by Anna Hackett
The never-ending parade of ships came in, disgorging new, would-be gladiators. Some were slaves fighting for their freedom, others prisoners of war, some military men in training who came to test their abilities, and a few—the crazy few—were volunteers looking for the fame and fortune associated with the gladiatorial arena.
Over the main arena, the tall, glowing buildings of the District rose up. The sprawling city of Kor Magna surrounded the arena but the District only catered to all the rabid spectators who came from around the galaxy to watch the fights.
The District catered to their every need and happily took their credits. Whatever vice you wanted, it could be found in the glitz and glamour of the District—gambling, extravagant shows, alcohol, drugs, brothels…the list was endless. Some of the casino owners were as wealthy as the imperators who owned and ran the gladiator houses.
Strobe lights shone into the darkening sky. Raiden guessed that spectators were already trickling into the arena. The corporate sponsors would be sitting in their boxes, wining and dining.
“Big fight tonight.”
Raiden nodded at Thorin. “It’s always a big fight.”
“But tonight the House of Thrax has a new gladiator in the ring.”
Just that name was enough to have Raiden’s muscles tightening. Thraxians. A bloodthirsty species he hated to the very core. A species that had taken everything from Raiden.
Spinning, he strode over to the weapons rack. He grabbed an oiled cloth and started cleaning his sword.
Unlike most of the other gladiators, he didn’t go for high-tech, fancy, or flashy. His weapon was a classic Aurelian short sword. A strong, straight blade forged from the galaxy’s strongest metal. As he cleaned it, neon-green inscriptions along the blade gleamed briefly. In a language he’d learned as a child.
As the inscriptions faded, he shoved the sword into the scabbard at his side. The past was the past. It was best to look forward, not back.
“This doesn’t look like intense training to me.”
The deep voice had Raiden looking up. Galen stood nearby, a long, black cloak falling from his shoulders. He was always dressed in black leathers, ready for a fight, despite the fact he’d long ago given up fighting in the arena to become the Imperator of the House of Galen.
The Kor Magna Arena was comprised of over thirty main gladiator houses. Some had existed for centuries, while others were new and trying to make a name for themselves. Some were aligned to certain species and planets, while others, like the House of Galen, were run by a single imperator.
Instead of swinging a weapon, Galen now owned and trained gladiators for the arena. He was several years older than Raiden, with a weathered, rugged face with a scar crossing his left cheek and a black patch over his left eye. His right eye was like a chip of ice from the frozen mountains of Ixsander, and his dark hair had the faintest touch of silver at his temples. His body was strong and muscled, and Raiden knew that if Galen ever had to pick up a sword again, he’d still be a force to be reckoned with on the sand.
Galen’s essence felt like unbending steel, ice and shadows. Raiden wondered if the man ever showed his true self to anyone.
“You’re going to look at the new arrivals?” Raiden asked.
Galen nodded. “Word is the Thraxians have been collecting outside of known boundaries.”
Raiden frowned. “Where?”
“Apparently they found a wormhole to somewhere uncharted. On the other side of the galaxy.”
Raiden raised his brows. It would take hundreds of years to reach that far with conventional singularity drive spaceship engines.
“Found a few new and interesting fighters that they’ve brought in.” Galen shrugged. “I’ll take a look and judge for myself.”
The Thraxians were the worst of the slavers. They kidnapped anyone and anything that wasn’t nailed down, and made a pretty profit selling poor souls at places like Kor Magna. They didn’t care if their prisoners were fighters or not. They didn’t care if those prisoners died in the gladiatorial ring, or deep in the bowels of some mine, or in the steamy, humid confines of some backbreaking factory.
The options for slaves in most of the known galaxy were all bad. Raiden knew that better than anyone. At least here, at Kor Magna, you had options if you wanted to look for them. He’d come here an angry teenage boy whose entire world had been destroyed. It would’ve been easy to give up, roll over, die.
