Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance)

by Veronica Scott

  “We’re dealing with life and death here, our lives, and Haranda’s and even Atletl’s, and you’ve clearly been prioritizing this alien woman’s problems over ours. I’m not too sure she isn’t deliberately influencing you to slack off—we don’t really know her, and we have no idea what her agenda might be.” Fists clenched, Thom wasn’t ready to let go of the subject. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, you’re my commanding officer and I’ll follow your lead, but I have to trust your judgment. It’s a two-way street with us, and what I see lately ain’t encouraging.”

  Tamping down anger, Nate considered Thom’s suggestion about Bithia’s motives but dismissed his friend’s concern on that issue. He and she didn’t just talk, they met mind to mind, and he saw no deception in hers. But Thom was right that he’d allowed his growing attachment to Bithia to cloud his situational judgment. “You and I aren’t just captain and sergeant. We’re friends too, good enough friends for you to knock some sense into me when I need it, which I appreciate today,” he said to Thom. “I trust Bithia. She hasn’t asked me for anything or tried to influence me, but I’m in deep with her emotionally, and I’ve never tried to juggle a relationship and a mission before.”

  “Either break it off with her for now, or learn to compartmentalize a hell of a lot better,” Thom said, jaw clenched. He took a deep breath. “At least remember we can’t help her if we don’t survive.”

  “Message received.”

  The morning passed with scrimmages against various teams. Behind by two goals, Nate’s team was playing hard to keep the other team from getting their last, fatal point, when the blare of seashell trumpets brought action all over the field to an abrupt halt.

  “What the—” Nate had just gotten the ball, fed to him by a rapid underhanded pass from Atletl. Taking no chances, he threw it neatly through the lower five hole to score before pivoting to see what the trumpets were blaring alarms for.

  “The big guy,” Thom said. “Coming this way. And the high priestess too. Watch yourselves.”

  The guards and trainers created a human wall between Nate’s team and the other prisoners.

  “Kneel to your betters, fools,” the head trainer screamed at them, uncurling his whip and cracking it suggestively. “Bow your heads to the supreme one. Show proper respect to the high priestess.”

  Nate reluctantly knelt in the sand, followed a moment later by his three teammates. The king stood directly in front of him, placing his clenched fist under Nate’s chin, forcing him to meet the ruler’s gaze. “So you play sapiche now, more or less, eh?”

  “We play,” Nate said.

  “She claims you’re her father’s warriors.” Sarbordon’s tone was mocking. He studied Nate’s face for a moment, contempt plain in his eyes. “I can’t believe this—you resemble the slaves who clean the stables more than you do the best players in Nochen.” He laughed uproariously. Lolanta, her priestesses, the guards and trainers joined in the mirth.

  Nate jerked his head free, rising from his knees. “What you believe doesn’t matter. I’m the captain of T’naritza’s guards, her father’s warrior. I’m no more but certainly no less. Meet me under equal conditions, and I’ll prove it.” He reached out, too fast for any of the watchers to stop him, and tapped the scabbard at the other man’s belt. “Or is your pretty knife only ceremonial?”

  Murrax and another soldier grabbed Nate, shoving him back into the subservient position and keeping their hands on his shoulders.

  The ruler stepped back a pace, shaken. He scowled. “We’ll see the truth of this vainglorious boast. In one passage of the moons, the day of the games arrives again. You play for your lives and her life. Of late, I think her powers wane, her advice falters. She is of the Old Ones, and their pantheon has proven weak time and again. Have not my people defeated their armies in battle? Do I not sit on the Scaled Throne?” The ruler’s voice had been rising with each statement. Now he paused and spoke directly to Nate. “I know the gods of my people desire me to feed her to their creatures of the well, to seal their rule over this nation and my place as their son, their equal. I’m the one born to fulfill the prophecies in all respects.” Clearly savoring this vision, obviously not a new one to him, the king paced. “Only the timing is at issue, the most propitious moment to take—”

  Nate reined in his temper with an effort and said nothing. He didn’t like the mental pictures, particularly as they concerned Bithia, but at the moment there was no point in challenging the tyrant. Killing him, which Nate knew with certainty he could accomplish right now, wouldn’t win freedom for his men or Bithia. The assassination would get Nate killed on the spot and doom the others.

