Captive (The Survival Race)

by K. M. Fawcett

  She didn’t budge.

  He held out a square chocolate cookie and sent happy telepathic feelings as the ringtone played again.

  And again, she didn’t move.

  He faced Duncan. A different ringtone sounded, and Duncan walked to him to receive his cookie. “That’s all he wants ye to do, lassie.”

  “Call me Lassie again and I’ll punch your Scottish mouth.” She turned her back on them. “I’m not a freaking dog.”

  A queer uneasiness fell over her. Angry vibes penetrated her body. A moment ago the alien was merely frustrated, but now he was outright mad. Her heart sped up at the quick attitude change. Had she pushed her luck with that about-face?

  She spun back around to see they weren’t alone. A black Hyborean, a foot or two larger than Ferly Mor, was facing off with him. As they repeatedly pointed her way, their snarls and growls intensified.

  Somehow, she had caused this fight.

  At their feet, Duncan looked back and forth from one to the other as if he followed the conversation. His eyes grew wide and his cheeks lost what little color they had. Of the three of them, his body language terrified her most.

  The black alien strode toward her. Its dark eyes pierced her as if arrows shot through her body, pinning her feet to the ground. She couldn’t move. And this time she wanted to.

  Ferly Mor snatched her into his arms, holding tight enough to snap her spine. Sensing desperation, she felt him pleading with the black fur Hyborean. What seemed like days had passed before Black Fur finally nodded.

  The pressure on her spine eased, and Ferly Mor set her on the ground. Legs giving out, she fell on her butt.

  The aliens faced each other. With ceremony, they placed two fingers to their own lips, and then simultaneously slapped their palms on the others’ chest. They used their free hand to cover the one resting on their own chest.

  Addy looked to Duncan for an explanation, but he still appeared scared out of his wits. Though he did have the presence of mind to help her stand.

  Black Fur took Ferly Mor’s silver headband and placed it on his own head as they both walked the same distance from her. Ferly Mor knelt down and held out a chocolate cookie.

  The ringtone sounded.

  She looked from one to the other, sensing them both calling. Was she supposed to go to Ferly Mor or Black Fur?

  A sharp pain jolted her body. It wasn’t nearly the same intensity as in the breeding box, but it was enough to warrant a jump backward.

  The tone played again.

  “Go to Ferly Mor, lass.”

  Another zap and she ran for his furry body, practically jumped into his arms. He hugged her and stroked the hair from her eyes before setting her down with her reward.

  Black Fur shoved the headband into Ferly Mor’s hands, giving him a curt nod that could have meant, “That’s how you train a human.” He strode off.

  Duncan squeezed Addy’s shoulders. “Ye did well, lass.”

  “What was all that about? Who was that other Hyborean?”

  Duncan sat, then flopped back in the grass with his hand over his heart. “It doesna matter now.”

  She stared down at him. Like heck it didn’t.

  Ferly Mor tousled her hair before he walked a further distance away, and played the ringtone again. Not wanting repeat shock therapy, she popped her cookie into her mouth and went to him the first time.

  After six more sweet treats, training day—and her abject humiliation—finally ceased.

  Chapter Nine

  Tell me,” Addy demanded when they were back in Duncan’s kitchen.

  “Hrmph.”

  “Why are you being so stubborn?”

  “What’s all the shouting about?” Tess emerged from her room and glared down at the two of them at the knee-high eating table.

  Addy ignored her. “I’ve obviously done something to tick off Black Fur. Why won’t you tell me what, so I don’t do it again?”

  “Who’s Black Fur?”

  “Xanthrag,” Duncan answered Tess.

  Tess pulled out a cushion from under the table and knelt on it. “What happened?”

  “First,” Addy said to her, “tell me who this Xanthrag is.”

  “He’s a big-time survival-race breeder. He owns the Yard, HuBReC, and half the humans here. His gladiators have made it to the championships every year for as long as I can remember. And have won most of them.”

