“My name is Grimes. John Grimes. I’ve a ship of my own—Little Sister. I’m on charter to The Bronson Star—it’s a newspaper on a world called Bronsonia. I’m supposed to be looking after one of their star reporters—Fenella Pruin . . .”
“Fenella Pruin? I thought the name was familiar the first time you mentioned it. Doesn’t she write for Star Scandals? And Grimes? Weren’t you slung out of the Survey Service for mutiny?”
“I was mutinied against. And I resigned from the Service. Anyhow, Fenella Pruin hoped to uncover some interesting muck here. She and I were trespassing on the Vulcan Island spaceport to watch Willy Willy come in. The master, Aloysius Dreeble, recognised me and after we were arrested was also able to identify Fenella Pruin . . .”
“But do you come from New Alice, John Grimes?” asked one of the girls—Darleen, or Shirl? they could have been identical twins—in a puzzled voice with a peculiarly flat accent. “You talk like us.”
“I’m Australian,” said Grimes after a moment’s thought.
“Australian! But Australia is where our ancestors came from!”
“Never mind old home week,” said O’Brien. “Carry on,Grimes.”
“That’s all. They slung me in jail. I suppose that they did the same to Fenella Pruin. I saw her again, briefly, after the transport that brought us from Vulcan Island landed here. But she was taken somewhere before I could speak to her . . .”
“The Colosseum isn’t the only attraction in these parts,” said O’Brien slowly. “I’ve heard rumours—but only rumours—of something called the Snuff Palace . . .”
“But how do I get out of here? How do I find her?”
“You don’t. That answers both questions. All you can hope to do is survive. It’s not so bad being pitted against animals in the arena; you don’t mind killing them so much to save yourself from being killed. But haven’t you noticed how everybody here keeps themselves to themselves? There’s a reason, a very good reason. We don’t make friends outside our own teams. That was Komatsu’s trouble. After he joined up with us he met a girl in one of the other groups, a woman of his own race. He got to know her. And then—I still think that it was intentional—our team was matched against hers. He was a long range fighter. She was too. When it came to the crunch he just stood there looking at her with that killing disc, a thing like a circular saw that you throw, in his hand. He just stood there. She was similarly armed and didn’t hesitate. She threw her disc and just about took his head off. Then she snatched the short sword from her team leader and before he could stop her cut her own throat . . .”
“You mean this actually happened?” demanded Grimes.
“Of course it happened. Worse things happen here. But now—to business. You may be captain aboard your ship but I’m captain of this team. I’m one of the two short range fighters; my weapon’s an axe. Darleen’s the other one; she uses a club. Then Miala and Leeuni have long, sharp spears. Medium range, you might say. Shirl’s long range—with a boomerang. I hope that you’ll be able to make your contribution.”
“An arbalest,” said Grimes. “Is that allowed?”
“An arbalest? What’s that?”
“A crossbow.”
“I’ve seen bows and arrows used here. There are probably crossbows in the armoury. They keep a stock of just about every weapon known to civilised—or uncivilised—man. If you ask for a broken bottle they’ll give you one. But no firearms, of course. Even so—a crossbow . . . You really can use one?”
“Yes,” said Grimes, hoping that the tuition had not worn off.
Then O’Brien said that it was time that he got some shuteye. He removed his ragged uniform, sprawled out on the mattress between the naked Miala and Leeuni. It became obvious that the three of them had no intention of going to sleep at once.
Grimes asked, rather embarrassedly, “Where do I go?”
“You will stay here,” Darleen (or was it Shirl?) told him. “There is room on the pad for all of us.”
“No, I mean where do I go for . . . To wash and so on . . .”
“Come,” said both girls as one.
They led him across the floor of the huge cave to a smaller one. In this were the toilet facilities, adequate in all respects save privacy. And those blasted girls refused to leave him and while he was enthroned, seated over the long trough through which rushed a stream of water, he was treated to the spectacle of two ladies who were more than just good friends taking a hot shower together. He wanted a shower himself; in the Vulcan jail he had been unable to enjoy anything better than cold sponge baths. He stripped, walked to one of the open stalls. Shirl (or was it Darleen?) accompanied him. The other New Alice girl took his discarded coveralls and underclothing to another stall to give them a much needed laundering.
