The Xillian Trilogy (The Xillian Rebellion)

by Maia Tanith

  Why isn’t he screaming right now? Why am I not screaming? It seems I’m going to die. Horribly and painfully. And very soon. “Why make them fight to the death? That’s barbaric.” It hasn’t sunk in yet that this is going to be me. That I will have to fight to the death.

  He eyes me coldly. “It certainly is. However, it’s what the fine upstanding citizens of Xill like to watch while their Emperor drains the planet dry of anything of any real worth. It keeps them entertained. And then they don’t focus on any of their real problems.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “It also keeps them afraid. No one wants to end up here. So the Emperor keeps control, and the people are entertained. Win win for all.”

  I swallow hard. I want to throw up again. “Except for us.”

  He nods at that. “That’s right, dear cellmate. We’re the losers either way. We might win. Then we get to crawl out of here, likely with serious injuries, to die painfully and slowly on the side of the road. Or we lose, in which case we don’t walk out at all. It’s enough to drive me to join the rebels if I ever get out of here. Which, I confess, is unlikely.”

  I rub my hands against my eyes, willing myself not to cry. I’ve cried enough, and it hasn’t helped me yet. “Why me? I’m not a criminal.” My voice is whiny, on the verge of tears, even though I’m trying hard to keep it together.

  “You’re part of the entertainment.” He makes a face as if he smells something bad. “Every fighter is paired with someone—or something—of a similar species as a mate. I have to keep you alive or my life is forfeit. The more pitiful you are, the better. Hence why there is such a roaring trade in human trafficking. The crowds eat it up when some pretty little defenseless human is ripped apart in front of them.”

  I can’t breathe. I am frozen, paralyzed with fear. I stare at him for a long time, then everything grows black and I feel myself sliding sideways on to the dirt.

  I wake to him kneeling over me. His breath is warm on my face. Still, it’s a terrifying sight to wake up to, a huge dangerous animal shaking me awake. There’s some concern in his eyes though. “Woah there, little thing.”

  He pulls me into a seated position, leaning me against the bars, and scoots backward on his haunches to regard me with some disdain. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I thought it would do you good to know what’s going on. I always find it’s better to get to grips with reality sooner rather than later.”

  “It’s—it’s okay,” I mumble. I can’t bring myself to look at him now. His words scare me, and he scares me too. He tells me that I am going to be ripped to pieces in front of a crowd of cheering and jeering aliens. How does he expect me to react? To treat it all as some big cosmic joke like he seems to be?

  Excuse me if I have something to live for. Even if he doesn’t.

  What does Greg always say? Don’t trouble trouble until trouble troubles you. I may be terrified, but I’m still alive. There has got to be a way out of this.

  I chew on my lip as I consider my options. It’s not a long list.

  The claw man is no longer paying me any attention. He’s inspecting his claws in the corner of the cell, turned mostly away from me.

  Finally I get the germ of an idea. I stare fiercely up at the claw man. Even on his haunches he is a good head and shoulders above me. “What about the press?” I hiss quietly at him, not wanting to attract the attention of the guards in case they get wind of what I’m thinking and try to stop me. “Can we contact them somehow?”

  The claw man glances up. He doesn’t look overly impressed at my newfound determination.

  “About what?” he asks mildly. He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down.

  “We need to blow this whole human trafficking thing apart,” I say stoutly. The more I think about it, the more I know I am right. “People can’t ignore it when they know what is happening. They will do something. Rescue us, for a start.”

  He raises one eyebrow at me. “I assume the press is your news feeds? And for some reason you think they would care about us?” He sounds genuinely puzzled.

  I frown. “Of course they would. Fighting to the death is illegal.”

  He barks a laugh. “Not here it isn’t. Take it from me, the Emperor is well aware of what happens in the Games. He’s the one who set them up. And profits from them, too.”

