by S M Briscoe
The cell itself was filthy and wreaked of the of hoards of fearful arena fodder that would have passed through it, the prisoners that surrounded him now adding to the pungent aroma. The sounds of a chanting crowd could be heard through the walls and ceiling. The muffled cheers and the stomping of feet. It obviously did little to calm the strained nerves of his fellow sportsmen, most of which sat cowering of the cell floor. Jarred’s own heart was also pounding, as he anticipated what was to come. He didn’t try to calm it. The adrenaline was pumping now, readying him for battle. He would need it when the door before him finally opened.
The time passed slowly, as he waited for it to do just that. In a way, the waiting was more agonizing than not knowing what he would be faced with on the other side of the door. Whatever it was, he felt he was prepared for it. He would defeat it. And then what? That was the part he was truly unsure of. What if he did survive the contest? What would happen then? How would he be able to escape this place, the Sect, the Rai Chi? How would he return to Elora?
He attempted to clear his mind again. Those were questions he couldn’t even consider at the moment. First he had to survive. Devoting any of his focus to anything but that now would only serve as a distraction that would leave him vulnerable in the arena. And he would fall. He would deal with escape when the time came and when the opportunity presented itself. For now, his focus needed to be on one thing and one thing alone.
A loud bang sounded out from the arena door, a bolt lock of some kind disengaging, reminding Jarred of what that one thing was. It was followed by the sound of old metal grinding on even older metal as the arena door began to rise, allowing the bright light on the other side to flood inside, temporarily blinding him. The chants and stomping of the crowd grew louder as the sounds were allowed to flow inside with the bright light.
Glancing back towards the barred cell wall, Jarred saw the security-mechs begin to prod at the cowering prisoners with their stun batons, urging them forward towards the opening. He didn’t need any such encouragement. He was eager to enter the arena. Ready to face what it had in store for him. Turning back towards the glowing doorway, he took another calming breath. And stepped through the light.
Chapter 33
“Welcome to the Blood Dome!”
Traug put on his most hospitable persona as he ushered the Rai Chi onto the arena’s private viewing balcony, though he was sure to not appear too cheerful, or overly friendly. From what he had observed, the warrior race thought little of such pleasantries. In fact, he was certain they would have viewed any such sentiments as a weakness on his part. He spoke confidently and to the point, ensuring he always maintained a level of respect, or what they would perceive to be respect, as their high placement of themselves called for no less, but he did not grovel.
It was one of his gifts. The ability to read other beings. Doing so, accurately, allowed him to determine what drove them, and in turn, how they could be manipulated. The Rai Chi had appeared to be lacking in the more common motivations, but even they were driven by something. It hadn’t taken Traug very long to ascertain what that was.
Pride. They were a fiercely proud race, these warriors. It was their primary driving force. They attempted to veil it in colorful, yet meaningless terms, such as honor and glory for their Gods and people, but that was all they were. At the base of everything, their motivations were personal, as he had learned from Shu’ma’s own actions.
He had been issued some kind of mandate from his superiors to capture and return with the human bounty hunter, as Traug’s surveillance of the Rai Chi’s, supposedly private, holo-communique had indicated, though he had chosen to ignore the directive. To put his own need for personal vengeance before that of his mandate. A very telling move on his part.
Traug’s intuition had served him well in offering up the arena’s amenities, as had Shu’ma’s lust for blood. Another trait the Rai Chi seemed to share with so many other species. In truth, the more he observed them, the more similarities he was beginning to see. He supposed they really weren’t so different after all.
“Beings come from all over the system to enjoy the games. They are quite exhilarating.” Shu’ma snorted at the comment, dismissively. He obviously felt himself above such . . . simple trappings. Traug could sympathize, though they did fulfill a purpose. “Not that one such as yourself would be taken with such things,” he added, turning back to take in the view that the special seating allowed. “Though I believe today’s particular events will hold your interest.”
The private balcony was situated at the top of a tall solitary spire, high above the arena floor, providing an excellent view for its high profile occupants, though Traug doubted they were impressed. The arena stands held a full capacity crowd, as was often the case for the blood games, the rhythmic chants that boomed from both the amplification system and the excited spectators bolstering what was an electrically charged atmosphere.
“In that one thing,” Shu’ma’s translator regurgitated after the warrior had replied, “I believe we are in agreement.”
A grin came to Traug’s face as he glimpsed one of the large arena doors begin to rise open. He noted the two Rai Chi’s obvious looks of interest, as unsuccessfully concealed as they were, and his smile broadened. This had indeed been a brilliant plan.
Let the games begin.
* * *
The wild roar of the crowd was nearly deafening as Jarred and the rest of the slaves stepped out into the arena, the spectators having to number, what he estimated to be, upwards of ten thousand. The rising tiers of viewing stands seemed to climb up, almost without limit, to overlook the sandy arena pit, and from what he could see, it looked as though every seat had been spoken for. The event had drawn quite the crowd. In addition to the large percentage of Syntax employees that would be present, the events no doubt a perk to their live-in work assignments; at a reduced admission price; the arena would also be packed with avid blood sport enthusiasts and gamblers.
