Morley, a youngling who didn’t look any older than me, who was the child of the general store’s owners. I loved going into town, not just because the store owners always gave me a stick of delicious manu candy, but because I enjoyed playing with Morley.

  I was young enough I had never really asked questions about males and females. I knew that parents were men and women, and I just assumed that kids were kids. The idea of gender never really interested me.

  One day we arrived in town for provisions and I didn’t see Morley. When I asked Morley’s father where she was, he looked surprised and immediately glanced at my parents as if to ask their guidance.

  It was then that I saw a tall, muscular adult male brooding quietly at the table in the corner where the townspeople sometimes came to play cards on wintry days. He was staring intently at me.

  My parents looked shocked, maybe even a bit fearful, and ordered me to wait in the wagon outside. My folks were kind and loving and almost never raised their voices to me. I was shy and compliant, well I guess I still am, and ran to wait in the back of the wagon.

  I’d never seen our order filled or our wagon loaded so quickly. The ride back to our farm was swift and silent.

  That night at dinner, my parents explained the Transformation. Frankly, it made my head spin. They explained how Larians were born with no gender, and could stay that way their whole lives. They remained genderless until they found their truemate. At that time, one member of the couple became female and the other became male. The individuals could be any age, from twenty to sixty—child-bearing annums.

  My parents explained it was a mystery how the body changed, going in a matter of days from a tiny, childlike being to towering muscular males that were over six fiertos tall, or statuesque females with curves and breasts. They didn’t understand how the vents used for excreting became external for males or internal for females, or how men then produced sperm and females produced eggs. It was simply inscrutable.

  I pressed them with questions about how I would know when I met my truemate, how it was decided. The whole sex and genitals part was simply too gross and unbelievable, so my young mind latched onto the personal connection. How would I meet this person? How would I know? How was it decided which of the pair became male and which became female?

  To my parents’ credit, they gave me no meaningful answers because they had no answers to give. They simply had no way of knowing. Our science was crude, there were no facts in any book to explain things. I’ve snuck onto the captain’s computer many times, searching for information, but there are no other species in the known universe that reproduce like this, so there’s no research on it.

  I only saw Morley once more after his Transformation. We went into town for his Joining Ceremony. I had met his mate once at the shoemaker’s shop. Now she looked tall and regal and very grown up.

  I sought Morley out. He wasn’t particularly interested in me; he had a mate and was now interested in far more adult things than an old playmate. He had seemed so distracted that later, on the ride home, I asked my parents about it. Now, as they explained everything they could, they alluded to his growing paranormal powers.

  They said not all Larians grew special powers when their body transitioned, but some did. They said some could hear others’ thoughts, some could move items with just a desire, some could feel others’ emotions. They denied that either of them had acquired any additional powers upon their Transformations, then laughed and said maybe it had “skipped a generation” and I would develop lots of powers just like grandfather Crantu. I never got much of an answer from them about what those capabilities might be.

  I was kidnapped from my planet not too long after that. So my trove of knowledge is pitifully small. By my reckoning, I’m thirty-five annums of age. I never figured I would hit my Transformation because I never thought I’d see another Larian. I had taken it as fact that my Transformation could be triggered only by another of my kind.

  But, as I look down and see muscular legs where before there had been childlike, undefined meat on bone, I can’t deny my Transformation has been triggered. And it must have been triggered by one of the slaves on board.

  All the males seem to be paired up; I can’t imagine who it could be other than Shadow, the captain, or the doctor. All of those choices make my heart hurt.

  Anya

  The next morning, along with the command to complete the act, we are cheerfully informed that the captain has declared today a “holiday” due to our defeat of the Marauders. To celebrate we women will be invited to watch the males in gladiatorial competition. Oh, happy day.

  What makes him believe the males want to compete, especially in front of us? And I definitely doubt any of us women really want to watch. From what I’d observed the day the Marauders attacked, none of the women would want to watch their males get hurt.

  When I glance at Zar, however, I realize I got at least half of the equation wrong. He looks thrilled! Totally pumped.

  “You’ll watch me fight today Anya? You’ll see me fight. You’ll see me win!”

  When did he become a monosyllabic caveman, I wonder. Then I remember he’s a gladiator. He’s done this his whole life. It’s the one thing he thinks he’s good at. Of course he wants to show off for his female.

  I’ve never enjoyed watching prizefighting on TV. I couldn’t bear to even glance at World Wide Wrestling when scrolling through the channels, even though it was obviously fake as hell. I definitely know I don’t want to see my guy getting hit and possibly bloodied in a show for my entertainment.

  Then I glance at his expectant face. He’s like a five-year-old who just picked the neighbor’s flowers and presents them excitedly to his Mom expressing enthusiasm and praise.

