by Aline Ash
“Have a seat,” he says, his voice gruff.
“I am fine as I am.”
He looks at me for a long moment and shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“Where is Dr. Ryz?” I inquire.
“No tests today. Just a conversation.”
Wylto is short by Gargolian standards. He’s heavier and rounder through the middle than most of the rank and file warriors—that’s a mark of him being part of the wealthy, ruling class. He’s got black scales with blue stripes that run from his earholes and down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his finely-crafted shirt—also a mark of his wealth. The underside of his neck and, presumably, his engorged belly, are a slate gray color, and his eyes have a red, diamond-shaped iris.
Wylto got to where he is, sitting atop the Gargolian criminal underworld, by using his brain. He may not be the most physically imposing of their species, but he is one of the smartest. He is also the cruelest.
In my time here, I have seen him order some of the worst atrocities ever inflicted upon another living being. He murders for sport. For a few laughs. And worst of all, he murders for the amusement of his guests.
It is into this last category that I fall. On his orders, I have taken more lives than I can count. And I will continue doing so, as long as it ensures the survival and fair treatment of my sister. Wylto knows this, and because he and his people hold me in such high regard, often remarking on my rarity and uniqueness, they tend to treat me differently. Such as the medical tests I am ordered to regularly endure. They are searching for something, but I do not have a clue what that might be. All I know is that I am important to them.
Wylto uses my lethal abilities to line his pockets and to keep his guests happy—and spending their marks to enjoy the spectacle of me slaughtering yet another of their hapless fighters.
My fights are always rigged. I am always ensured of battling somebody far weaker than me, who has far less fighting skill. I’m never in any danger. In fact, I am certain the only way I would be killed in their pit is if I killed myself. But killing myself would also mean a death sentence to my sister. Wylto was quite clear about that. So that even this way of getting out of this place is not an option.
Wylto wants the influx of marks and attention that having a rare albino Tabiean fighting in the pits brings in, and so they continue to pair me with opponents I will defeat easily—what we call duskas.
“What can I do for you, Master D’gresh?”
“I want to know what you think of your new cellmate.”
I shrug. “She is acceptable.”
“Acceptable, eh?” he sneers.
I nod. “Yes. That is what I said.”
He stares at me with those odd-colored eyes, trying to project an air of menace and foreboding. It’s all I can do to keep myself from laughing. Wylto may be able to scare his own people, but I have no fear of him. I fear no Gargolian. The silence stretches on between us for several long moments, then he finally breaks it.
“Have you mated with the female yet?” Wylto asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I was not aware I was required to.”
Wylto sighs. “You really should learn to loosen up a bit, Jin.”
Hearing the Gargolian call me by the name I have come to despise does not sound, in the human’s words, “badass.” Instead, it is grating, but it does not anger me anymore. I have no respect for Wylto or any other Gargolians, and I do not care what they choose to call me, on purpose.
“Use the human’s flesh for your pleasure,” Wylto says. “Enjoy her. You’ve certainly earned your fair share of pleasure. Take it. I give this gift to you freely.”
If there is one thing I know about Wylto, it is that he does not give gifts freely. You sometimes have to look very carefully, but there are always strings attached. Although it may not be simple to discern at first, he always has an agenda. That is the way things are with criminals like him. Nothing is ever free.
“That is very generous of you,” I say. “But the only gift I wish for myself is to have my sister freed.”
He stares at me for a long moment and shakes his head. A slow, feral smile crosses his face and he looks at me as a father might look at an unruly child whose antics have amused him.
“I cannot count the number of times you have asked that of me,” he says.
“I will continue asking that of you until Daca is set free.”
“Your loyalty to your family is admirable,” he says. “It is a quality that seems all too lacking these days.”
“My sister is all I have left of my family,” I tell him, doing my best to keep my temper in check. “And we are all that is left of the G’osha.”
Wylto’s gaze intensifies, and he leans forward almost as though he is telling me a secret. “I will grant you that gift, in time.”
I do not know how many times I have heard him say that. In time. It is always in time. But he never tells me when that time might come. How many bodies must I stack up for him? How many marks must I put in his pocket before it is enough, and he sets us free?
Looking disappointed and frustrated, Wylto gets to his feet. He walks to the door. and as it slides open, he turns and looks at me, holding me with his dead-eyed gaze.
“You have a fight scheduled today,” he says. “And you should think about indulging your own desires tonight.”
The door slides closed behind him, leaving me alone in the examination room. Wylto seems especially interested in me mating with the human. I am not certain why that is, but it is slightly unsettling. I cannot let myself believe it is an altruistic gesture and Wylto is simply offering me a gift such as this. There is a hidden agenda. There always is.
I know the strings are there. The problem is, I cannot see them just yet.
* * *
The same pair of guards who had escorted me from my cell to meet with Wylto now flank me as they walk me out of the holding cells and out to the small fighting pit. I step through the door and into the warmth of the day. Knowing what is to come, I take a moment and turn my face up to the light that rains down on me from Tabia’s twin suns. Basking in the warm glow reminds me of how much I miss it now that I spend most of my days either cooped up in a cube, being gawked at by Gargolians with too much time on their hands, or in the darkness and cold steel of the subterranean cells.