The viewing stands encircled the fighting pit completely, but for a solitary structure at one end of the arena, which divided the stands from the edge of the pit’s high wall midway to the top of the highest stadium tier. It protruded outward from there another ten meters, presumably so that none of the spectators could gain access to the viewing balcony built into its summit. It would serve as a private, secure viewing area for high profile guests. Jarred glimpsed the easily distinguishable figures that dwelled within the structure, feeling their eyes on him in turn. Today it was the Rai Chi who watched from the premium vantage point, but unlike the rest of the roaring spectators, they had not come to enjoy the games. They had come for him alone. To watch him bleed. To watch him fall.
He was afraid he would have to disappoint them.
Jarred glanced back as the heavy gate dropped shut behind him, sealing them all inside the arena. In a mass, they worked their way out into the center of the pit area, an avalanche of jeers and hisses raining down on them, along with disposable food and beverage receptacles and other garbage, as the crowd began to take notice of their arrival. The motley crew he found himself a member of was obviously not what the spectators had come to see.
Once Jarred and rest of the terrified slaves had settled in the pit’s center, the amplification system boomed to life with the animated voice of a sporting commentator.
“Gentlemen, ladies, children, beings of all forms . . . behold these most wretched creatures that soil the sacred battleground below! Your hatred for them is well placed! Their kind were a plague to many worlds in centuries past, mad beings devolved into rabid cannibals! A diseased pestilence thankfully cleansed from the face of the system by Sect extermination squads! They are savages! They are monsters! Behold . . . the Cursed Hoard!”
The hate filled roar that followed the over-the-top introduction shook the ground beneath Jarred’s feet. He looked at the cowering beings around him. Hardly the vicious monsters the commentator spoke of, though the audience seemed to hate them no less for it.
“And now,” the booming voice continued, dramatically, the hateful jeers of the crowd transitioning into those of excited anticipation. “Your heroes for this event! The cleansing warriors! The light in a time of great darkness! The Blood Dome is honored to present to you . . . the Exterminators!”
Jarred had believed the reaction to their own announcement to be strong, but the thunderous applause that came from the introduction of the gladiators rendered it nearly insignificant by comparison. Hoots and cries of approval mixed with a chaotic orchestra of varying noise makers, all of it overshadowed by the almost rhythmic thumping of the stands. The noise continued to grow more powerful as the arena gate, opposite to the one Jarred had entered the arena through, began to open. After a purposefully long moment passed, increasing the tension and excitement in the stands, slow moving figures began to move out of the darkness of gated tunnel. The gladiators. The Exterminators.
Each of the imposing warriors looked impressive in their own right, there were six in total, and was clad in unique battle armor, hardly reminiscent of any Sect trooper, though Jarred guessed the crowd cared little for historical inaccuracies. Even without their combined arsenal of brutal looking weaponry, the poorly named Cursed Hoard hardly stood a chance of surviving more than a few moments. Jarred knew he was in for a harrying fight himself. This would be a slaughter, and all for the blood thirsty pleasure of the crowd.
Jarred took, what he assumed would be, a last glance around at the petrified faces of the slaves with him, and was taken aback when he didn’t see them. Instead of thirty-plus fearful, pathetic beings cowering in the face of their own certain deaths, he found something else entirely. Something that chilled him to the bone. Their hunched, broken figures had become quite rigid and eerily still. Saliva dripped from most of their mouths, or what passed for mouths for their respective species’. More so, it was the eyes that caught Jarred’s breath in his chest. Eyes that had once conveyed an understandable fear and despair now stared, unblinking and dilated, with a hungry animal focus, ahead. They were filled with rage and what he could only describe as madness.
It struck him immediately. The shots they had all received. All but him. They had been infected. Jarred almost couldn’t believe it. These poor people had been infected with one of the galaxy’s most deadly, horrific viruses, for the delight of the crowd. For sport. And he was now standing among them. He took a careful step back, actually towards the approaching gladiators, and glimpsed one of the infected being’s neck restraints. Its indicator light had changed from green to red. A quick scan of the others showed it was true for all of them. Somehow, they had managed to inject them all with a dormant strain of the virus, as the symptoms of the original were almost immediate, and trigger it on cue with the restraint device.
Jarred’s disgust was outweighed by the urgent necessity to distance himself from the contagious beings. None had made an aggressive movement yet, but he guessed it would only be a matter of time, and very little at that, before the maddening urge to attack took hold. Still aware of the Exterminators, who were working to surround the group; of which he was a part; he kept his primary focus on the infected, watching for the first sign of aggression that would, in turn, set the entire group into a violent frenzy. It came in the form of an almost imperceptible twitch in one of their limbs. Eerily, the crowd had gone nearly silent as they waited for the bloodshed to begin, which was the only reason he heard the guttural growl that originated from the same infected being. It then opened its mouth, letting loose an ear piercing wail, before lunging . . . directly for Jarred.
