by Rose Estes
The games continued, and with them came continued success. Their opponents were as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky. Sometimes they looked almost human and fought in a familiar fashion with weapons that Keri could recognize. But often, they were life forms that were unlike anything she had ever seen before, even in her worst dreams. These were indeed the things of nightmares, fanged and clawed and open mawed, oft times possessing weapons that were not even recognizable or could be given a name. These were the most frightening opponents, for it was impossible to know how they would fight, what manner their attack would take. But it did not matter—regardless of their methods, Batta Flor killed them all.
As the games went on, they were at times confronted with more than one opponent, frequently they came at them in groups of four. When they fought one on one, Batta Flor refused to allow Keri to fight, but as the odds and the opponents increased, he was forced to do so.
Keri was frightened at first, but then strangely, she began to feel a sense of power, a fierce joy flowing with each confrontation, a joy that increased with each victory. She wondered why she did not feel more of a sense of kinship with her opponents, more of a sorrow at their deaths, for they were prisoners as well, and not really the enemy. But it was not so, she felt nothing but triumph when they died.
With the passage of time, even the lupebeast pup grew more and more daring until he was holding his own against all human types and many of the smaller animal beings.
The conclusion of every bout ended the same way, with Batta Flor and Keri making their way from the ring without pausing and without acknowledging the roars of the crowd or receiving their awards which awaited them at the dais.
The crowd by this time had come to expect an unusual show whenever they appeared, and the arena was always filled to capacity. The roars began before they even emerged from the darkness of the cells and continued undiminished until they left the ring.
Keri had fought awkwardly at first—“like a girl” as Braldt would have said—with her heart pounding in her chest and her knees feeling soft as jelly. But she swiftly realized that the majority of her opponents felt exactly the same and that knowledge gave her strength and courage. On days that games were not held, she began to practice in earnest and her time in the ring reflected that effort as she did her best to remember everything that she had ever heard Braldt and her brother discuss about fighting. Soon, she became a formidable opponent in her own right and was less and less willing to allow Batta Flor to bear the brunt of the battles.
Engrossed as she was in her own problems, Keri never stopped thinking of Braldt, wondering if he still lived and if so, if he still thought of her.
Braldt’s thoughts rested often on Keri and he carried the memory of her around like a weight in his chest. But other thoughts vied for his attention, thoughts of survival.
The games had begun in earnest, each of them a terror-filled, sickness-at-the-pit-of-the-stomach, gut-wrenching confrontation that ended in bloody death. So far they had survived the deadly games, pitted against less skilled adversaries, but with each round of combat, the chaff was being weeded out; soon only the toughest would remain and the victories would be harder won.
None of them had suffered anything more than surface wounds and a variety of painful bruises, but even these trifling injuries were enough to remind them of the fate that could so easily befall them.
Their last contest had very nearly been the end of them. At first, it had seemed that it would be their easiest one, for their opponents were four humans, albeit primitive in the extreme who wore no clothing other than leather loincloths and carried no weapons other than spears and knives; they had painted their lean, muscular bodies in bizarre colors and patterns. Their eyes and cheeks were a solid band of black and red stripes running horizontally through the eyes from brow to chin. Their long, black hair was caught up in twisted knots and fastened with vertebrae bones. Other bits of bone and claws were fastened at neck, wrist, and ankle with strips of leather. Since they were only human and not one of the more frightening alien creatures, Braldt and his com panions made the mistake of thinking that the contest would be easy. It nearly cost them their lives.
From the beginning, the primitives had split up, circling round and round in a dizzying circuit, weaving, darting, never remaining in one place long enough for Randi to fix them in her laser beam. The ground was pocked with the impact of misfirings and the primitives were untouched. Emboldened by their luck, they grew ever more frenetic, darting in unexpectedly and striking out with the tips of their razor-sharp spears, drawing blood with every coup and screaming all the while, which served to further unnerve Braldt’s group, especially Randi.
Finally, one of them made a mistake and a primitive came close enough to seize Braldt, pinning his arms against his sides so that he could not move and squeezing him against his barrel chest with arms that were bands of corded muscle.
As large as Braldt was, the primitive was both taller and heavier and, it seemed, stronger. Immediately after seizing Braldt, he skipped backward, covering his own body with that of his prisoner, presenting Braldt as the only possible target.
Braldt cursed himself for allowing the man to come so close, for thinking that he would stand a chance, and most of all, for underestimating the man’s strength and speed. He could feel his breath straining in his chest, beginning to burn in his throat, and saw dots as his vision began to blur. He struggled to focus on the long, curved claws that were threaded around the primitive’s neck. And then a desperate idea came to him. Drawing his head back as far as it would go, he slammed it forward with the last of his strength and drove the sharp, curving points of the claws into the base of the man’s throat.