  “Can’t wait,” I say, faking sincerity.

  We do our business, and I’m escorted to medbay. Dr. Drayke seems enthused about the upcoming exhibition.

  “Really?” I ask. “You didn’t seem the type.”

  “These men train for this all day every day. To be able to have an audience, without the fear of…” He interrupts his train of thought, not wanting to mention that usually these events don’t allow the males the luxury of knowing they’ll emerge in one piece. “Well, at any rate, this should be a safe way for them to swagger in front of their females.”

  “Hmmm...I’m curious, doc, you talk to every woman every day. How many of these women have...paired up with their males?”

  “Paired up?” He looks confused.

  “How many of my fellow ladies are kind of happy with their cellmates?”

  “Anya, I don’t really have long conversations with the other females. I have no idea what goes on in their heads. I can tell you, though, that most of them don’t look nearly as unhappy now as they did on their first day. None seem to have what might be called ‘failure to thrive.’ A few have begun to ask if they could already be pregnant.”

  Wham! It suddenly hits me that I’ve been so preoccupied with the insurrection I’ve completely pushed the question of a possible pregnancy to the back of my mind like a child pushes their dreaded peas to the back of their plate.

  “You could tell already?”

  “Of course.”

  I guess I should have known this. “Test me!” It’s an order.

  “I do test you, Miss Anya. I test each of you every day.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t examined you yet today, but no, you weren't
as of yesterday.”

  My mind completely shuts down. I have no idea whether I’m happy or sad about this news. At this moment, I can’t even connect with my emotions.

  “Is that good news or bad?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zar

  We’re given our sparring assignments and I nod formally to Dax, who I’m paired with. Since I fight as a Murmillo, it is fitting that I fight a Retiarius Gladiator. We are commonly matched in combat.

  We all get to work, lifting weights, running a bit, warming up before the females enter. I notice a few of the males begin to preen. I follow their gaze to the part of the arena that has been set aside as the viewing area. I see the women taking seats on mats on the floor.

  I catch Anya’s eye, she’s biting her lower lip, her brows knit together in worry. I realize she must be anxious about me. Did she not believe me when I told her I’m the best gladiator in the ludus? This is just an exhibition. I give her a thumbs up sign and an open smile that shows my fangs. I hope she understands it means don’t worry about me, this will be fun.

  “I am Doctore, the head of this ludus, or gladiator school,” Doctore’s sonorous voice commands attention from all. I respect him completely. He is tall and thin, his skin a dark burnished ebony. His face, though humanoid, is thin and elongated. The skin on his shoulder and pectoral are pebbled. He is strong, sage, and completely fair. Looking at his proud bearing, if you didn’t know he was a slave, you’d think he was a king. He’s taught me a lot, even though I’ve known him such a short time and I’ve trained under many other teachers.

  “Our revered captain has granted you the honor of watching several sparring matches in this exhibition. These males are well trained and excited to perform for you. Do not fret, other than a few nicks and scrapes, this display of strength and prowess is designed for entertainment only and none of these fine males will be harmed in the proceedings.”

  Anya’s shoulders relax a tiny bit. She still looks so worried. Actually, this gives me a warm feeling inside, she’s the first person since Pallatin to genuinely care whether I live or die.

  I notice the nine other women, all sitting on the floor of the ludus. I see the doctor and the first mate. The Urluts are all here. The captain and little Tyree must be watching through holo-vid on the bridge. It makes sense; someone needs to be at the helm.

  Shadow edges over to me and whispers, “We should attack now.”

  Had we known this was going to happen, this might very well have been a good time to attack. We have our weapons and some crude shields. The Urluts will certainly be distracted by the fight. They love to gamble, and will be more focused on the odds and betting than with guarding any of us.

  “We’re not prepared. We don’t know if Tyree is watching and can deactivate the collars. We haven’t organized our plan of attack, and most importantly, the women are easy targets and would certainly be attacked by the cowardly guards.”

  “As I said before,” Shadow says contemptuously, “your feelings about that female have made you soft.”

  “It may well be, Shadow, but none of the other males will be willing to risk their females’ lives. Did you see how possessive they were when we cleaned up after the Marauder attack? You might be running forward with your sword drawn, but none of us will be behind you. No one will have your back.” I wait, hoping my words sink in. “The right time is coming, Shadow, and it will be soon. But not today.”

  Shadow grunts in response, obviously not happy, but seeing my logic.

  Doctore continues, “The first match will be between Steele and Axxios. Our way of fighting these matches goes back millennia. We have specific categories of ceremonial fighters, each with its own history, its own weapons, each with its own shields. Steele and Axxios will both be fighting as Cestus Gladiators. It is tradition that Cestus gladiators wear no clothing.”

