by Jessica Snow
“What I know is that Mogar's not going to have the same affections for his gladiators that Neyilla has for hers,” Mathias growls, his nausea passing. “If things go poorly, I fear for Ross' safety. I confirmed it through a friend, Jensen will be entered.”
At the name of Jensen, I shudder for my fellow slave as well. Ross is good, he's been a gladiator for more years than Mathias, but Jensen....the stars above couldn't stand against him in the arena. “I shall pray for Ross then.”
“Actually, I came to ask for more than your prayers,” Mathias says, his stomach literally heaving. He turns and barely makes it to my toilet in the corner before his dinner comes up, and he heaves into the bowl, flushing weakly when he's done. “Fuck. I hoped it wouldn't be this bad.”
“What?” I ask. I go over and taking the cloth from my sink and wipe the sweat off his forehead. “What is on your mind, my friend?”
Mathias smiles weakly and reaches up, stroking my hair. “It wasn't that long ago we were more than friends, Audie. If things go well tomorrow, then there may be a chance of that again.”
I smile, but I'm uncommitted. It isn't that I'm not fond of Mathias still, but time changes people. And while I still think affectionately about him in my spare moments, there's been an edge to him the past couple of years, something that makes me uncomfortable, “If the heaven and stars permit it, Mathias. What do you mean, though?”
Mathias sits up, slightly stronger, but still needs to lean against the walls to support himself. “I've been in contact with the Resistance.”
“The Resistance?” I ask, shocked. “But how? I thought they were mostly in the outer territories, far from the capital.”
“They mostly are,” Mathias says, half smiling. “But we have arms that reach far and wide. We even have some Pinko allies, and they're coming through for us tomorrow.”
“You know I don't like it when you call them Pinkos,” I protest weakly, thinking back to just today calling Neyilla a bubblegum pain in the ass. I guess it's natural, Tamarians are generally much redder than humans, but the way Mathias and some of the others use the term Pinkos... I don't know, I just don't like it. “Some of the Tamarians are good people.”
“Some? We can discuss that later,” Mathias says, his voice tense. “I need your help, Audie. Tomorrow, you'll be in the royal box, right?”
“With Neyilla, yes,” I confirm. “Why?”
“The Resistance is launching a strike tomorrow,” Mathias whispers. “During the main events, when we know that the royal family will be there, they're going to launch a rocket that will allow all of the slaves and gladiators in the arena to go free. That includes you and me.”
“How are they going to do that?” I ask.
“I'm a gladiator and fuck slave, not a scientist!” Mathias protests hotly, then sighs when I flinch back. “Sorry Audie, the drugs and everything, it's got me on edge. My contacts didn't tell me. They did tell me though that I needed to reach out to you. They want to take Tauren hostage.”
“They want me to assist you in kidnapping the Crown Prince?” I ask, incredulously. “Are you insane?”
“Quite possibly,” Mathias says, chuckling darkly. “Come on, Audie. I don't even know how this is supposed to eliminate the rest of the Pin... the Tamarians but leave Tauren alive, maybe they know something about the royal box at the arena. I wouldn't be surprised if they've shielded the damn thing, or maybe the royals wear personal shields. Tauren doesn't go around with a bodyguard, the arrogant fuck.”
“He doesn't.” I muse, thinking. He's right, the Crown Prince, is quite independent, going around with relatively few slaves or assistants for a Tamarian nobleman. I've even seen on the news feeds that Tauren will go out totally by himself, something his parents probably do not approve of. “Still, Mattie... do you really think you're going to succeed?”
“I have to, Audie,” Mathias says, climbing painfully to his feet. “I can't take any more of Neyilla's abuse. The things she's ordering me to do now. I just can't. I'd rather die than go back to her pleasure room again.”
I can see the haunted look in his eyes, and understand. Neyilla's perversions are second only to her father's, and even though I tried my best to help Mathias resist the conditioning, risking death myself to bring him into my bed to give him another outlet for his drug-enhanced libido, in the past few years things have changed between us. The drugs are too deep, the hypnotics too firmly entrenched in his mind. It's been three years since we last shared a bed, and two since I last attempted to relieve his passions, with disastrous results both times. Caught in a web of sex and hypnotics, he's being driven insane and Neyilla doesn't care.
