by Alana Khan
I picture shouting to everyone in the arena that he’s thousands of years old, but half of this crowd is probably part of the ‘cabal’, as he called them. The others would think I’m a maniac.
If I could run away, he’d have to activate the collar. If I keep running, he’d have to turn it up until it kills me. It seems the easiest way to ensure a quick ending. I take a deep breath, firming my resolve.
I sneak a glance over at him and remember the motherfucker can read my mind. He’s smiling, delighting in my terror. He has the audacity to wink at me, then leans toward me.
“First of all, Doll, you’d be lying, twitching in a pool of your own vomit long before you’re dead. It isn’t that easy to kill someone with one of these.” He caresses the collar, his fingers trailing down the column of my neck, under my neckline, to my nipple, which he pinches.
“Second,” he moves his hand to my throat, then tightens his grip incrementally until my airway is completely obstructed. I try not to reveal my terror, but eventually I’m clawing at his hands to remove the pressure so I can breathe.
“Isn’t it awful to have a master who can read your mind?” he chuckles. “I just might keep you around a while. Your grief over your lover’s death will be exhilarating even if it no longer rejuvenates me.”
His full attention moves to the action below us. When he realizes I’m not watching, he orders, “Keep your eyes on the fight. I’ll punish you if I find you looking away or closing your eyes. Get used to it. I definitely want you to see every modicum of Dax’s fight.”
I face straight ahead, but it’s easy to focus on the rail that surrounds the action, rather than the gladiators themselves.
It strikes me that something was wrong with Asher when I looked at him just now. And not just that he’s a walking serpent in humanoid skin. No, something wasn’t quite right. It dawns on me what it is.
This reverse aging thing has been fascinating to watch. During the first few days since our capture, he appeared to regress from seventies to somewhere in his thirties. Over the last couple days he’s aged down to his early twenties. Just now he looked younger than me, and I’m twenty-four. If I were a bartender, I’d card him.
The movie Benjamin Button leaps into my mind. Although Asher’s a sadistic psychopath and could order his henchmen to do anything he wants whatever his age, the idea that he may soon look too young to drive piques my imagination.
What kind of self-respecting mercenary would take orders from a pre-teen? This might buy me some time.
What if I make him ‘un-age’ like crazy right here in the stands today? What if anyone in the crowd who was watching saw a twenty-something male enter and sees a preteen leave? I have no idea if this will help me, but what have I got to lose? My terror won’t even pique his interest, I’m petrified all the time, this is nothing new.
My mind projects an endless loop of watching Dax die today. I imagine it in a thousand ways, each more horrifying than the last. I’m mind-fucking myself to mind-fuck Ashhole, but I don’t care. Watching picture after picture of gruesome ways Dax could die, I then reduce it to slow motion as I pan in for grisly close-ups.
It isn’t long before the terror is real. My dread is palpable. I vow to keep my mind circling through this horrendous self-imposed horror show. His mind reading ability won’t make him suspicious, anyone in my circumstances would be picturing these things. I’m just doing it with dogged determination. Underneath the panic and revulsion, I hope against hope we can find a way out of this.
Dax
For the fanciest arena in the galaxy, these drackers can’t even provide their fighters a bench. I’m squatting on the floor with a glimpse out the arched doorway to the arena. This is the first of tonight’s deathmatches, mine will be the last.
I used to relish fighting. I lived a stark life, devoid of emotion. That’s not true, I allowed myself lust and pride, both of which were my reward when I won a match. It was all I could hope for, so I worked hard to excel. I won almost every match I ever fought.
Everything is different now. I don’t enjoy fighting. I never relished killing. I certainly don’t revel in wondering if I’ll be alive or dead in an houra. Wanting to ensure Dahlia’s safety is my only concern.
Pulling my thoughts to the here and now, I ground myself. I don’t have the luxury of sparing even one ounce of concern for Dahlia. I allow myself no worries about the outcome of the match, although I wonder if we can trust Asher to make good on his promise to set us free if I win.
Narrowing my focus to one thing, I stay in this moment. I will be present and fixated on every movement, strategy, and gambit so I can win this match. There will be no stalemates, no referees to call the match when one of us is badly injured. Just one winner, and one dead male. And if that dead male is me, it means Dahlia’s death as well. I must win this match.
“Crassus,” the announcer rumbles over the speakers. “Crassus, owned by the esteemed house of Lantinae comes to us from planet Kreeg. He prevailed in his deathmatch at these very games last annum, and was voted both best performer and most likely to live to be invited back the next year. Let’s welcome his return. He’s certainly met our expectations.”
He circles the ring to wild applause, his arms held high to receive the crowd’s adulation. I inspect him for weakness —he has none. He’s powerful, confident, and I am well aware of his skill. He stands at the far end of the arena and stabs his three-fierto sword into the sand. It’s only this minima I notice he’s neither wearing nor carrying a helmet.
Holy drack. This lack of proper uniform just tipped the scales from an even match to one in his favor. I’d counted on his vision-obstructing helmet and now he’s not wearing one.