He was rewarded by a gout of dark, arterial blood which gushed into his face, drenching his throat and chest. The man screamed, a gargling, choking cry, and he dropped Braldt and fell to his knees as he attempted to pull the claws from his throat. As he did so, the blood began to shoot out in thick spurts and the man, realizing that he was about to die, lost all interest in Braldt and began to wail a death dirge. His companions were completely undone by his demise and hurried to his side, trying ineffectually to stop the flow of blood. Soon, he had collapsed on the ground, his blood a darker blot on the crimson earth. The three remaining men were overcome with grief and wailed and shrieked and tore at their hair and flesh.
Braldt and Randi stared at one another, uncertain of what to do. Septua, however, had no such reservations, not being adverse to stabbing an enemy in the back. He had advanced to within a pace of the grieving primitives with his dagger raised, when Allo leaned down and plucked him off the ground with two claws, depositing him between Randi and Braldt and removing his weapons as one might strip a child of harmful objects.
The dwarf screamed in rage, striking at Allo’s knees and pummeling his massive, furred thighs, which the huge navigator ignored as one might ignore the rantings of an hysterical child. His cries blended in with those of the primitives and the angry spectators whose blood lust had not been satisfied. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” demanded the voices that spoke inside their heads.
“We do not kill those who do not defend themselves,” Allo said firmly, tilting the dwarf’s chin upward so that he could look into his eyes. The dwarf muttered one final curse and kicked sand over Allo’s foot, but made no attempt to continue the hostilities once he was released.
Allo, Randi, and Braldt closed their minds to the insistent chorus that screamed from the silver circles, echoed by the thousands who crowded the stands and left the arena with Septua running so as not to be left behind. They had nearly reached the cool shadows of the arches when agonized screams ripped the air. Turning swiftly, they saw a group of hard ones surrounding the vanquished primitives and blue arcs of light coursing through the air. The screams ended abruptly and the hard ones wheeled about and left the arena, leaving the grotesquely sprawled bodies of the four dead men lying on the sand.
16
They
had voted to wait,to do nothing until some definitive course of action had been decided upon, for there were still so many unknown factors and the danger was immense. If they were found out, it would mean their deaths and none of them were young enough to survive the arena.
But the woman named Lomi had been unable to rest with that decision, for long ago in her youth she had loved the man Bracca. And as she hurried along the dark corridor, her heart fluttering in her thin chest, she admitted to herself for the first time that she loved him still, had never ceased loving him even though he had been wed to another and banished offworld for daring to speak out against the Tribunal of Thanes.
She paused for a moment and leaned against the rough, stone wall, listening tensely for some hint that her flight had been noted, a sleeper wakened, a guard alerted to her presence, for it was not too late to stop, to return to her rooms and do nothing as she had done nothing so many years before. Once again, she pondered her actions, or her lack thereof, wondering whether or not some eloquent plea would have moved her father to rescind his judgment and the harsh sentence he had imposed on Bracca, her lover. But there were no answers now, no more than there had ever been. Her father had loved her as much as he had disliked and feared Bracca, and Lomi had always suspected that Bracca had been sent offworld more for the crime of having loved her than for having the courage to speak his mind.
No, she had failed him then by her cowardice and had suffered nights and years of torment; it would not happen again. Stiffening her resolve, she turned off the main corridor and slipped through the labyrinth of tunnels to the complex where the prisoners were housed.
She passed cage after cage of animals gathered by the roving starships from the furthest points of the galaxy, some of which hurled themselves against the bars, screaming with frustration at their inability to reach her. Others merely regarded her with quiet rage burning in their eyes, which was, in its way, even more terrifying.
Lomi clutched her cloak about her tightly and pulled the hood down to shutter the frightening sights as she hurried through the animal enclosure, but the resentment and hatred burned through her fragile defense and she carried its weight with her as she passed out of the area.
“I am not to blame,” she whispered fiercely as hot tears stained her cheeks. “What could I do, one woman alone against so many. I did not cause them to be brought here.” But her words did not expunge the burden of guilt that weighed on her like a stone cloak as she thought of the countless animals and life forms who had died in the ring for the pleasure of her jaded brethren. But that, too, was an ancient argument and one that had no more answer than her love for Bracca.
The door to the wing where the prisoners were kept stood before her. Such a small thing, that door. All that stood between her and the man she loved. To see him, to touch him, to be held in his arms after so long a time.… Her heart, grown uncertain in recent years, began to beat irregularly, fluttering’ against her ribs like a caged bird. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Drawing deep within herself, she focused on an inner spot of warmth and slowed her breathing, her pulse, her erratic heart rate. It would not do to die now! At least, she was calm enough to continue. She opened the door and stepped through.
Braldt lay on the hard, stone floor feeling the deep stiffness that clenched his muscles and wishing that he could sleep, but knowing that he could not.
The enclosure was dark, lit only by the infrequent, smoky torches that by this late hour had burned so far down that they produced only a sullen glow. It was quiet, too, as quiet as it ever got in this place, the silence filled with the deep, slow breathing of exhausted beings, tiny moans, and the intermittent screams of the madman who never slept. The screams had bothered him at first, but now they barely penetrated his consciousness.
