by Maia Tanith
“This is your last chance.“ Braided-beard’s voice has turned ugly. “I paid a lot of money for the pair of you, and I intend to get my money’s worth, down to the last damn credit. Give my audience what they want to see or suffer the consequences.”
The man with the recording device gives up and puts his equipment on the floor of the corridor. “Give over, boss. It’s a waste of time.”
Braided-beard man sighs loudly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A spit and a crackle warn me micro-seconds before the nerve detonator slams into me, paralyzing me instantly and sending arcs of blinding pain shooting through my entire body. I can’t even move my vocal cords enough to scream.
I lie curled on the floor, as helpless as a newborn baby.
Braided-beard man gestures to one of the guards, who steps forward to unlock the door.
He saunters in, hands in his pockets, and kicks me hard in the ribs, and then again in the face. With the toxins from the nerve detonator screeching through my blood, I can barely feel the blows. I know they will hurt tomorrow though, once the nerve detonator has worn off. That is the point.
“I warned you not to make me angry,” he says, as he kicks me again for good measure. “Let this serve as a lesson to you to do as you are told next time.”
Just as he raises his boot to kick me again, the kit launches herself at him in a fury. “Get off him, you stinking beast,” she screeches, her voice on fire. “Get off him.” She attacks him with everything she has, pummeling him with her fists and kicking at his shins with her bare feet.
He takes no more notice of her than he would of an insect. buzzing around his head. With a lazy swipe of one arm, he backhands her and sends her flying.
She hits the wall of the cell with a heavy thud and lies there motionless, her limbs splayed out like a child’s broken toy.
The sight enrages me. She is my woman, my mate. They gave her to me. I may not have wanted her, but that is beside the point. I have claimed her. She is mine now.
With an effort of will I didn’t know I could summon, I launch to my feet with a snarl, my claws extended.
Taken by surprise, he stumbles backwards, but he is not quick enough to escape my claws. They rake him across the face, and he screams with shock and pain. He claps his hand up to his face and blood oozes between his fingers to drip on to his clothing.
“Leave my mate alone,” I hiss at him as I draw my arm back for another strike.
My claws do not reach their target a second time. A crackle in the air warns me just as I am hit with another nerve detonator.
Maybe because my nerves are already primed for it, this one is worse than the last. I cannot think of anything or feel anything but a fiery pain that takes me in its grasp and does not let go.
Braided-beard man stumbles out of the cage and waves the guards in. “Deal to him,” I hear him whisper, his voice low and vicious. “Deal to the gutter scum who dares attack me. Make him wish he had never been born.”
They don’t need any further urging, almost falling over each other as they push and shove their way through the narrow opening, none of them wanting to give way to the others. Immobile on the floor, I am an easy target for them, with their whips and chains and guns. It makes them feel big and strong, I’m sure, to have me at their mercy.
Laughing, they rain blows down on me, egging each other on.
I take their blows without moving. The second nerve detonator has done for me. I cannot move a muscle.
The kit still lies, unmoving, on the floor when she fell. One of the guards looks over at her, but the others shake their heads to warn him off.
To my relief, he takes heed of their warning.
Good. It seems they learned their lesson the first time.
It is just as well. I cannot fight, or even stand.
I cannot even move a finger.
Not even to protect her.
Hannah
I struggle to a sitting position, my head pounding as if I have been run over by a ten-ton truck. The movement makes me nauseous, and I lean over to retch onto the floor next to me. There is little in my stomach except bile. When I am finished, there is nothing left at all.
It’s not just my head. Every part of me aches.
My vision is fuzzy: the walls of the cage are swimming in and out of focus, and I’m seeing double. I hold my head very still and blink a couple of times, and my vision clears.
Taark is lying on the bare floor of the cell, unmoving.
Oh God.
My memories return in scattered pieces. The oily claw-man shocked him senseless with some sort of weapon he carried and then, once he was helpless on the ground, came into the cage and kicked him savagely in the ribs and in the head. All because Taark wouldn’t pose and posture for the camera in the way they wanted him to. As if he were no better than those disgusting lizard men.
I get up onto my knees and crawl over to him. Is he even still alive? Or have they beaten him to a pulp and left him to die on the ground like a beast?
There is little sign of life in him. I put one hand on his chest. His skin is warm to the touch and his chest is rising and sinking with every shallow breath. A tiny but unmistakable flicker of movement.
His face is swollen on both sides, his nose looks broken and a dribble of dried blood is crusted at the corner of his mouth. I run my hands over the rest of him checking for injuries. His body is covered in bumps and bruises, but nothing seems to be obviously broken. I am worried about his ribs, though. He has significant bruising along one side and the whole area looks swollen and inflamed.
The only thing I have to tape them up with is the blanket. I wrestle with my conscience as I shake it out on the floor next to him. If I tear it up into strips, we will be left with nothing to cover us, and the cage is cold.
If it gets too cold, hypothermia will kill us both, and quicker than broken ribs will kill him. And if they have punctured his lungs, all the wrapping in the world won’t save him.