The thin shaft of my trident is flimsy compared to his sword. Besides his natural protection of thick keratinous skin, he has leather ankle greaves and shoulder spaulders. I have no shield or armor of any type.
“And now the moment we’ve all been waiting for —Dax of Thrace.” The stands erupt in boos. “You might have been following him in the media. His owner, Asher the Ninth, punished him for running away during a bloody slave revolt. He and his harlot deceived you, the public, by changing his name and creating havoc throughout the galaxy. He’s escaped the grave to come here to the Gaming Station for your entertainment.
“Unfortunately Asher the Ninth has died, but his heir, Asher the Tenth is here today to carry on the legacy. This will be a fight to the death. As you may have noticed, Crassus’s secutor regalia has been modified; he wears no helmet. We all know who should prevail today.”
I walk to the center of the arena, arms at my sides. I expect no applause or cheers, nor do I receive any. For a fraction of a modicum my eyes flick to the stands to scan for Dahlia, but I bring myself to the present. There is no Dahlia, there is no future, there is no past. There is nothing outside the boundary of the sand and my desperate need to kill my opponent.
I attack. My spear is best used for jabbing, not throwing. His thick, leathery patches of skin protect much of his body but leave his kill zones exposed. I don’t allow myself to consider failure.
He’s a fierce opponent, thrusting when I let my guard down for even a modicum. I’ve been nicking away at him and we’re both bleeding into the fine, cream-colored sand.
“I’m going to kill you, Dax of Thrace. You have no chance.”
I don’t respond. Words never killed an opponent. I don’t want to waste breath or thought on him. I just need to kill him.
He moves within striking distance as I’m pulling back my trident to heave it at his chest. He slashes me from nipple to flank. I don’t feel the pain my nerves are sending to my brain, I only focus on my next move.
His round shield is protecting his chest when I sneak past his defenses and jab at his neck, piercing it with two of my trident’s three blades. Blood gushes as his anguished shouts are loud enough to be heard in the farthest seats.
In my past life, I would have toyed with him to draw this out, to bring m
ore enjoyment to the crowd, perhaps get a bonus from my owner. Today I want to end him mercifully. I don’t give a drack if the crowd gets a thrill or not. He’s cursing and threatening, even as blood spurts from his carotid.
I assess and realize I need to do nothing to hasten his death, he’ll die within a minima. He’s fallen to his knees and is scrabbling in the dirt to retrieve his sword a few fiertos away. I step over and kick it away, noticing he’s lying in a pool of blood, breathing his last few breaths.
I turn my back to him and search the crowd for Dahlia. How could I miss her? She’s in the front row crouched at Asher’s feet, a wide, gaudy collar gripping her throat. Her face is pale, this must have been grueling to watch.
I still don’t trust Asher, I’ve never believed he’d keep his promises to let us free.
The crowd roars in approval and I turn in time to see Crassus has flung his round shield at me with his dying unce of strength.
It smashes into my temple with a metallic reverberation and I fall, hitting my knees with full force.
Dahlia
Oh, my God. Dax won, but he’s lying motionless on the arena sand. He looks dead. Crassus Frisbee’d his shield into Dax’s head and he crumpled to the ground —hard.
Several medics have examined him and now they’re lifting him onto a hover stretcher. They hurry him through an archway. I have no idea where they’re taking him.
I glance at Asher, wondering what he’ll do; he’s still the owner of record. I’m shocked. I’d been so busy picturing a thousand ways that Dax and I could die, experiencing every moment of terror, hoping against hope that it would somehow overload his circuits and take years off his life, I haven’t looked at him for an hour.
Now that I inspect Asher I’m stunned to see my plan worked. Well, something worked. The seams of his suit coat that an hour ago fit him perfectly now sag a few inches down his upper arms. He looks too young to shave. A casual observer would think he was a son trying to wear his father’s clothes.
But his eyes haven’t changed. He still has the evil, soulless gaze of a psychopath. And his plan to kill Dax and I just went to shit.
“Come,” he says, grabbing my upper arm in a tight, possessive squeeze. Our procession, including four guards, hurries down the steps and around the curved metal half-wall that surrounds the arena.
Moments later we’re in the gladiator area. It reminds me of my high school plays. We designed the sets to trick the audience’s eye. From their seat, they saw one world, but if they stepped one inch past the artificial boundaries, the illusion dissolved.
There’s nothing down here that vaguely resembles the beauty, glitz, and glamour represented for the paying customers.
The floor is filthy, stained with the blood and sweat of the aftermath of a thousand gladiatorial fights. The metal cages where they house the males are small and poorly lit.
I rush through narrow hallways, still in Asher’s claw-like grip, on our way to the small medbay. It’s not much better appointed than the cells. I’ve spent enough time in the medbay of our little vessel to know that the equipment here is far from state-of-the-art.