  The ruler eyed him speculatively, and when Nate failed to offer any rebuttal, he mused further. “I had thought perhaps this year, at the Festival of Tekal, to offer her heart to my gods. But I can’t be sure. The omens speak with veiled direction.” He shot a sidewise glance at Lolanta, who bowed her head, hiding secret amusement, Nate was positive. Clearing his throat, the ruler continued, “Therefore, the matter shall be settled in the traditional manner, by the victory or defeat on the field of honor in the games.”

  Since all eyes were now on Nate, the audience plainly waiting for him to respond, he launched into an uncomfortably flowery speech of his own. “The power of T’naritza doesn’t wane. Your omens are false, your priestesses liars. My goddess stands beside us in spirit, and we will win.” Nate injected confidence he didn’t actually possess into his taunt. His makeshift team had improved their sapiche skills markedly in the past months, but were nowhere near as good as men who had played all their lives.

  “We’ll see.” Seeming pleased that he’d goaded Nate into responding, he said, “I’ve selected Kalgitr and his team as your opponents. You know he’s won nine games to date? The team currently most favored in the Huitlani’s eyes. The omens agree. A game between the two teams will be a worthy test of the gods’ powers—yours and mine.”

  A low murmur went through the crowd of assembled guards, trainers and prisoners. Kalgitr and his team had ruthlessly maimed and killed in their quest to survive and win the required number of matches. Unquestionably the top sapiche team on the planet, they stood one game away from freedom. It was also rumored that Lolanta had sent for the team leader to be brought to her chambers on more than one occasion, which gave him an extra swagger on the court.

  “It doesn’t matter who you send. We’ll have the victory.” Concealing his dismay at the odds, Nate maintained a nonchalant tone.

  “As the gods will it.” Sarbordon shrugged. “I doubt you’ll be so calm when facing the great Kalgitr.” Struck by an impulse, he wheeled to beckon the head trainer. “A scrimmage! I desire a scrimmage today between Kalgitr and these scum. Play to one point only. I don’t want my team overly worked, though not much exertion will be required to score over these pitiful slaves. Arrange it immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The trainer bowed low before shouting orders as the royal couple and their entourage walked toward the exhibition court.

  “What in the seven hells are you doing? What are you telling him? When did we enlist to serve a goddess?” Thom was incredulous. Atletl and Haranda gathered in close to hear. “Aren’t we getting in deep here?”

  Nate shook his head. “Going along with his theory. This is our chance, don’t you see? If he thinks we’re the soldiers of a goddess and we can win the damn game, then we’re home free. Untouchable. And we won’t have to play nine more matches first. It’s perfect.”

  “But to beat Kalgitr?” Atletl questioned, his face set in grim lines. “Do you not watch when his team scrimmages? No one can beat Kalgitr.”

  “Maybe we haven’t been playing this damn game all our lives like you, or Kalgitr, but we’ve gotten pretty decent at it,” Nate said. “On any given day on any given planet, someone has to win and someone else has to lose, no matter the game. It might be Kalgitr’s destiny to lose when we meet in the real arena. His luck has to run out eventually.”

&
nbsp; Atletl didn’t appear to be convinced, but he didn’t offer any further argument in the face of Nate’s vehemence. He moved off after the beckoning trainers.

  All too soon, Nate and his team stood at the center of the exhibition court, facing Kalgitr and his three oversize goons. The ball shot from the middle circle, and Thom fielded it, taking off immediately for the low five at the other end of the field, only to be tripped by Kalgitr’s left defenseman, the ball coming loose as he fell. With supreme effort, Thom angled the black leather ball away from the enemy, and Atletl intercepted, passing off to Haranda. The game went back and forth, using the entire field. Haranda made the shot, banking it off the other side of the court and neatly into the right circle, which was a move he’d invented. The crowd of prisoners cheered themselves hoarse. The nobles were less amused, faces displaying shock. Nate, chest heaving from the exertion in the unrelenting heat, derived a savage pleasure from Sarbordon’s reaction.

  “It was a fluke, not a legal move.” Kalgitr voiced his complaint loudly. “They cheat, Great Lord. Let us play another point and see who triumphs.”

