by Alana Khan
On one of the two bunks was Ar’Tok, a pale alien also described as a gladiator. His eyes flicked to me and then he busied himself studying the floor.
More terrifying and intimidating than either of the huge, muscled gladiators, though, was the furred beast who didn’t have the good manners to hide in the corner. It was a dog bigger than anything I’d ever seen on Earth, at least half again as large as a Saint Bernard. His body was brindle, chocolate, and auburn. There was something almost leonine about him because of the way his wild auburn mane haloed his face.
I’m not certain what scared me more, his size, his two-inch-long fangs, or the four-inch spikes on his metal collar.
My hands trembled and my eyes bulged as the animal approached me. Standing, his head almost came up to my shoulder.
He seemed intent on coming closer, and I backed as far from him as I could, my back slamming into the barred metal door. With nowhere to go, I stood paralyzed as he shambled toward me.
“No!” I said with my palm raised toward him. My mouth was so dry the word came out as no more than a breath.
He immediately dropped to the floor, then crawled on his belly the rest of the way so as not to frighten me. He nudged his soft, wet nose under my open palm, wanting me to pet him. His luminous golden eyes spoke wordlessly to me, and the second time he prodded me, I obliged. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
I didn’t know what to call him, and he was in a cell with two gladiators. The ferocious teeth and spiked collar made me wonder if he was bred to fight in the arena like my two humanoid companions. I called him WarDog and the name stuck.
I’ve always had a love of animals. It started before I was old enough to join the FFA, Future Farmers of America. After I became a member, they taught me animal husbandry and agriculture.
I loved all of it, the gardening, canning, and animal management, but at some point I decided I wanted to be a vet. The problem was I believed I wasn’t smart enough. I’d never been great at school and figured I was destined to have a menial job. It wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I was diagnosed with dyslexia.
I’m still a slow reader, the diagnosis didn’t fix that, but I realized I wasn’t stupid. I really could do anything I wanted with my life, which is what my mom told me a million times before she died.
Since high school, I worked at a vet’s office, and at nights I relearned all the stuff I should have learned in high school. I was just about to apply to college when the Urluts decided I should get an all-expense-paid trip to outer space.
WarDog eases his humongous body up onto my bed an inch at a time, then his giant tongue gives my cheek a dainty kiss. I swear, he thinks he’s a lap dog. He also thinks I’m stupid and don’t notice he’s encroaching on my territory. How do you tell a two-hundred-pound canine he’s relegated to the floor? I haven't figured that one out yet.
“All right, big guy. Kisses it is.”
Chapter Two
Willa
It’s WarDog’s favorite morning routine. He delicately slurps me with his huge tongue, and I furrow my fingers through his thick ruff until they reach his warm skin. He loves the gentle scratch of my nails and especially loves my happy voice when I talk to him.
“Yeah, WarDog. He’s a good boy. He deserves pets and kisses,” I croon to him.
When we’ve both had our fill, I kiss his nose one more time and roll out of bed. After I shower and dress, we head to the kitchen where I’ll help Maddie the cook prepare breakfast for the Mongol hordes.
Alright, they’re not exactly Mongols, or a horde, but you'd never know it by their appetites.
Oh shit. I almost skid to a stop when I notice everyone is already in the dining room. Everyone. It takes my brain less than a second to remember why they’re all here this early. The match.
We must have docked in the middle of the night last night. I was too preoccupied with my sexy dream—that was a first, I don’t think I ever had one that explicit before—to recall we’re on Aeon II for Stryker’s match.
WarDog and I hurry to the kitchen, but Maddie isn’t here. Furred, feline Captain Zar’s mate, Anya, and Callista who’s in charge of comms, are cooking. My belly squeezes in guilt—they definitely could have used my help this morning.
Maddie is Stryker’s . . . I’m not sure what she is. They’re not one of the mated couples like Anya and Zar or former-gladiator Shadow and his adorable mate Petra who has more sass inch for inch than anyone I’ve ever met. Maddie and Stryker share cabins from time to time, and from what I can tell, Stryker would like it to be more permanent.
Even if they’re not mates, Maddie clearly has feelings for him, so I’m sure she’s a ball of nerves knowing he’s going to fight today.
“Sorry. Sorry,” I tell Anya and Callista. “I never oversleep. I don’t know why—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Anya says as she flips pancakes on a griddle, “we’ve got it covered. Why don’t you take a day off, too?”
I protest, but when they insist, I grab a few pancakes for me and a stack for WarDog, return to the dining room, and slide in next to Aerie. Since we arrived on the Fool’s Errand together, I’ve always kind of stuck with her. Although she and Beast are a mated couple now, she’s actually friendlier than she used to be. Their love has somehow mellowed her. It’s as if she’s finally at home in her own skin.
