by Jayne Ripley
The princess was snoring softly on the huge bed behind him. She was naked, her orange-tinged skin flawless in the light from this system’s sun shining through the station’s windows. She actually looked kind and peaceful when she slept.
He snorted. Looks could be deceiving. The princess was a Daxai from an extended branch of the huge imperial family that ruled much of the galaxy. Nahkar might be the most famous fighter at the Aixen Arena, but even he was leery of the Daxai.
So Nahkar didn’t intend to wake her. He’d left her exhausted from his energetic fucking last night, just as she’d commanded. Besides, she wouldn’t appreciate him hanging around after she woke. The royal family wouldn’t approve of his kind, and Princess Piedasa only used him for his cock. He wasn’t one to complain. Whenever she got that itch, she ordered him brought up from the fighter barracks to service her lusts.
He was almost as good at fucking as he was at fighting. And he was damn good at fighting.
Because he was not a free citizen of the Grand Daxai Empire, he knew there would be hell to pay if he lingered too long. The chain around his neck might be invisible to the eye, but it was still there. Even fame couldn’t break it. In fact, it only made the chain stronger.
He stretched as he padded naked through the servant’s door and started down the hall. What was wrong with him today? He never let his thoughts get him down like this. He had food in his belly, his prized sword waited for him back at the barracks, and his cock was still coated with the princess’s arousal from their bed-breaking sex marathon.
He should not be complaining.
As he walked down the hall, he startled one of the chambermaids, an Indursa female from the Ozla Quadrant. She gasped and gaped at the size of his cock. Nahkar smirked as he walked past her, feeling her gaze shift to his ass. He flexed his ass cheeks for her. He spent all day fighting and training, so his huge body was wrapped in heavy muscle. He was impressive and he knew it.
Hopefully, the sight of his naked, powerful body would give the Indursa good dreams and plenty of material for her private fantasies. He grinned, wondering if she’d ever seen him on the holo-screens or at the arena. Had she seen him fight the hungry alien beasts the gamemasters threw at him as the crowds roared and the holo-vids captured every slash of his sword and drop of spilled blood?
Nahkar took the elevator down to the lower levels of the Grandvier Palace. While waiting for the elevator tube to descend the hundred levels to the ground floor, he finally got around to pulling on his leather pants and boots. He wore no shirt when coming here, leaving his broad chest bare. That was how the princess liked him.
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the elevator wall, suddenly grateful he had the lift to himself. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. Or for meeting fans, even if they wanted to tell him how much they loved him. He wasn’t a fool. He knew they only loved the holoscreen image of Nahkar Ka-Razal, the beast killer. They loved the way he swung Blood Eater, his huge tynerium greatsword, and killed the strange predators captured on dangerous alien worlds and brought here to battle warriors like him.
They loved him, but they only knew him through the screen or by staring down at him from the audience seats. Like the spoiled princess, they weren’t interested in anything he had to say. They wanted him to move, fight, fuck, kill. That’s what they loved. He couldn’t blame them. He was godly with a sword in his hand, either his metal sword or the weapon between his legs. If they loved him for it, then he would take it. It kept a roof over his head, food in his belly, females in his bed, and rust off his sword.
That was all a true warrior needed in life.
He smirked to himself. It had also put one-time street scum like him between the legs of an imperial princess.
His grin widened. Yeah. He wasn’t complaining.
Nahkar used the service tunnels to make his way back to the fighter barracks. Cameras and scanners watched his every move. Heavily armed imperial guards and security robots watched him too, faceless behind their helmets or reflective view lenses.
He tried to ignore them, but it was not easy. Anyone who wasn’t a citizen of the empire had no love for imperial lackeys. These days, Nahkar could come and go throughout the palace pretty much as he pleased, thanks to the princess. But if he tried to leave Quasarask’s central district or get to a ship, things would change in a hurry. He was “sponsored” by the Yand-Rasan Corporation, a mega-conglomerate with ties to much of the imperial family. The sad truth was, Yand-Rasan one-hundred percent owned his ass.