The fabric holds tight when I try to rip it apart. Ragged as they are, they are well-made. I lie the blanket over him and tuck in the edges under him so that it functions as a temporary wrapping. It should help to keep him immobile so he doesn’t hurt himself further, and protect him from the worst of the chill.
How can he possibly fight the stinking lizard men in this condition?
Maybe that is just the point. Taark is so sure that he is going to die. Maybe the truth is that they don’t want him to be able to fight the lizard men, and beating him to near death is their way of making sure he can’t. It’s hardly fair, but I don’t think playing fair is high on their list of priorities.
In this cage, with its diffused half-light trickling in through the tiny window, I can’t tell what time of the day it is. It could be early morning or late evening or anything in between.
I decide that it doesn’t matter. Even though I’ve just regained consciousness after being knocked out, I’m exhausted.
I tuck myself next to Taark on his uninjured side, taking care not to jostle him, and hug close to his warmth.
I wake sometime later. Taark is restless in his sleep, and his body is hot. Half-asleep still, I pull the blanket away from his ribs to cool him down, but the heat is coming from inside him.
He’s still sleeping, despite his burning fever. Or maybe he has not yet regained consciousness. After the beating he took, I would not be surprised if he never woke up again. They may well have damaged something inside him.
I look at him more closely in the dimness and put my ear to his chest. I don’t like the rattling I hear in his lungs. His breathing is labored, his skin is clammy and pale, and his lips are dry and cracked.
I’ve seen enough sick animals in my life to know that he is bad. Very bad.
I have no x-ray machine to see what is broken, no needles to draw his blood, and no lab to test his blood to see what is wrong with him even if I could draw it. I have no antibiotics to slow or halt the infection that rages
within him. No bandage to keep out the dirt. Not even any painkillers to ease his suffering. There is so little I can do for him.
Some time while I was asleep, the guards pushed another bowl of water through the bars. I drag it over next to him and trickle a few drops into his mouth. I dare not give him too much in case he chokes on it.
He manages to swallow, and I trickle in a little more, a drop at a time.
I can make sure he doesn’t die of thirst. That much, at least, I can do.
If he dies, I will not be far behind him. I can be pretty confident about that. A sick and injured claw man will stand no chance at all against the lizards. And without him alive and able to protect me, I have no hope at all.
My stomach rebels at the thought and I swallow to keep my nausea at bay. Where there is life, there is hope.
There is always hope.
He has to recover. He simply has to.
Slowly the hours go by and the water in the bowl diminishes. A single guard comes by once and pushes in another bowl of food. It tastes worse than the first bowl, but I choke down a few mouthfuls, leaving the lion’s share for Taark for when he wakes up. He will need it to build up his strength.
I have almost despaired of him ever waking up again when his eyelids flutter. “Water,” he croaks.
The water trickles into his mouth and he swallows greedily a few times before turning his head to the side. “Enough.”
I put my hand on his head to check his temperature. His forehead seems marginally cooler. “How are you feeling?”
He raises himself onto one elbow, moving as slowly as a man of ninety-five. Every movement clearly pains him. “I’ve been hit twice with a nerve detonator and then beaten until I collapsed.” His voice sounds hoarse, like it hurts him to talk. “How do you think I feel?”
“Like shit?” I offer.
A ghost of a smile plays across his grim features. “Yeah. I feel like shit.”
Taark
My injuries heal quickly enough. The guards didn’t do me any lasting damage; not out of concern for my well-being, I’m sure. They want to preserve my life for now, so I can provide them with entertainment in the Games.
Mostly I am bruised and battered, and my chest hurts when I cough.
I will live.
For now.
Time falls heavy on my hands, stuck in a cage. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing to engage my mind.
The kit feels the crushing boredom as much as I do. “Tell me something about yourself,” she demands.
I grunt at her, in no mood to be sharing confidences. What can she possibly do with such information?
“You know about me already,” she continues, unabashed. “I’m twenty-five. From Earth. A little town in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. My parents are divorced. I have two baby brothers, who are probably scouring the streets looking for me.” Her voice gives a little hitch. “I’m single. Unattached. I broke it off with my last boyfriend nearly a year ago. We just weren’t right for each other. But I’m not a virgin. I wasn’t even before you...before we…” And her voice trails off.
Her embarrassment amuses me. I’m not sure why she chooses that topic of conversation if it makes her uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect you were.”
She gives a humph and starts pacing again. Ten small steps to the edge of the cell and then ten steps back again. I can do it in five, but then I am a lot taller than she is and my legs are longer.
“I’m a vet,” she continues. “I own my own business treating sick animals. Mostly pampered dogs and cats that are kept as house pets. There’s usually not much wrong with them that a strict diet and a few weeks of running around outside wouldn’t cure. I treat the odd bunny rabbit, too. I like the ones with the big floppy ears.”
She sighs. “Even if I manage to return home, I won’t have much of a home to return to. My business will be ruined. And I will be kicked out of my condo if I don’t pay the rent on time. It was due the week after I was taken. I wish I knew what day it is. My rent is probably overdue already.”