My full attention is on Dax the moment the doctor steps out of the way. He’s motionless as a corpse. If blood wasn’t pouring from the wound on his temple, I’d think he was dead. But if his heart wasn’t beating, his blood wouldn’t be flowing, so I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
“What’s his status?” Asher barks. His voice broke on that last word, like a boy going through puberty. I don’t think he’s caught on to the fact that he’s not the male he was the last time he looked in the mirror.
“Scalp and temple took a hard hit. Those areas bleed profusely,” the medic says.
Angry arguing drifts in from the corridor. Dax’s match was the last of the night, I’m not certain what’s going on out there.
Captain Zar and his contingent of males from the ship barge into the room. I do a headcount and realize every male on board except Braxxus, one of our pilots, is here in full gladiatorial regalia: black leather kilts and sashes, and weapons on every hip, under every armpit, and encased in every hand. A cadre of males to be reckoned with.
“Out of the operating bay,” the doctor orders at the same time Asher mutters, “What the drack.”
“We have a summons from Dax’s former owner, Asher the Ninth, giving us permission to leave with him and the female, Dahlia, should Dax win his match,” Zar growls. Zar’s race has a strong resemblance to lions, complete with mane, fur, tail, and fangs. We voted him captain after our slave revolt for a reason. He’s powerful, smart, and takes no shit. From anyone.
Zar shows his computer pad to the Master of the Games, who’s now crammed into the medbay with all of us. “Dax’s owner contacted us two days ago inviting us to these games. He paid for our entrance. It says right here,” he points with his clawed finger, “that should Dax win this match we were to take possession of him and the female.”
He stands as tall, proud, and imposing as if he were emperor of the planet. His face is impassive. He waits.
This is ridiculous,” Asher scoffs. “That contract is null and void. My father told me he never intended to let these two go free. It was a ploy to get Dax’s comrades here, to further humiliate this rogue gladiator and his slut —to witness his death. He never intended for them to take him off-world.
“My father passed away and I am now the owner of record. I don’t have to abide by anything —”
“On Guerra Gaming Station, son, that isn’t true. You must follow the existing contract.”
It strikes me that if Asher looked like the adult he is, the Game Master might have made a different ruling. As it stands, what person with half a brain would go against this contingent of eleven surly gladiators to rule in favor of one petulant, arrogant boy?
Ashhole continues to bluster, turning red in the face, as gorgeous, blue Dr. Drayke steps forward, snatches the medpad from the medic and scans the information.
“He’s stable. Let’s get him to our own medbay, Captain,” he says to Zar.
I’m so proud of them, they look and act so legit. No one gives them any grief as they pull me next to Dax’s hover stretcher, surround us both in a protective circle, and jog to the docking area.
We’re off Guerra and entering hyperspace within ten minutes.
Chapter Eleven
Dax
Drack. I know before I open my eyes I’m in a medbay. The uncomfortable table and the distinctive smell give it away. I also know I’m on a moving spaceship. The distant thrum of the engines vibrates up through the metal I’m lying on.
Until I’m fully oriented, I don’t allow myself to move. My brain is fuzzy. I don’t remember how I got here. Yes, it’s coming back. I was… I don’t know. Was it Agfa VI against the Chaldean? Merit II against the Verge?
Not sensing anyone in the room with me, I squint one eye open, scan the room and can’t identify it. There’s a female in here with me. She’s sitting in a nearby hard chair, sleeping uncomfortably. Why is she here?
“Dax? Are you awake?”
I guess it’s no use pretending I’m asleep. I open my eyes and rise, or try to, but a bolt of pain as hot as a metal spike spears through my temple into my eye.
“Drack.” I lie back down. “Where am I?”
“You’re on the Fool’s Errand. I’m so glad you’re alive.”
I squint in the dim light; even that hurts. She launches and tries to kiss me. I don’t recall where I was, or who I fought, but I must have made a huge spectacle to be gifted with a female slave at my bedside.
I’d wager they paid her a fortune, because this one must have had acting lessons. She’s pretending to like me —this is new.
Her arms surround my shoulders, her mouth attacks mine. This female’s pretending to be on fire for me! I wish I could recall what the drack I did to earn this, I’ll do it again tomorrow. Just as soon as the bucking mronck that’s kicking my head backs the drack away.
“I was so
worried about you. You fought so well. My hand was on your trident with you the entire match. I lent you my strength. And my love. I’m certain you didn’t feel it, but I was with you every step of the way.”
Either this female is educated, or someone gave her a fine script to recite. Her words are poetic. If I allow myself to stay in my happy, confused haze for a moment longer, I might even believe she loves me.
“More kisses,” I command. I’m only half surprised when she complies —enthusiastically.
I smell her arousal. Perhaps I’m dead and there is a Heaven. Or maybe this is a dream. Whatever the drack it is, it’s wonderful.
I’ve had sex on a medbay gurney before, it requires skill and agility which I don’t possess at the moment. “Let’s get to my bunk, beautiful.” And she is. I thought she was just wearing good cosmetics in dim light. But she’s barely an ince away, and she’s gorgeous.