He entered the arena fighter hall after being scanned. The massive, three-story outer hall held the training facilities. Weights, exercise equipment, small sparring arenas, robot opponents, anything a fighter could ask for. The east-facing side of the hall was reinforced synth-glass, showing part of the palace grounds. Beyond the security walls, he could see the skyscraper buildings of Quasarask Station, a city in space in orbit around Onocron Four. Beyond the synth-glass shielding of the station’s spherical environmental hull, he could see the bright orange, brown, and white of Onocron Four, the massive gas giant planet below them.
As he paused to watch, a deep space freight hauler moved to one of the station’s big docking bays. He wondered what it would be like to be on that ship. Free to go anywhere in the galaxy…
He shook his head. What did he know of space travel? He had grown up on this space station, in the Ced Slums. He had never even set foot on another planet in his life. It was pointless to wish. He needed to keep focused on the upcoming arena fights. As long as he won, he was famous. Here on Quasarask Station and all over the quadrant. The princess wasn’t about to invite a loser into her bed.
He pulled his gaze away from the docking freighter but was distracted by the sight of another ship. It was angular, irregularly shaped, and rusty-red. It was a Jandami slaver ship. His teeth clamped tighter, jaw muscles rigid as he glared at it. He had no love for the Grand Daxai Empire, but he hated the Jandami slavers. They had brought his mother here in chains years ago, abducting her from Ikest.
Snarling, fists clenched, he wrenched his gaze away and headed for the far door leading to the barracks. He needed to be wary of how much emotion he showed. Opposite the training hall’s wall of synth-glass was another kind of glass. This type was one-way mirrored, reinforced, and just as un-smashable. Nahkar knew that behind those one-way mirrors, owners, corporate heads, big-name gamblers, politicians, and crime lords came to watch them train. They evaluated the fighters, gauging their chances for survival against the dangerous and exotic predators they brought in for the arena.
He had long since grown used to the feeling of being watched while he trained. Or almost everywhere he went. He frowned, feeling unusually restless. Off-balance.
What was wrong with him this morning? He’d just laid an imperial princess. He could still smell her scent on his body, and that feminine scent usually turned him on like mad. He should be nothing but grins and swagger this morning. He was alive. He was famous. He had a fight coming up.
But still…he was restless. On edge. Troubled.
He needed to purge these unfamiliar feelings by training himself to exhaustion. That should work. He’d shower and then weight train and spar with any comers brave enough to get in the arena with him.
Nahkar nodded to a few of the fighters as he continued through the training hall. He eyed a four-armed Harkon fighter wielding four swords and battling a huge insectoid combat robot. Nahkar was actually a little jealous that the niedrofa bastard could use four swords at once. True, they were smaller swords than Blood Eater, Nahkar’s huge greatsword, but still, that was a lot of swords. Having that many swords was like having more than one cock. Like…four cocks. Impressive, but how did you decide where to stick them all in the heat of the moment?
Nahkar decided he would stick with his one, really really big sword. He grinned. Size mattered, after all.
He had almost reached the arena barrack’s entrance through the training hall. The ha
ll was filled with the sounds of grunts, clangs, smacks. It reeked of sweat and aggression. Before he could get scanned and head inside the barracks, a friendly voice he recognized called out to him.
“If it isn’t our famous, undefeated jisoy,” Darkon Trava said with a lopsided grin. “Lose your way home last night? Or are you simply back from being used as an imperial fuck toy?”
Nahkar grunted. He knew what a jisoy was thanks to some holo images Darkon had shown him. Little balls of fur with huge, trusting eyes and a long, agile tail. They were native to Darkon’s homeworld and kept as adorable pets. Nahkar had jokingly asked if they were good to eat, and it had almost started a fight. Darkon was throwing an insult his way, implying that Nahkar was the princess’s adorable pet. Cute.
Luckily, he wasn’t in the mood to be offended this morning. Besides, Darkon loved to make jests and jokes and almost always wore a smile.
Except in the arena.
“We’re all imperial fuck toys, Darkon,” he replied. “I thought you knew that. Maybe you’ve been hit too many times in the head and forgot.”
