Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  The noise of the chanting crowd rose steadily behind the second door that lead to the fighting ring. Something or someone was getting the audience excited. Jetta pressed her eye to the space between the wall and the door to get a better look. From what she could see, the ring was carpeted with sand or dirt. Blocks of concrete were scattered about, with heaps of bones and a few broken weapons peeking out from underneath the rubble. There wasn’t action she could see. At least not yet.

  Out of nervous habit, Jetta rubbed the back of her neck. It felt unusually sore, and when she touched the spot where her biochip used to be, her arms and legs tingled. She thought back to Dr. Kaoto’s warning: “Improper removal of a biochip can cause hallucinations, seizures, paralysis—even death.”

  “Skucheka,” she whispered, rapping her head with her knuckles. This can’t be happening now, especially not when I’m about to fight.

  Her concern about the biochip faded into the background as the announcer called for the crowd’s attention.

  “Laaaaadies and gentlemen, welcome to the night’s main event! We have a phenomenal show for you today here at the Razor Dome. We promise you the best, most gruesome fights Old Earth has to offer!”

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  Jetta doubled over and hugged her stomach. There is so much energy in the air, so many charged emotions.

  The cuff started to vibrate on her ankle, and her mouth immediately went dry, her body anticipating the awful consequence to follow if she couldn’t control herself.

  Block them out! she commanded herself. She had done it thousands of times before, having learned how to protect herself from dangerous minds when she was very little. Why couldn’t she do it now?

  Something is different—

  Something unbound inside her like an uncoiling snake. She gritted her teeth.

  —Their emotions are so much stronger in my head—

  “Do you want to see blood?” the announcer asked.

  “Yes!” the crowd screamed back.

  Beads of sweat soaked into the helmet’s padding. Her heart pounded in her chest, driving a curious need to the forefront of her awareness. Block them out!

  (You don’t want to,) a dark voice whispered inside her. (Let them inside you. Let them nourish you.)

  “Do you want to see carnage?” the announcer cried.

  The crowd responded even louder this time. “Yes!”

  Jetta pawed at the buzzing shock cuff, trying in vain to remove it. The voice inside her grew impatient, its hunger carving into her belly. (Let them inside you!)

  The announcer lowered his voice. “Do you want to see death?”

  Adrenalized, the crowd surged. Jetta fell flat on her back as electricity danced through her body. The shock, small by comparison to the whopping doses from Bossy and Agracia, left her trembling and nauseous.

  After several heart-pounding minutes, Jetta pulled herself back up.

  I’m okay, she told herself repeatedly. (At least the voice is gone.)

  The observation came with little comfort. Whatever it was inside her that had reacted to the bloodlust of the crowd would have taken control of her if it hadn’t been for the shock cuff. Jetta shuddered at the thought.

  What is happening to me?

  With no time to wallow, Jetta wedged herself into the break as far as she could to watch the first fight. Two humans, outfitted with terrestrial weapons, circled each other in the sand. One wielded a chainsaw with a broken motor and wore an iron mask crowned with a column of spikes. The other, large and lumbering, held a mace in each hand and let out a roaring shriek as he charged.

  This is a poorly matched fight, Jetta thought as the crowd cheered on the fighters. The larger man with the two maces moved with surprising speed, making a raw, pulpy mess of the fighter with the broken chainsaw. Jetta backed up to avoid the spray of blood but didn’t look away as the man with the maces finished the job with obvious delight.

  (You want more.)

  Jetta shook her head and braced her stomach. I don’t want these thoughts! She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of her siblings. They would be so ashamed of me.

  Her eyes popped open at the victor’s battle cry. With sickened fascination she watched as he wound his opponent’s pink intestines around his neck like a wreath.

  This is very, very wrong—I shouldn’t like this, Jetta thought, breathing hard as unwanted and frightening feelings percolated through her mind. She tasted the victor’s savagery, and the growing need of the crowd.

  (Blood.)

  “Torjas! Torjas! Torjas!”