After all those years in captivity I still miss the fresh air. I miss the sunshine. I miss having the freedom to run through the forests of my mountain home. But most of all, I miss my sister, my family, and the rest of my clan. I still bare a hope that a little fraction of my people was able to survive the attack. But with each year in this damned place and never encountering any other G’osha, my hope becomes more and more faint.
My musings are interrupted by the voice of Mynz, the master of ceremonies, I suppose you could call him. He stands atop a platform beside the canopy-covered box where Wylto sits with Omna by his side. His voice echoes around the pit. The area is so small that when he speaks, he doesn’t even need a microphone. At present, there are maybe a dozen Gargolians lining the walls around the fighting pit, all of them looking at me with intense curiosity.
“Greetings, citizens,” he intones. “Master Wylto D’gresh welcomes you all and hopes you enjoy today’s spectacle.”
The Gargolians applaud and I find myself looking around the pit, staring at all of the reptilian faces staring back at me. They stare at me so hard I can practically smell their bloodlust. The Gargolians are the most bloodthirsty, violent species I have ever encountered. I have heard the stories of what transpired on their prison moon and, personally, I find it appalling. Utterly barbaric.
I will kill when I have to, but I do not see it as the enjoyable sport they do. It is not something I take any sort of pleasure in. Though, I do allow myself to indulge in the thought of blowing this entire place up, taking the Gargolian audience with me. It is a fantasy I have had more times than I can count now. That sort of killing
I might actually enjoy.
The gate at the far end of the arena slides up and a large, bulky Orctorian strides onto the sand. Orctorians are bipedal creatures that are distantly related to the Gargolians. They typically have green, pebbly skin, three eyes with diamond-shaped irises, and thick, curled horns on the sides of their heads. They’re as large as Gargolians and just as tough. They are typically not nearly as mean or vicious though, but they are decent fighters when they need to be.
At least decent enough to put on a good show before I kill this one.
“You all know our first fighter well. Let’s have a round of applause for the White Monster of Tabia…Jin!” Mynz calls out.
The small mob responds, cheering and stomping their feet, creating a sound that reminds me of the crashing thunder that would ring out from our mountainous home.
“And his opponent, hailing from the planet Orcto, let us hear you welcome Rul the Destroyer!”
I roll my eyes and shake my head as the ridiculously ominous sounding name of my opponent is announced. I stretch my muscles and try to get myself warmed up. Not that I need to worry too much. I am not sure what Rul has destroyed, but I am fairly certain it is nothing significant. Just as I am certain I need not overly concern myself with his fighting skills. He is large, but lumbering and clumsy.
I can tell just by the way he moves he’s not a warrior. He lacks the grace of a trained fighter. Oh, I don’t doubt he does well enough in an undisciplined street fight. But in a dance of blades like here in the pit, he’ll only last as long as I allow him to draw breath.
A panel in the ground in the center of the fighting pit retracts and a rack ascends, locking into place a moment later. The rack is filled with all manner of wicked looking edged weapons—no guns since that might encourage us to do something naughty. Besides, with guns, there is no blood, and if there is no blood, the spectators grow bored. And if the spectators grow bored, the coin does not flow into Wylto’s purse. And that means that Daca will suffer. So the solution is to let us hack and slash each other to pieces; something the Gargolians love.
“Warriors,” Mynz intones. “Fight well. Die with honor.”
As if the Gargolians know anything of honor. A moment later, there is a high-pitched chime, signaling the start of our match. Rul the destroyer sprints toward the rack, determined to get to the weapons before I do. I let him. I lean against the wall beside the door I came out, fold my arms over my chest, and wait.
Rul grabs a pair of short swords and looks up. I see the confusion on his face when he sees me standing there, the picture of relaxation. His face darkens and he scowls as he rushes toward me, the points of both blades leading the way. I hear the growl coming from his throat as he closes in and I give my head a small shake. Rul the Destroyer is making this too simple for me and I need to drag it out to appease the bloodthirsty cowards that watch this show.
When the points of his blades are close, I quickly spin to the side, one steel tip slicing through the air I had just vacated. I hear the audible gasp from the audience and know I timed it exactly right. It was close, but not close enough. Rul’s momentum carries him forward, but as he tries to lunge back, he stumbles and falls. The points of his swords are driven into the wall I had been leaning against and snap, the steel barrier stronger than the blade.
The wind is driven from Rul’s lungs, but his survival instincts kick in and he scrambles around on all fours, trying to put some distance between us. I’m quicker though. I deliver a vicious kick to his jaw. I hear the crack as his head snaps back and watch in grim fascination as pale yellow blood flows from his mouth.
I step forward and drive my boot into his side and feel the bones beneath his skin give way. Rul the Destroyer flops over onto his back, his visage ghastly, a yellow-streaked nightmare, and the breath coming from his mouth in choked, wet wheezes. He coughs, spraying a thick mist of viscous yellow fluid into the air. Most of it settles back down over his face.
His eyes are unfocused for a moment, but then he looks at me. The crowd around us roars their approval as well as their desire to see me open him up. I stand over the fallen Orctorian, gazing down at him for a moment. He seems to realize he has been outmatched and is now standing on death’s door.