The thought seems to disturb her unduly. “Forget about it,” I advise her. “You will never be going back to the home you once knew.”
My words do not comfort her. To my consternation, she starts to cry. “Why do you always have to be so mean?” she asks between hiccups.
I did not intend my words to be taken as meanness. Just as truth. I retreat to the corner and silently begin to stretch my muscles out.
The longer they keep me caged, the more of my edge I will lose. A warrior depends on his edge to survive in the heat of the fight.
My stretching done, I start on a regime of exercises that can be completed in such a small space, using my body weight as a counterbalance. Before the kit came, I had been doing them every day. Her arrival upset my routine, and the damage I suffered at the hands of the guards set me back still further.
I will be content if I can take a Galgog out with me when it is time for me to depart into the darkness.
That is the sum total of my ambition.
The kit watches me in silence for a while. “Why are you bothering to exercise?” she asks, a nasty tone in her voice.
I shrug and do not answer her.
“It’s a waste of time. Seeing as you are so sure you are going to die.”
I shrug again. “We can always fuck again if you prefer. Or would you consider that a waste of time, too?” My words start out as a jest, but the joke is on me. At the thought of tasting her sweet body again, my body reacts. I angle myself away from her so she cannot see my growing erection. She is in the mood for fighting, not fucking.
Her glare could curdle milk at twenty paces. “I don’t even know why I looked after you when you were unconscious. I could have just let you alone to die of thirst.”
I would not have died, but I would have taken longer to heal. “Thank you for giving me the water.”
She stomps her feet and glares at me, suddenly upset. “I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask?”
I do not understand her quicksilver moods, but I empathize with her pain. I, too, want to go home. “Not too much to ask. But more than I can give you. More, I fear, than you will ever get.”
She huffs. “You are no good to anyone. Just another filthy claw man. A no-good, rotten criminal.”
I can smell the frustration rolling off her in waves, so my reply is kinder than it might otherwise have been. “I am no criminal. I have broken no laws.”
“Then why are you locked up in here with me?” she cries. “You must have done something so awful they want to kill you.”
There is no need for her to know my whole sordid life history. “It’s complicated.”
“So?” she throws out at me in challenge. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to do or some other place to be. We’re locked up here together. You may as well talk to me.”
She has a point. “Let’s just say that I angered someone in power, and he didn’t take too kindly to it. He had my friend murdered, then threw me in here as an example to others so they can see what happens when you get on his shit list.”
“He must be someone very important to be able to get away with that.”
The Emperor rules my entire home planet, as well as a number of subsidiary plants used for mining and the odd pleasure planet. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“What did you do that was so bad? Rob his house? Dent his sports car? Sleep with his wife?”
My lip curls. “I would not mate with that harpy if she were the only woman around and I was hopped up on erotalia so bad I couldn’t see straight. Just one look at her and my cock would shrivel in on itself.”
She huffs again. “Then what did you do?”
Clearly there is no escaping her curiosity. She is not going to give up until I tell her. “We disagree on the way he rules the planetary system. I consider him to be a tyrant. Corrupt, greedy, venal. More concerned about holding on to power at any cost and lining his own pockets than anything else. He is a
disgrace to his lineage and deserves neither my loyalty nor my respect. I made the mistake of expressing my views aloud in the presence of one of his spies. He took exception to my honesty and had me thrown in here.”
“He sounds like a real peach.”
I don’t know what a peach is, but I assume it’s something bad where she comes from. “Yes,” I say. “He is. A complete peach.”
Hannah
I’m ridiculously glad that Taark isn’t a murderer, or worse. Saying something nasty about a powerful man seems like such a small thing to land yourself on Death Row for.
I can believe it though.
After all, I did nothing at all to land myself here but get myself picked up by some vile intergalactic slave traders. And I’m on Death Row just as much as Taark is.
A noise from outside grabs my attention. It sounds like a cross between a screech and a whistle, followed by a low moan of pain.
I stand on my tiptoes and look out of the high, barred window.
The sight outside has me quickly jumping backwards and away from the opening.
Taark looks up at me expectantly.
“The lizard men,” I hiss between my teeth. “One of them is out there. Just outside the window.”
Just then, a stench of lizard wafts in through the open window, making me gag.
Taark wrinkles his nose but says nothing. He stays squatting on his haunches, contemplating. Probably still resigning himself to dying.
His fatalism makes me want to hit him.
Hard.
Carefully I move closer to the window, one hand covering my nose and mouth.
The lizard man, the big one who looks like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, is doing a version of a push up against the wall right outside my window. He grunts as he moves. “Mereek,” he mutters. “Mereek the strong. Mereek the champion.”
Mereek the deluded.
The arena is still in shadow and a chilly breeze is coming in through the open bars. Mereek moves slowly, sluggishly. For all his strength, he is not fast.
I look hard, but I cannot see the woman who has been caged with him. She must be hiding out of my sight. I hope she is safely out of Mereek’s sight for now, too.