by Alana Khan
“Thanks,” my voice comes out as a croaked whisper. I don’t know how I’ll be able to get through this match without crying, vomiting, or both.
Three males in formerly colorful, now beige regalia blow their horns signaling the start of the match.
I know I’ve totally lost my mind when I grab Shadow’s hand in my left, Willa’s is still clutched in my right. To the gladiator’s credit, he doesn’t yank away.
Asshole Two attacks Beast first, slashing at his torso and missing by a hair. He hacks first in one direction and then the other, bearing in closer to his prey. Beast looks paralyzed, like easy pickings until Two leans close, attacking with his backhand. Beast jumps back while striking his opponent with such force that the male’s thick, reptilian torso is almost cut in two.
Blood spurts, covering Beast in dirty rust-colored liquid even as Two drops to his knees, then falls face-first in the dun-colored sand.
The Beast of Tramachor has no time to recover as Asshole Three approaches. He’s huge, both tall and wide. It’s hard to determine his musculature because he’s covered in thick blue hair an inch or two long.
They go at each other, their swords clanging, at times over their heads, at times between their bodies. Asshole One approaches from behind and I screech Beast’s name, as if he could hear me over the roar of ten thousand people in the crowd.
Beast takes off running, with One and Three on his tail. In a few moments, it’s apparent Beast saw something my untrained eyes couldn’t discern—Shaggy Blue is tiring. All that weight, all that hair under Galgon’s three sizzling suns, and Blue has lost any edge he might have had. It seems like child’s play for Beast to circle back, slash Blue’s throat, and return to the middle of the arena, waiting, no doubt for One to follow.
For a moment, my eyes slide to Blue as his lifeblood seeps into the sand. He twitches, his legs vibrating for a moment, then lies forever still.
Now it’s just man on man. Or, I guess, man on boar.
“Motherfucking wild boar,” I whisper, barely aware the thought escaped my mouth.
“No, honey,” Willa answers. “He’s more like a warthog.”
Okay, maybe warthogs are uglier, meaner, and deadlier than boars, because this guy is huge and fucking ugly. There’s no bridge of his nose, just a flat face, eyes that are so far to the side I doubt he has good depth perception, and huge tusks that curve back and around so the points face his opponent.
He wields his sword with ease, and seems totally fearless as he aggresses on Beast, whose chest is heaving with effort after slaying two opponents. One slashes at Beast, then backtracks before Beast can strike back.
Shadow’s hand grips mine more tightly. I must have missed something.
“What happened?” I ask without tearing my eyes from the action.
“He cut Beast,” Shadow answers, his voice low and serious.
Beast is so covered in Asshole Two’s blood, I can’t tell, but Shadow knows his way around a gladiatorial arena. He must be right.
Beast’s steps are faltering. He’s slowed down although his arms are keeping up the fight. When One approaches, taking a risk at getting too close in order to make the killing strike, Beast leaps toward him and in one slice separates the male’s head from his torso.
The crowd roars. They get to their feet as if they’re one. I stand, too, so I can confirm what I thought I saw. Yes, Beast is still standing, his arms over his head, letting the adulation of the crowd wash over him as he steps over Two’s dead body.
Two young boys, dressed in short white togas with purple ribbons at the hem, run into the arena with skins filled with water. Beast leans against the buff-colored wall that has a sliver of shade and drinks his fill.
I watch his abdomen move in and out as he pants with exertion. He grabs the second water-skin, takes another pull from it, then squirts it on his chest. As the water sluices down his pecs and abs, I see the tiniest line of red trickling across his ribs.
His gaze darts our way, although I’d assumed he had no idea where we were sitting, then he focuses on the dais where Tsing sits.
“See that!” Shadow gloats. “That dracker cut our male, but just the slightest nick. Beast poured water on himself so we’d know he’s alright.” Shadow stands and fist-bumps Stryker and Dax. I didn’t know fist-bumping was a ‘thing’ in outer space, but these guys certainly seem happy.
“Bets!” calls the hawker as he strolls down the aisle toward us. “Place your bets for the second bout. He may be the Beast of Tramachor, but he has three more opponents to kill.”
“Odds?” Stryker asks.
“23:1,” the hawker replies.
I may still have hope, but the oddsmakers think otherwise. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and order myself to hang in.
I realize I’m crushing poor Willa’s hand and finally release her.
“Sorry,” I say, not tearing my eyes from Beast down below. His chest isn’t heaving as much as it was a moment ago. He’s rebounding.
Even though ejaculating on her breasts wasn’t the nicest thing a male could do, I think Tsing likes the Beast of Tramachor. She’s giving him a moment to cool down and catch his breath.
“Males and females, wasn’t that exciting?” she asks. “I hope you’re all enjoying your adventure here today. Does anyone need another cold beverage? I know I enjoy something cool and icy when I’m watching hot action in the sand.”