  My heart sinks into my boots. Things are worse than I thought. This sort of barbarism is sanctioned by the government? How can a civilization that has invented space travel still be so...so uncivilized? “How could someone set up something so brutal?” I feel sick that a ruler could do such a thing. “We wouldn’t do such a thing on Earth.”

  “I’ve heard you weak Earthlings quite enjoy killing each other,” he replies, still in that mild, slightly patronizing voice. “And do it quite often.”

  I think of the gladiators in ancient Rome. And the murder rate in St Louis or Baltimore. And school shootings. Car bombs. Orlando. Las Vegas. Any of the war zones around the world. Okay, maybe he has a point. Humans aren’t infallibly kind and gentle.

  We have the death penalty, too, in lots of states. I suppose that’s state-sanctioned murder.

  But—sending criminals to a game to fight for their lives? With the public watching? No, Earth has moved beyond this. We might not have space travel to the extent that these aliens do, but we don’t send out criminals to fight in games to win their freedom either.

  “We have prison,” I reply stiffly. “And we have restorative justice. We help criminals to integrate back into society. It’s fair.”

  He smiles now. It’s not a friendly smile. “You would let your criminals back on the streets? Where is the fairness for their victims?”

  “It’s more complex than that,” I say. “There’s a lot of factors to consider. But wouldn’t you say that everyone deserves a second chance?”

  He looks at me and I can almost feel the intensity in his gaze as a physical thing. “No. No, I don’t believe that.” Then he turns his back and says nothing further to me.

  I wonder what he has done to earn a place next to me in this cage. And whether he is referring to forgiving himself, or someone else.

  Azr

  Stupid little human asking stupid questions. Humans are like the little blue butterflies that feast on the new spring shoots of flowers every year. Pretty to look at but useless, and so delicate you’d only need to swipe them once with your hand to see them crumple.

  The thought makes me feel bad somehow. I’ve known this human for all of a few hours, yet I feel uneasy at the thought of watching her crumple.

  Pah. I’ve gone soft after Lila. I can’t let myself do that again.

  No doubt I won’t have the time to.

  I will die in these games.

  Well, I have a small chance at surviving. There are usually four fighters, with their partnered mates to protect. Statistically, one out of four will survive. That’s a twenty-five percent chance I have of making it out alive, and a seventy-five percent chance that I don’t—if you don’t take into account the amount of dodgy back door dealings that go on between the guards and the local gambling houses.

  Every game is always rigged to some extent. So that the gambling rings can profit. So that the guards can pocket a little extra on top of their meagre paycheck. So particular prisoners can be punished.

  For certain prisoners, the game is devised as a death sentence. Just a more drawn out one.

  The Emperor knows how to punish those who rise against him.

  I’ve never directly moved against the Emperor. Or stolen directly from him. I’ve had more sense than that.

  I’ve stolen property that was going to be given to him, and goods that he would probably have taxed extortionately—but I’ve never stolen something from the palace coffers. I’ve merely traded goods and smuggled them into banned areas.

  I did, however, smuggle dried food goods to the rebellion once. Even thinking about it makes me nervous. I fiddle with leather thong around my neck. The dragon’s tooth was
my good luck charm. I’d ridiculously glad they left it with me, even though my luck seems to have deserted me.

  Those weapons I had almost stolen were destined to go the rebellion too, if I hadn’t been caught.

  The rebels paid well enough, and I like feeling that I am thumbing my nose at the Emperor’s authority, even in a small way.

  That’s why I am here, in this dirty tiny cage, sentenced to a highly probable death.

  The men who’d tortured me for information clearly did not suspect that I had contacts within the rebel leaders, or they would have pressed harder for that information.

  I’ve heard it whispered in bars and dirty holes in the walls that, in the Emperor’s eyes, smugglers and freebooters are almost as bad as those rebels who stand openly against him. Because they can’t be controlled. And, above all else, he likes to have control.

