by Alana Khan
“I’ve never run from a fight,” Shadow says, the look on his face thunderous, “but I have my female to protect.” He hugs the tiny female on his lap even tighter.
“We all have a female to protect,” Zar says evenly. “If no one volunteers, I’ll have the computer randomly select one of us.”
I’m a geneslave, the last to join this band of runaway slaves. I have no female, no family—I was bred in a test tube. I’m such an aberration I don’t call anyone on board a friend.
I wait a moment for one of them to point to me and not-so-tactfully suggest I should “volunteer.” I give them credit, not one of them even slides their eyes in my direction.
“It’s obvious I should volunteer,” I say as I step forward. “I have no female, no purpose on board. I’m the most expendable. I’ll go.”
The relief in the room is palpable. I can feel them all stand down.
“Sirius…” Brianna’s face pinches in sadness. Perhaps she was going to tell me not to volunteer, then thought better of it. After all, she has two males to protect. The computer’s random program would make her twice as likely as the other females to lose a mate.
“That is generous,” Zar says. “Admirable. But they demanded a gladiator.”
“I’m a geneslave, built by the Feds to be stronger, faster, and better equipped to fight than any existing species in the galaxy. I’ve gained weight since you rescued me—it’s all muscle. Every one of you has sparred with me in the ludus over the last lunar cycle, teaching me new fighting techniques to add to what the Feds taught me. I’m as formidable an adversary as any of you.
“We all know whatever the Feds have planned for me is not going to be a fair fight. Every being in this room knows whoever goes out that door is walking to a certain death. I understand that—I accept it.”
“This isn’t fair,” Brianna says. “Sirius, you were born a slave. You’re finally free, about to embark on a new life.”
“You’re right, Brianna. It’s not fair. But I’m the right choice. Thank you all for accepting me onto your ship. I’m ready.” I nod to Zar.
“Dr. Drayke,” Zar says, “can you insert a tracking device under his skin? He may be new to our ranks, but he’s one of us now. He’s saving the life of every soul on board.” He turns toward me and says, “We’ll do everything in our power to save you, Sirius.”
After the doctor inserts a tracker under the skin of my bicep, Brianna approaches me and throws her arms around my neck.
“Sirius, you’re such a good male. You saved my mate when you could have run the other way. I’ll be forever grateful. Now you’ve saved us all.” She leans back, her eyes pooling with tears. Concern for me? It’s hard to grasp.
She hugs me tight. I’ve never been touched in kindness before. Never experienced a hug. It takes me a moment to figure out how to receive it. I tentatively reach up and gingerly pat her back.
“You deserve happiness, Brianna,” I whisper, then pull away and look at Zar. “I’m ready.”
Every male on the bridge slides their female off their lap as they stand and turn to me. They each press their fist over their heart as they solemnly nod to me. It is the gladiators’ highest tribute, a salute of honor.
Brianna’s hug, these males’ salutes, are the closest I’ve come to affection, acceptance, or appreciation in my life. I nod to the room, uncertain what emotion I would feel if I possessed them.
Zar comms the Federation captain, and a moment later I’m matter-transported to his ship. I’m greeted by six males, all pointing lasers at me. My hands shoot up, although I know I won’t be harmed. I’m nude, unarmed, and they’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire me. Whatever they’re going to do to me is breaking Federation law. I imagine it will net them plenty of credits.
The ship jolts into hyperspace lurching me back, then forward.
“Hands on the back of your head, drackhole,” a mottled brown male shouts as he menaces his gun at me.
After I comply, they swift-march me down narrow, brightly-lit hallways to the brig where I’m left alone in a small cell lit by a single red sign near the doorway. I sit on the only item in the room, a thin, dirty mattress on the floor.
I’ve spent most of my life in captivity of one sort or another. Created in a test tube by Federation scientists on planet Malego, I was raised in a barracks of single cells with my fellow “products,” as we were called by our makers.
We were forced to exercise, trained to fight, fed scientifically formulated sustenance, and allowed to read approved material on the Intergalactic Database. I was occasionally pulled from my cell and tested—both physical and intellectual tests. The scientists showed little interest in any of us as individuals until they discovered my blood contained healing properties.
At that point, they began to suck me dry. I believe they were selling my blood to line their own pockets. I became progressively weaker as they made more money off my blood.
It was during transport to the home planet of a wealthy recipient that I made my escape, only to go from one form of slavery to another.
Homeless, without a credit to my name, an unscrupulous male snuck a pain/kill collar around my neck and used me for unsavory illegal dealings for several years.
Through a miracle of circumstance, Brianna rescued me and brought me to her ship. That was a lunar cycle ago. One lunar cycle of freedom in an entire lifetime, and it appears I’ll be put to death soon by a new cadre of sadistic Feds.
Having spent my life in a cell, I know how to lie back, shut off my mind, and let time pass, so I have no idea how long it’s been before a male barges into the cellblock.