  Great. Somehow she’d inadvertently pissed off a very influential alien. That couldn’t be good. “What did I do to make him so mad, Duncan?” When he harrumphed again, Addy slammed her fist on the table.

  “Would someone please tell me what happened?” Tess asked.

  Addy recounted her training experience. When she described the way the aliens put their fingers to their lips then hit their palms into the others’ chests, Tess’s eyes bugged. “That’s a Hyborean accord,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “A mutual agreement. A binding contract.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  Tess leaned over the table. “Hyboreans are compulsive gamblers. There isn’t anything they won’t bet on: sports, careers, the weather, you name it. So when they agree on a bet, they make an accord.” She mimicked the Hyborean gesture. “I always imagined them saying, ‘My word I give to you’, and when they cover the other’s hand, ‘I hold you to your word’.”

  “Fascinating. But what does it have to do with me?”

  “Och, lass, they were wagering on ye.” Duncan got up and poured himself a drink.

  “On whether or not I’d come?”

  “No. On who ye’d go to. Xanthrag wanted ye. Ferly Mor didn’t want to give ye up.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The closer I am to Ferly Mor, the better I can interpret him. Ye made a wise choice, or ye’d be sharing the same master as Regan now.” He drank like it was water, not whiskey.

  “That doesn’t explain Xanthrag’s anger.”

  Duncan choked and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Sure it does.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe a ten-second conversation about owning me caused Xanthrag’s rage and Ferly Mor’s panic? No way. Ferly Mor was begging. And you”—she pointed an accusing finger at him“—practically had a heart attack out there. What aren’t you telling me, Duncan?”

  He threw back another shot. “There’s nothing else to tell. Hyborean’s are nasty gamblers. That’s all.” His guilty gaze dropped to the floor before he crossed the room.

  “Da. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” He took his cloak from the rack. “The survival race party should be starting soon. I, for one, don’t want to miss it.” He slapped the button to sublimate the door to Ferly Mor’s apartment, then disappeared through the white gas.

  “You’re right,” Tess said after the door stopped crackling. “He’s keeping secrets.”

  * * *

  Hiding behind the evergreen plant in the corner of Ferly Mor’s room, Addy watched the party of Hyboreans gathering around the long table piled high with food. The mouth-watering smells permeated the air, thankfully overpowering that black-licorice Hyborean scent. Boisterous “noise” filled the apartment, though the only audible sounds came from clinking dishes and human conversation.

  Duncan and Tess seemed to be enjoying themselves in the mist of the action, mingling with the people brought by their Hyborean masters.

  The cold temperature of Ferly Mor’s apartment didn’t bother her now that the alien had outfitted her in a white, two-piece thermal suit; the kind a downhill skier might wear, only thicker. It was surprisingly comfortable with its spandexlike material that moved with her body and covered her from toe to neck. All the other humans wore them, too, except for Duncan, who preferred his own clothes and his cloak. The stubborn Scot.

  A reddish-brown Hyborean knelt opposite her, blocking her view of the party. She—since the aliens didn’t wear clothes, it was obvious this one was a female—held out her hand to
Addy. Addy “heard” the alien’s gentle coaxing. She didn’t move.

  Damn her curiosity. Why didn’t she hide in the bathroom while Duncan and Tess went to the party without her?

  Ferly Mor approached from behind the female, a goofy expression on his face. Reaching out with a tentative hand, he touched the Red Hyborean on her shoulder. Startled, she turned. Her face lit up when she saw him. She quickly looked away.

  Their body language spoke of shy desire, and as she watched these two animals engage the other, a familiar, peaceful feeling embraced her. For a moment, it was spring and she was home.

  Ferly Mor reached for Addy and handed her over to Red. The female Hyborean’s big smile set her pulse racing. Did he just give her away as a token of his affection?

  With refreshments in hand and humans in tow, the aliens filed upstairs and entered a room the size of a basketball court. Shimmering white snowballs—or maybe they were more like beanbag chairs—lined the perimeter like bleachers facing the empty court.