Darkon laughed. The other fighter was a Quindon, a species from…well, some planet or other. Nahkar couldn’t keep track. He had other things to worry about in his life. Darkon was his only competition for the top slot among arena fighters, but Nahkar was ahead by a good three hundred points and six predator kills.
Nahkar would never admit this aloud, but the Quindon did present an impressive image on the holo-screens for the fans. It was Quindon coloring more than anything, Nahkar guessed. They weren’t as massive and covered in muscle as Ikestrans, Nahkar’s species, but they had dark blue skin patterned with silver stripes and colorations. Darkon had a powerful body, muscled yet lean, scarred, and he was fast. He’d told Nahkar he was big for his kind, but even so, he was shorter than Nahkar and only two thirds as wide. He had long limbs, a neck corded with muscle, no hair but an intricate pattern of silver covering his smooth head that looked impressive in the arena lights. Darkon also had silver irises and fought with a spear-like weapon that had killed many a ravaging alien predator for the holo-cameras.
His friend was fast and deadly. Nahkar respected that. Females liked him too. Nahkar respected that as well. Of course, he wasn’t as popular as Nahkar. And his cock was not as long. So that meant Nahkar was the better male, the better fighter, and still the winner.
Which meant all was right with the universe.
Darkon punched him on the shoulder. “Go grab a weapon. We’ll battle a few rounds in the Aixen Arena. I have the fighting floor reserved. We’ll work up an appetite and give the gamblers an early show. We can see if your brute power is still inferior to my speed, grace, and skill.”
That made Nahkar laugh. “You said that wrong, niedrofa. My power and my sword arm are both superior to your flitting around the arena like a dancer and poking things with your little stick.”
Despite their banter, he was pleased Darkon had invited him. He needed to get out of his own head this morning. It would be better to fight in the arena than in the crowded training hall. That privilege was only given out to the top fighters. Which meant it was given out to him and to Darkon first and foremost. Nahkar had stood as undisputed arena champion for the last three years. But Darkon was close behind. Although they were competitors for fame and glory, points and kills, Nahkar respected the Quindon. At some point that he couldn’t remember, respect had turned to friendship.
Friendship was risky. You never knew when one of those friends might be torn apart by a razor-dreng from the Outer Ring, or a kill-tail from the Hanolesk System. Luckily, fighters did not battle each other to the death in the arena. That hadn’t always been the case, but too much “valuable organic property” belonging to the conglomerates had been lost that way. The returns weren’t there for the costs to the owners. So instead, they fought gigantic predators captured on hazardous alien worlds and brought into the arena.
Darkon smirked at him. “So does that mean you want to train or not? Maybe destroy some training bots or cross weapons with me for a bit? Or are you too tired from shoving your dick in the princess and obeying her royal commands?” He stared at Nahkar as if honestly curious if this was the case.
“Me? Tired? I could fuck my way through a harem and still kick your ass.” He glanced at the door to the barracks. “Give me a few minutes to wash the sweet scent of pleasured woman off my body, grab a bite to eat, and collect my sword, then we shall see who is tired.”
“Sounds like an…unfortunately explicit and over-detailed plan,” Darkon replied. “Meet me at the gates when you’re ready, and we’ll head to the arena.”
Nahkar nodded and walked into the fighter barracks. The walls were metal and unadorned except for the occasional holoscreen image of the current fighters. Some played footage of their most famous fights. Nahkar starred in many of those clips. At the far end of the hall, there was even a hologram of him standing on a pedestal, leaning on his sword, covered in razor-dreng blood. That had been a fight to remember. He’d almost lost his arm when the razor-dreng’s huge jaws had snapped shut, nearly taking him off at the elbow and swallowing his sword. A lesser warrior might have feared he would die that night. Nahkar had glorified in how alive he’d felt. After the fight, he’d had new scars and stank of the razor-dreng’s foul guts. He frowned, remembering how hard it had been to get the smell off his skin. It was not as sweet a scent as the princess’s.
