Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance)

by Veronica Scott

  “This isn’t good,” Thom said.

  As Nate dreaded, the twenty-four men who’d played and lost earlier were brought to the dais, four at a time, and forced by grim-faced guards to leap or be shoved into the chasm. Terrible screams pierced the quiet as whatever aquatic creatures lurked went into a frenzy over the victims. One of the teams attempted to fight the guards, to no avail, although the prisoners did drag a terrified, cursing soldier into the well with them. Nate gritted his teeth, forcing himself to honor the brave men being slaughtered by watching their last moments and vowing to get revenge for all the wrongs done by the savage people holding him and his men captive.

  Haranda retched up breakfast off to the side, while the guards pointed at him and snickered.

  “Good thing we have the checkout code,” Thom said in a low voice. “I don’t want to be food for whatever lives in the well.”

  “If it comes to that.” Nate had to admit he was glad to have the Mellurean mind implant buried in his subconscious, a code he could activate that would kill him between one heartbeat and the next. He checked on how the white-faced, trembling Haranda was doing. Only Special Forces operators were given the implants, because of the classified nature of their missions. “But he doesn’t. We’ll have to do our best to make sure the kid doesn’t suffer.”

  The huge stone plates were being ratcheted shut again, sealing off the pit where the losing team members had been fed to the beasts. Nate risked a glance at the square below to find a drunken festival had begun, led with enthusiasm by the priestesses, who left their platform of death to mingle with the crowd. Of the royal couple there was no sign.

  “Obviously, we have to win the damn game if we’re forced to play,” he said. “I didn’t see any of the winners led to the slaughter, did you?”

  “Didn’t see them go free either.” Thom’s answer was pessimistic. “Maybe you live to play until you have a bad day, suppose?”

  “I’ll take a chance to play over an immediate trip to the well of horror,” Nate said. “The lady told me we had to play the game, which at the time I interpreted to mean going along with whatever Sarbordon wanted, but now I get it.”

  “Some complicated dream you had.”

  Nate leaned close. “She said she had a plan if we survived to see her again.”

  Before Thom could reply, the guards took them into the palace, leaving them in a barracks-style room with actual beds boasting mattresses, hard pillows and a set of thin, striped blankets. Each man was secured to his bed by a long ankle chain before the guards left.

  “Haranda, you okay?” Nate asked as the heavy door slammed shut.

  The younger man collapsed onto his bed, shaking, arm across his eyes. The guards had carried him the last few yards into the room since he’d been trembling so badly. “Leave me alone.” Rolling over, face to the wall, the pilot buried his face in the rough woolen blanket.

  Nate figured he shouldn’t push the cadet. He’s got to find his own way to come to grips with what we’re facing.

  Aside from guards bringing a full dinner of overcooked meat, more hard rolls and stewed, repulsive-smelling red vegetables, they were left in peace. There was no sign of Celixia. The light faded from the barred windows set high on the wall, and the room became completely dark. Nate heard Thom snore fairly soon thereafter. Haranda hiccupped periodically before he sank into restless slumber. Whether Atletl slept or not, Nate couldn’t say. Their teammate was one of those light, quiet sleepers.

  Hoping to dream of Bithia again, and possibly learn more about the situation, including her role, Nate welcomed sleep. Tonight his dreams were nothing but nightmares where he fell into blood-red water filled with formless terrors.

  He must have seen the game by now. Did he understand what I tried to tell him? Bithia “sat” with her knees pulled to her chin, leaning on the wall. Of course, she was perfectly well aware she was lying motionless on her cushions, held in place by the healing device, as she had been for eons. But at least her mind roamed free in this space she’d carved out over the centuries. A retreat for her consciousness when the machine’s control slackened and she was released—or she escaped—from the unconscious state. Intriguing that she’d been able to pull him to her in the dreamspace the last time. He had a flare of psychic abilities but didn’t appear to realize his capabilities, or control them, which was a pity. He’d be an even more formidable opponent.