The rest of the Cursed Hoard followed suit, as he’d known they would, rushing forward like rabid animals. Only then did Jarred turn away, throwing himself forward at the waiting Exterminator he knew had been nearly within striking distance. As the gladiator swung his giant sword-like weapon for a strike that was meant to cleave him clean in half, which he easily ducked, he caught the long hilt of the weapon in one hand and pivoted around to let the much larger being tumble over himself to the ground. Jarred continued his forward momentum, letting it carry him a number of strides forward before turning.
The gladiator was attempting to get to his feet when the first of the infected reached him. He managed to bat the ravenous being away, but a half dozen more were quickly upon him, tearing and clawing at his armor. His grunts of effort soon turned to screams of anguish as his attacker’s began to find flesh through holes his armoring. Once blood had been spilt, the infected pack fell into an uncontrollable frenzy, tearing the screaming gladiator to pieces. Jarred couldn’t say he felt sorry for him. Even if he had, he didn’t have the time. The infected soon began to turn their attention to him and, still dripping with gore from their gladiatorial victim, again they charged.
Jarred brought up the long sword and, grimacing, swept it across the first infected to reach him, severing its head. He didn’t want to kill these poor people, though they hardly resembled that now, but he had been left with little choice. It was kill or be consumed by them, and he had to survive. As he moved through the attacking mob, slashing and cleaving a pathway with the brutal, but effective weapon, he tried not to think about the innocent lives he was extinguishing. Their hearts did still beat within their chests, but every one of them was already dead. The people they had been were gone, lost to the virus. To the madness it invoked. He was releasing them from its venomous hold. He would want the same for himself in their place.
Around him, the remaining five gladiators were busy dissecting their own infected mobs, each bloody strike receiving an approving roar of applause. These warriors were experienced killers, skillfully wielding their chosen weapons to the delight of the crowd, but the infected slaves, driven and bolstered by the poison that flowed through them, were unlike any other opponents they would have most likely ever faced. Vicious and unrelenting, they also lacked any sense of self preservation, the disease degenerating them into unthinking, unfeeling killers. They threw themselves, with complete disregard for what was left of their lives, at the gladiators. While many fell before the hulking warriors, some began to break through, finding openings.
Soon, another Exterminator fell, his cries of agony drowned out by the roar of the spectators. It seemed not to matter whether death came to the hero, or the dramatized villains. Their thirst for blood came first, and it was indeed being quenched today on both sides of this field. No doubt, the odd fallen hero only added to the drama of the event. So long as the gladiators were victorious in the end, the crowd would be satisfied.
Jarred kept himself mobile, moving across the arena floor to avoid being cornered or surrounded by any of the larger infected groups, picking off stragglers as he went. The technique seemed to be working, as the majority of the infected were swarming the Exterminators, who’s positions and fighting styles had been relatively static. Beginning to become overwhelmed, they had actually begun to alter their failing lone warrior strategies, forming into pairs to fend off their attackers, back to back.
The strategy was only partly successful, serving to merely draw out what was beginning to look like their inevitable downfalls. The two pairs were completely surrounded, and being nearly engulfed by the hoards of infected that were piling atop of one another to get at them. They could only keep up their desperate defenses for so long before . . .
Jarred caught a glimpse of one of the the gladiators rearing back, away from his counterpart, an infected slave firmly attached to him, biting and clawing at his face and neck. The gladiator howled in pain and anger, managing to pry his attacker loose before hurling it into the arena wall, his armored helmet being torn from his head with it. His counterpart batted away his own surrounding attackers, clearing enough space to work his way over to the gladiator who was down on one knee. Gripping his armor, he lifted his counterpart back to his feet, attempting to reestablish their back to back fighting posture. When the injured gladiator turned on his comrade, his face contorted with the same disease fueled rage as the rest of the
infected, the still sane warrior hardly had time to recoil in shock. The attack came swiftly, and coupled with the combined swarming of the surrounding infected, the gladiator was quickly consumed by the hoard.
The battle had suddenly tilted quite dramatically, with only Jarred and the two gladiators remaining, and more than half the original number of infected moving in for the kill. With so few subjects left for the infected to take interest in, Jarred could no longer avoid attracting the attention of the larger hoard, though their focus seemed to be moving to thousands that shouted at them from above the twenty foot barrier wall. Some simply screamed back, before returning their attention to targets closer in proximity, but some actually began to attack and claw at the wall, as though they meant to tear it down.
Jarred ducked under another attacker as it leapt at him, arcing his long sword up to cut the being open from chest to stomach, and rolled back to his feet to be met with another charging pair. Leaping straight up himself, he somersaulted over the two, taking one’s head off with a clean sweep before landing behind the third and driving his blade down hard into it.
Returning his attention to the infected swarming the wall, who were now actually climbing atop of one another to get at the oblivious spectators above, he noted most were physically incapable of doing so, even with their virally boosted agility and strength. One of them was physically capable though, and Jarred’s eyes fell on the infected Fyoran, a reptilian with retractable claws, that was actually making some progress in scaling the wall.
As little as he should have cared for the well being of the thousands of spectators that were cheering for his demise, he also couldn’t just stand by and watch as one of the contagious killers made it into their midst. If that happened, the infection would spread through the large crowd like a plasma fire. It would be catastrophic, not to mention it would reduce his own chances of survival to the point of nonexistence.