But I still do. “Okay, Mathias. For you, for what we might have once had, I'll help you. What do you want?”
Mathias smiles, his angelic face still stirring my heart, and he strokes my hair. “Oh, sweet Audie; tomorrow, during the Games, I'll be in the harem room. You'll be in the royal box. They say that the attack will be quite noticeable, I don't know what the fuck that means. But when it goes down.... grab Tauren, get him out of the royal box. I'll be there as soon as I can, but seconds could be vital.”
I nod, and step back to let Mathias recover his strength. If I kiss him on the cheek like I want, he's liable to puke again. “I'll do it.”
Mathias smiles sadly and climbs onto the sill of my window, squatting in the moonlight, looking like some sort of sensual, powerful animal. “Okay then, I'll get going. We both need our beauty sleep. Well, you don't need any more beauty, but you get my drift. Tomorrow's a busy day. It's the Blood Moon, after all.”
Mathias opens my window and disappears out, so quickly I almost think he's jumped, but a quick glance out the window confirms to me that he's just used his athletic skill to scamper down the wall, holding to the cracks in the stones like a spider. I silently wish him luck and pull my head back, closing and locking my window again. I go over to my bed and pull off the rest of my clothes, lying down. I don't think I can go to sleep, not after what I just agreed to, but apparently my body has been too well trained. It knows rest is a precious commodity, and as soon as my head hits the pillow I'm falling asleep.
I guess I'll think about it more in the morning.
Chapter Two
Tauren
There is peace in the dawn. In my thirty-four years of life, it is one of the things I've always found true. Regardless of how much turmoil might be going on, regardless if the Resistance is causing hell up north or if there's enough palace intrigue to choke a water beast, the hour of dawn is always peaceful. The schemers have finally gone to bed, the rabble rousers have yet to awaken, and those of us that are awake have put body to purpose.
I breathe in again, the cool air filling my lungs to be warmed by my body, and I start the next sequence of my forms, not as good as actual training but the ability to reinforce the motor patterns is something I have always found both invigorating and relaxing, like a moving meditation. Punch, high block, pivot through into the throw, roll through into stance, kick, elbow....
Today's the Games. I hate them, but still I must attend them, the nobles would call for my blood if I were to skip them, and the common people would lose faith in their Crown Prince. Still, I hate them, and promise that when I ascend to the throne, we'll do things differently. Maybe I can change the games to be non-lethal, or perhaps open it up to Tamarians as well as humans. Yes, it'd be just the dregs of Tamarian society for the most part, but at least then there might be some changes.
I finish with my exercises, light today since the Games and the Blood Moon Ball will be so long, but still I feel better as I grab my towel and wipe down my body. I head into the palace, where I find Mother waiting for me, a look of disapproval on her face. As usual. “Tauren, you can at least put on a shirt.”
“Why? This is my house, the guests are not here yet, and if I want to walk around in just pants and shoes, then I think I can do so. Even the lowest commoner is allowed to choose their clothing within their own house.”
/>
“And with all of your crystals out, you look like nothing more than a commoner,” Mother admonishes me. “And I can see that horrible tattoo on your chest. Worst of all, I can understand the ears, but to take out your forehead crystal as well? You were born to that crystal, Tauren!”
I turn and look at Mother, who even at an hour past dawn already has her standard assortment of six Neyla crystals embedded, one in each ear, three in her forehead including the largest diamond shaped one that denotes her position as Queen of Tamaria, and one in the hollow of her throat. Her hair isn't quite styled yet, but she's still dressed fashionably. Then again, Mother sets the fashions, where the Queen goes, the people follow.
