Yes, I could self-disqualify, I think madly in that moment. There would be permanent shame and everything that goes with it, but I would live, live, live. . . .
I let the moment of weakness pass.
Deneb seems to understand my silence. He gives me that one “courtesy pause” as his fingers barely tighten around my throat, just before he begins to squeeze. . . .
As I steel myself for death, my panicked gaze strains outward like a bird, a fleeting lark. . . . That’s when I see the great screens switch and zoom in suddenly on the view of the Imperial balcony, in a sudden close-up. In that flickering instant, I see him—Aeson!
Yes, he’s still here, still watching! But—no! He is watching me die.
The Imperial Crown Prince is shown in the exact instant as he reacts to the sight of me—he gets up violently from his seat, with impossible maddened eyes. Yet, just as he rises, he is held back by someone—the view zooms out to show the Imperator’s own hand placed upon his son’s arm—and Aeson lowers himself back in his seat, his face again becoming stone. . . . His eyes—their expression dies. They go blank, they dim and fade. . . .
Aeson. . . .
I perceive all of this in one mad instant as I’m about to be strangled.
But then, for some inexplicable reason, Deneb Gratu lets go of my neck. “I will kill you—but not now. Maybe I’ll wait, out of respect for your Imperial Lord and Bridegroom.” And with those words he sends a mocking bow to the tiered rows of spectator seats, vaguely in the direction of the Imperial Seats in the distance.
I stand breathing hard, reeling in terror.
“Or maybe it’s because your Favorite Kill points are still rising, record-high. We have time. I’ll let you accrue those extraordinary AG points a while longer,” Deneb Gratu says, examining me. “You’re worth over a thousand now. So, no rush. You may live, for at least another hour.”
And with those words, the Red Athlete turns from me, as I’m still held by three of his teammates. “Bring her with us,” he says to his chosen Contenders. “We return home.”
“What about all of them?” One of his men with an Animal Handler logo points to all the random Contenders still held at gunpoint who stand around the remains of our old Safe Base containing my own teammates. These are the people who had been forced to destroy the scaffolding.
“Feel free to kill them for your own AG points,” Deneb says with a smile. “You all definitely earned them. Nice job, by the way.”
His cronies don’t have to be told twice.
I close my eyes as the gratuitous slaughter begins all around me.
Apparently, “home” is another Safe Base, the one claimed by Deneb Gratu’s team. It’s located on the opposite side of the Game Zone, in the general area of the Yellow column, one of the four corner posts that mark the perimeter of the arena. It’s also on an upper level of its structure.
After having crossed the entire length of the arena at a steady run, with me stumbling along in their midst, Gratu’s gang climbs the scaffolding rungs. I am somewhere in the center, prodded constantly and barely allowed to walk, with my hands freed just enough to hold on to the beams so I can climb on my own.
“Move it,” I’m told by grim-looking men and tall women—superior Contenders who threw in their lot with Deneb Gratu. Everyone’s particularly oversized and mean-looking, vaguely criminal types, the kind I imagine would take pleasure in the kill. Several of them have old scars along the face, neck, and hands, the only parts visible outside their Games uniforms. A few have menacing facial tattoos.
I climb the best I can, until we emerge on level five, similar to the other Safe Base. While ours was blue, this one is yellow. The structure is otherwise identical, with the veranda walkway circling its perimeter, a single door, and a light beacon sconce over a round four-color logo indicating Safe Base status. The door has been rigged with some kind of high-tech lock device, coded and sealed by their Technician, to prevent entry by anyone else in their absence—effectively making the Safe Base theirs indefinitely.
We go inside, Deneb Gratu, his nine other chosen Contenders, and myself. I am pushed down to sprawl on the floor against the wall, and then mostly ignored. Meanwhile the gang engages in small talk, jokes, and otherwise makes themselves comfortable. I watch them open water flasks, pass around food, nonchalantly use the toilet hole without any privacy barrier, and check weapons as they banter and watch their own surveillance screens.