  “You can’t keep up with me,” Haranda said, hands on his hips, laughing. “Admit it, I’m too fast for you, tub of vegetable curd.”

  “Stand down.” Nate was concerned by Kalgitr’s rising anger and embarrassment in front of his ruler. The other player’s face was flushed with anger, and his fists were clenched. Nate had seen him explode in a rage more than once when mocked by a man he regarded as a lesser opponent.

  “The teams will play to the second score.” After a whispered conference with Lolanta, Sarbordon made the announcement with a wave of his hand.

  The ball came whipping from the low five hole, taking all eight players by surprise, and the second round commenced. Kalgitr and his men obviously hadn’t taken Nate’s team seriously in the first round. Nate wished he could have kept their competitive advantage for the real showdown in the city arena. Now their opponents were on their mettle, embarrassed by the loss of the first point. Atletl collapsed in a heap as he collided with two of the bigger men from the other team. The ball shot straight up in the air. Haranda snagged it and faked Kalgitr out to send the sphere slamming home into the far left circle.

  “Two!” The young pilot did a victory dance at the edge of the field, playing to the crowd of cheering prisoners.

  Kalgitr pivoted and checked with the king, who nodded. A third ball flew into the court, and the battle was on in earnest. Once again, Atletl got the ball to Haranda, who was driving down the court when Kalgitr tackled him full body, shoving the slender offworlder into the stone wall headfirst. A sickening thud echoed through the enclosure. As the cheers died, Haranda slid to the sand on his stomach, head at an odd angle, the ball dribbling away from his outstretched hand.

  The crowd was silent. Thom, who was closest, ran to kneel beside the fallen player, checking for a pulse. Kalgitr rolled away, rose to his feet and brushed sand from his shoulders like a man with no worldly cares.

  Thom shook his head. “He’s dead, broken neck.”

  Nate spun on his heel in the sand to glare at Kalgitr, who bared his teeth in a satisfied grin and spat in the direction of Haranda’s body. “These men die like any other. They’re nothing special.”

  Rising slowly, Thom laid a hand on Nate’s arm. “Not now,” he said quietly.

  “There will be retribution, my word on it,” Nate said to Kalgitr. He turned to the trainers who arrived to carry off Haranda’s corpse, wanting to know what the staff intended to do with the unfortunate man. He had only a second of warning from Thom as Kalgitr launched himself across the space between them and tackled Nate, throwing him to the sand. Twisting free, regaining his feet and dancing away, Nate raised both hands to indicate he didn’t want to fight. “You killed my man and I owe you retribution for the death, but let’s settle this in the arena.”

  Apparently emboldened by Sarbordon and Lolanta’s tacit approval of his actions, Kalgitr charged. Nate landed a punishing commando blow, flat-handed and deadly, at the base of Kalgitr’s neck. Spinning in a blur, Nate finished with a roundhouse kick to the man’s chin. The crack of Kalgitr’s breaking neck was audible across the playing fields. As the bigger man fell bonelessly to the sand, Nate stood balanced on the balls of his feet, barely winded but on an adrenaline high.

  Now the head trainer belatedly screamed at the guards. Sarbordon bellowed orders. Kalgitr’s teammates ran for the safety of the viewing area, apparently fearing Nate might target them next. Five guards came at Nate, faces contorted in fear and anger, weapons ready, clearly intending to kill rather than recapture him in retribution for the death of the crowd favorite and reigning champion, never mind that Nate had acted in self-defense.

  The fight was on.

  With an efficient flurry of blows, Nate killed the first man to reach him. Snatching the dead guard’s belt knife, Nate spun to defend himself from the next wave of attackers. Dividing his attention between the second and third assailants, Nate knocked one out and crippled the other before three more soldiers piled on, followed by others.

  Dimly, Nate was aware of Thom wading into the fray at his side, killing two men, snapping the neck of the first and stabbing the second with a knife hastily grabbed from the belt of the first victim. He was strangling a third when four guards tackled him, pinning him to the sand on his back, spears at his throat.

  “Don’t kill him,” Sarbordon screamed hoarsely. “He must stand his punishment as a lesson to all the others.”

  A moment later, Nate was overpowered by sheer force of numbers. He struggled in the grip of his captors, hardly hearing the strident commands.