“Stand, gladiator,” he commands. The markings on his uniform indicate he’s the first mate.
I follow his order. I’ve assessed my situation. There’s no escape from this Federation ship filled with armed soldiers. If I don’t comply they’ll kill me.
“A geneslave.” He nods, looking pleased. “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.”
I comply while I assess him. He’s tall and well-built, but with my genetic enhancements, I could snap his neck in less than thirty modicums. He’s on the other side of the laser bars, though, and his death would give me little satisfaction.
“Look at those fangs. Impressive. You have a lot of canine in you. What luck. You’re better than a gladiator. How’d you escape your genefarm?” he asks, but I know he doesn’t want an answer, he’s talking to me like one would speak to their pet.
“The captain of your ship said we’d be receiving a male named Sirius. Is that what you’ve named yourself number 972? Or did your gladiator captors dub you that? That’s rich. Calling yourself Sirius after the Altherian word for canine.
“All the sayings are true, aren’t they? Dumb as a canine, ugly as a canine. Tell me Sirius,” he says the name with supreme disgust, “can you lick your balls, too?”
He laughs derisively, then murmurs into his comm. A moment later two males in uniform join him. One is carrying a sturdy metal rod that looks like it belongs in the engine room.
“Keep your weapons trained on the prisoner,” the first mate barks, then kicks the bar along the floor through the laser bars. The bar creates hissing sparks when it glances off one of the lasers. He points his pad at me, recording this. “Show your teeth,” he commands, “bend that bar.”
It angers me to be put on display. I’m a freak to them, to the whole galaxy in fact, but only the most perceptive observer would notice my jaw tighten in protest.
I step forward and snarl menacingly into the recorder. A provocative move, but not punishable because I’m complying with his request. I could bend the bar easily, but conspicuously struggle with the task. I don’t know what’s in store for me, but the more my enemies underestimate me, the safer I’ll be.
“You’ve exceeded expectations, geneslave,” he says as he taps something into his computer pad, then looks at me. “There’s a party of Galerians, ten at last count, meeting us off planet Nativus. They’
re paying enough to make this unpleasant excursion to the far end of the galaxy worth our while. However, this little vid will net us four hundred thousand additional credits, maybe more. You’re quite a find; you’ll make their experience more exciting.”
He sneers at me, gleeful at the prospect of making me squirm.
“It will be a little hunting party, number 972, and guess what? You’re the prey. Eat well tonight, it will be your last meal.” He turns on his heel and leaves the cell block, his two lackeys following behind.
I’ve been groomed from birth to fight and die for the Federation. It was only the healing quality of my blood, an anomaly, that allowed me to live as long as I have.
I’m not afraid of death, part of me welcomes it—what do I have to live for? But it’s not my nature to die without a fight. I’ll do as that drackhole said, I’ll eat heartily at my last meal. I’ll sleep if I can conjure it. And tomorrow I’ll kill as many Galerians as I can before they kill me.
Chapter Two
Sirius
“We’ll be transporting you to the surface momentarily,” the first mate says. “You’ll have ten minimas before the hunting party arrives. No one will be monitoring the hunt. There are no rules. The only thing in your favor is they’ve paid a great deal of money for this opportunity. My hunch is they won’t use their long-range weapons at first. Why spend good credits and travel to this primitive planet at the end of the galaxy only to kill you in a minima?” He shrugs.
“We’ll be taking our payment and going on about our business. Expect no help from us.” He walks away, then turns back. “May the Gods be with you,” he throws in as an afterthought.
In a few modicums I’m on the surface of the planet. My brain kicks into high gear, my synapses firing at lightning speed. I instantly assess the environment. I believe it’s just after sunrise; the light is brilliant. The temperature is cool, but not cold. I smell no large predators nearby.
I’m on a savannah—flat rolling plains with tall grasses almost as far as the eye can see. In the distance are mountainous forestlands that will provide cover and perhaps natural weapons of some kind. I run in that direction.
My body is built for speed and stamina. I’ll need it—they’ll have long-range laser weapons. I don’t believe the first mate’s assertion that they won’t kill me immediately. They came a long way and paid a lot of money for a trophy. A picture of my mounted head—mismatched eyes lifeless, mouth open, sharp canines glistening with artificial saliva—pops into my mind.
I turn my attention to the task at hand—reaching the relative safety of the trees in the distance. It’s been perhaps three minimas, not the ten I was promised, when I hear the hunting party rustling in the tall grass behind me.
Dropping to all fours, I dart right and then left to make it harder for them to follow my movements. My canine DNA is an advantage. When I run on four legs I’m low enough to be obscured from watchful eyes by the high grass. If they’re observant, they might be able to see the green grass rustling around me, giving away my location.
My heart pumps rapidly. Even though I’m racing, clearly on defense mode, my mind is analyzing information like the swiftest computer, anticipating what I can do once I reach the cover of trees.