  This man, Nate, and his companions were clearly from offworld, which meant a high level of technology. I must share more in common with them than with my captors. Yet he was a prisoner too, his chains real while hers were invisible. Bithia pondered how a man like him could have been taken. Her own circumstances were unique. Perhaps he’d landed—or crashed—on Talonque and been ambushed by its still-primitive people. Spears and swords could be effective weapons in the right circumstances.

  She shut her eyes and tried to recall his face with as much detail as possible. Having a new factor in the situation raised dangerous hopes, and she ought not to indulge herself. Temptation was too great, though. He was tall, well built, heavily muscled. His brown eyes had been intense in their focus on her, and his whole demeanor was that of a soldier, wary, ready to seize any chance, his thoughts a fierce and angry tapestry, yet with a keen intelligence at work. There was a sprawling, colorful bruise on his forehead and stubble on his chin. He was handsome to her eyes, in an unusual way. She ran her hands over her cheeks and chin. I wonder how I appear to him? Another of the humanoid peoples scattered through the galaxies. Who knew what their standards of attractiveness were?

  The first few times she’d been awakened, to find none of her own people present, brought crushing disappointment. Now she no longer expected anything, grown numb to her abandonment. Or so I tell myself. Yet this last time, when she’d realized what—who—she was looking at, who Sarbordon had brought to her, the hope rose painfully in her heart. Could these beings, these strangers, be her way out of an unbearable life? I’d gladly help them, and maybe they can assist me.

  The machine detected her level of consciousness and pushed firmly against her control. Sighing, Bithia released her hold on wakefulness and began the descent into oblivion. Tonight brings no opportunity to speak to Nate. And I mustn’t waste my hoarded store of power merely to think of him. By the time I wake again, he may be dead and gone to dust centuries in my past, like all the others.

  She allowed her restorative guardian to obliterate her awareness.

  In the morning another substantial breakfast was delivered, supervised by Celixia, who chatted vivaciously with Atletl as much as the wary guards would permit. After the meal, Nate and his companions were taken in chains out of the palace and loaded into a cart drawn by four ponderous animals Atletl identified as bracalx. The cart was driven to a huge walled field outside the city walls on the western side. Dozens of men were there already, running drills, exercising and practicing the sport Nate had watched the day before. Guards were posted in large numbers, and the trainers on the various fields were armed with long whips applied freely when the men were displeased.

  Under guard, Nate and his men waited next to the cart while the officer strode off toward the central building.

  “Reminds me of the first day at boot camp,” Nate said, watching men run laps while others practiced intricate footwork patterns.

  “Except the drill instructors didn’t have whips.” Thom eyed the field. “Guards on the walls, guards on the perimeter of the area. Watching the prisoners like hawks. Not gonna be easy to break out of here.”

  “Yeah, our assessments match. We’ll play along, see what happens, watch for opportunity.”

  Rather than offering any opportunities for escape, the succeeding days became a numbing cycle of eating, training, sleeping and linguistic sessions Nate instituted in the evenings after dinner. He and his men needed to understand what was being said in their presence, as well as learn as much about the culture as they could. Their teacher, Atletl, had a vested interest in
making them a better team, since their fates were tied together. Nate and Thom had had many languages hypno implanted for previous missions, and the side effect was to greatly enhance their ability to learn new ones. Haranda approached the task like a college assignment, grimly determined not to be outshone.

  Nate and Thom were in excellent physical condition. Special Forces operators trained hard at all times, and even after suffering minor injuries when their ship crashed and on the grueling trip from the mountains and their subsequent imprisonment, they hadn’t lost their edge. Haranda didn’t have their physical power, but he was young and wiry and quick to catch on to the nuances of the game their captors insisted they learn. Atletl had evidently been a high-ranking warrior of his own people and matched Nate’s accomplishments easily on the endless drills.