  (Death.)

  The audience chanted his name, calling for more, feeding the unwelcome hunger in her belly until she didn’t want to hear his name anymore.

  No, me, she thought, smiling. I want the crowd to cheer for me.

  The shock cuff buzzed. Jetta bit her lip and braced her head in her hands as fear subdued the fires inside her.

  (Do not let anything stop you,) the voice called.

  “No,” she whispered back. Oh Gods—I’m either going to be taken by the ferocity of the stadium and be electrocuted to death—or I’ll go insane.

  “And now, for your entertainment,” the announcer said. “I am pleased to introduce our newest fighter. The most sinister of all criminal masterminds, the most notorious killer—the bane of mankind. I give you Doctor Death!”

  “Please, help me,” Jetta pleaded to any listening deity as holding box rattled to life. The door leading to the arena groaned and squeaked as it lifted off its cradle.

  “Fight good. Or else,” Agracia said from behind the first door.

  Jetta stayed in the cage. The audience booed and hissed, some throwing things at her, but she didn’t budge. They didn’t know what’s at stake.

  (They don’t know your power.)

  “Get in there,” Agracia said. The shock cuff gave her a zap, sending a bolt rocketing up to her skull.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Jetta said between gasps. The back of her neck tingled where she had dug out the biochip, tensing her arms and legs. “This is a really bad idea.”

  “Quit the drama,” Agracia replied apathetically.

  Not wanting to be shocked again, Jetta collected herself off the floor and stumbled into the ring.

  Jetta had made public appearances after the defeat of the Motti, and she had stood in front of audiences both celebratory and incensed, but nothing in her life had prepared her for the thunderous mass of the fighting-ring crowd. Concrete benches sloped up and away from the center stage in tiers; Jetta counted at least forty rows through the strata of cigarette smoke before they became too hard to differentiate. People, packed in shoulder to shoulder, became a sea of movement and unfiltered energy surrounding her on all sides.

  Panting for breath, Jetta tasted the salty dampness of blood and perspiration lingering in the air. I’m going to suffocate—

  Instinctively she took cover behind one of the blocks of concrete in the ring, trying to shield herself from the bombardment of infectious lust that electrified the dome within the inner dimensions.

  I have to calm down, she thought as the crowd roared and cheered. I have to think.

  For the second time since she arrived on Earth, she found herself thanking the stars for something she normally despised. She closed her eyes, sifting through her borrowed memories, holding onto the experiences that could see her through this. Every officer she had ever gleaned memories from had advanced combat training, and between the courses she had taken in the Dominion Academy and the Alliance military, she had a thousand lifetimes of fighting experience.

  After taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. I can do this.

  Even without the borrowed experience, her brief time on Fiorah fighting bigger kids and surviving the mines was physically tougher than anything she would ever face again. The most important thing is to keep my wits, she told herself. I can’t let my anger—or the crowd’s violent desires—get to me.

  Calmer, Je
tta took in her surroundings. The dome had been cheaply constructed. Most of the material looked like scrap metal, bringing together various eras of spaceflight, sea voyage, and land exploration. She noticed the flattened shell of an old gas-operated car integrated into the arched support structure and the wing of an airplane used as a cross-beam. The long, empty fuselage of what was probably a shuttle rocket had been halved, giving rise to refreshment booths behind the rows of people.

  Satisfied with her initial assessment, she studied to the center of the dome. Precariously hung above the ring was a thicket of projection and recording gear, most of which looked broken. A big spotlight was trained on the announcer hovering safely above the floor in a lift as he read from a list of sponsors. Jetta determined that he was not an ideal target, even if she could find a projectile to throw at him. He isn’t the one holding the remote.

  Jetta analyzed the hotwire fence that separated the fighters from the audience. It crackled and fizzed as the audience hurled bottles and garbage toward the ring. Having been shocked more times than she ever wanted, she decided that breaking through it was probably not an option she wanted to explore.