  The guards clearly thought I was simply a pirate. Selling whatever I had to the highest bidder. Nothing more. They hoped to find a smuggling ring by following a single thread, me, all the way to the motherlode.

  They were predestined to fail.

  I operate alone.

  Always alone.

  Never again will I even entertain the idea of someone joining me.

  I sigh and kick half-heartedly at the bars from my sitting position. They don’t move. Of course. They are solid, thick metal bars. Even if I wasn’t beaten up, hungry, weak and tired, I wouldn’t be able to move them.

  I think our Emperor is a disgusting species of vermin who doesn’t deserve to rule.

  I also know that to voice those opinions would be exceedingly dangerous.

  I might as well have voiced them, for all the good keeping my mouth shut did me.

  As the day closes, I curl on my side to sleep. I don’t know exactly when the sun is due to set, but I’ve been awake long enough to warrant a snooze. My internal clock is telling me to get some shut eye, or else I’m so goddamn bored in here that sleep will be merely something to help pass the time.

  I close my eyes and breathe in and out slowly, willing the sleep to come and take me away into a different place.

  Sleep takes a long time to steal over me. I can hear the sniffles of the human girl as I drift off.

  I awake to the sound of sobbing.

  It’s the human. Of course it’s the stupid human.

  I ignore it for as long as I can until the noise becomes unbearable. It’s like a newborn kit wailing for a teat. God help me.

  I growl.

  She carries on as if I’d made no sound.

  I roll over, making as much noise as possible, and sigh loudly.

  She keeps crying. Not even bothering to try and keep it quiet.

  Does she not have any consideration for my need for peace and quiet? And for sleep?

  Finally I sit up. “What is it going to take to stop that wailing?” I snap.

  This only serves to make her cry louder.

  I’m not going to get another wink of sleep until she stops this infernal racket. I shuffle over closer to her. Then I lift up my hand and pat her shoulder. “There there.”

  Is this what you say to upset kits?

  I’ve never had much interaction with the young ones. I barely remember being young myself. I had to grow up fast, being an orphan. I’ve seen mothers doing this to comfort their young ones who’ve fallen over and scraped a knee at marketplaces.

  I’ve had even less experience with humans. She might be my age for all I know, but her wailing certainly sounds like a child’s. So I’ll take this approach.

  To my horror, she throws her arms around me and buries her face in my neck. “I want to go home,” she sobs. “I shouldn’t be here. I want to be home.”

  I feel a wetness on my face. It’s not the good kind of female wetness either. It’s her tears and snot. Gross.

  I pull away, and take her shoulders in my hands, and give her a good shake. I look her in the eyes. They would be pretty eyes, if they weren’t so puffy and bloodshot. “Pull yourself together. You’re not home. Yes, we are in the shit. That we can both agree on. You’re not going to get home by crying, though.”

  She sniffs, but the crying recedes. “How—how will I get home?”

  I let her go and lean back against the bars. “I’ll do you a deal. Stop your crying and let me get back to sleep, and I’ll take you home myself, if we survive tomorrow.”

  I already know we won’t survive. But at least she can live her last hours with a bit of hope.

  She looks at me in wide eyed wonderment. “You’d do that? You’d take me back to Earth?”

  “If you stop your crying,” I reply, and lean back and close my eyes.

  I don’t hear another peep out of her for the rest of the night.

  Morning comes around too soon. I know it’s morning before I even open my eyes, because I am woken up by the ear-splitting clang of something hard smacked against the metal bars of the cage I’m leaning on, and a shout of “Good morning pirate.”

  I groan and lean forward. The noise makes my head ring. “What a day to be alive,” I growl back. “I hope your morning is as good as my time in this cage has been.”

  The guard doesn’t laugh. I think he’s getting sick of me.

  I also think he’s jealous of my looks. He looks like his dog of a mother sat on him as a baby and squashed his head in a bit. Then as he grew up, he broke his nose a few times, never had any dental work, and was hit with a horrific bout of acne.

