by Maia Tanith
“I said, why did they attack us? Who are they?” She is frowning and her bravado makes me smile. I know she was terrified before, and here she is, masking that fear with her attitude.
“Other prisoners. I know them from my home world. They are criminals.”
“Political prisoners like you?” she asks hopefully.
“Not like me. They really are criminals. Street rats. They enjoy the taste of blood; they live to fight.”
“You won though.” Her voice is fat with satisfaction. “You are stronger and smarter than them.”
I don’t feel stronger or smarter. I am utterly spent. If another one came into the pit now, I wouldn’t have the energy to fight.
I collapse on the ground, in the sparse shade of the weapons rack. “I was lucky. They’ve obviously been prisoners themselves for some time. They were weak, too. If they’d only just been captured, they would have overpowered me.” I don’t tell her my true thoughts. I thought I was going to lose the fight with the first man. But I’d seen the other go for Hannah, and I’d reacted on pure instinct.
She nods and accepts my answer. Then she kneels next to me and touches my wounded shoulder.
I flinch away. “Don’t touch it,” I growl.
“Stop being a baby,” she replied. “I’m only looking.” She is frowning, and a cute little crease appears between her eyebrows. “It’s going to need to be cleaned. And you need stitches.”
“What are stitches?”
She looks at me in astonishment. “You know, when you put stitches in your skin, to sew it together. Like how you sew clothes. So the cut will heal faster.”
I’ve never heard of such a thing. “You humans sew your own skin?” It makes my stomach turn. I wrench my shoulder away. “You do not sew my skin, human monkey girl. I am not a piece of clothing.”
“It helps it to heal,” she said. “We don’t have a needle and thread anyway, but I wonder if I could make one somehow.”
“No. You are not going to sew my skin like the hide of a dead animal.”
She bites her lip but doesn’t say anything further.
We sit in the hot dirt for a long time. The two claw-man are still down. One is moaning slightly and starting to move. He will recover well enough, after a while.
The kit keeps looking over to him, almost looking worried. I hope if she is desperate to sew someone’s skin up, that she does it to him. She can stay away from me with her sadistic tricks.
I would move away from her, but the shade cast by the weapons racks is the only shade in the area. I am hot, and thirsty. And so I let her sit next to me.
The guards appear at the edge of my vision just as my eyesight starts to waver.
One of them pokes me with the butt of a stick. “Get up,” he says. “Playtime is over for today.”
I stand up and pause. I am swaying on my feet. I refuse to fall in front of the guards. They will not see that weakness.
The kit stands next to me. She doesn’t look as woozy as I feel, but then, she has lost a lot less blood. We follow along behind the guard, while the other takes up the rear.
“That was quite the show for us,” the guard behind us says, his voice a malicious taunt. “Your little kit nearly climbed all the way out of the pit. Pity she didn’t make it to the top. I would have been there to keep her company. Then throw her back down when I was finished.”
I won’t let his taunts get to me. I am too weak now to so much as swing at him. I can feel her behind me though, stepping closer to me. I can hear her breathing and smell her sweat. She is scared. And she is naive, to think that I could do much to protect her now, when I can barely stay on my feet.
We are back at our cell too soon, but not soon enough. As they push me through the door I fall heavily. The laughter of the guards rings in my ears but I am too exhausted to stand. I don’t like to let them see me when I am weak. But right now I can’t do any more.
The kit bends over next to me, and then cool water is splashed on my face and a cup is held to me and I drink.
“Thanks,” I say, when I have drunk as much as I can.
The kit is frowning at me still. “You should really let me stitch that wound. It will heal faster.”
I shake my head, even though that much movement is an effort. “No. I’m not saying no again.”
To my surprise, she grins. “Good. That means the next time you’ll say yes. I just need to find something I can use as thread and a needle.”
Hannah
The cut on Taark’s shoulder looks bad. It’s gaping wide open and I can see the layers of muscle exposed under the skin.
I save some of the water from the bowl and use it to clean off the cut as much as I can. It really does need to be sewn, and the sooner the better, while he is still too weak from loss of blood to put up much of a fight.
The blanket was too well sewn for me to rip it when I wanted a bandage for his ribs, but could I unravel a thread? I grab it and bring it over to the window to get the best of the light.
Whoever made it must have been an amazing weaver because I can’t find a single loose end that will unravel.
I am about to throw it back on the pallet in the corner when I see a hair lying loose on it. A lovely dark caramel color. One of his, not mine. I tug on it hard. It’s surprisingly sturdy. I glance over at the stretched out, muscular form lying on the ground. Even his hair is strong. Man, they do not make them like this on Earth. I tug on the hair again to double check its strength. It will do to serve as my thread.
A needle is just too big an ask.
Despite searching every corner of the cell, there is nothing I can use. Nothing. Not even a splinter of wood.
I am about to give up in disgust when I spy a tiny sliver of one of his claws hanging by the merest scrap. Despite Taark’s muttered protests, I tug at it sharply until it comes off in my hands, cutting me as it does so.