  “Fighting Doctor Death is your hometown hero, Rigger Mortis!” the announcer said.

  Jetta looked for weapons lying around but didn’t find much that would be helpful, especially when she saw her competition.

  Skucheka—

  A tall, muscular man, battle-worn and heavily armored, stepped through the cage doors on the other side of the arena.

  Well, at least he’s human, Jetta thought, spotting his sidearm and a large hunting knife.

  Doubt edged its way into her thoughts. Those two idiot Jocks are probably betting heavily on me because of my reputation and capabilities—but they’ve handicapped me without my talents.

  Besides, she said, testing the soreness of her broken arm. I’m not fully recovered, and I’ve never fought for sport.

  Inner demons replied: (But you’ve fought to survive,) they said, conjuring up conflicting images of a smoldering starships and dead child laborers. (And won.)

  “Come on, little one!” Rigger Mortis said, taking out his firearm and aiming it at her head. “You’re making this too easy.”

  Jetta didn’t move. This is cheap, she seethed. It’s a mockery of everything I’ve ever endured.

  All of it—the crowd cheering for her death, the announcer goading her to fight, Agracia and Bossy screaming obscenities back at the crowd—was a joke.

  I risked everything to save the Starways, these people, and this is how they repay me? Bloodbath for sport, the thrill of brutality—a primitive form of entertainment. I don’t understand it.

  (You understand it all too well.)

  She didn’t feel the bullet that grazed her shoulder, ripping through her flesh. The voice inside her took away her pain and fear.

  (You understand what they want. Give it to them.)

  Jetta stood transfixed by the dark whisperings, oblivious to her enemy.

  (They care nothing for you. Give them what they seek.)

  A seed of anger, small and hot, flared in her chest. With every beat of her heart it grew hotter and hotter, stirring a rumble in her throat, a curious ache in her limbs. Pure, mindless reflex took over rational thinking. She lost sight of anything that had ever been or ever could be. There was only now, and the terrible need inside her.

  Rigger Mortis approached her, unsheathing his hunting knife. Crusts of dried blood and flecks of skin dirtied the blade from earlier kills. She took in the scar across his nose, the missing teeth in his crooked mouth, his soulless eyes. Yes, I see you.

  Focused and precise, he locked in on her position. She sensed his enjoyment, his lethal skill, stirring the darkest echoes of her past.

  (He is all that you despise.)

  Something snapped. As he thrust his knife towards her belly, she shot to one side, smashing her knee into his gut and throwing her body weight against his. Not expecting her to move so quickly or hit so hard, he fell backwards, his left arm shattering against a sharp edge of concrete. He screamed in pain as white bone poked through skin, and the crowd went wild.

  He dropped the knife. It lay at his feet as he cradled his broken arm, but she didn’t move to take it. When he lunged for it, she kicked it away, standing over him, staring into his eyes, waiting for him to make his move. No longer emotional, Jetta allowed her instincts to guide her, fear and apprehension transforming into cold calculation.

  (Let them taste your power.)

  He reached for his sidearm, but Jetta kicked him square in the face, breaking his nose, blood spurting from his nostrils. Dazed, Rigger Mortis tried to stand up, but she swept his feet out from under him, and he cracked his head against the concrete block. Blood and saliva frothed at the corners of his mouth as he collapsed to the ground, body jerking.

  “The winner!” the announcer called. The crowd went wild, chanting and screaming. Jetta didn’t immediately recognize the English word, but after the announcer pointed his thumb towards the ground, she inferred his meaning. “The crowd has spoken!”

  I have to end the match, she realized. Conflicted, she looked up to see Agracia and Bossy in the stands, laughing and throwing their beer bottles at the hotwire, jubilant at their victory.

  Jetta looked back down at her competitor. What am I doing?

  The sanguineous hunger bubbled up from deep inside her. (Taste the copper of his blood as it spills from his body. Watch as the light in his eyes dies. Feel the crimson wetness on your hands when the fragile pulse of life inside him stills.)