  Excitement grew around her as everyone melted into a snowball chair. Red sat Addy atop her lap. The observation walls darkened until they blocked out the sun. The interior lights dimmed like a theater. Then suddenly the court transformed into frozen tundra.

  Forty fierce-looking men appeared before her on a starting line, seemingly unaffected by the snow and wind whipping around them.

  She jumped out of Red’s lap to touch the closest one, but her hand penetrated the ghost. Silent laughter met her before alien hands picked her up. Ferly Mor brought her back to his snowball and settled her on his lap.

  Duncan and Tess joined her. “Hyborean technology is verra impressive. Aye?”

  “The holograms are incredibly realistic. They’re so detailed and clear, it’s like I’m at the race.” She shivered, practically feeling the arctic temperature.

  “This is no’ an ordinary survival race. The Survival Race Championship is more like a holiday to the Hyboreans than a sporting event.”

  Energy sizzled through the air with the thrilling intensity of a summer electrical storm. Only the lightning and thunder weren’t real. All of it came from her perception of the Hyboreans’ excitement. They snapped their fingers in applause as a camera focused on Regan dressed in a tight-fitted black thermal suit and swimmer’s goggles. His eyes were on something directly in front of him.

  The camera moved down the line panning other men until it stopped at another face she recognized. Her half of the room erupted with more thunderous energy and “cheering.” Ferly Mor’s vigorous finger snapping bounced her on his lap.

  “Max.” She spoke the name with half surprise and half relief. He was alive. And looked all the more powerful with clothes on. The room suddenly grew warm.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Tess said. “He’s not as intense as usual.”

  “I’m sure I don’t ken, lass.”

  Addy’s stomach tingled with adrenaline, as if she were the one on the starting line. If something was wrong with Max, hopefully she—and what happened in the breeding box—wasn’t the cause. Not that his forced seduction was excusable. But after what she’d witness these past two days in Bizarre World, perhaps it wasn’t entirely inexcusable, either. Studs were forced to mate. By choosing to stop, Max had wittingly risked punishment.

  How could she not feel guilty about that?

  At the sound of a gong, the men took off running over snow-covered permafrost.

  “They’re pacing themselves,” she said. “How long is the race?”

  “As long as it takes,” Duncan said. “It’s been as quick as four days and as long as three weeks.”

  “They run in the snow for that long?”

  “Och, no. Ye got it all wrong. ’Tis more than just a foot race.”

  A competitor wearing an ice-blue outfit cursed and dropped to the ground. Two Hyboreans jumped off their chairs and pointed to a third Hyborean, who shook his head. Addy sensed their laughter at the other’s expense. “What happened?”

  “Penalty,” Tess said. “The guy in blue tripped the guy in white.”

  Blue tried to get up, but before he could get to his knees, he clutched his collar and collapsed in the snow. Other racers passed him. Finally, he stood and started running again, though noticeably slower.

  “Hrmph. If ye ask me, they should have zapped him longer for cheating. He’s no’ even in last place.”

  The loud breathing plus all those feet thundering over hard snow sounded like an avalanche. A competitor spit in her direction, and she flinched. Ferly Mor held her tighter on his lap. She didn’t mind, actually. His body gave off a great amount of heat.

  “Look,” Tess said. “There’s the first checkpoint.”

  In the distance, two red flags flapped in a strong wind. The camera angle changed, and the men sprinted head-on toward her.

  Regan reached the flags about two hundred meters before the next competitor. A table had been set up with a spread of food. On the ground opposite the table lay different-colored and different-shaped backpacks. He stopped next to an old, worn black one that had a patch she couldn’t quite make out. He stared it down.

  Across the room, a fan shouted, “Don’t touch it!” He was one of the men Regan had practiced with the other day.

  After a pause, Regan hocked up phlegm and spat on the bag. He picked up a different backpack, moved to the food table, and stuffed the backpack full before slinging it on his back and running from the flagged area.

  The Hyboreans were out of their seats, touching their lips and slapping each other’s chests, making their accords. She had to admit the excitement was contagious. It was like being at a Hyborean Super Bowl party.