  A small titter rises up from the women. I noticed shortly after we met that little Anya seemed embarrassed to show her body. It seems these humans all have prohibitions against nudity. They’ll be in for a show during this match.

  Steele steps forward and unceremoniously removes his loincloth. His silver body is already covered in a sheen of sweat from his warm-up. Axxios, our golden gladiator pilot, removes his loincloth, managing to look for all the galaxy as if he is taking off the finest overcoat at a fancy ball.

  They square off in the designated area.

  “Cestus gladiators are not allowed weapons or shields of any kind. These matches are usually a warm-up prior to the bigger contests that are to come,” Doctore explains.

  I’ve watched these two spar since we’ve all been on this ship together. I know they are evenly matched. First impressions might make a novice believe that Axxios will be the certain winner. His body is so much thicker, so much more heavily muscled, that I imagine all the females would be betting on him to win if they were gamblers.

  My eyes travel to Zoey, Steele’s tiny mate. I noticed the other day she is extremely fearful and shy. She never worked up the nerve to even look at me, much less give me eye contact. But now she appears practically paralyzed with dread. She must have jumped to the foregone conclusion that her cellmate will be beaten badly.

  Axxios’ female, Brianna I think her name is, looks slightly confident. I think she’s trying to act as if she’s uninterested and completely above this whole affair, but I can see that isn’t true. Her eyes are glued on Axxios.

  “Begin,” Doctore calls.

  The men thump their fists lightly on their chests and nod to their opponent as is custom. They approach each other warily, and all at once Axxios rushes Steele. They grapple each other, necks straining, muscles bulging. They are grunting, shoving, struggling, trying to push each other onto the ground.

  As I thought, Axxios is not the easy victor. Steele, although he doesn’t have Axxios’ obvious bulk, is lithe, strong, and quicker on his feet. It’s an excellent match of talents.

  I’m surprised when I steal a glance at the females; they don’t appear to be appreciating this contest in any way. Most are watching in horror, if at all. Zoey looks as if she’s about to faint—her eyes look huge in her pale face. I hope neither male in the ring glances over at their women. They would be peeking over to catch the appreciation in their females’ eyes and be distracted when they see the women are repulsed by the display.

  Finally, Axxios wrestles Steele to the floor. Both their bodies hit the mat with such force the loud noise gathers everyone’s attention. It looks as if Axxios is winning when he begins to press Steele’s silver shoulders to the mat. Before Doctore can call the match, Steele flips himself off the mat and almost sits on Axxios’ shoulders, the bigger man still down on all fours. Steele brilliantly levers his body weight to push Axxios forward and down in a somersault. Steele uses all his might to press Axxios’ shoulders to the mat, and Doctore hollers, “Ho! Match to Steele.”

  The gladiators all stomp their left feet on the floor, a show of appreciation to both men, especially to Steele for a match well fought. Axxios claps Steele on the upper arm, the etiquette of the ring to admit defeat.

  The women, at first speechless, clap politely, obviously more dismayed than impressed. I silently caution myself not to look over at Anya during my match. Obviously, on her planet there is no appreciation for this type of combat. I can’t blame her. From everything she’s told me she came from a backwater planet that didn’t even have fully functional space travel, how could they be expected to enjoy a spectacle this advanced?

  “Zar and Dax,” Doctore announces.

  I take a moment to glance over at Anya and she looks stricken. She referred to Dax as, what was it, a Neanderthal? I don’t know what that means, but she didn’t seem to want to get to know the male. He’s nice enough. He was also born a slave and has lived and trained in rougher places than I. I learned a few manners about eating and hygiene over the annums that I don’t think he was privileged to receive. He
is a man of few words, but I’ve never known him to be anything but kind.

  When Dax and I square off, I realize what might have upset Anya. Dax is big. Really big. He is taller than me by a head and definitely outweighs me. His muscles seem more pronounced, but probably because he has skin like my Anya, and I have fur. My fur might obscure some of my muscles.

  Dax is a retiarius, which means he fights with a long spear with a trident point—three blades at the end. Of course, we are only fighting with wooden facsimiles. He’s also equipped with a net, big enough to cast at me. It’s designed to disable me or trip me up.

  As a Murmillo gladiator, I have a three-fierto blade, also wooden, and a large rectangular shield. Through the ages, these two types of gladiators were supposed to be well matched. There are advantages to each. Dax’s weapons are built for longer reach; his trident is almost three times longer than my sword. His net can be used in many cunning methods, and his gear weighs much less than mine which gives him speed and agility.