I can’t make a needle with it, but I can make a hole, and that will have to do.
He’s lying face down on the floor of the cell. “Don’t touch me,” he growls at me as I approach. “My shoulder is clean. I want to rest.”
I’ve sewed up enough grumpy animals in pain to know that his shoulder hurts him. A lot. “You can rest when I’m done.” I don’t leave any room for argument in my tone. “Now, this might hurt for a moment.”
The sliver of claw is so sharp that he doesn’t move a muscle when I poke it through the skin at the edge of his wound to make a hole. Threading his hair through the hole I have made is another matter.
He gives a yelp of pain. “What the Emperor are you doing?”
“Sewing you up, just like I promised.”
His growl is truly frightening, but by now I have realized that his bark is way worse than his bite. When it comes to me, that is.
“Don’t be a baby,” I scold him. “You want to heal quickly, don’t you?”
“I told you I don’t want to be sewn. It’s a barbaric thing to do.”
“Tough,” I reply without an ounce of sympathy. I’ve had pampered pooches that made less of a fuss about a few stitches than he is making. “You were bleeding on the floor and making a mess.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t,” I warn him. “It will just take me longer and there isn’t enough water to clean up afterwards.”
I work quickly, making a small hole with the sliver of claw and threading the hair through on both sides, then carefully pulling the cut closed and tying off the thread ends.
When I am finished, he has a row of ragged stitches running across his shoulder and the bleeding has stopped, and he is passed out cold on the floor.
He will face down a couple of claw men without blinking an eyelid, and take a couple of shots of that nasty nerve detonator, but he faints when I stitch him up? It almost makes me giggle.
This tiny vulnerability makes him seem more human.
He has weaknesses. It’s just that he’s better than most at hiding them.
Chap
ter Five
Taark
When I wake, my shoulder feels tender, but it’s bleeding less. Whatever barbaric healing she used, it seems to have worked.
I reach around and touch my shoulder gingerly. There’s a cluster of what feels like little stitches running down my back. I take my hand away quickly before it makes me sick to my stomach again.
I tell myself it’s not bleeding, and that’s a good sign. And it doesn’t feel hot and achy either.
Still, I’m not happy that she disobeyed my express order. “Take them out.”
She looks at me with that stubborn gleam in her eye that means she is going to ignore what I have just said and do exactly as she pleases. “They need to stay in for a few days. Until the edges of your wound have healed together. I’m not taking them out before then or it will undo all the good work I’ve done.”
“Good work?” I know I am being unfair, but I hate the thought of my body being sewn together. Heaven knows what she used. I was in too much pain and too exhausted to stop her.
“You could say thank you,” she suggests, her voice an acid bath.
I grunted. She is only helping me because she is scared of what would happen to her in the Games if I am not around. She doesn’t need to be thanked for that.
“Or not,” she adds under her breath.
I ignore her and concentrate on doing some gentle stretches to ease my stiff muscles. I feel as beaten and bruised as if I have been run over by a cargo carrier.
If I am this battered and sore after a run-in with a couple of my own species, how will I fare when up against three Galgogs?
I have to face facts. I can’t win against them.
Any time I let myself hope that I can survive, harsh reality intrudes.
Once I have finished stretching, I retreat to the corner of the cell and contemplate my approaching death. The kit tries to approach me several times, but I rebuff her. I have no patience left, and no kind words to spare her. I merely want to be left alone.
I do not care that her face crumples when I turn my head away from her and refuse to speak. I do not care that I can see the silvery tracks of tears on her cheek. I do not care when she turns her back on me and hums a mournful tune quietly to herself.
Caring is weakness and I need to be strong.
Hannah
Taark is sulking again. No doubt his pride is hurt because he got a bit of a scratch out in the arena.
Judging by the faint white scars on his torso, he’s had worse before. He survived then, and he’ll survive this, too. His cut is healing well. My stitches are doing their work and holding it together.
Every time I see him in action, I’m more and more certain that he has these Games licked. He’s strong, he’s fast, and he’s got a protective instinct a mile wide.
What can three stinking lizard men do against a person like Taark? They don’t stand a chance.
The screen in the cell turns on again the following morning. I tense as it flickers into life. What indignity will they subject us to this time? I have seen enough of the lizard men to last me for a lifetime.
The big, stupid lizard man comes on to the screen. Mereek.
The camera zooms in on his face. His eyes are unfocused, his pupils wide and black as if he has been drugged.
Then it zooms out again, focusing on his giant erection, before panning over to the woman cowering in the corner.
Mereek shakes his head to clear the fog in his brain, stalks over to her and grabs her roughly.
Oh no. I cover my face with my hands. I do not want to see this. I do not want to see it.
I don’t want to hear it either, but I have no choice. Though I shut my eyes and turn away from the screen, and use my hands to cover my ears, it’s not enough. I can still hear Mereek grunting and heaving, and the screams of his mate.
When the screen goes black, I retch in the corner until my stomach is empty. “Why?” I ask Taark when I can speak again. “Why do they let him treat her like that?”
“She is a slave.” He says it like it explains everything.
