by Tristan Vick
“You liked the power, didn’t you?”
“You’d only be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t.”
Jegra sauntered in a circle, searching for any sound–no matter how minuscule–that might help to give away Abethca’s location. But Abethca was well trained, and she didn’t make any sound. Another cut opened up across Jegra’s right bicep and she grunted as she grappled with the scoring pain of the korridium blades.
“I’m going to give you my special finishing move, Jegra, darling. A thousand kisses of death.”
The throng of onlookers erupted with cheers and applause and Jegra, for the first time in over seventy-two consecutive matches, had lost the favor of the crowd. An exasperated expression came across her face as she watched the spectators’ loyalties shift as idly as the afternoon breeze.
This pleased Abethca to no end, and she couldn’t help but let out a faint chortle. It was just near enough to Jegra’s neck that she could guess exactly where Abethca was.
With a thrust of her elbow, she threw her arm back and made contact with something. She turned in time to see the far wall of the amphitheater crumple as Abethca’s invisible body collided with it.
Chunks of rock and debris rained onto the dry dirt of the arena, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Peering into the dust cloud, Jegra could make out the silhouette of a rather fit body.
“Gotcha,” Jegra whispered. Leaping into the air, Jegra shot high up into the hollow of the amphitheater and then came straight down. Landing on her knee and hammering the ground with both fists, she impacted with such a force it kicked up a fearsome sandstorm.
Abethca’s shadow figure stopped mid-run to catch her bearings, but Jegra had already disappeared into the plume of sand. Even the televid orb flew blindly through the thick haze. That is, until a hand reached out and grabbed it.
Jegra chucked the drone at Abethca’s head; the woman barely had time to raise her knife. The televid drone instantly split in half as Abethca’s blade sliced through it. A spray of sparks flew out and she quickly regained a defensive stance, desperately searching for Jegra.
“Looking for me?”
Startled, Abethca spun around, swinging her blade recklessly. The sand gnawed at the blades as she cut through the silica-filled air. Soon enough the korridium blades no longer crackled. They had been dulled.
At the same time, Abethca’s invisibility had begun to wear off. Whether from fatigue, the sandstorm, or some combination of both, she gradually grew more and more opaque, steadily transforming from a phantasmic, transparent green to a translucent, waxy green, and finally, to a mostly-solid green woman.
Abethca was rendered vulnerable and, wasting no time, Jegra bent down and snatched the discarded spearhead from earlier. Charging Abethca, Jegra flanked her from the south side of the oval arena.
As expected, Abethca shifted her footing to counter Jegra’s attack, but Jegra flung the arrow head with a flick of her wrist and it cut across the distance between them like a dart.
Abethca yelped out in pain as the arrowhead pierced her right shoulder. She quickly pried the spearhead from her flesh with a tormented grunt and a healthy spray of blue blood. Luckily, Jegra’s distraction had worked. Abethca no longer held the upper hand; the crowd was noisy, their loyalties split.
Abethca’s draining wound caused her to lose her grip on one of her knives and she dropped it to the ground. This opened her up to a gut-wrenching punch from Jegra, who smiled manically for the televid drone as she doled out a punishing blow to her opponent’s taught stomach.
Jegra roared out like a fierce lioness as her knuckles embedded themselves in Abethca’s gut. The green woman’s entire body rose off the ground as she crumpled around Jegra’s mighty fist and relinquished her other blade.
Jegra held Abethca up with one arm, pandering to the audience to show them that this green woman was way out of her weight class. As Abethca lay slumped across Jegra’s arm, she unexpectedly hurled her stomach contents all over the arena.
Jegra pulled her fist back and stepped away, narrowly avoiding the vomit shower. Abethca collapsed to the ground and then, defiantly, pushed herself up to her knees. She kneeled prostrate before Jegra and clutched her bruised ribs.
Jegra threw her arms into the air as she circled her foe and addressed the audience. “You dare doubt me? You dare turn on your undefeated champion?! I’m gravely disappointed in you all. Yet, here I stand. Victorious!”