But giving up had never been in Raiden’s manner.
“Exotic stock, huh?” Thorin set the pieces of his broken axe down on the rack. One of Galen’s well-trained support staff would whisk it off to the weapons master, who’d either repair it or melt it down for parts. The House of Galen employed a large number of workers who cleaned, cooked, and did maintenance. “How about you find a few pretty, exotic female fighters?” Thorin suggested.
Raiden knew his friend liked strong women in his bed.
“Exotic? Someone different and strange?” The new voice was smooth and deep. Raiden turned his head as Kace joined them. “You think ladies enjoy being called exotic and strange, Thorin?”
The man was one of the newest gladiators in the House of Galen, but he’d quickly made a name for himself. There was no mistaking that the man was military born and bred. With his straight bearing and watchful gaze, it was clear he wasn’t a slave. No, Kace was part of his planet’s military elite, doing time in the arena to hone his skills.
The man had duty and honor bred into him. He was an excellent, disciplined fighter who went out of his way not to engage smaller, weaker gladiators. Thankfully, the crowd loved Kace’s need to protect smaller gladiators.
Kace shook his head. “No wonder you can’t keep a woman in your bed longer than one night.”
Thorin shrugged. “I have no desire to keep a female.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “At least I have them in my bed…yours is always empty.”
Kace’s face turned blank. “By choice.”
Galen’s gaze narrowed on Kace. “You’ve been here long enough to know the way of the arena. The more interesting, the more different, the more crowd-pleasing a gladiator is, the better they do. The better my gladiators do, the better the House of Galen does. The Thraxians have promised a lineup of unique fighters, as well as some never-before-seen beasts. I want to take a look, although we all know the Thraxians are prone to exaggeration.” His pale gaze locked on Raiden. “I’d like you to come with me and give me your thoughts.”
Raiden nodded. He hated going anywhere near the damn Thraxians, but he knew the real reason Galen wanted his opinion.
Galen turned to the others and jerked his head toward the training rooms. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve organized rub downs for you.”
Thorin let out a moan. “Yes.”
Raiden smiled. They all enjoyed the firm massages from the team of Hermia healers Galen employed. The rub downs loosened up tight muscles and made them forget, for a second, just where they were.
Galen’s icy blue gaze leveled on Raiden. “I want you to win the fight tonight. Just do what you usually do and win, but perhaps you could play to the crowd a little bit more.”
Thorin snorted. “Galen, how many years have you been telling Raiden to do that? The guy fights and wins. That’s it. He doesn’t pander to anybody.”
A muscle ticked in Galen’s jaw. “You could own that arena, if you wanted to.”
Raiden stayed silent.
“He already does,” Kace said, his expression mild.
“Let’s go get that massage.” Thorin slapped the younger gladiator on the back, the light shining off the scales that flashed on his arms. Where Raiden was covered in tattoos, Thorin’s skin occasionally showed patches of dark scales in the right light. A second later, the scales were gone. Kace’s bronze skin had no adornment. He was clean-cut and refused to change that.
Thorin and Kace headed in, and Raiden and Galen fell into step as they left the training arena.
Raiden wondered what they’d
find on the Thraxian auction block.
Anything could happen in the arena. On the blood-soaked sand, you could find hope, despair, joy, pain, and—if you were looking for it—something to take all those away.
That’s why Raiden fought. To keep the past, the memories, and the pain, at bay.
***
Harper heard noises and raised her head. At least, she tried to. As always, the drugs made her sluggish and slow. She detested it.
She tugged on her wrists and heard her chains clank. Her shoulder was aching from the last time she’d fought her captors.
She gazed around her cell. The floor and walls were a dark brown, made from a tough substance that reminded her of Thraxian skin. Orange lights embedded in the walls gave the place an eerie glow. There was a tiny lavatory tucked at the back, but other than that, there was nothing else in there—no bedding, no entertainment, no chairs.