“Mother, I was born into this house. I was born to the throne, yes. But I have earned the right to not wear what I want. The crystals itch when I exercise, so I remove them. Do not fear, I will not forget them before the Games.” I turn to leave, but Mother's attendants block the path to the door, and I know that despite any commands from me, they're trained strictly enough that the only way they'll move before Mother's say-so is if I physically move them. I'd prefer to not punch an innocent slave who cannot resist Mother's commands, so I turn around, looking at her. “Well?”
“I'm not finished, Tauren. I wish to speak with you about Neyilla.”
I roll my eyes, and walk back towards Mother, trying not to be rude. It's a bad habit of mine, I am hardly one to soften my words, but with Mother I do try my best. And trying is definitely what I think about this particular subject. “What now, Mother? Another paean to how good of a fit we'd be together, or how beautiful she is? She's a snake.”
“Watch your mouth, Tauren,” Mother says, her temper flaring. “You forget your place. You and I may look the same age, but I am still your mother, and the Queen does out-rank the Prince.”
I shrug, sitting down. Just because Mother takes enough anti-aging drugs to make her still look like she's just on the cusp of thirty, I've never forgotten that she is seventy. Or her position. “As you wish, Mother. But my answer or my thoughts on Neyilla have not changed from the last nine times you have spoken to me on this subject.”
“Nor have mine,” Mother replies. “Tauren, I understand that you might not have affections for Neyilla the way that I do. You haven't spent the same amount of time with her that I have. You haven't seen the pain in her eyes when people snicker at her about her empty forehead slot....”
“That she should never have gotten engraved in the first place,” I comment. “Mother, my... my cousin shows a tendency to overreach, and has always assumed that just because Neyton has Father's ear, that she will end up on my arm. It's arrogance, and that is hardly something a Queen should have.”
“It was a great desire of Victrina that our children bring stability to the throne,” Mother says, referring to her dead sister, Neyilla's mother. “She and I.... when she was pregnant, she and I would dream of the two of you starting a royal line that would last thousands of years.”
“I prefer to have as my Queen someone that I can trust, and someone that I can be assured will stand by me,” I respond. “Neyilla has just one concern, and one concern only, herself. I need a Queen who will help me rule, Mother. Not a hood ornament.”
Mother cringes, and I feel bad for a second, but not too bad, I just told the truth. “Neyilla can be of assistance to you, Tauren,” Mother finally says. “She understands the politics of the nobility better than you do. You have concerned yourself with mundane matters far too much. Piloting, weapons, economics... you act like a minor territories’ noble instead of as the Crown Prince.”
“My ancestors fought long and hard to take this throne,” I remind Mother, “because the Hatthor Dynasty became too corrupt, too self-assured. I will not allow the same to happen to my House. So I will prepare myself as I best see fit to become King, and that includes choosing my Queen. I will not bring into my marriage bed a woman who is deadlier than a rock serpent, even if she claims to be my loyal rock serpent.”
I stand up, looking Mother in the eye. My message has been delivered, now I'd like to get out of here. “I understand that you have affection for Neyilla, Mother. And I am not saying that she is not a good noblewoman, and someday might even be as helpful to me as Lord Neyton is to Father. But I have no affection for her, and I feel that affection is necessary for my Queen.”
“Affection?” Mother asks, shaking her head. “I see that you've been spending more time with your tutor, Lord Mogar. He's been filling your head with that fiction called romance again, I bet. A shame, I would have had you tutored by Lord Neyton, but your father saw differently. Tauren, love is for the commoners. We are noble. Of course you'll need to trust your Queen. Affection would be nice, if for no other reason than it makes producing an offspring easier and more pleasurable. But love? I fear you will be highly disappointed, Tauren.”
“Perhaps, Mother. Are we finished?”
Mother nods, and gestures towards her attendants, who step out of the way of my exit. “I shall see you this afternoon for traveling to the Arena, my son.”
“I shall be ready, Mother.”
I spend the rest of the morning studying, going over the report flexis that the Noble Council has passed on to Father. I honestly don't know if Father is studying the information or not, with the problems that have arisen to the north with the Resistance and other disgruntled groups. Fifty years of wearing the crown must get tiring, and my grandfather died when Father was still young, only twenty-eight. As the years have passed, he's gotten more and more caught up in things other than his duties as King of Tamaria.