  “Don’t these people have holidays? Or days off?” Thom asked one night, nursing a sore arm he’d sprained in the early days of training. It wasn’t healing well at all due to the unrelenting pace of workouts. Celixia’d given him nasty-smelling green paste to rub into the muscles at night, which helped alleviate the discomfort, but what he really needed was to rest for a couple of days straight.

  “Training stops only for the games,” Atletl said. “Or for special blood sacrifices or feeding of the beasts in the well. Many of those who came in chains with us on the day the sun sickened as the moons wandered were doubtless killed at once to influence the gods to restore the sun.”

  No more wishing for time off. Nate asked a clarifying question about their future opponents. “So all these guys we’re training with are prisoners? Captured in battle?”

  “Mostly. A few are criminals or fell afoul of the priestesses in some manner and were condemned to the games. They take offense easily at any slight. These people use the games not only to provide worthy candidates for offerings to the god, but also to settle disputes and serve as omens.”

  “After what we saw today, when that poor bastard tried to escape, I’m convinced our best plan is to win the game,” Nate said.

  “He never had a chance,” Thom agreed. “Even with a fight going on to distract the guards those five spears skewered him before he was halfway up the wall.”

  “The one who died was a prince of his tribe. The others were trying to help him by pretending to fight to distract the guards.” Atletl’s flat tone indicated he was unmoved by the man’s fate. “The ploy failed.”

  “I could have done without the trainers giving all of us three lashes to underscore the message about not attempting or abetting escapes.” Nate shifted carefully on his bunk. He’d be sleeping on his stomach for a few days.

  “The trainers went easy on us because we belong to T’naritza,” Atletl said. “We’ve been moved from the ranks of beginners and those who’ll die easily. The fat, the weak, the stupid. You understand the rules of sapiche better now. Soon those in charge will expect us to play against more seasoned teams. You remember Kalgitr? The team leader at the end of the day? Men of his caliber and cunning.”

  “Which we’re not ready for. You may be an excellent ‘stealer,’ and Haranda there is a genius at the damn game, but we haven’t jelled as a team. We need more time.” Nate was a strong shooter and blocker, as was Thom, but the four men had to play as one smooth unit, as if reading each other’s minds, and they were nowhere near that high level yet. He and Thom operated instinctively together, the skill developed over years of training for and running Special Forces missions, but Atletl and Haranda were wild cards. Thom nodded at the pilot. “Seven hells, kid, you’re so good even the guards pay you compliments.”

  “Reminds me of my days at the Academy.” Haranda’s voice was proud and a bit nostalgic. Nate was relieved to see the pilot’s improved morale but concerned because men such as the thuggish Kalgitr played a brutal game, willing to disable or kill their opponents in order to win, and Haranda was clearly in a collegiate intramural mind-set. He and Thom could hold their own in such a game, calling on their hand-to-hand combat skills, but the cadet’s training in martial arts had been minimal at best.

  After ten days of drills and practices, the trainers ordered a scrimmage. Nate’s team had to play a full game for the first time and in short order lost miserably, not making a single goal. Disgusted at the level of play, Atletl exhorted them constantly with what Nate guessed were choice curses.

  “Can’t blame the guy,” he said to Thom in Basic while riding to the palace in the evening, chained in their cart. “We screw up and he dies with us.”

  “He’d better elevate our level of play to match his, then.” Thom massaged his arm and shoulder. He scowled across the cart at Atletl, who rolled his eyes and pretended to be fascinated by the bracalx. “This is so crazy, you know?”

  “It’s a chance.”

  “Not much of one.”

  Nate couldn’t argue.

  But as they ate their dinner, sitting cross-legged on their beds, Atletl gave them their first piece of good news, which he’d been told by a trainer impressed with Haranda’s skills. “If a team can win ten straight games, these superstitious people say the god has favored them. The lure of the accomplishment is why Kalgitr and his men don’t care if they kill their opponents in the process of winning and why they play so rough even in our scrimmages—he wants all of us to be afraid of them. The entire team would be set free, rewarded with gold and wives and never have to play in the ball court again.”

