by R. M. Meluch
Yeah. That won’t hurt at all.
“What a fog ducking mess.”
And that wasn’t even the worst of all possible nightmares. What tore her up was that she might never get to see that look of hurt betrayal and disappointment on Thomas Ryder Steele’s face.
Thomas was going into a rigged fight to the death in a Roman arena.
15 April 2448
Columbia City, Beta Centauri
Centauri Star System
Near Space
Steele received instructions from a hologram. No Roman felt safe breathing the same air as the legendary Adamas.
“Gladiator,” a holoimage of the lanista greeted Steele.
The lanista’s eyes were elaborately painted like a figure in an Egyptian tomb. A tomb would be a good place for him.
“Go to hell,” Steele said.
“Pay attention, Adamas, if you want to live. And we truly do want you to live, but it’s not a given. You need to earn it.
“Your first opponent will be the chimaera. To kill it, you need to stab it in the heart, but that’s not possible until you do all of these first—all of these. Pay attention.”
The hologram’s forefinger jutted up. “First. Cut off its tail. Mind you, the tail’s teeth are poison.”
Steele’s scowl deepened. The tail’s teeth?
The lanista’s middle finger flipped up alongside the forefinger. “Second. Cut off one of the goat’s horns. Mind you, the horns are poison tipped.”
Another finger. “Third: Cut off the goat head.”
Another finger. “Fourth: Break the lion’s teeth.”
Out came the thumb. “Fifth: Slice off a hank of mane.”
The other forefinger. “Sixth: Put out an eye.
“Do all those, then you will—” The lanista stopped and revised slyly. “You might be able to stab the chimaera in the heart.”
Steele said in dull surprise as he realized, “It’s programmed.”
“Yes. And when I tell you that you can’t stab it in the heart until you do all prerequisites, I mean it. Stay alive. We want this to be entertaining. It’s the inaugural combat. We’re expecting great things of Adamas. If you play a defensive game, the chimaera is programmed to—well, I shouldn’t tell you. So look alive, so to say. Tail. Horn. Head. Teeth. Mane. Eye. Heart. Questions?”
“What’s a chimaera?”
The holoimage gave an annoyed huff. “You really are ignorant beef, aren’t you.” He produced another holoimage.
The chimaera was a full-sized lion, except that it had the head of a wickedly horned goat growing out of its left side. And the goat wasn’t a tame little milk nanny like Merrimack carried in her hold. This was an Asian kind of goat with long curved scimitars for horns. And there was a snake growing out of the chimaera’s ass where a lion tail was supposed to be, fanged-end out.
So that was what the lanista meant when he said the tail had poison teeth.
“Any more questions?”
“How far forward can that tail reach?”
“Can’t tell you. We don’t want this to look staged, you know.”
The space battleship Merrimack arrived at Beta Centauri and took up a geosynchronous orbit above the coliseum. Other spaceships wanted the position. Merrimack told them to move.
Far down below, the arena rocked to the pounding chant of A-da-mas! A-da-mas! Romulus, arrayed like an opera star in his royal box, joined the chant.
Fountains of fireworks blazed upward. Expectation rose and spread like a contagion.
An iron portcullis rattled up.
A century of towering Roman soldiers marched out in box formation, all arrayed in antique bronze armor. Inside the hollow center of the precision marching block walked one shorter blond man.
The crowd laughed at the excessive guards, and they cheered, stomped, and chanted. “A-da-mas!”
Calli breathed, “Steele!”
“Is it really?” Dingo asked.
Valid question. The lupes might have fashioned a duplicate. They had his DNA.
This man’s blue eyes glanced all around, wary and searching.
He looked straight up, where Merrimack was, his face grim and determined, as if he knew he was looking someone straight in the eyes. Maybe he could see Merrimack as a bright day star through the energy dome. He looked like a man who had been here before.
“That’s Steele,” Calli said.
The crowd was screeching, throwing flowers.
The box formation marched to a halt.
The box opened. Steele dashed out.
The box closed and marched back to the gate, which opened for them. They left behind a sword in the sand. The iron gate clattered shut.
“Where’s his helmet? They didn’t give him a helmet!”
“Steele doesn’t like helmets,” Calli said.
Captain Carmel summoned her Legal Officer to the command deck. “Mister Buchanan. Is Romulus a military target?”
Rob Roy Buchanan told her, “Captain, you may fire on Romulus if you have a clear shot without collaterals.”
“Dingo! Do we have a lock on Romulus?”
“Negative, sir. They have a full energy dome over the coliseum with jammers and deflectors on their deflectors. Any inbound shot will go wild.”
Acting WinCo Cain Salvador volunteered. “I can take a squadron down. We can get through the dome slow.”
“You’ll get through dead,” said Commander Ryan. Dingo was a hell rider himself. If the Dingo shied off a sortie, it really was a suicide run.
“Then find another way,” Captain Carmel ordered. “Get my Marine out of there!”
TR Steele didn’t like games. Didn’t want to be here in this vast bowl surrounded by thousands of cheering Romans.
They’d tricked him out in a short tunic, a Roman breastplate, boots, and a shield. They’d given him a helmet. But he’d pulled that off back in the elevator.