  A constant parade of racers entered the first checkpoint, each grabbing a bag, filling it, and continuing on. Max entered in twelfth place. Bending to retrieve his bag, he saw the spit, and then looked up to see Regan running from the checkpoint.

  Squatting as close to her now as he’d been in the breeding box, his muscles bunched, his jaw set, his nostrils flared. Behind his goggles, dark green eyes blazed with the same heated anger he’d had for the Hyboreans.

  How could this powerful, formidable warrior be the same man who had joked about squirting cubed fruit on him?

  The room erupted with noise—cheers from Max’s fans and snide comments and boos from Regan’s fans. More Hyboreans stood and the betting continued.

  “What’s up with the backpacks?” Addy asked.

  “In the first part of the race, competitors can’t touch each other or items that don’t belong to them in the checkpoint area.”

  As the other men grabbed food and rushed off, Max took his time at the table.

  Her heart pounded for him. He dropped to seventeenth place. He better get his head in the game if he wanted to beat that arrogant jerk Regan. Of the two, she’d rather see Max win the trophy. “Come on, Max.” Her frustration came out in a shout. “What’s taking him so long?”

  “Max isna always the fastest or strongest, but when it comes to strategy, I havena seen his equal.”

  “Duncan, you suck at explaining things.”

  “This is the only food they will be given for the entire competition,” Tess said. “They must choose wisely.”

  Max only filled his backpack half full before running from the checkpoint area.

  “That’s not going to last him four days, let alone three weeks.” How was he going to maintain his energy and strength if he didn’t consume enough calories? And what about water? They had no canteens. Would they eat the snow and risk hypothermia?

  For the next twenty minutes, gladiators climbed, jumped, and battled their way through a frozen terrain park. The couse was like a Tough Mudder race on steroids. It almost looked like fun. Almost.

  In the distance just beyond the next checkpoint’s flags, sunlight glinted off metal objects littering the packed snow.

  It couldn’t be. Could it? “Weapons?”

  “Aye. The gladiators must make their way through the ice d
en.”

  Regan picked a broadsword and a dirk. Other men picked up bows and arrows or clubs or knives of all different shapes and sizes. Most chose more than one.

  “There aren’t enough for everyone,” she said.

  “That’s a wee incentive to get to the checkpoint first.” Duncan winked.

  Using his dirk like an ice pick, Regan chipped out a chunk of snow, ate it, and took a moment to catch his breath. Some men did the same. Others went right out and climbed down into the ice pit.

  Large catlike creatures, each slightly smaller than a lion, emerged from their lairs. A moving close-up camera shot started at the creature’s short tail and scanned its powerful legs, muscular neck, and seven-inch-long curved canine teeth. Were they serrated?

  “Is that a saber-toothed tiger?”

  “They’re called smilodons,” Tess answered.

  The first two men sneaked across the ice pit and made it nearly to the opposite side before an animal spotted them and chased. The men sprinted to the wall and climbed. The smilodon pounced. It missed. The two escaped.

  Other men weren’t so lucky.

  As they entered the pit, four...five...six more cats emerged from the lair.

  The men ran, kicking up ice chips each time their crampons shattered the frozen terrain. The smilodons chased, attacked, and men went down. From a ledge on the cliff, arrows flew into the beasts. Weapons clashed with claws and teeth. Blood—both human and beast—spilled. A few warriors made it across, and others didn’t make it at all. Some men took the weapons and packs from their fallen competitors.

  “They’re killing them,” Addy cried.

  “Aye, lass. The last man alive wins.”

  The cats roared. The fighters grunted or screamed. The human guests shouted and cheered. The Hyboreans continued to bet.

  Addy’s lunch curdled and threatened to abandon her stomach. “This is sadistic.” She clutched her belly. They wanted her to breed babies for this gladiator barbarism? She could’nt stay another moment longer. She couldn’t watch Max—or anyone—die.

  She jumped off Ferly Mor’s legs and raced to the door.