The crowd grew deathly silent. The only sound was that of Abethca’s pathetic whining. Jegra looked down at the defeated woman and deliberated as to what to do with her. Whimpering like a wounded dog, Abethca raised two fingers into the air and called for mercy. The crowd erupted with boos and hisses.
“Silence!” Jegra roared. Her voice rattled the upper echelons of the amphitheater and the ruckus quickly died down.
She reached over and grabbed Abethca by her right wrist and dragged her lethargic body to its feet. Holding her wrist, Jegra shouted out, “Your returning champion! Abethca Agnar!”
There was an awkward murmuring as the crowd didn’t quite know how to respond. Even the televid drone hovered anxiously above the scene as it panned from Jegra’s face to Abethca’s. Breaking the long silence, the sport broadcaster came onto the comm system and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed something unprecedented! Two champions, going head to head, battling fiercely and ending in the first ever draw!”
The crowd erupted with another wave of applause and cheers. Jegra ignored their hollow praise. She turned and marched across the arena, dragging Abethca behind her, still clutching her opponent’s wrist tightly in her hand.
“Wait, where are you taking me?” Abethca asked.
“Don’t forget, Abethca Agnar of Bre’lal, I spared your life. Now you owe me a debt of servitude until you can either repay me in kind or until I release you of your obligation.”
She shot Jegra a wide-eyed glance. “You’re claiming me as your spoils?”
Jegra pulled Abethca into the dim tunnel that led to her bedroom chambers. “You’re damn right I’m claiming you.”
“But why? Why would you want me?”
Once inside the tunnel, Jegra stopped, spun around, and clutched Abethca’s neck with her hand, squeezing tightly. She shoved Abethca forcefully into the cold stone wall. Abethca let out a huff of air and wheezed to take another breath. Jegra let up on her grip enough to let the Bre’lal woman breathe.
Jegra leaned in and pressed her chest into Abethca’s. Then, raising Abethca’s arm over her head and firmly pressing her wrist into the rock wall of the corridor, Jegra glanced at Abethca’s fingers and then looked down into the green woman’s shallow blue eyes. “These fingers will better suit me in other ways than lying cold and dead upon the sands of the arena.”
“It would have been a fitting death. An honorable death.”
“Perhaps,” Jegra said with a deviant grin. Slowly, she slid Abethca’s wrist down along the wall, guiding her arm down until it came to a rest on her thigh. She leaned in and, standing a full head above the green woman, she lowered her gaze and whispered into her ear, “But right now I want you right here.”
Jegra slid Abethca’s hands between her sweat laden thighs and pressed her fingers into the scaled bikini bottoms she wore. Abethca’s eyes grew wide when she realized what Jegra wanted of her, but she remained hesitant.
Abethca found it rather difficult to gather her thoughts let alone articulate them. “I … I’m not … I know … it’s just…” Not knowing what to say next, she trailed off without saying anything. A heavy sigh gave proof to her complete surrender.
Jegra smiled and then leaned in and kissed Abethca on her dark green lips. Abethca drew back, resisting the kiss of her sworn enemy.
Although Abethca detested Jegra, she knew that she’d lost the bout. And instead of killing her, Jegra had shown mercy. By the laws of the arena, whether she liked it or not, she belonged to Jegra now as her servant–to do with as she s
aw fit.
This, after all, was the punishment for surrendering the bout. Disgraced, you were destined to become the slave of a slave. There was no lower position in society than that.
Jegra felt a raw animal like attraction to Abethca, even though she had tried to kill her just minutes ago in the arena. There was nothing like the submission of an enemy that could enliven Jegra’s carnal instincts. Pressing her chest into Abethca, Jegra wove her fingers through the woman’s forest green hair and grabbed her firmly by the back of her head, forcing her lips back to hers.
Soon her tongue found Abethca’s and what had begun as a feathery dance of tongue-play turned into a sultry tango between open mouths. Abethca’s resistance gradually faded and she let out a prurient moan and fell into Jegra’s arms.
“Does the champion of the arena always get what she wants?” Abethca asked in a sultry voice.