“And then to show us? What possible reason could they have for that?”
“To show us our competition,” he spits out. He does not like what he has seen any more than I do.
“That is sick.”
He has no reply. There can be no reply.
All too soon, the screen flickers into life again. This time it shows Sharb and his mate, the woman whose face is cut to shreds.
She looks even worse than she did before. Her face is a mess of bloodied meat.
I want to be sick again, but there is nothing left in my stomach. I rinse my mouth with water and spit it onto the floor.
His voice squeaks as he cuts her. Her pain excites him.
She screams until she passes out.
That spoils his fun.
He rages in disappointment until the screen goes dark.
I cannot take the sight of Grud and his mate. I know what is coming and I huddle in the corner, my hands clamped over my ears. I sing loudly, hoping my off-key screeching will drown out everything else.
It works, mostly.
By the time he is finished with his mate, my voice is hoarse from yelling.
Not as hoarse as hers.
Her screams will haunt me until the day I die.
Taark
I can see her shaking as the screen fades to black for the final time. Even I feel sick to my stomach at the barbarity of the lizard men to the women they are meant to protect. I know what they do to me will pale in comparison to the wounds they will inflict on her.
“Why?” The raw pain in her voice makes my eyes water in sympathy.
“The Games bring in lots of money. Lots. This is one way to bring in the crowds. Some sex to spice up the violence. To have the spectators baying for our blood or for our victory. To increase the number of credits that are wagered.”
Her face pales still further until I am worried she will faint. “They showed this to other people? Not just to us?”
“I expect they beamed it around the galaxy. To anyone and anything who could receive the transmission and wanted to watch. “
“But it was…” Her words fail her and her voice trails into nothingness.
“Disgusting?” I offer. “Vile? Abhorrent?”
“Evil. Pure evil. To make money out of someone’s suffering. To deliberately allow those women to be tortured, to encourage it even, and turn it into a spectacle.”
“That is what the Games have always been about.”
She shakes her head. “How can it be allowed? Why has no one stopped it before?”
I have no answer for her. I had always considered the Games to be beneath my notice, a sick and depraved spectacle for those lesser species who thrive on blood and violence and pain. There was so much the Emperor did, there is so much that he still does, that sickens and disgusts me. The Games barely registered in my mind.
Now I am caught up in them. Karma for being oblivious to them for so long, perhaps. For thinking that I was above such base pleasures. For being content to despise the audience while forgetting to empathize with the innocent victims.
Victims like the kit.
“I am going to kill them,” she says, in a low voice. Her voice is full of hatred. If that voice had come from anything bigger, with claws or weapons, it would have been terrifying. Instead, I am suddenly terrified for her.
Before I can think twice, I rip a claw from my left hand. I want to howl in pain but I bite my tongue so she cannot see how it hurts.
“Here,” I grunt, and pass the bloodied claw to her. It has broken off close to the end, a clean break. My packmates would shudder if they could see me offering up a piece of myself like a present. For us, our claws are our pride and joy. Those with weak claws, or claws that don’t grow properly, are outcasts where I come from. Warriors pride themselves on their long, tough, sharp claws. We keep them sharp and in return they protect us. But I have eight claws, and the kit has none. One cl
aw is not such a sacrifice if it will keep her alive.
So we can both win the games.
No other reason, I tell myself. There is no other reason that I want her to stay alive.
She takes it carefully. Her face is now tear streaked.
“Be careful with how you hold it. It will cut your hand in half.”
She takes the end that is bloodied, the end that I ripped off my hand. Then she raises her arm and cuts through the air with the claw. She wields it like one might wield a small sword.
“It will cut a lizard man in half,” she says. Her voice is low. The claw is longer than her whole hand.
“Yes, little monkey. If you get close enough.”
“I will.” She sounds determined.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. Leave the fighting to me. Keep this for defense only.”
She frowns. “If I go down, I’m taking one with me.”
If she says so. I only hope if it comes to it, that it’s a quick death for us both. At least she can feel more confident going into the games. The protection that claw offers is little, but I have nothing else to give her.
“You should rest,” I finally say. “You’ll need it.”
I lay down on my side and close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. I’m more worried for the games than I had been a week ago. It feels like there is more at stake now. I think of Hannah. There is more at stake now. I’m not just thinking of myself anymore.
Hannah is moving around, and I hear the rustle of fabric then a ripping sound. I roll over and open my eyes. She is bent over something on the floor. Then she stands and walks over to me, holding something out.
“Can you tie this? Only I can’t pull it tight enough, and I don’t want it to fall out.”
She has fashioned a sort of handle onto the end of the claw. There are strips of our gosshide blanket wrapped around the claw, thick enough to create protection from the sharp edges so she can wield it. A thinner string of gosshide is tied over the top. It’s not the most perfect piece of work I’ve seen. But still, I am impressed. It will be much easier for her to swing my claw at people when she has a strong hold on it. I pull the thin gosshide tightly and add a few more wraps. Then I tie it off and pull at the claw. It is bound tightly in its makeshift handle.