His escort of one hundred bronze-clad baboons left behind a short sword, the gladius, when they retreated from the arena. He retrieved it, then walked around the ring, looking for anything useful in the things thrown from the stands.
A heavy metal gate at the edge of the arena rattled up.
The chimaera burst from its cage. It was bigger than he expected. Twice the size of a normal lion.
It charged at him, roaring. Sounded like a real lion. Steele waited for it.
The three-headed beast closed the distance in seconds. Steele held his position until he could smell the animal musk. He felt its heat.
Then he faked left. The lion went toward the motion. Steele reversed and sprang right, toward the goatless side of the chimaera, his sword raised to stab it in the ribs, but in an instant the goat’s long curved horns jabbed over the lion’s back in a slicing arc, all the way over and around the lion torso. Steele lurched back scarcely in time.
Off balance, he staggered away.
The chimaera turned away. Its snake tail coiled and struck. Only by muscle reflex did Steele catch the bite on his shield. Without thought, he followed through with a sword stroke.
Sheared the serpent head off.
The head fell to the sand, fanged mouth open, angry red eyes glaring.
The attached part of the tail lashed about in a horror show spectacle. It spurted blood like a hose under pressure.
Steele ducked and sprinted to the side.
The monster body turned full round. One gigantic lion forepaw reached for him, its enormous black dagger claws spread wide. Steele jumped inside its reach, throwing his back flat against the monster’s hot furry side. It felt alive.
The goat horns came stabbing over the lion’s back again. Steele thrust his shield up. Caught the blow square, but one goat horn punched straight through the metal.
And stuck.
The shield’s
metal frame was caught on the horn’s ridges. The goat head lifted, pulling the shield up with it, dragging Steele’s arm up. He needed to let go of the shield. Now. Now. The forearm strap held fast. He writhed, drawn up on his toes.
His feet left the ground.
His body stretched long, dragged by his shield, up and backward across the body of the lion and over the top.
The goat head bowed abruptly, furiously down. Steele drew his knees in. Just got his feet under him as the goat slammed him into the sand on the other side of the beast. Hard. The impact jammed his shins.
Splintered light glinted before his eyes.
The ridged goat horn was still stuck in his shield. The poisoned tip was right there, scraping his breastplate, smoldering.
The goat head wagged.
With all his weight and force Steele wrenched his shield around tight. A great cracking hammered his eardrums. That was the horn snapping. The poisoned end slid off his breastplate and dropped to the sand. The goat head lifted away without him.
Steele immediately twisted round to catch the lion’s open jaws on his shield. He countered with his sword, amazed to find it still in his grip, amazed he hadn’t killed himself with it while the beast threw him around.
His sword stroke opened up one side of the lion’s enormous face and took out one eye. It gave a screeching roar. Steele reverse slashed across the lion’s gaping mouth.
Giant teeth flew in a wide scatter. Steele stabbed the lion’s other eye and scrambled away. Tried to scramble. His boot soles slid in the sand.
The lion reared. Came down—
On Steele’s upthrust sword. The blade plunged deep inside the lion’s chest. Brought Steele to his knees. The blood was warm as if the creature were living. The blood was slick.
The sword slipped out of his hand as the lion bucked backward, taking the sword with it.
Steele scrambled to his feet. The thing had to be mortally wounded.
But of course it wasn’t alive in the first place, so it wasn’t dying.
The monster’s whipping tail was still shooting blood in a ridiculous spray. Red drops painted some of the lower seats. The spectators skittered back, laughing and jeering.
Steele circled around the chimaera, keeping away from its reaching forepaws. The blind monster turned with him. It knew where he was.
It followed Steele’s every motion as if it could see him. And Steele was getting the horrible idea that the chimaera really could see him.
He noticed it now. The lion head was blind but the damned goat head sticking out of its side was watching him with baleful eyes. Horizontal pupils narrowed at him.
The lanista had warned him that he needed to cut off the goat head before he could kill the beast.
The beast had his bloody sword.
Steele charged around to the lion’s hindquarters, seized the lashing, spurting tail and aimed it at the telltale goat’s eyes.
The goat head tossed upward, bugling. Steele dove under the lion body, hammered a paw away with his shield, and pulled his sword out of the chimaera’s chest. He scrambled clear of angry paws and stood up swinging. He brought his sword down on the goat’s neck, hacking it halfway through.
The head flopped down, hanging on its broad tendons. The lion head screamed. Another sword stroke and the goat head fell loose into the sand.
Steele rammed his shield into the lion’s face as it turned on him.
The lion reared. Steele danced in under its lifted paws and jabbed his sword into its ribcage. He skipped out to the side. That had to be a kill stroke.
The lion roared and turned with him, still alive and following his every move.
Despair sapped Steele’s strength. His limbs felt suddenly thick and sluggish. His shield weighed heavily.
He tried to think. What all did he need to do before he could kill this thing?
Tail. Horn. Goat head. Teeth. Mane. Eye.
Mane. He was missing the mane.
What kind an idiotic requirement was that? Cut off a piece of mane.