When she wasn’t chained for punishment, she worked through every exercise and sparring routine she knew. She’d lost track of how long she’d been held captive. How long had it been since the attack on the space station? Days, weeks, months? She had no idea what had happened to Fortuna Station, she hadn’t seen Madeline after the two of them had been dragged onto this ship. Every day, Harper wondered what had happened to her friends and colleagues, to Regan, Rory, Sam, and Blaine.
After those horrifying early hours, after she’d been stripped, hosed down with some chemical she’d guessed was to decontaminate her from any Earth germs, they’d strapped her down and injected some device into her skin, just below her left ear.
It was both a blessing and a curse, because now she could understand every word her captors had said. A few times, the Thraxians had let her out into a larger exercise room. She’d seen lots of other alien species, all prisoners like her, and the implant had translated their languages for her, as well. Though, the Thraxians never let them talk to each other.
What she hadn’t seen were any other humans.
That terrified her. The ship had stopped several times—just like it had now. She recognized when the engines weren’t running. She knew they were stopping at distant alien planets, but any wonder at the discovery of new life forms was replaced with horror. She knew now the only reason the Thraxians stopped was to sell and trade their wares.
It had been a long time since she’d been let out of her cell. The Thraxians found her…disruptive. She smiled grimly at the thought. Yeah, those alien bastards had learned the hard way that she didn’t follow the orders of slavers very well. And she really didn’t like being a prisoner.
Harper moved so she could rub her aching shoulder. It might make no sense to fight them—they were bigger and stronger, and she had found no way to escape—but she wasn’t taking her slavery lying down.
Suddenly she heard a harsh beep and she stiffened. She knew what was coming next.
Fluid sprayed from the ceiling, spraying down the walls of her cell and saturating her. The simple gray, loose-fitting trousers and shirt she wore got soaked, sticking to her skin. Her hair plastered to her head. It was now several inches longer than it had been on Fortuna.
This was the Thraxian way of bathing prisoners.
A second later, the fluid shut off. She watched the last rivulets stream down the metal floor and disappear into a long, narrow drain in the center of the cell. In the time that took, the high-tech fabric of her clothes was already dry.
Then, she heard the heavy thump of footsteps outside her cell. Harper frowned. They’d obviously landed at a new location. Were they finally going to let her off the ship? Her pulse leaped. God, the chance to breathe some fresh air…
Pity and sorrow rose, filling her throat. She knew she was a long way from Earth. She knew her situation was bad. She was now the property of the Thraxians, fate unknown. She squeezed her eyes closed and took a few deep breaths, pushing the useless emotions away. Okay, so the air wasn’t fresh, but it was breathable. They fed and cleaned her. She was alive, and while she was alive, there was hope for getting free and finding a way home.
A light blinked above the doors and they slid open. Two large Thraxians stepped into her cell.
She still thought they looked like demons, with their horns, their tough, dark skin, and the small tusks framing their mouths. But fighting with them so much had told her lots of other things, too.
They obviously had organs close to the skin at their lower backs; they went down easily if struck there. They had weak joints in their arms and knees. And those large, dark eyes were vulnerable.
Harper swallowed a groan. One of the pair had a puckered white scar on his cheek.
Scar Face had been her special tormentor since he’d dragged her off Fortuna. He hit her a little harder, kicked or struck her more often than the other guards. He hadn’t forgotten for a moment that she’d stabbed a knife in him on Fortuna.
Right now, he took the opportunity to kick her. She dodged as far as her chains would allow, and only took a glancing blow to her side.
The other alien made a grunting sound, reached down and yanked her to her feet. He undid her chains and held her still, while Scar Face slipped some glowing, flexible cuffs on her wrists. Then one of them jammed an injector against her neck. She felt the sting and hissed.
As they shoved her out of her cell, her head instantly cleared of the drug haze. She wondered where the hell they were. She got the impression the Thraxians stopped at worlds that were hungry for laborers. Was this new world a mining planet, manufacturing world, or—her stomach turned over—a brothel?