She waits long minutes for all bets to be placed and all beverages to be purchased. The blood has stopped trickling from Beast’s cut. A tiny optimistic portion of my brain wonders if perhaps he can live through the next bout.
“Males and females, I invite you to take your seats for the next match. You’ll be excited with what I have in store for you.”
The huge wooden doors to the underground catacombs open and three males stalk into the arena.
“Look. At. That,” she announces as the three males enter to hoots and applause. “These three Ceruleans are triplets. You know what that means?” she says in her most flirtatious voice. “Triple the pleasure.”
I’m new to outer space, but by the look of things, Ceruleans are big azure hunks with royal blue swirls all over their body. No wonder Tsing’s voice sounds sexy and revved up, from what I can see of these males they’re gorgeous. Knowing Tsing, if they live they’ll be sharing her bed tonight. They’ll certainly give her more pleasure than Beast did.
Shadow grunts on my left. I glance at him for a split second, then back at the arena.
“What?”
“Triplets,” he says as if that explains everything.
“Yeah,” Stryker says, his voice no happier than Shadow’s.
“Why is that bad?” Willa asks.
“In some species they have telepathy. In others, even if they don’t, they work together as a team without needing to speak. They know how each other fights, they compensate for each other’s deficiencies. I don’t like it.”
Shit. Could Beast just catch a break?
Tsing gives the signal, the horns sound, and the games begin.
I see immediately what Shadow was talking about. These three males are like a well-oiled machine. They surround Beast in a perfect triangle and all attack at once. He’s not going to have the opportunity to fight them one at a time like he did in the previous bout.
He’s thrusting and parrying with one hand, fending them off with his shield with the other, and rotating in a circle to keep them all at bay. I have no idea how he’s still alive, he’d need eyes in the back of his head to perform this well.
One of the brothers nicks the bicep on the arm with the shield. Beast acts as if he didn’t even feel it, just keeps whirling in a circle, first in one direction, then the other, somehow avoiding their strikes every time.
Finally, he slashes one of them across his abdomen. Before the other two can retaliate, he thrusts directly at the injured one, his flat sword going all the way through, killing the male where he stands.
For a split
second I feel a piercing sadness as I watch the azure Cerulean drop to his knees, then fall on his back. That male died for nothing—nothing but the salacious entertainment of the crowd.
Then I regain my senses and root for Beast.
The two brothers have to be enraged at the loss of their kin. I’m even more tense, imagining their hatred will spur them on with superhuman abilities.
Shadow says, “This is good, Aerie.”
“Really?”
“He’s their brother. They’ve got to be reeling from this loss. Beast is calm. Look.”
He’s right. The brothers are striking wildly, grunting with the effort of trying to chop their opponent in half. Beast is strong and nimble and manages to evade them. He’s tiring them out.
This goes on for long minutes. My heart is racing, I’ve covered my mouth with my hands as if this will somehow contain my rising panic. Rivers of sweat are pouring down my face courtesy of three blazing suns.
Beast, on the other hand, is standing his ground and fighting with all his ability.
Finally, one of them rushes Beast, screaming, hacking wildly. If he hits his mark with that much force, it will surely be a killing blow. Beast sidesteps the attack and parries with his own forceful slash, cutting so deeply across his opponent’s belly that the male’s entrails spiral to the sand.
As that male screams in pain, Beast pivots toward the remaining brother, and spears him through the belly until his sword can be seen emerging from the fellow’s back. It looks like he was killed instantly and is only still standing because he’s skewered on Beast’s sword.
The second brother is still on his feet, scrabbling at his intestines, trying to press them back into his abdominal cavity. He finally falls to the sand, his head landing on one of his brother’s calves.
The crowd goes wild, but I can’t pay attention. I’m crying. I think that until this minute I hadn’t realized how miserable I was watching a male I care about risk his life in the arena. It’s only now that I’m assured Beast will live that I admit how worried I was.
I may have only met him, but, God help me, I’ve become attached.
I’m crying harder now. Somehow, everything slows down and I’m aware of a thousand things at once. The cheers of the crowd assault me. “Beast . . . Kill,” and “Can’t believe” drift to my ears.
The smells, from savory food to sour beer, to the pungent sweat of the people in the stands invade my nostrils. I can feel every grain of sand that has lodged in my clothing and burrowed into my very pores.
I hear the flags whipping in the wind and WarDog chuffing at my feet. Willa’s hand is warm in mine. My tears have fallen to my mouth and I taste their salty tang.
I’m more fully alive than I’ve ever been, and I know with as much certainty as the fact that I’m standing under Galgon’s three blazing suns that something inside me just cracked open with the intensity of an atom bomb.