  “I know which girl you’d have your eye on if we won ten times,” Nate said. Atletl’s fondness for flirting with Celixia every chance he got was a running joke among the team.

  “You don’t think winners have to choose one of the ‘birds of prey,’ do you?” Thom opened his eyes wide. “Those women are scary.”

  Nate laughed. “His heart is set on our guardian priestess, Celixia. Don’t you pay attention to these things?”

  “If he gets to pick Celixia, who’s left for us?” Thom said.

  Atletl took the teasing good-naturedly but shook his head. “Don’t joke about the priestesses of Huitlani. They’re married to the god. They may take lovers, but not mortal husbands. And the lovers don’t live long, because Huitlani is a jealous god.”

  Haranda, apparently not interested in this topic, distracted Atletl, diagramming a new play with dishes and utensils and asking his opinion about how well it would work.

  “What are the odds anyone has ever claimed this fabled ‘win ten games, go free’ reward?” Thom asked Nate off to the side as Haranda and Atletl talked ball-passing strategies.

  “Kalgitr’s sure trying. Did you see him snap that guy’s arm today? If this pipe dream of winning ten and going free helps the kid cope with his constant state of funk, then I say let him believe,” Nate said. “He’s been much more stable since we got sentenced to training. And he’s a natural at this damn game. Lucky for us.”

  Thom persisted with his pessimistic assessment. “Nobody can win ten straight. To win so many games would be like doing ten missions in a row behind the Mawreg lines and living to tell about it. Not gonna happen, not in this lifetime. If we’re going to get out of here, it’s going to have to be some other way.”

  “I know.” Nate leaned back on his bed, trying to find a comfortable spot.

  Lowering his voice even further, Thom asked, “Have you been able to contact the lady again?”

  Nate shut his eyes. “No. I’m not sure what enabled the first dream. Maybe it was the fact I’d been in her presence the same day for a few moments. I’ve been trying, believe me.”

  Information from Bithia might be essential to their survival, but he had no idea how to force himself to dream a specific set of events, much less ensure he met her in the dream. He’d been hoping she’d reach out to him again, but as far as he could tell, she’d made no attempt. The small ration of wine in the evenings wasn’t facilitating any dreams, if it ever had. He returned to their quarters so exhausted each night from the rigorous training that he’d fall asleep before he could try to reach her. Ofte
n he felt her presence as a light touch in his mind, almost the equivalent of glimpsing her from the corner of his eye, but she never responded to his questing thoughts.

  Not tonight. I’m going to make this work tonight and come to you, lady.

  Drawing on techniques he’d been shown once as a kid, he slowed his breathing and visualized himself walking through the tendrils of the strange fog toward the lights of her chamber. His mind kept trying to wander, full of worry over the intricacies of the life-or-death game he was learning, or making frustratingly inadequate plans for escape. He took a moment to refocus and shake off his worries. Drawing a deep breath, he counted to ten, closed his eyes and relaxed into the scene he was painting for himself. Think of it as preparation for a mission and she’s the objective.

  The military frame of reference helped.

  He stood in the gray-green mists, a strong sense of pleased anticipation flickering through his consciousness when he realized he was going to see Bithia.

  “Bithia?” Nate called her name as he stepped through the fog. There she was, lying on her immense high-tech couch, motionless save for slowly opening her lavender eyes. He walked across the chamber, the mist falling away, until the inexorable, invisible barrier guarding her halted his progress.

  Eyes wide, she stared at him. “How did you get here? I didn’t summon you, so maybe you’re learning to use the psychic potential I sensed when we met.” The furrows in her brow smoothed, and her lips curved in a wide smile. “I’m glad to see you, and it’s pleasant to hear my birth name. I’ve missed the sound.” For a moment she studied him from head to toe. “I’m surprised you remain alive. My congratulations.”