He realised that in an odd sort of way he was enjoying himself. It was a long time since he had taken a shower with an attractive woman and much longer still since he had done so with one who washed him with such solicitude, working the spray of liquid detergent up to a soft lather with her gentle hands. He knew, as his own hands strayed, that she was his for the taking—but not here, not here. It was too public, perhaps, if he survived, he would exhibit the same unconcern for an audience as those two lesbian ladies, as that heterosexual couple two shower stalls away.
And perhaps that trauma engendered by his horrid experiences aboard Bronson Star would be healed.
Just off the steam-filled ablutions cave there was a drying room in which a blast of hot air dried both their bodies and Grimes’ clothing. To the girls’ surprise and disappointment he resumed his garments. They took him back to the pad. O’Brien and his two women were sleeping soundly. It was not long before Grimes was following suit with Darleen on one side of him, Shirl on the other.
Chapter 17
REVEILLE WAS A VASTLY over-amplified trumpet call.
The gladiators—Grimes estimated their number to be about two hundred—were given time to make their morning toilet before another trumpet call announced breakfast. Ablutions facilities were adequate, there being more than one minor cavern for this purpose. Breakfast was stew again—but this time of fish, not meat. It was savoury enough.
“What happens now?” Grimes asked O’Brien.
“We just wait.”
“Don’t we get any time to practice with our weapons?”
“The only practice we get is in the arena. But when there’s anybody new in a team—such as you—there are usually a few sort of breaking-in bouts against animals before you’re pitted against fellow humans. Too, usually just one death is enough to satisfy the audience—although that depends a great deal on the supply of new gladiators.” He laughed. “Most times it’s a new member of a team who gets himself killed.”
Cheerful bastard, thought Grimes.
“We’ll look after you,” said Shirl (or Darleen).
Grimes wished that he had pipe and tobacco to soothe his nerves. He looked around the cave. Nobody was smoking—and certainly there must be others like himself, craving the solace of nicotine. Perhaps this was part of the technique—a gladiator deprived of pipe, cigarettes or whatever must be a bad-tempered one. He said as much.
O’Brien laughed. “You should know by this time that smoking shortens the wind and all sorts of other horrid things. A non-smoking gladiator is a fit gladiator.”
“Fit for what?” demanded Grimes.
“You want to survive, don’t you?”
“I’d want to even more if I knew that there was some chance of getting out of here.”
Again there was a deafening trumpet call, followed by a harsh voice. “Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory! Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory!”
Not far from O’Brien’s pad a huge man got to his feet, followed by another smaller and more agile, followed by four slight women. Their faces were expressionless. They divested themselves of what little they were wearing, left the rags scattered on their mattress.
“Den
ton’s a boxer,” volunteered O’Brien. “He wears a horrid spiked affair on his arm called a cestus. The other fellow, Mallory, plays around with a net and trident. Two of the girls use lariats, the other two throw javelins. A nasty combination. I hope that we never come up against them . . .” Denton, followed by his people, was walking slowly to the far end of the cave. His back was almost as hairy as the front of him. He slouched like some ungainly ape.
“And Smith?” asked Grimes, indicating the other team some distance away.
“Rapier, and his sidekick fancies himself with the sabre. The two medium range men use long spears and the two girls are archers. But not crossbows.”
“And how long will the fight take?”
“We shall know when the survivors come back—unless they’ve all been taken to hospital. That happens quite often. Then we just have to wait for the next announcement.”
“But why couldn’t you—we—just refuse to go out and kill or be killed?”
“That’s been tried,” said O’Brien. “But it’s not recommended. After just one warning the cave is flooded with a particularly nasty gas. It makes you vomit your guts up and feel as though you’re being flayed alive. Needless to say the sit-down strikers aren’t at all popular with the others . . .”