  Yes, she thought. This is what I want.

  The voice within the shadows whispered ever so sweetly to her. (Feel his fear.)

  Jetta tipped her head back and smiled, the terror of Rigger Mortis tantalizing her senses. The shock cuff buzzed wildly, but she didn’t care. Not now, not when she was this close to sating her darkest desires.

  (Kill him.)

  Before she knew it, her hands wrapped around her competitor’s neck. His face turned red as she increased the pressure, the fire in her belly burning hot as Rigger Mortis struggled helplessly.

  I am powerful—indomitable—insatiable—

  The crowd went wild, chanting her name, the entire dome rumbling with the thrills of the audience.

  “Doctor Death! Doctor Death!”

  (KILL HIM.)

  A familiar voice whispered in her ear from across the stars. (Listen to yourself.)

  Something inside her gave way. A feeling of interconnectedness overcame her, one that she had only felt when Jahx was near, jerking her away from her fury. As the magnitude of her desires paled, an empty coldness settled into her stomach.

  “What am I doing?” she whispered, slowly releasing her grip as the nauseating reality took hold.

  Jetta looked at her hands, suddenly confused. I’m not a killer—am I? The faces of her brother and sister flashed through her mind. No, I’m the protector, even though I’ve had to fight for everything in my life, she thought bitterly.

  Another voice sounded from the deeps. (But you don’t have to be a murderer.)

  The voice from the shadows laughed. (You’re weak, like Jahx. His compassion was his undoing.)

  “No!” Jetta screamed, racking her head with her fist. I am not a killer!

  Jetta choked back her tears as she knelt beside her competitor, taking his head in her hands. The crowd screamed and cheered, but instead of finishing him off, she bent forward, touching his forehead, trying to glean his essence before it was too late.

  The shock cuff zapped her back, sending her to the ground. She crawled away coughing and wheezing while the crowd booed and hissed.

  “Looks like Doctor Death needs a little help,” the announcer said. “Send in the pack!”

  The crowd roared with excitement. Instinctively Jetta grabbed for Rigger Mortis’ hunting knife and sidearm as a series of sirens blasted overhead. Keeping low, she ran toward cover as the lights dimmed and generated fog poured from
two of the holding boxes.

  I can handle more than one thug, she told herself as the spotlights veered towards the cage doors opening to her left.

  A hush came over the crowd. Low growls resonated from the cages, and through the smoke Jetta caught a glimpse of hungry yellow eyes.

  That’s not human—

  Cursing in Fiorahian, Jetta snuck behind a concrete pillar, trying to get a better view. To her surprise, Rigger Mortis had come around, rolling on his side and propping himself up against the concrete block.

  “Give me the gun!” he screamed at her, his eyes wild with fear. “Give me the chakking gun!”

  Sensing the changing nature of the competition, Jetta slid it to him.

  A large, gray paw stepped out of the cage. Then two. Four. A massive wolf emerged, his body low to the ground, ears pinned back. Another wolf, this one black and missing an eye, darted around the ring, circling Rigger Mortis and Jetta. Two more emerged, one a lighter gray and the other white, white fangs glistening as they all spread out around the ring.

  Jetta climbed up on top of a pillar as Rigger Mortis shot wildly at the gray wolf. The massive creature dodged his bullets with surprising speed and grace, then leapt into the air and came down on Rigger Mortis with his entire weight.

  “Help me!” he screamed just before the wolf tore out his throat. The crowd reacted with deafening approval, the lights in the dome flickering until the fanfare died down.

  This is no place to hide, she thought as she watched the pack devour her former competitor in less than fifteen seconds. I’ve never seen—or stolen memories of—wolves this huge. They must be genetically manipulated, or have mutated by the planet’s poisons.

  They circled her, growling and snapping their blood-stained teeth, the white and black ones taking turns lunging at her.

  They’ve got to be at least 95 kilograms, she guessed, dodging their attacks. There’s little chance I could take out one of them, let alone four.