  All in all, not a pretty picture.

  “You won’t be so chirpy when you’re in the arena, pirate,” he says, and hits the bars again for good measure.

  “I daresay it will be more enjoyable than conversing with someone with the intellect of a potato,” I reply, and I flash him a wide toothed smile.

  He actually looks confused at this. I can see the cogs turning in his little pea brain while he tries to work out whether I’ve insulted him or not.

  He gives it a couple of seconds, and then scowls. Either he’s figured out I’ve called him as intelligent as a potato, or he’s figured that anything I say to him is bound to be an insult. “Get ready to go. You’re up first in the ring.”

  He spits through the bars. It lands in a gooey glob next to me on the dirt floor. “Got to give the crowds some blood first thing in the morning.”

  “What would you like me to prepare? My eulogy? A dance number?” I gesture down at my naked self. They don’t bother to cloth the fighters in the Games. That way it’s easier for competitors to draw blood.

  And it’s easier for the audience to see every scratch, every cut, every broken bone. They get more for their money.

  I wink at him invitingly. “I could do a strip tease, but you’d have to provide me with some clothing first. At least it’s warm outside, huh.”

  He’s not pleased. “Watch your mouth, pirate. Or I’ll make sure you’re not walking into the arena but crawling on your hands and knees.”

  I really don’t want to lessen my already slim chances at survival by risking my safety any further. I mock bow, give one last little twirl and retreat to the far end of the cage.

  The guard stomps off, likely off to wake up any other poor souls imprisoned here with his cheery morning greeting.

  The human girl is staring at me again. Her mouth is wide open.

  “Yes?” I ask. “I hope you’re not asking for a strip tease, too. You’ve already seen the finale.”

  She blinks, then miraculously, a smile spreads across her face. “You are unreal. How could you joke at a time like this? That guard could have killed you.”

  She looks mildly impressed though. I can see her eyes flick down then back up as a blush creeps across her cheeks.

  I shrug. “Better I annoy them before I die than anything else. I have some pride. I don’t want them to get the satisfaction of watching me beg for mercy.”

  Her face falls. “I wish I was that brave,” she whispers. She squeezes her eyes shut. I think it’s to stop herself from crying again. />
  “It’s not bravery. It’s bravado. Two very different things.”

  “I’m going to be brave,” she says, her eyes still squeezed tight shut. “I can be brave now that I know you’ll take me home afterwards. I’m not going to cry. And I’m going to fight really hard in the pits.”

  I look at her little white hands. Her clawless hands. I try not to laugh at her. “Okay, little human. Let’s hope your fighting is better than I expect it to be.”

  “My name is Delia,” she says, her eyebrows lowered into a glare.

  I didn’t want to know her name.

  It’s like naming a pet before it’s put down or naming your food before you eat it. If you name something, you get attached to it. And what’s the point of naming a helpless little human before it gets slaughtered? “Little human suits you better.”

  “Delia!”

  I lift my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, Delia it is. You can call me King of the Smugglers. Or your lordship, if you prefer that.”

  She keeps glaring at me. “What’s your real name?”

  I suppose there is no point in not telling her. “It’s Azr.” I only tell her my first name, because I don’t know my last name. I don’t even know if this is the name I was given by my mother when I was born, or if it was given to me by the orphanage. A short, forgettable name, for a child who stayed for a short, forgettable, length of time before running away.

  She repeats it. “Aye-zurrr.”

  It sounds funny in her earthen voice. And she’s said it completely wrong. “Close enough.”

  I look out through the bars of our cage. Red dirt as far as the eye can see. There are two other cages nearby, both empty. We are being kept like animals. Rabid animals. In a cage out in the open. These games are so low rent that the competitors don’t even rate their own cells.

  Competitors? Prisoners rather.

  There’s a stomping coming back towards us and the guard who woke me up before clomps up to our cage. Another guard stomps up right beside him. Equally as ugly.