The Bre’lal woman’s crystal-water blue eyes peered up at Jegra’s inviting brown ones, and Jegra grabbed the green woman around her waist, their muscular thighs pressing into one another. Leaning into Abethca, she whispered into her ear, “When it fancies me.”
Out of the blue, a thunderous explosion shook the amphitheater and interrupted their little make out session. Startled out of their lustful entanglement, both women looked at one another with staggered expressions. Perhaps even more startling than the ear rattling sound of the sonic disturbance in the sky was the realization of what accompanied it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Abethca asked.
Jegra relinquished her hold of Abethca and, fixing her bikini, hurried up the corridor, Abethca close behind her.
They stepped out into the stadium grounds, looked up into the sky and fixed their eyes on the object hanging low in the atmosphere. Its endless shadow cast dimness over the entire stadium.
Dakroth’s Royale Battle Cruiser loomed over the colosseum. It had a double-forked hull that looked like a two-pronged blade; the huge curving fins along the top and the smooth, broad bottom made it look like a predatory shark.
Jegra had once asked a star-pilot why ships jumping in or out of hyperspace made the sound of a thunderclap; the pilot had explained to her that it had something to do with the terminal wave shock of entering or exiting FTL travel. The ships, dropping out of FTL, actually broke the sound barrier every time they entered or exited hyperspace. This shockwave crashed into you, and whether you were on a ship or a planet, depending on your distance from the source of the wave, it would sound like a resounding clap of thunder.
Abethca limped up to Jegra and took her place by her side. “Your boyfriend’s back. A booty call?” she jested.
Jegra raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. Dakroth is supposed to be at the front lines until next month. There’s only one thing that could make him return before the allotted time.”
“And, pray tell, what might that be?” asked Abethca.
“The war isn’t going as planned and he’s come to conscript any and all fighters he can find into his army.”
Abethca gulped hard. Being a gladiator is one thing, but being made into a soldier, that’s entirely another.
Jegra turned to Abethca and, with a stern expression, said, “No matter what, stay by my side and follow my lead–if you want to live.”
“What?” Abethca asked. But before she could inquire as to what Jegra meant by her ominous demand, a beam of golden light appeared before them.
Inside the beam of light, sparks danced about as though they were caught in a firestorm. They flurried about rapidly, then, to their astonishment, a blue-skinned man appeared standing before them.
Jegra kneeled on one knee before the handsome, cobalt blue colored, platinum-haired figure. He wore a custom-tailored Imperial uniform and a flowing white cape. Abethca copied Jegra and knelt before the great warrior.
“My Lord,” Jegra said, bowing her head.
Abethca gulped down the nervous lump in her throat. She had never met the Emperor before. She quickly followed suit and bowed her head, too.
Emperor Dakroth laughed and tossed his long, straight, silvery hair across his shoulder. It fell in a cascade down to his lower back. His blood-red eyes looked animated behind his blue, poker-faced expression. “My dear Daughter of Sol,” he began, a smile slowly spreading across his face, “how many times have I asked you to simply call me Rhadamanthus?”
Lord Dakroth reached down, took Jegra by her hand, and bid her to rise. She did so, and Abethca was about to follow her up, but Jegra shook her head ever so slightly and waved her hand to warn her green skinned Bre’lal girl to stay down.
Dakroth is what Jegra considered a dedicated Sadist. He loved to cause pain; he lived for it. That is why he loved to fight in the campaigns himself. But he was also highly unpredictable. If she had to describe him in a word, it would be psychotic.
Regardless, he’d taken a liking to her. Especially since she could take it as well as he could dish it out. And there still wasn’t a single thing he could do to her that would hurt her any more than it hurt him.
Sure, it wasn’t an ideal relationship. He was as abusive as a Dragonian slaver. But by keeping him close, she enjoyed a certain privilege nobody else had. He confided in her, trusted her; she would always have that edge over him.
She knew his every dark little secret, and subsequently, the secrets of the entire galaxy. It was a position of power she wasn’t willing to give up. And, besides, the sex wasn’t half bad. Rough. But not bad at all.