  The guards dragged him, fighting them every inch of the way, out of the arena to the punishment wall. Nate was a man possessed now, all the rage and frustration at their imprisonment and harsh treatment coming out. There was nothing to lose, no reason to pull the force of his blows. More than one guard went reeling away with a broken bone, but another always came to take his place. With great difficulty, six of them fastened Nate to the wall by the wrists, face to the stones. The guards stepped away, and the beating began, lash after lash of the head trainer’s whip. There was no mercy, each new blow laying him open to the bone, until Sarbordon finally intervened. Nate was dimly aware of the activity around him.

  “Enough,” the ruler said. “Take him to his quarters. Celixia may treat the wounds tomorrow. For tonight, no man or woman is to raise a hand to help him, on pain of their own death. See if his precious goddess heals him. If he lives, then he’ll face the test of the games. If he dies tonight, we have our answer as to the will of the gods. And his death will mean T’naritza is to be mine tomorrow to do with as I please.”

  “And this one?” Lolanta asked, pausing beside Thom, who had been forced to watch Nate’s punishment from his knees, spears pressed to his chest and back to prevent any attempt at intervention. “What of him?”

  The sergeant spat at her.

  Eyeing Thom with contempt, her husband said, “If his captain dies, you may have this one for the altars with no further delay. And the other as well.” He nodded at Atletl kneeling in the sand beside Thom. Atletl had been as stunned as the rest of the crowd at the eruption of deadly violence on the playing field. He had belatedly, willingly waded into the fray on Thom’s side, but without the hand-to-hand combat skills of the two Special Forces commandos, Atletl had been easily subdued by the guards.

  Without another word, or even a glance for his fallen favorite, the ruler swept away.

  Dimly, Nate realized Lolanta paused a moment longer, staring at Thom. “You won’t be so defiant once we have you in our tender care. Many of my priestesses have been eyeing you, red hair. The sisterhood will make special efforts to prolong your suffering on the altar, I guarantee it.”

  Thom suggested she commit an anatomical impossibility, which earned him a blow from Murrax that knocked him sideways into the sand. Lolanta laughed and strolled after her husband.

  The g
uards unfastened the shackles on Nate’s lacerated wrists and stepped aside as he crumpled to the sand, his legs refusing to bear his weight. One man motioned for Thom and Atletl to carry Nate to the cart for the ride to the palace and then, once there, to lug him to his bed in their quarters. His teammates laid Nate as gently as possible on his stomach. The guards gestured for them to move away to their own cots.

  “Please, let me treat his wounds. He’ll surely die,” Thom pleaded with the guards, but mindful of their ruler’s command, the men ignored everything the sergeant said. After securing the two men to their own beds, the soldiers left, the last man slamming the door violently.

  “Your captain is a skilled and dangerous fighter,” Atletl said. “To kill one such as Kalgitr barehanded in a fair fight! Not to mention the guards he bested. And you accounted for at least five more. I wouldn’t have believed it possible had I not seen it.”

  “Wish I could share your enthusiasm. Kalgitr had it coming for sure, but what a hell of a way for a man like Nate to die. Just hope it goes quick for him and that he doesn’t wake before it’s over. For sure he ain’t going to make it to the morning for Celixia to take care of.”

  “Not going to die,” Nate said, jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure the others heard him.

  “If the captain dies, we won’t see the setting sun ourselves tomorrow.” Atletl’s matter-of-fact prediction was grim.

  “Nothing we can do right now,” Thom answered. “What a fucking mess.”

  “Best to sleep now,” Atletl advised. “Regain strength for whatever tomorrow brings us.” He gathered his two thin blankets and rolled up in them, turning away from Thom.

  Nate was caught in pain, in red-hot sheets and torrents of agony. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, he could hardly breathe. There was no escaping the web of suffering spreading from his ravaged back, enveloping his entire body. The other aches and injuries from the day’s combat were lost in the flood of pain from the savage beating he had endured. The world consisted only of the pain and the heat, with a curious coldness creeping in at the edges as he lost more blood. He considered the checkout code but didn’t reach for it in his mind. Not yet. He owed Thom his best effort to survive this. And then there was Bithia.