It’s still early morning, but very soon I start losing track of time. However, I realize I’m out of immediate danger, at least for the moment. I’ve been claimed by Deneb Gratu as his personal kill, so until he decides to exercise his “right,” no one else here will touch me—this early in the Games, none of his team members would openly challenge him.
That’s when temporary relief rolls in. And with it, bodily sensation reasserts itself—general aches, awareness of nagging thirst and hunger—since I’ve had nothing since last night—and a real need to use the toilet.
Instead of focusing on my bodily needs, I think about what just happened.
Poor Aeson! What he must’ve been going through, seeing me out there! So he witnessed it, saw everything. . . . I’m not surprised he stayed, but I am somewhat curious that the Imperator did too. Unlike the ordinary spectators who might stay for the entirety of the Games, I somehow assumed the Imperator would find it beneath him, and depart early, or make only brief appearances throughout. . . .
And what of my teammates still locked in that collapsed Safe Base? And oh my God, poor Lolu, she just lost her brother. . . .
My heart starts to pound again with stress. So I try to not to think and instead focus on the moment. After all, I’m still alive. I huddle on the floor and control my breath . . . breathe in, breathe out.
At some point one of the Contenders turns to me and prods me with his foot. He’s an Entrepreneur, gaunt and dark-skinned, so that his White uniform stands in sharp contrast. “So . . . My Imperial Lady,” he says mockingly. “What kind of madness possessed you to compete in the Games of the Atlantis Grail?”
“Don’t talk to her, Fadut,” the other White Contender says, a curvy tall woman who’s a Vocalist like me. Her gilded hair is up in a braided bun and she has intense unblinking eyes, dark and suspicious.
Fadut the Entrepreneur shrugs. “I’m really curious. Why would a newly arrived Earthie chosen by the Imperial Crown Prince as his Bride, suddenly want to throw it all away? Are all Earth refugees this crazy, or just this one?”
“Can’t you tell Xofati’s jealous of another Vocalist?” the team Technician says, looking up from his gadgets.
The Vocalist makes a sound of derision. “Why would I be jealous? She’s nothing. She will be dead in a few hours when Deneb decides to claim her points. I’m only telling Fadut not to waste his time.”
“So thoughtful of you, Xofati,” says the other Red in the room, a huge Warrior with over-defined muscles and bulging arms. “You’re not of much use either. Our truce is a fragile thing. I could use a few easy AG points, and you won’t be missed.”
“Easy?” Xofati snaps around to glare at the Warrior. “I’ll show you easy when I cut off your—”
“Enough,” Deneb Gratu says, without looking at any of the speakers, as he watches the arena from his comfortable place before the surveillance screens. He is sitting in a crouch near the controls, and next to him is the Blue Scientist, a long-haired young man with slim quick fingers. Glancing at him I’m immediately mesmerized by the strange rapid motions he makes flipping a small knife in his hands, thin and long like a needle, as he spins it back and forth. It reminds me of how some people fiddled with pencils back on Earth, during long classes in school. . . .
The Scientist and Deneb scroll through various screens, following the progress of other high-profile Contender teams around the arena, including Hedj Kukkait, Tiamat “Thalassa” Irtiu, and Sarpanit Latao who still has the Red Grail. On this second morning of the Games, almost no loners remain. Ever
yone has either perished or joined up with a team for strength in numbers.
The Contenders in Deneb’s team are definitely more skilled, powerful, and aggressive than average. How much longer I’ll last in this room, I have no idea. As minutes fly by, they start giving me more and more dangerous looks, as though testing me.
The other Vocalist, Xofati, gives me the darkest looks of all. I suppose she feels deprived of her kill, since we’re in direct competition for one winning spot. The fact that Deneb Gratu will be killing me and getting all those prized points must really irritate the crap out of her.
By then, I desperately need to use the toilet. And so, grudgingly, I tell them.
“Hold it in, Imperial Bride,” Xofati says rudely. “You’ll be dead soon.”