The whine and whoosh of laser fire assail my ears a moment before a volley bursts about twenty fiertos away. The ground trembles beneath my bare feet. I seize the energy deep inside me and put on more speed than I thought possible.
I can’t poke my head up to determine my bearings or it will be blasted off. I keep aiming toward the mountains, hoping I haven’t accidentally changed course.
Their laser blasts are coming steadily now, maybe ten fiertos away. The acrid smell of charred vegetation assails my nostrils. Their shouted curses carry on the air, then I hear the unmistakable deep hum of a hovercraft motor. My eyes flare in terror as I realize they’ll be on top of me in modicums.
My muscles quiver in pain; I’ve been running four-legged for over a mille. I’m panting, breathing in huge gulps of air. My heart is beating so fast and loud I wonder if the hunting party can hear it. All I can do is race to the imagined protection of the mountains.
The ground begins to slope upward, and the humidity increases because of the thick vegetation under the dense canopy of trees. I stand, still running, never missing a step, and enter a forest filled with towering trees. Their maroon bark and burgundy leaves lend an eerie cast to the sunlight.
I need to find a weapon and a hiding place. For the first moment since this started, I believe I might escape this alive. If I can pick them off one at a time using every skill I possess, I could possibly kill them all.
Spying an ideal club on the ground, I snag it and keep running. It’s an old tree root--long and slim with an uneven ball at the end. It’s weighty in my hand as I keep running, looking for the perfect tree to climb.
I find a tall tree with easy footholds and am thirty fiertos off the ground in modicums, the heavy club clenched between my molars.
When people see me, they’re aware of my canine DNA, but it’s my feline DNA that helps me climb and gives me almost-perfect night vision. I hope I don’t need my night vision today. One way or the other, I hope this is over long before dusk.
I peek through the thick foliage as a hovercraft carrying three of them lands near the treeline. The males are humanoid with fat faces and tusks thrusting up from their bottom jaws. They remind me of the slaver who slapped his pain-kill collar around my neck after my escape from the Feds. He was a brutal sadist who treated me so poorly I almost died of starvation.
The other seven Galerians are beating through the thick, green grasses of the savanna. They’re well-armed and organized, about ten fiertos apart, heads tilted downward. Do they think they might have shot me? Are they looking for my body?
A stroke of luck, the three from the hovercraft have spread out about twenty fiertos from each other and only occasionally glance into the trees. I’m so far up and so well concealed they’ll never see me.
My distance above the ground, although it keeps me well hidden, will make it hard to jump to the ground without detection. It will hurt like drack and I’ll rustle branches on my way down, alerting the Galerians below. However, there’s no other choice.
With perfect timing, I jump from my hidden limb through the branches below and land on top of one of them. He grunts as I crash down on him, possibly alerting his comrades. To kill him, I perform the quickest, quietest maneuver I can—twisting his neck, severing his spinal cord before he can sound an alarm.
I sling his laser rifle over my shoulder, run about fifty fiertos farther into the forest, and scramble up another tree. A few minimas later I hear increasingly excited chatter drift upward from the dead male’s comm—his comrades must have noticed he’s gone silent.
It’s hard to believe these males paid good credits to hunt humanoid game—they don’t seem to be seasoned warriors. The dead male’s two companions come crashing to their fallen friend’s aid and stand under the very tree in which I’m hiding thirty fiertos above their heads.
I debate whether I should just use the laser rifle on them, but their seven friends would immediately find, surround, and kill me—after they finish torturing me.
I picture every move I’m about to perform, then launch into action as I jump down between and behind them. My enhanced nervous system takes over, almost bypassing conscious thought, utilizing my lightning-quick reflexes.
I slam their skulls together so hard they both lose consciousness. Sliding a knife out of one of their boots, I slit first one throat and then another. My adrenaline is pumping so fast and my strength is so prodigious I slice all the way through their necks to their spinal columns, creating a macabre, red smile four inces below their mouths.
It takes only modicums to remove one of their utility belts and fasten it around my waist. I run on silent feet farther into the forest and perch on a perfect limb in a tall tree before the seven males beating the tall grasses realiz
e none of their three friends are responding to their comms.
I take swift inventory of my possessions: one fully-charged laser rifle, one extra power pack, one twelve-ince hunting knife, one comm, and a pouch with nutrition bars and a canteen of water. I remove the pouch while shaking my head. It’s ridiculous to take food and water on a quick hunt like this when speed is more important than comfort.
My sharp gaze darts through the foliage, keeping track of all seven hunters. If I’m smart, I’ll use the butt of the rifle as a club for the next several kills. If I use my laser, they’ll know my location and start shooting. I’ll be reduced to ash along with this entire tree.
I throw the pouch about fifty fiertos further into the woods where it makes its noisy descent through the branches, then hits the ground with a soft thud.