Beast was voted Captain on our other ship, The Devil’s Playground, it’s the one the gladiators seized after they rescued us. Normally Aerie would be there with him but she’s been here for a few days to negotiate a better fee and higher price for Stryker’s match as well as to visit me.
Within an hour, WarDog and I are filing down the ramp along with almost everyone on board. As we pay our entry fee for the matches, the guy at the ticket booth shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the crimson-skinned male’s voice is deep and gruff, “contestants enter over there.” He points to our left with his lips.
“Me?” I point to my chest as if my word needed clarification. He thinks I’m a contestant? Seriously?
“The beast,” he clarifies.
“He’s my pet.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “Contestants and their handlers get in free, but it makes no difference to me.”
Once we’ve paid, everyone onboard files in and we find seats along what on Earth would be the Mezzanine railing. All of us, that is, except Dax and Stryker. Dax is Stryker’s best friend and will be down in the contestants’ area with him until his match.
The arena is ancient, as old as the Colosseum in Rome, maybe older. The beige stone seats are in ringed tiers going all the way up to the nosebleed section. The sand in the arena seems to be made of the same stone as the seats and the structure itself.
Everything would be buff-colored if not for the thousands of patrons filing in. They’re aliens of every stripe—literally. And their wardrobes are equally colorful.
Smells of spitted meat assault my nose. I see WarDog sniffing it, his black nose squinching with every inhalation. Maybe I’ll buy him a treat when the nearest hawker comes by.
The stadium is filled with the noise of eager fans excitedly talking about the upcoming matches, males and females walking up and down the aisles taking bets, and music that sounds like bad porno pouring from ubiquitous speakers.
Maddie is sitting between Anya and Grace, each of whom is holding one of her hands. It’s obvious how much she cares for Stryker, she’s pale and worried, her teeth tearing at her lower lip.
Stryker is a muscular male with spotted red skin and heavy scars, especially on his face. I’ve always liked him. Maybe it’s because he’s the opposite of me. I’m timid and quiet and think before any word slips from my lips. Stryker is loud and brash and says the foulest, funniest shit that flies through his brain. My filter is on overload, and he doesn’t have one. He cracks me up. When I’m with him I always feel a bit less uptight.
“Welcome females and males,” the male announcer calls from the p
odium. He’s light blue, with puffy tufts of hair at his jowls and two yellow spots on his cheeks. He’s colorfully dressed in what can only be called a dress. Either his deep voice belongs to a woman, or his species has taken the kilt idea to the max.
“Our first match of the day will be a rare treat. Most of you have never seen a Skylosian. Since their planet was decimated, they’re incredibly rare. If perhaps you’ve seen one of these beasts before, I doubt any of you have seen a Skylosian match.
“Don’t worry, these beasts will not come to any harm today. Due to the Meretrian Agreement, these beings are not allowed to fight to the death. The first animal to roll onto its back, exposing its neck will be declared the loser.
“Their handlers are at the ready to stop the fight at a moment’s notice. Negrid,” he announces with a flourish as an animal that looks astonishingly like WarDog enters the arena.
WarDog has been lying quietly at my feet since I’ve been seated. He’s usually content to just hang out with me wherever I am. Now, though, he sits up straight and looks directly out at the action. They’re clearly the same species.
Shadow is one seat over from me. From what I’ve been told, he’s fought in every sector of the galaxy for over a decade.
“What is that?” I ask him as I lean over Petra.
“I’ve never seen that species fight before. He’s called a Skylosian.”
I pointedly look down at WarDog and Shadow gets the message.
“I guess your friend there is a Skylosian,” he confirms with a shrug.
Digging my fingers through the hair on WarDog’s ruff, I make sure I go all the way to his skin so he can feel my presence. His muscles are different than a moment ago, tighter. I think I’m anthropomorphizing, imbuing him with human qualities where none exist, but I wonder if he’s anxious about what will happen to the canines in the arena.
“Montem,” the announcer says as Negrid’s opponent enters the ring at a trot, the long, chocolate hair of his mane rustling in the breeze.
The two dogs are kept on long leashes by their handlers, but once they’ve jogged around the periphery of the arena to excited applause, they’re pulled up short and are now facing each other in the middle of the arena.
“At the ready,” says the announcer. “Begin!”
The handlers release their animals and step away. They prominently display the equipment, about the size of a cell phone, aloft in their hands. It suddenly dawns on me that whatever the Meretrian Agreement is, it was meant to reassure patrons that the fighting animals won’t be harmed.
The paradox is not lost on me that many of the matches here today will pit sentient humanoids against each other and they will fight to the death, but people’s sensibilities are offended by the possibility that canines might be harmed. The equipment they’re holding up so everyone can see must be a visual signal that they can stop the fight at a moment’s notice.