I feel my pulse speed up in a surge of anger. “Seriously? In that case, I’m going to soil myself here, right where I sit, long before I’m dead. Do you really want to spend the rest of your hours next to a puddle of piss and excrement, in this very small and poorly-ventilated room?”
The Warrior chuckles. And the Entertainer, a tall and muscular gymnast-type female with short gilded hair, laughs out loud.
“Let her use the hole,” Deneb Gratu says calmly, again without turning around, as he and the Scientist continue their surveillance. “Vidam—make yourself useful, take her to the corner, but watch so that she doesn’t try anything.”
Vidam is apparently the Artist, a large bald-headed Contender covered in intricate tats. I watch him get up from his lazy sprawl, and step over other people’s feet as he nears me. He bends down and lifts me by the arm with one powerful hand, then half-carries me to the corner with the supplies and sewer line.
As he lets me go, I grab a folded blanket. “For privacy, okay?” I say, putting up one hand to ward him off.
“What privacy?” the Yellow says with a smirk.
“Just using this to cover myself, it’s what we do on Earth.”
“You’re not on Earth any longer,” he replies. “We don’t care about your stupid modesty, especially not in the Games.”
“She’s still the Imperial Bride, have some respect,” says a quiet male voice nearby.
I glance and see another Yellow, this one with the Inventor logo, seemingly lurking in the shadows near the supply corner, or just hanging back away from the others, with his back prudently to the wall. He’s a bland-looking young man with his gilded hair in a segmented ponytail, and hazel-green eyes that glint at me as he shifts closer into the light. That’s when I notice he’s holding a long peculiar weapon that resembles a folded trident, or maybe a spear, halfway across his lap and propped against the wall.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Sure, whatever Kateb insists. I obey him like a fool—who doesn’t want to be skewered.” The Artist nods in mock obeisance to Kateb the Inventor with his imposing folded weapon. And then he turns to me. “In that case, enjoy your blanket and your relief, My Imperial Lady.”
And so I endure the humiliation of having to void myself into a small sewer hole, while barely covered in a blanket, and watched over by two hostile strangers, and a bunch of others who periodically glance in my direction and smirk—not at the act but at my discomfort.
What is it with Atlanteans and lack of personal privacy?
When I’m done, Vidam the Artist guides me back to my original place, and settles down nearby, yawning and going for his equipment bag.
“Feeling better?” Fadut says.
I shrug.
“I’d share some water with you but it would be a waste, since you won’t be around much longer.”
“Speaking of—how many points is she up to now?” Xofati says. “Is it time to dispatch her yet, Deneb?”
I stop breathing and listen. . . .
In reply, the Scientist flips to a scoreboard, and Deneb makes a sound of satisfaction. “Favorite Kill—one thousand and eighty AG points . . . and now eighty-three. Still moving up at a brisk rate. When it slows down, I’ll take my kill, but not quite yet.”
I feel a sick twist of fear in my gut at the sound of his words. . . . I’ve been given another tiny reprieve, but for how long? In some ways this anticipation of death is worse than the actual moment. . . .
But oh, what am I saying? There is no “worse,” it’s all bad.
Poor Aeson, and everyone who is watching and who cares about me.
I must not die.
I take a deep breath and make a strange unrealistic resolve to live, to survive this somehow.
Think, Gwen, think! There’s got to be a way. . . .
But before I can submerge myself in this delusion, I am saved from futility and false hope by a familiar horrible sound.
From right outside the Safe Base comes the high-pitched whine and buzzing of drones.
The Drone Master is here!
I sit up, straining, listening, and the others in the room also pay attention.
“What is that sound?” says the Animal Handler. “Some kind of hum. . . .”
“No idea,” mutters the short-haired gymnast Entertainer as she turns her head to stare in the direction of the door.
I bite my lip to hold back a smile. Yeah, it’s not “nice” of me, but they have no idea what kind of badass hell is coming. . . .
But—apparently they do. The Technician looks up from sorting his gadgets and says, “Micro-drones. That’s not good.”