His mind tugged and pulled at the problem that kept him awake night after night despite his body’s demands for sleep. Once more he went over Septua’s strange story and tried to connect it to the feeling he had gotten from the man in the robe, the man who wore his face.
Braldt was certain that he had not imagined the unspoken message the man had imparted. Even though no words had been spoken, somehow he knew that the man was an ally, a friend. Coupled with the dwarf’s tale, it could only mean that there were those among these people who were in opposition to someone or something in their government. Hopefully, they could be considered allies. But how could they be reached?
Braldt had seen the man several times. He was always present on the dais when they went forward to receive their token of victory, but other than maintaining a steady eye contact that seemed to hold an unspoken promise, yet urged caution, there had been no solid contact and Braldt was growing ever more frustrated.
True to their original promise, they had been granted a wish with every victory. Putting his own fears and worries aside, Braldt had allowed Randi to make the first request. Even though Septua squawked his disagreement, it seemed the honorable thing to do.
Randi had asked after the fate of her family, and for the first time, Braldt caught a glimpse of the real woman hidden beneath the tough, competent exterior. She had been granted her wish, although what she had learned was not revealed to the rest of them for the information had been some sort of personal revelation received by Randi alone. Nor would she speak of what she had learned. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “All is well,” was all that she would say. Braldt found himself wondering belatedly whether she had a mate, children, a lover on her home planet, but he did not force himself on her, seeing that she desired her privacy.
They had assumed that each of them would be given this privilege upon winning a contest, but it was not to be so. To their angered dismay, they learned that only one of them would be granted the knowledge they desired and that further enlightenment would depend upon further victories.
Septua railed and screeched at the unfairness of the decision and would have hurled himself at the three men above him on the dais, had Braldt and Allo not restrained him. The dwarf seemed to have lost his fear of his countrymen and he lost no opportunity to heap abuse on them whenever he saw them. If his words troubled them, there was no sign of it on their impassive features. He stopped short of mentioning the foiled plot he had supposedly shared with the man who always stood to the right of the dais. Although whether out of fear of going too far or whether as Braldt half suspected, the whole story was a hoax, he could not have said.
It was decided among them that Allo would be granted the next favor if they won, which they did, for he had two mates and three children and was much concerned about how they were dealing with his absence. But at the last moment, Septua stepped in front of Allo and took his place.
What he learned brought him no pleasure. His stolen knowledge informed him that his home, his possessions, and the lovely Mirna were all being enjoyed by none other than the captain of the guards who had arrested him. Further, it appeared that Mirna had helped bring about Septua’s downfall by sharing his most secret plans with that same muscular captain who had also been rewarded with an advancement of rank due to the seriousness of Septua’s crime.
Not even Allo could bring himself to chastise the dwarf who was completely devastated by the information, which he told them in a bleak monotone once they had been returned to their cell. Immediately after, he had rolled himself in his blanket and lay facing the wall, refusing to speak or even grope Randi when she knelt to offer him solace.
He was still sunk within himself when they won their next victory. He fought well enough, for even depressed he could grasp the fact that if they did not fight and win, they died.
When Allo finally received his turn, he, too, came away despondent for it seemed that his mates and children believed him dead. One of his mates, the one he loved most dearly, had ceased to eat and had apparently lost the desire to live, and furthermore, his youngest son was deeply distraught and angered by his loss and was creating a good deal of trouble by demanding that the company that had commission
ed Allo, as well as the WWF starfleet command, do something to find the missing ship and bring home their dead. It was not making him popular with the authorities.
All of this was confided in bits and pieces as Allo paced back and forth in their cell. “I’ve got to get out of here. Got to find some way of sending a transmission. I have to let them know that I’m alive! Matek is not strong. She will perish! Allovie is so impetuous. I know that one—he will not stop until he has provoked someone into taking action which will most likely be to throw him into a cell somewhere! I must get out of here! I must help them!”
Allo’s long, orange fur stood on end, spiked and peaked in shaggy tufts all over his body, and his eyes were wild. There was no evidence of the gentle creature who always urged them to practice caution and self-control. But none of them could offer Allo any hope for they had none themselves.
Upon their fourth victory, the death of the team of painted primitives, it was Braldt’s turn at last.
There was a swirling inside his head, similar to the passage of clouds swirling at a rapid rate of speed, then they cleared away and it was as though he were hovering in mid-air above the city that had been his home.
His thoughts immediately conjured up the image of Auslic, the chief of their city state, and Auslic appeared before him. It was as though he were standing in Auslic’s bed chamber and could actually have reached out and touched the man who was like a father to him. But Auslic gave no sign of seeing him, despite Braldt’s clarity of vision. Auslic appeared to be in better health than the last time Braldt had seen him. Then he had been close to death. Now he paced his chambers with his hands tucked behind his back, sighing deeply and often as if a great weight rested on his shoulders. His face was creased and careworn and his mouth sagged in sorrow.
Braldt spoke to him, but it was obvious that Auslic did not know he was there. Braldt was desperate to know what terrible events had brought such grief on Auslic and he turned his thoughts to Carm, his adopted brother. Surely Cam would know.