The dogs begin circling each other, growling so loudly I can hear it from here. One of the handlers must give a verbal command, because the lighter of the two, Negrid, appears activated and launches at his opponent.
The fight is on, with neither animal holding back. They snarl as they attack each other. Even though their fur is thick, you can see their power in the way they move. Their hindquarters, sleeker than their fronts, show every muscle as they tuck their haunches beneath them to propel forward with more force.
Mighty jaws, with those long canines I’m so familiar with, are flashing white in the sun as the two animals threaten each other. They’re wearing metal collars similar to what WarDog had around his neck when I met him in that cell on the Urlut vessel. The spikes that ring their necks are four-inches long.
Every muscle in WarDog’s body is poised to run, or in this case jump. We’re maybe sixty feet above the sand, but by the way he’s pulling on his leash, I wonder if he wants to leap into the fray.
Shadow and Petra change places to my left so Shadow is sitting next to me. He grabs WarDog’s collar, just to lend a hand. In other circumstances, I would protest that I needed no assistance, but I’m glad for the help. If WarDog decided to leap over the three-foot rail, I wouldn’t be able to contain his powerful muscles.
The fight in the arena goes on for long minutes in the hot sun, but eventually Montem pounces hard on Negrid’s withers and grabs the other’s muzzle in his deadly teeth. Negrid rolls onto his back and both handlers intervene.
The controllers must shock the dogs, because both of them stand down immediately. Montem rolls to stand on all fours and the onlookers rise to their feet in applause.
“Females and males,” says the announcer, “you can certainly do better than that. Let’s show these animals our true appreciation for the battle you just observed.”
The noise in the arena rises by a few notches.
“I know you can do better,” the announcer goads.
The patrons now go wild as the dogs circle the edge of the arena again. It’s as if this is the canine equivalent to taking a bow.
The announcer motions to Montem’s owner in a sweeping gesture of his outstretched hand. You can hear the male’s microphone being switched on.
“Thank you for coming today,” the handler says. He’s a bulky male with skin that looks like cooled magma, all rolling black flesh that folds over and over on top of itself. “Montem of Skylose.” He lifts both fists in the air as if he himself won the match. “To the victor go the spoils!”
He makes a show of pressing a button on the controller and all at once I’m uncertain what my eyes are seeing. The animal begins to change—his form distorts so quickly I have trouble processing what’s happening. Within half a minute, though, Montem is no longer a deadly ball of brown fur and two-inch fangs. Montem has shifted into a humanoid.
Fascinated as I am by the show in the arena, I can’t control my gaze from flying to WarDog. If I thought he was stiff during the fight, he was loose compared to this. Every muscle in his body appears to be on high alert as he watches the action in the sand.
He’s whining now; it’s almost continuous. His leash pulls on my fingers. It’s not an overpowering yank, my big boy is too well-behaved for that, but I can feel his yearning to go to the arena.
“Shadow? What the fuck is going on?”
“I’ve never seen this species before. They’re humanoids who shift into canines?” It sounds like he wanted that to come out as a statement, but it certainly sounded like a question to me.
Is there a humanoid trapped in WarDog’s body? How could we not have known this? No one on the ship had heard of Skylosians before? If WarDog is this species, then he’s humanoid under all that fur. My eyes open wide in wonder as shock spikes through me.
The pomp continues in the ring for a few more minutes, then the combatants along with their handlers exit through the doorway leading to the catacombs.
“Shadow, we’ve got to get down there. If there’s a humanoid under all this fur, I need to talk to those handlers and see how to break the spell.”
“I understand. Steele, Aries, come with us.”
My three bodyguards and I, along with WarDog, make our way to the nearest steps, then skirt along the rounded walkway to the arched doorway leading to the underground area where the fighters are housed.
As we approach, the two armed guards at the entryway stand taller and try to block us.
“We have business,” Shadow says, his tone is firm as he glances at the dog.
“Kin?” one of the guards says with a leer as if it’s funny as hell that WarDog might be related to one of the fighters.
“Perhaps. Let us pass.” Shadow puffs his chest, his nonverbal suggestion that if the guard doesn't let us through there might be a gladiatorial fight right here, right now. I don’t think the guards would like the outcome.
“And her?” one of them says, his eyes sliding to me.
“His handler. Want her to unleash him on you?”
WarDog growls as if on cue, showing more snarling white teeth tha
n he’s ever shown me.
We step into the underground area passing from the heat of the sun to the cool of these ancient catacombs. The fetid smell assaults me. The walls are the same beige squares as the rest of the structure. It’s cooler down here, but I can’t wait to escape the claustrophobia and return to the bright light of day.
About twenty males, all wearing loincloths, line the hallway. Some sit, some squat, some are perched on the few stone benches that must be centuries old. These males must be the rest of the day’s entertainment.