He stalked softly to within range. The lion seemed to see him. It lowered its head and hunkered down, lips drawn back.
The lion sprang at him.
Steele dove out of the way. The lion skidded around with a great spray of sand, its head still tracking him.
What the hell? Steele had removed its eyes.
Steele circled wide, looking for an opening.
It was useless.
The lion bellowed, its jaws spread wide, showing lots of jagged broken teeth. Its mammoth paws with their dagger claws sent up clouds of dusty sand as it launched itself into a gallop.
Steele turned and ran. Heard the boos. The chimaera stayed on his trail, unerring, turn for turn.
Steele glanced around the arena for an exit. Became aware of a block of teenaged boys in the ringside stands not booing. They were shouting and gesturing madly as if eager to help him. Fans. They pointed urgently.
To where the severed goat head was still moving, dragging itself across the sand by its remaining horn. The goat’s malevolent eyes blinked clear of blood. Watched him.
Even detached, the goat could still see him. Apparently that meant it could show the lion body where to go.
Steele dashed to the severed goat head and hacked its eyes out. Then he found the severed snakehead. Its red eyes watched him. The lion screamed in a sound like terror, and raced him to get to the snake eyes.
Steele got there first. Stomped down on the snake head. Felt it crush it under his boot.
Now the monster was blundering around, blind, lost. Without its goat head and snake tail it was mostly lion now—a lion with a mechanical refusal to die.
It lifted its wide nostrils in the air and snuffled. It cocked its head to listen, then charged in the general direction of Steele.
Steele let the beast come toward him. At the last moment he lunged aside, letting his sword sweep across the beast’s neck. He’d dodged too wide. His blade made only a shallow cut in the lion’s neck. But a great clump of mane dropped away with the stroke.
That was the last requirement. Cut off a hank of mane. Now he should be able to finish the beast.
He had to stab it in the heart.
He came at the chimaera from the flank and thrust his sword one more time deep into the barrel chest where the heart should be.
He barely kept a grip on his sword as the lion reared roaring, clawing the air.
Steele ran out from under its slashing claws.
The thing wasn’t dying. It came after him, head low, nostrils flaring.
You might be able to stab it in the heart, the lanista had said. The lanista had looked sly when he said the word might.
Might. What was the trick? Where did a chimaera keep its heart?
Damn it.
This was a game. Steele didn’t know how to play games.
He looked to his fans. The boys were making stabbing motions and pointing at something on the ground.
Yeah. He was supposed to stab the thing in the heart. The lanista had told him that.
Realized the lanista hadn’t told him what he might stab with.
Steele ran to the severed goat head and chopped off the goat’s remaining horn as the chimaera shuffled angrily toward him.
Steele should have noticed the burn mark on his breastplate where the first goat horn had scratched it. But he didn’t.
He dropped his sword and seized up the goat horn from the sand.
Instantly felt like he’d closed his hand on a molten poker. Pain lanced all the way up to his jaw. Pain like a solid thing. It felt to be pushing behind his eyes.
The horn dropped from his hand.
His palm was wet, red. He thought he glimpsed bone amid the dripping blood.
The chimaera sped up its advance. It came heavily gallo
ping, nodding. It seemed in agony. But it wasn’t an animal. It was a Roman manufactured thing.
Steele quickly tried to work his shield off his left forearm. The leather band stuck.
He needed to free up his left hand to hold a sword. Pain had transformed his right hand and arm into one solid burning useless weight.
He scrambled away from the chimaera’s charge. It reared, twisted round and pounced at the sand where he had been. The crowd sounds were mocking.
He cursed, losing strength.
Finally he got the damned shield off his left arm.
You might be able to stab the chimaera in the heart.
If he could hold a weapon. What weapon? The sword was useless for a kill stroke.
He couldn’t think.
He trotted to keep ahead of the shambling chimaera. The boos were growing loud.
Steele looked to the boys. They knew this game. They were trying to tell him something.
His vision blurred. What did they mean?
They were pantomiming. First they pantomimed the goat’s curving horns. Then they made stabbing motions.
The boys seemed to think he needed to use the goat horn to stab the lion’s heart.
That’s what he’d thought. But he couldn’t touch the goat horn. Weren’t these guys watching this farce?
Steele thrust his bloody palm at them for them to see.
The boys pulled at their hair. Oh great that they were frustrated. They weren’t helping. They were trying maybe to help, but he didn’t know what they meant.
This was a game. How did you think like a gamer?
Hair. What of hair?
It came back to him—that useless instruction to cut off a hank of mane. It was so useless that it had to have a purpose.
Hair. Mane.
He got it. Maybe.
The lion was hauling itself toward him. Steele flipped his sword around in his left hand and threw it like an overly large knife.
The blade jabbed and stuck in the beast’s broad brow.
The crowd loved him again. Steele loathed them.
As the beast pawed to get the sword out of its face, Steele charged past it and grabbed up the thick hank of mane he’d sheared off. He wrapped swaths of mane around each of his palms. Then he ran to one of the severed goat horns. He took a deep breath, shuddered, and closed one mane-padded hand around the goat horn.