“Rhadamanthus,” Jegra said with a smile. “What brings you to my humble amphitheater?”
“I need to speak with you,” he said, pausing long enough to lean to the side and glance warily down at the green-skinned girl groveling at his feet.
Jegra did a nervous double take between them and was about to introduce Abethca when Lord Dakroth beat her to it.
“And who might this lovely creature be?” he asked.
The televid drone hovered noisily above them. Growing annoyed, Dakroth raised his finger, aimed it like a pistol at the drone, and let off a powerful red laser beam. The blast took out the drone; its burning husk crashed to the arena floor.
“My apologies,” he said, returning to their conversation. “I’ve been too easily distracted as of late.
“This is Abethca Agnar,” Jegra said, nodding at her concubine.
“And who is she to you?” Dakroth asked, taking Abethca’s hand and having her rise up so he could better inspect her.
“She was my sworn enemy, now my concubine,” Jegra said. Of course, Abethca wasn’t her concubine per se, but that was a known term of ownership, meaning Dakroth should not claim her for his own, though Jegra knew he still might. He was known to break the rules on more than one occasion.
“I see,” he said, smiling warmly at Abethca.
“My Lord,” Abethca said, bowing her head reverently.
Dakroth reached out and touched her chin and gently raised her blue eyes up so that they met his. His smile only grew wider. “Jegra, you’ll have to inform me if it’s true what they say. Bre’lal women make the best lovers.”
“I will,” Jegra answered, lowering her gaze.
“Until then, I formally invite you both aboard my cruiser for dinner. There is a lot we must discuss.”
Dakroth stepped back and bowed ever so slightly. Then, in a flamboyant manner, he tossed his silvery hair across his shoulder, threw back his cape, and blew kisses at the crowd. The entire colosseum went wild at the gesture.
In a flash of the yellow, sparkling light of a particle beam, he was whisked back up to his ship.
When Jegra looked over at Abethca, she stood frozen, staring at the spot Dakroth had just dematerialized from. That’s when Jegra recognized the symptoms. The woman was petrified.
“It’s all right,” Jegra said, placing a warm hand on Abethca’s shoulder.
Abethca was shivering. “All I could feel was fear.”
“Don’t worry, it wears off after a while.”
Abethca
slowly turned her head and looked into Jegra’s eyes. “Wears off? What the bloody hell was that?”
“He broadcasts the manifestation of your worst fears into your mind when you are in close proximity to him. He can cause you to see things that would make you go insane, even gouge out your own eyes. It’s how he keeps everyone in submission. It’s one of his many powers.”
“And you’ve slept with that guy?”
Jegra shrugged. “What can I say? He’s a good lay.”
Abethca shuddered. “Forgive me, but I think I’ll just have to take your word on that.”
“Don’t worry. As long as he believes that you’re my concubine, he won’t lay a finger on you. Probably.”
“Probably?” Abethca said, catching Jegra’s aside.
Jegra shrugged. He was the emperor, after all. He pretty much could do whatever he wanted. But she also knew him to be a man of discipline and self-control.
After a long pause, Abethca asked, “Why would you stick your neck out to protect me like this? I tried to kill you today. Earlier, back in the corridor, I was just playing along. Biding my time until you fell asleep. Then, I was going slit your throat while you slept and escape.”
Jegra smiled at her green skinned companion. “I had a contingency plan for tonight, Abethca. If I stopped to worry about when or how I was going to die, I wouldn’t have time to enjoy the present. Before my life in the arena, as far back as I can remember, I was a fearful weakling. A timid girl, always afraid of her own shadow. I can’t go back to being that pathetic little weakling. Never again. So, now I choose to live in the moment, taking it a day at a time.” Jegra slid off her bracer and showed Abethca her tattoo.
“Carpe diem?” Abethca read aloud. She looked up and gave Jegra a mystified look.
“It’s an old Earth saying. It means, ‘seize the day,’” she replied, sliding her bracer back into place. “Don’t waste your time worrying about tomorrow. Just live today to its fullest.”
Just then a new televid drone manifested above them and began recording.