They sat on their big mattress and waited. All through the cave people were sitting on mattresses and waiting. Which team had drawn first blood? Was the crowd in a merciful mood? How many survivors would there be?
“I hope you’re good with the arbalest,” said O’Brien after a long silence.
“I’ve used one recently,” said Grimes.
“At one of those fancy hunting camps, I suppose. Did you hit anything?”
“It wasn’t at a hunting camp—but I did hit the target.”
“What was it?”
“A Shaara blimp.”
“A bloody big target,” commented O’Brien glumly. “Anybody could hit anything that big as long as it was within range . . .” Then, “A Shaara blimp! You must have been fighting them. There’ll be Shaara in the audience, you know. If any of us get injured it’ll be thumbs down for sure.”
“Do you want me to resign from your team?” asked Grimes.
“It’s too late now. They had you under full observation from the moment you entered the barracks. They know who was mug enough to take you under his wing.”
“And he’s an Australian,” put in either Darleen or Shirl. “We want him with us.”
“And shall I stand to attention while you all sing Waltzing Matilda?” asked O’Brien.
There was another long silence.
At last voices were heard from the far end of the cave. Grimes, with the others, turned to look. Denton had come back. He was limping badly. A deep slash on his face gleamed redly under the newly applied syntheskin. There was another gash on his right thigh. Two of his women followed him. They, too, had been wounded but not seriously enough to put them in hospital. And the other three team members?
“Dead . . .” Grimes heard Denton growl in answer to a question. “But we did for Smith and his bastards. All of them.”
The trumpet brayed.
Then— “O’Brien’s team to the armory! O’Brien’s team to the armory!”
“So it’s only animals for us,” muttered O’Brien. “I hope that they’re nice, little, tame ones!”
“So do I,” said Grimes.
“But they won’t be,” O’Brien told him.
Chapter 18
O’BRIEN REMOVED HIS RAGS of uniform, folding the clothing neatly before putting it down on the mattress.
“Get undressed,” he ordered Grimes.
“Why?”
“It’s the rule.”
“We’re issued with armour, I suppose?” asked Grimes as he shrugged out of his coveralls, assisted unnecessarily by Shirl and Darken.
“Armour?” O’Brien laughed harshly. “Not on your sweet Nelly. The customers pay to see naked flesh, to see it torn and bleeding. But come on, all of you. Let’s get the show on the road.”
Following the big man they walked through the cave. Heads turned to follow their progress. Some expressions were sympathetic. Most said, all too clearly, Thank the Odd Gods that it’s not us. This time.
There was a small, metal door in the rock wall which opened when they were almost up to it, which closed after them. They walked along a short tunnel, came to a brightly lit recess which, fantastically, seemed to be a shop, although the shopkeeper behind the wide counter was dressed as a Roman soldier, the only anachronisms in his attire being the wrist companion and the holstered stungun.
He smiled greasily at the gladiators.
“And what can I do you for today, Mr. O’Brien? Your usual battleaxe, I suppose? And for the ladies? Spears and boomerangs and a nulla nulla?” Behind him an assistant was taking the lethal tools down from racks. Grimes stared. There was indeed a remarkably comprehensive collection of weaponry. He was pleased to see that there were crossbows very similar to the ones that he had already used. “And for the new gentleman? I assume that he’ll be wanting a long range weapon—unless you’re changing the make-up of your team.” He addressed Grimes directly. “We have a nice line in shuriken, sir. There’s been no demand for them since Mr. Komatsu and Miss Tanaka—er—left us.”
“An arbalest,” said Grimes. “And a dozen quarrels.” He added, “Please.” To antagonise this fat slob, who would be quite capable of issuing sub-standard weaponry, would be foolish.
“An arbalest we can do you, sir. But not a dozen quarrels. Two only is the rule. Of course, you can use them more than once—if you can get them back, just as Miss Shirley can do with her boomerangs . . .”
The assistant took an arbalest down from the rack, held it up for Grimes’ inspection.