For the first time Deneb turns around to look at us. His ice-cold blue-eyed gaze sweeps everyone in the room, and momentarily lands on me, so that I feel a stab of sickening dread. And then he says to the room in general, raising his voice to booming levels, “Are you afraid?”
“If it’s who I think it is,” Fadut says, “then yeah, I am. That drone-tech guy is unstoppable. He blasted his way through dozens of Contenders yesterday, and I don’t think anyone can get through his defense perimeter. You can’t touch him.”
“He is deadly, but not necessarily unstoppable.” The quick-fingered Scientist zooms in to the view directly outside the Safe Base doorway.
There, the familiar Blue Technician stands on the walkway, just a few steps from our door. Wiry, physically average, his longish dark hair laced with faded gold streaks, he appears unremarkable, except for the fact that he’s accompanied by a cloud of drones overhead.
The Drone Master’s expression is the same blank stare, but now it appears almost bored. He pauses for a moment, assessing the situation. He examines the Safe Base door, the panels of the walkway before him, glances up at the low roof, but makes no attempt to approach any closer. He is likely aware of possible traps set by the present occupants of this shelter.
Seconds tick.
Deneb Gratu and his team watch the surveillance screen. Everyone stops what they’re doing, and observes intently.
The Technician outside apparently concludes his examination of the Safe Base. While the drones continue to hover above him, poised for action, he now looks down and reaches for his equipment bag.
“What is he doing?” someone inside the room asks.
The Drone Master holds a familiar control gadget in one hand, and he keys in something. Next he opens the bag and out comes a new drone, humming and rising into the air like a creepy robotic ladybug. It is followed by three others. In fact, the entire bag seethes with movement, as though alive, and it occurs to me, it must be full of nothing but drones!
Deneb Gratu’s team members curse and make various sounds.
“How many of those damn things are there?” the Warrior grumbles.
“Too many,” the Scientist replies thoughtfully. “Not good.”
The four newly released drones are identical in size to the ones already deployed in the cloud overhead. However, they appear to have received a different program. As the Drone Master continues to enter command sequences on the gadget, the four drones rise and position themselves in the air, about two feet above our doorway. They hover in a linear formation, making the same soft humming sound.
Then, as
we continue to stare, the Drone Master closes his bag, pockets his gadget, and turns his back on the Safe Base. He begins climbing down the scaffolding. In moments he is gone.
But his four drones remain, guarding our door.
Looks like we’re not going anywhere.
“So, what are the options? Let’s have it.” Deneb Gratu looks hard at the Scientist who continues to fidget nervously with the slim knife in his fingers, and at the team Technician, a dark-skinned young man who appears equally uncomfortable.
“I recommend we begin by testing the drone range,” the Technician says. “We cannot go outside, but we can open the door slightly and watch what they do.”
“No, we can’t open the door,” the Scientist says. “Not even a crack. The drones might respond in a split second and enter here before anyone can react fast enough to shut the door again.”
Deneb frowns. “That’s unacceptable. We’re not going to stay locked in here for who knows how long.”
Others in the room speak up with frustration. “But we can’t go out there! Not like this!”
“Well, we’re not going to be stuck here—”
“Look, I’ve seen what those drones can do, this is insane!” Fadut the Entrepreneur protests. “Do not open that door! I’m telling you!”
I watch them argue, with a strange sense of relief. At least Deneb is not thinking about me and my Favorite Kill points.
“So, what is this?” Xofati says, slamming the wall with a fist. “Are we officially under siege? Until that drone guy comes back?”
From the shadowy corner, Kateb the Inventor makes a sound of disdain. “And even when he comes back.”
“All right! Options, I want to hear options!” Deneb’s voice cuts through like hard ice.
“Disable the drones,” the Technician says. “If we can’t get outside, it must be done from here.”
“The Scientist flicks his knife between his fingers. “There’s a Taboo Rule in effect, so no voice commands allowed. . . . Are you thinking EMP?”
“That would be one solution,” the Technician says. “An electromagnetic pulse, yes, but narrowly focused, so as not to disrupt other tech, including our own—”
Win Page 55