A lineup of other aliens had formed in the corridor ahead, and she was unceremoniously shoved to the back of the line.
Every other alien she’d seen towered over her. She was starting to get the impression that humans were very short by galaxy standards. She was tall for a woman, but since her captivity, she felt downright tiny. She didn’t like it much.
There were a few hulking brutes at the front of the line, and the tall alien in front of her looked humanoid, although he—or she, it was hard to tell—had a set of small, pretty, glittery wings coming out of his or her back. She’d seen a wide array of alien forms, although she wondered what the scientists would make of the fact that so many of them appeared humanoid, some nearly indistinguishable from humans.
A moment later, there was a loud grunt from behind her, and the prisoners were shoved into motion down the corridor, their footsteps echoing on the floor. Soon, they shuffled out of the prison area and into the main part of the ship.
Here, the floor and walls were the same dark brown as her cell with arched doorways leading into different rooms. The same orange lights ran along the base of the walls to light the way.
The line of prisoners continued to shuffle down corridor after corridor. Scar Face gave her a few hard shoves along the way, but she bit her tongue, and tried to keep her cool. Then they neared a large, arched door that slid open as they got close.
And Harper’s heart clenched, filled with a brief flash of hope. For the first time in ages, she stepped outside.
Dry heat hit her in the face, but she didn’t care. She moved down the ramp without taking much notice of it. Instead, she lifted her gaze up to the sky and breathed in fresh air. The sky was a faded blue compared to Earth but it was still glorious.
The sun—correct that, suns—were setting. Two big, orange globes, one chasing the other toward the horizon. She blinked at the light as it prickled her eyes and made them water.
They were led off the ramp, and then Harper felt sand crunch beneath her sandaled feet. She felt lighter and realized the planet’s gravity must not be quite as strong as Earth’s.
“Move,” Scar Face said.
They shuffled forward again. Ahead, a huge, circular building rose high above them. Harper arched her head, taking in the cream stone and elegant arches. On the side, she saw neon lights blinking on and off, no doubt advertisements, and strobe lights spearing high into the sky. It reminded her of a football arena on game
night.
They were led into a tunnel. Here, the lights were dim and Harper smelled the faint scent of sweat.
“This is bad,” the tall alien with the wings murmured.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispered back.
He shook his head, glancing back over his slim shoulder. “This is Kor Magna on the planet Carthago. It’s not going to be okay.”
“What’s Kor Magna?” She kept her voice down, not wanting to attract the attention of their guards.
The winged alien’s eyes widened. “You don’t know the Kor Magna? Carthago is a lawless, desert, outer-rim world, and it’s famous for its arena.”
Harper felt her stomach drop. “Arena?”
“Carthago is a gladiator world.” The man clutched his hands together, his wings fluttering nervously. “Everyone sold here has to fight for their life in the arena.”
Chapter Four
Gladiator world? Harper’s stomach did a painful rollover. She had images in her head of Ancient Rome and the bloody horrors of the Colosseum.
But the images scattered as they were led out of the tunnel and into a small courtyard. It had a stone floor and stone benches lined one side of the small space.
Ahead, she saw others gathered. Again, everyone seemed of various humanoid species. Suddenly, Harper remembered Regan’s poker night ramblings about what alien life would look like. Most theories held that aliens wouldn’t even look anything like us. Apparently, something or someone was responsible for ensuring the varying species of the galaxy looked vaguely familiar. Just another mystery.
She slowed down a little, trying to get a better look at the people. A hard blow slammed into her lower back, causing her to stumble. She spun and crouched, bringing her cuffed hands up. Scar Face was staring at her with that annoying smirk of his.
The bastard enjoyed testing her. After that first scuffle on the space station, she’d also broken his nose within her first few weeks on the ship. He hadn’t forgotten that, either.