He arrived at his room. It was one of the biggest in the barracks, but still not all that impressive. They weren’t allowed to own pets, but he had a small curien plant. He had a picture of Ikest, his people’s homeworld that he’d never visited. Not much more than that, though. He didn’t need much. He spent most of his time training and fighting.
Quickly, he showered himself and used the food station replicator for a meal to sustain him through a hard day’s training. Also, he needed the calories after such a busy night. He suppressed a yawn. He couldn’t let anyone see that he was tired. He had an image to maintain.
As he went about his business, Nahkar couldn’t shake the restlessness clinging to him. Not during the shower. Not after putting hot food in his belly. He couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that things were about to change forever.
He didn’t get it. The feeling annoyed him. He was famous. His face was known throughout the quadrant. Females lusted after him. Males envied him.
So what was his problem?
He should be the happiest right now, and yet he wasn’t. Fighting was everything, and yet he wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming tournament battle. This was wrong.
He growled, punched a metal wall in frustration, and shoved the thoughts out of his mind. It was stupid to feel unsatisfied. To feel like he was waiting for something new to happen. He needed to lose himself in the fight, stop all this annoying thinking.
A bit later, Nahkar met Darkon at the gate as they’d agreed. His friend was wearing his armor—sleek, advanced armor tied in with computers that made him look half a robot—but he didn’t have the mask he usually wore in the arena.
Nahkar never hid his face. Right now, he was wearing nothing except leather pants and boots, the same as he did in the arena. That way, he showed the world every scar, every muscle.
If you had it, flaunt it. Some fighter had told him that once. Of course, Nahkar thought the guy had died shortly afterward. May he rest in peace. It was still good advice.
Nahkar punched Darkon on one armored shoulder, sending him staggering. “Still wearing this junk, eh, blue one? How can you ever take the title of champion from me when you are so afraid to bleed?”
Darkon snorted. “Only fools like to bleed. I prefer all my blood safely stored in my body, where it belongs. True warriors are more interested in making their enemies bleed.”
Nahkar laughed. He did enjoy Darkon’s company. The Quindon fighter had a sharp wit about him and an easy smile.
Together, they headed down the wide tunnel that led to Aixen Arena’s fighter
entrance. Aixen Arena was one of the largest structures on the space station, which was already one of the biggest stations in the galaxy, enclosing an entire city. Quasarask was one of the prime imperial trading hubs. Aixen Arena hosted all kinds of sporting events for imperial citizens and outsiders alike.
But the most popular events were the fights, the wildest being warriors versus predators, the popular Blades and Monsters events. Gambling, holoscreen presentations, thousands of imperial citizens who attended in person and the billions who watched on holo-screens—the spectacle was grand, and the credits were flowing. The arena fighters who battled the vicious alien monsters with only blades and spears were lifted up as heroes, given fame and galaxy-wide notoriety. Until they died.
Nahkar didn’t intend on dying anytime soon.
The two of them passed another main corridor leading to and from one of the largest docking bays. A line of slaves was being marched down the metal corridor by Jandami slavers in their rust-red armor, their yellow, slit eyes scanning the crowds. Nahkar counted ten slaves in all. They were all of different alien species, all of them female, but he saw no Ikestrans among them.
Fury burned in his guts. His big fists clenched. The sight of all those females with slave collars around their necks, tethered together, all of them walking with their heads down only enraged him. He could see their pain and fear. But even though his hand settled around the hilt of Blood Eater, he did not draw the blade.
Instead, he forced himself to turn away. He could not help them. No matter how much the fear in their eyes cut at him, he could not save them. He was a slave himself, not an imperial citizen. His biological property contract was owned by Yand-Rasan Corp. He didn’t wear a slave collar or the chains, but he had just as little freedom. He could not leave this station. He could never quit the arena, even if he wanted to.
He was strong. He was a fighter. But he could not overthrow the imperial order himself. His mother had been a slave, brought here in the same way. When her master had died, she’d ended up with Nahkar in the Ced Slums, both of them starving and sick. His childhood had been a brutal struggle until he had proven big and strong enough to win fights for credits.