It is with great annoyance that my servant interrupts my work. “Your Highness, it is time to prepare for the Games.”
I look up, my eyes flashing in anger. “Pretton, I have barely begun my work!”
“Apologies, Highness, but you have been working for six hours,” Pretton says. He doesn't take it personally, he never does. “If we delay much longer, the King and Queen will grow concerned.”
I slam down the flexi that I'm currently reading, the current food production projections for Tamaria's other inhabited continent, and get up. Pretton is just doing his job, I get it, but that doesn't mean that I like it. “I don't suppose I could convince you to just let me dress myself?”
Pretton, a short human who has been my butler since I was ten years old, smiles the same tight little smile he's had for every one of my rebellious comments over the past twenty-four years. “Very funny, Highness. The Queen, however, instructed me personally that you will be, as she said, a proper Crown Prince for the Games.”
I stifle a few comments and go with Pretton, who escorts me to the shower. At least he lets me bathe by myself, but when I come out of the stall he's standing there, towel in his arms for me. “You know Pretton, this would be a lot easier if we could find a female servant who would volunteer for this duty.”
“Perhaps, Highness. However, none of the untrained slaves are willing to do so, and you insist on the duty being voluntary,” Pretton comments as I finish drying off. He's right, I detest the growing habit among the nobility of using Lord Neyton's hypnotic drugs to condition slaves for sexual purposes. Ever since Mogar took me to the slave pens... now isn't the time. Instead, I smirk, and finish drying my body.
“Okay then Pretton, I put myself in your hands to prepare me. Although I insist on putting on my own fucking underwear,” I joke, and Pretton smiles again, although this one is slightly less tight than the last one. I have yet to get him to laugh, it's a goal of mine even if I am no comedian. “Come on.”
Two hours. Two hours of primping and preening. A stylist who makes sure that the plaits in my hair are perfectly aligned. A barber who makes sure that my beard is totally gone, then shapes my eyebrows and even getting some of my nose hairs. By the time they have me in my clothes, I barely feel like myself.
At least Pretton selected darker colors, navy blues with green highlights, similar to what Father prefers, but in a simpler pattern. Father likes
his robes, I like to be able to see where my fucking belt is when I need to take a piss, so my clothes are a modified version of the Royal Lancer dress uniform with a closure that follows the left side decorative seam. “How do I look, Pretton?”
“Ready for the Games, Highness,” Pretton says, studying me. “Will you be wearing a sidearm or weapon today?”
I shake my head, adjusting my collar for comfort. “No..... this is the Blood Moon, Pretton. There's going to be enough blood spilled today. At least twelve of your fellow humans are going to stain the sand today. That's enough weaponry for one day.”
Pretton nods, and I leave my chambers, going out to the landing platform where Mother and Father soon join me. The transport descends, and I roll my eyes at Father's choice. The artificial gravity used to 100% dampen the inertia in this vehicle is exorbitantly costly to run and maintain, and was developed for our pilots who are making exoplanetary runs or military fighting shuttles, not for a few minutes’ flight to the Arena. Still, I hold my tongue as we climb in and go to the Arena, the largest stadium on the planet, so large it goes by just one name. Already, gladiatorial contests have been going on since the morning, contests that thankfully, are not supposed to incur fatalities until Father arrives.
“I am certainly looking forward to seeing how the fighters do this year,” Father comments as we circle the stadium once before setting down on the royal platform. “Do you think Jensen can defend himself for the tenth straight time?”
“Every man has a limit, Father,” I reply, getting out first. I wait for Mother and then Father to exit, glad that at least at the Arena, we do not have to deal with crowds. The real sycophants are inside already, waiting for us. “Jensen is very skilled, though. But the odds must catch up with him eventually. One lucky cut, one errant blow, even just the odd swirl of dust that blinds him at the wrong moment, and Lord Mogar's champion will be no more.”