“To your satisfaction, sir?” asked the pseudo-centurion. “Good. Then let us not keep the customers waiting—your customers, that is. Your props will be waiting for you in the arena. And the best of luck, Mr. O’Brien. We shall be watching on our trivi.”
“Thank you,” O’Brien said before moving on. Then, when the party was out of earshot beyond a bend in the tunnel, “That two-faced bastard! But we have to be polite to him . . . My dream is to have him out on the sand against me one day . . .”
They came to the last door. They stepped through it into hot air, into dazzling sunlight reflected from white, freshly raked sand. Trumpets blared martial music, accompanied by drums and cymbals. There was some applause but it was bored rather than enthusiastic.
Grimes, squinting against the harsh light, looked around him. There were the tiers of canopied seats ringing the huge arena. O’Brien’s team, he thought, would not be playing before a capacity house; nonetheless only about a third of the seating was unoccupied. Some members of the audience were dressed for the occasion in rather phoney looking togas and gowns. There was a royal box under a very elaborate canopy, the human occupants of which were clad in imperial purple. The non-human ones were (but of course) Shaara.
“Our weapons,” said O’Brien, walking towards where these had been set down on the sand.
There was the wicked-looking battleaxe, the two long spears, the steel arbalest with two short quarrels. There were a nobbly wooden club and two boomerangs, but these were cruciform and not of the familiar crescent shape. An arbalest and boomerangs, thought Grimes, and that royal box within range . . . But the air shimmered above the fence dividing the lower tier of seats from the arena. It must be, he decided, a forcefield.
The music ceased.
An amplified voice announced, “And now, for our second event, Battler O’Brien and his team versus the sand rays of Sere! May the best beings win!”
O’Brien had picked up and was hefting the long-handled axe, the women had their own weapons in hand. Grimes loaded the arbalest. He wished that he had a pouch of some kind for the spare quarrel.
“Sand rays,” muttered O’Brien. “Do you know them, Grimes? They skim over the surface, not quite flying. All t
eeth and leathery wings. There’ll be six of the bastards. Aim for the single eye. Your crossbow will be better against ’em than Shirl’s boomerangs . . .”
Would it be? Grimes wondered. Far too little effort had been required to cock the arbalest. It would not have anything like the range of the weapons that he had acquired at Camp Diana.
Again the trumpets brayed!
At the far end of the arena gates opened. In the darkness beyond them Grimes saw something stirring, a shadowy undulation. The gladiators waited tensely. “Try not to move,” whispered O’Brien. “Movement attracts them.” The audience waited impatiently. “Send Battler O’Brien in to chase them out!” screamed a woman. “He’s just standing there doing nothing—and we’re paying for it!”
“I’d like to send you in, you fat bitch!” O’Brien muttered. The trumpets brayed again.
“You, O’Brien!” roared a voice from the speakers. “Jump up and down! Dance!”
“Get stuffed,” O’Brien said. Probably he was heard; directional microphones must be trained on the team.
“O’Brien! Hear this! Unless you do something it’s you and your people for the Snuff Palace—for one performance only!” O’Brien brandished his battleaxe; the sunlight was reflected dazzlingly from the broad, polished blade. It was enough. The sandrays came out of the pen in line ahead, moving fast, the tips of their wings skimming the sand, throwing up a white, glittering spray. They were fearsome beasts, their huge, open mouths rimmed with long, sharp yellow teeth. In the centres of their domed heads balefully gleamed their single golden eyes. Clear of the pen their formation opened up. Grimes selected his target, took aim. The range, he thought, was still too great but it was closing rapidly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shirl throw her first boomerang but did not see what result she achieved. At least she had not aimed at the sand ray that he regarded as his . . .
“Shoot!” O’Brien, was yelling. “Shoot, damn you!”
Grimes, before he pulled the trigger, elevated the arbalest slightly. As he had suspected this was a relatively weak weapon; the trajectory of the quarrel was far from flat. But instinctively—or luckily—he had corrected accordingly. He saw the bolt hit, stooped to fumble for the remaining one in the sand. And then he had to reload.
Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III Page 39