“Get up,” I tell him.
“Wh-what?”
“I told you to get up,” I growl. “This fight is not over.”
“You have won.”
“Get up and die on your feet,” I shout at him. “Do not lay there waiting to die like a thypa.”
He looks at me, confused, and I do not know if it is because I am giving him a chance, or if it’s because he doesn’t know what a thypa is. It is a cowardly animal which, when cornered, will often lay down and pretend to be dead, hoping to fool its attacker into leaving. I glare at him and yet he still does not move.
“I am going to walk to that rack and pick up a blade,” I tell him. “If you are not on your feet by the time I get back, I will slice you open and darken the sand with your blood.”
Without waiting for Rul the Destroyer to respond, I turn and walk to the rack of weapons. The crowd has stopped cheering, confused by what I am doing. Some boos ring out from those who wish to see me disembowel him now. But I have no desire to kill somebody without a weapon in their hand. I have no taste for killing a fallen, defenseless foe. I also do not care what these cretinous Gargolians want.
I grab hold of a long pole with a sharp metal point on the end and pull it from the rack. I hear him coming long before he gets to me, a small smirk flickering across my lips. I turn and lower the spear, holding it about waist high. Rul the Destroyer’s eyes widen as the realization that he’s doomed dawns on him. His momentum is too great, and he does not have the agility to avoid the inevitable.
The tip of the spear bites into his flesh, his weight jolting my arms more than I had expected. But I step forward, pushing the spear deeper into him. Rul opens his mouth to scream but all that comes out is a wet gurgle and a flood of that pale yellow blood that spills down his chin.
I yank the spear out and Rul the Destroyer falls to his knees. His eyes grow glassy and unfocused. He manages to cut his eyes to me one last time, but I don’t know if he’s actually seeing me. One final choked gasp passes his lips and he falls forward, the sound of wet meat thudding to the ground, and is still.
Rul the Destroyer is dead. As expected.
The bloodthirsty bastards show their approval by the applause and stomping on the seats. I throw the spear down and look down at the lifeless body of the Orctorian.
Another life taken. Another life wasted. All for the amusement for these Gargolian monsters. But this is my role. And I must play it.
For Daca.
Chapter Nine
Eva
The chime sounds and the shield deactivates. Rather than the pair of guards who usually escort me to my cube, Omna’s pair of meatheads step in. They stand just inside the door and stare at me.
“Isn’t it a little early for my daily ass beating?” I ask.
“Get up,” says the first guard.
“Where are we going?”
“I said, get up,” he replies. “The Lady Omna has something different planned for you today.”
“And what is that?”
The guard takes a step toward me and I reflexively jump to my feet. A smirk pulls at his lips, and I silently kick myself, angry that I flinched. I do my best to not show them fear, but the truth of the matter is, these monsters scare me. I hate it more than I can say, but it’s true.
With the meatheads chuckling and making rude comments about me to each other, I walk out of my cage, my cheeks burning, and a feeling of shame draped around my shoulders for letting them get the better of me. I hate them more than I can say, and I am looking forward to the day when I can kill them all.
They direct me through a winding maze of passages, and I pay attention as we go. This is a part of this compound I’ve never seen, so I take it all in. I need to know where I’m going if I�
�m ever going to break out of this place. We pass more cubes than I can count and most of them are occupied by some of the strangest creatures I’ve ever seen in my life. Creatures with four arms. Five. Three legs. Some of them with arms that end in crab-like pincers, and others with more eyes than I can count.
But what’s more disturbing than any of that are the creatures I see that look like they’ve been cut up and put back together again. Some of them are missing limbs. Missing eyes. Some of them look like they’ve had parts that don’t belong to them grafted onto their flesh. I pass a tall, yellow-skinned humanoid who has a dark arm sewn onto his side that’s very obviously not his.
As terrifying as the dozens and dozens of creatures I see are, I can’t deny that I feel a sense of sympathy for them. I pity them because it looks like the Gargolians have been experimenting on them medically. And everybody I see looks beaten down. They all look defeated and like they have already given up on life or any chance of ever leaving here alive.
Maybe they’re right to think that; I don’t know. All I do know is that so long as I draw breath, I will not stop fighting to get out of here. I will never be like these creatures, hopeless and defeated. If I can’t escape, they will have to kill me. It’s as simple as that.
We round a corner and I find myself standing in a large antechamber. The first guard steps to the wall and pushes a button on a small console. Immediately, the cloaking over the sonic shield drops and I’m looking into something that looks like a small, circular ring. A pit.
I see men fighting in the middle of it. They’re hacking and slashing at each other wildly. The stands are all packed with a few dozen Gargolians who are cheering and shouting as they take in the fight.
My heart falls into my stomach when I realize it’s Tulo out there in the ring battling a large, humanoid creature with three eyes and a green, scaly body. It looks vaguely like a Gargolian, but with slight differences. Tulo is standing over the fallen alien and seems to be talking to him. I step closer to the sonic shield, the power pulsing through it making the hair on my arms stand up like static electricity or something.