I dredge up the courage to look, and see Beast standing in the center of the arena, hands raised. He looks like he’s soaking up the adulation of the crowd, but it’s only when he turns his body toward us that a smile graces that beautiful, alien face.
Maybe he’s grinning at all of us from the Fool’s Errand. He’s sparred with these guys for days and must have developed friendships, but I’d like to think that brilliant smile is for me and me alone.
“Can you take me to him?” I shout to Shadow over the roar of the crowd.
He nods, speaks to his comrades, and leads us down the ancient stone steps. Shadow’s on our left, Stryker our right, and Dax takes the rear. WarDog, big and proud as a lion, takes point, shouldering through the crowd.
We circle around the edge of the balcony until we’re over the opening to the tunnels where the gladiators await their matches, then descend the steps. It takes only a few words from Shadow for the guards to allow us to pass, and we duck through the entry.
The change in temperature is immediate. From the scorching heat of the three suns, to the cool, dank gloom of the belly of the arena. It smells down here. Beneath the humid smell of the damp stone walls and the age of this place, there’s another smell. Perhaps desperation. Half the males who were housed here never returned after their matches.
I hear scuffling behind me and turn to see two males, teens by the look of it although it’s hard to tell with alien species. They’re dragging in one of the Cerulean’s bodies. Whipping my head around to look forward, I hurry to catch up to Willa. I’m again sickened by the sheer lunacy of this so-called sport.
We arrive at a little room, no more than a stone cubby carved into the rock structure. Beast is sitting on an ancient wooden bench, pouring water from a skin bag into his mouth. He’s nodding to the person he’s talking to, but I can’t see who it is because there are three large males surrounding him.
When I step closer, I see it’s not a male he’s talking to, but Tsing who’s looking cool and beautiful in a flowing peach toga.
“I can’t say I was rooting for you,” she says levelly. “I was hoping blue triplets would share my bed tonight. But I’m happy you won. You were magnificent out there.”
A gust of heat lances through my body. It takes me a long moment to realize I just had my first stab of jealousy. Interesting.
“Here’s your purse. You earned it. Your extra 40,000 credits are in there. The dance was glorious, the ending divine,” her voice lowered on that last word, imbuing it with all the sensuality that can be crammed into two syllables, “but I do wish you had joined me in my bed rather than sharing your own bed with the pale pink mouse.”
So she did have cameras in our rooms. I’m not surprised.
She tosses the black velvet bag to Beast, who opens it and pours the contents into his palm.
“It’s all there. You must have researched me. I like to drack the wares, that’s no secret, but I always run a fair game and pay my gladiators as per the contract.”
He nods as the gold coins cascade back into the little drawstring bag.
“Ready?” Shadow calls.
Beast pours the contents of the second skin bag over his head. The water sluices along his strands of hair, over his forehead, and drips down his shoulders and pecs revealing his shimmering green skin through the layers of dun-colored dust.
He stands, grabs his sword, and approaches us.
“Wait!” I say. “We owe those reporters interviews.”
“Drack the reporters,” Dax says. “They’re probably unhappy they didn’t get to snap their pictures in the morgue.”
The other two gladiators form a phalanx, and we walk to the hover lot.
Beast is weak. I notice him stumble a few times, but he’s too proud to ask for help. I wrap my arm around his waist, silently offering the slight help I can provide, and we make our way through the throng.
A thousand passersby call his name and praise him. Some of the males make lewd comments about what he’s going to do tonight with the two females at his side.
“Only two?” some of them yell. “Three’s your lucky number.”
The first time he hears it, I feel his body tense as if he’s going to fight to protect our honor.
“Stand down, big guy. They’re having fun. It’s not insulting. Right, Willa?”
“Just having fun,” she agrees. “Let’s get back on board the Fool. I commed ahead. The party we were planning is going to happen tonight. Zar said it’s in honor of your win.”
I look up to see Beast wince. Not only is he tired, but he’s been beat up more than I’d realized. There were a few times I thought I saw one of his opponents smash their shields against him.
Now that I’m close, I can see bruises beginning to color his hip and abdomen. His cuts are bleeding again, too. Perhaps the only reason they stopped was the thick paste made of blood and dust. Now that he washed it off, the cuts are bleeding profusely.
“Humans bruise blue, purple, green, and eventually yellow. How does it work with your race?” I ask, trying to keep my tone perky and c
arefree.
“Purple and emerald,” he says with a smile. “Are they starting to show?”
“Yep.”
“Good. A gladiator wears them with pride.”
And with that, he steps livelier.
It occurs to me he’s done this all his life. He said he was born a slave. This is all he’s ever known, and dear God, he does it well. I shudder, remembering how that last Cerulean fell, his head landing on his brother’s leg.
I shake my head and command myself to get with the program. It’s Beast’s night to shine. Our new friends are throwing a party.
