by Chris Hechtl
“But not for long. The expense will be horrid, but I'm sure our new frontiers will provide the stock we seek. See to it.”
“Yes, Director,” the assistant said, nodding dutifully.
“A sorry lot indeed, malnourished, ill exercised, if at all,” the director drawled, eying the group as he sized them up in distaste. “Not much of a spark in many.” He heaved a long suffering sigh. “I'm afraid not many will survive long in the pits at this rate. However, are we supposed to put on a proper show?” The director shook his head in disgust. “After all, even we have standards.”
“We have what, fifty in this group?” the director demanded after a long silence. He took out a brightly colored scarf from his breast pocket, flipped it to unravel it, then blotted at his face. The scarf matched the one around his neck and tucked into his tunic.
“Fifty-four, sir. Twenty-eight are apes of one sort or another. Most are chimps, sir,” Lomis replied after a brief consult of the list. “Chimps or bonobos, I can't really tell the difference.”
“Chimps, bonobos, what does it matter? They think they are human,” the director said scathingly. “As if,” he sniffed, pocketing the scarf. “What of the rest,” he said, looking down his nose in Marcus's direction.
“The naga you know of. At least they stopped sending us elves,” Lomis muttered. He pointed his stylus to a couple of the aliens. “Veraxins, four: two females, one male, one molt so therefore unknown. Apparently they are some sort of family unit. The polar bear,” he pointed to the white bedraggled bear.
“Ah, that one is definitely staying with us,” the director said, eyes glittering. “That one will put on a fine display once we outfit him, err, excuse me, her, with some glittering armor and properly motivate her,” he said.
“As you say, sir,” the assistant said. He knew from the record that the bear was nearly feral. She was also not happy about being muzzled and being forced to walk on her hind legs for great lengths. He definitely intended to stay out of her reach. When his boss cleared his throat indicating he'd spent enough time in distraction, he nodded once. He pointed the stylus again, this time at the two Gashg. “Two Gashg,” he said simply. He knew that would win his boss over a bit more.
“Ah, them, they are good for some sport. They love to rip at each other; getting them into a mating fight with each other would be fascinating for the public to observe. The long claws are quite nice, and they do know how to take a beating before going down. They definitely look the part, definitely them,” the director said, waving an airy hand.
“Noted, sir,” Lomis said as he checked the aliens off. “Okay, and then we have …”
“No Taurens or Centaurians I see,” the director interrupted, tisk tisking as he swished his crop in annoyance. “I do say, if any of you are of either species, do step forth,” he said. None of the aliens moved. “Very well, carry on, Lomis,” he said.
:---{|}=====>
Marcus listened, focused on the voices since his life might depend on it. He'd already marked the director as a foppish twit. But he was a powerful self-important, foppish twit. One who held their lives in his hands apparently.
:---{|}=====>
“Oh, um, a Telerite family unit of three, a pair of Talasians, but they seem to be rather listless, and what seems to be one Neocat, a domestic,” Lomis said hastily as his boss looked up with renewed interest. “And the rest are dogs, most of them mutts.”
“Darn it! Not a Relgarth in the bunch! I had my heart set on reenacting a dragon and knight skit! They are quite good for those! The same for the Dilgarth, though they have to be properly handled of course,” the director said, pacing. “What is one to do with … they simply must do better with supplying us with the proper materials! How can one work with this … this lot!” he said, practically spitting.
He shook his head, glaring at the group. “Why couldn't you have been better?” he demanded.
Finally, he threw his hands up in the air. “Well, if I must I must. What do we have to do?”
“We're allowed to keep only some of them, sir. The other groups have put in dibs as well,” Lomis warned.
“We'll get to that. I don't see any of this lot making their way to the special servants or tech trades,” the director said. “Mangy the lot of them. Only good as fodder.”
“Yes, sir,” Lomis replied dutifully.
“I'll take all the aliens of course,” the director said, pretending to fume. “Though the telerites won't be of much use except as rodeo clowns of some sort. I suppose I can figure something out with them if push comes to shove.”
He grimaced.
“What about the molt, sir?”
“We can um …,” the director snapped his fingers. “We can put it in a cage or something and have the parents fight …. No, I was going to say each other, but I suppose that wouldn't be effective. Perhaps fight another gladiator? One or more of them fighting to protect the molt?”
“It could engineer sympathies, their protecting their offspring. It might not fly with public affairs, sir,” the assistant warned.
“Darn it, and I thought that would be nice drama,” the director said, hissing. “Very well, let the molt go,” he said finally. “I'm not feeding something that can't be of much use in the arena.”
“Yes, sir. That's one. We need more though.”
One of the doctors looked up to them. “Doctor Mengla wants her quota, sir. You know that,” he said.
“I know. I'm just not certain we can fulfill it,” the director said. “Don't rush me. She gets the bodies anyway,” he said in distaste. He waved a hand away.
“The dogs, sir? A pack?”
“That's … possible. But not this one or this … or this,” he said, picking out the small Neodogs. They whimpered, heads down, ears flat. One tried to look endearingly to the director, but it simply washed off. “Mangy mutts the lot. Not a good breed …,” he shook his head muttering as he walked the line.
“The naga, one of the chimps, and two of the Neodogs are specially selected for the arena, sir. They resisted arrest and killed soldiers, sir,” the assistant said.
“Oh, dear me. Well, they will learn manners before they die I suppose. They will serve their part once indicted. Such messy shows though,” the director tisked again. “But I call dibs on the naga. If it has spirit enough to fight, we can use that.”
“Sir, the directive is clear,” Lomis said, offering the tablet to read but his boss waved it away.
“I know. But the damn thing will die anyway. We'll just make sure it dies in a protracted battle. Show that whatever resistance it offers it will still die.”
“Yes, sir,” Lomis said dubiously.
“Write that down. I'll use it in the report later I suppose,” the director ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Lomis replied, making the note.
Marcus wondered briefly if he was one of the Neos selected for execution. He'd killed a few of the soldiers and bounty hunters sent to catch him and his family. He had been careful to leave no witnesses though.
“You said there were bonobos?” the director asked, rounding on the assistant. “How many?”
“Um, it says six, sir,” the assistant said slowly.
“It says? You don't know?”
“It's hard to tell them apart,” the assistant said.
“You, bonobo or chimp?” the director said, pointing to a chimp. The guy didn't answer. “I … never mind, deaf and dumb. Make sure this one pays for not answering,” the director ordered.
“He's a chimp. So am I,” Marcus said, speaking up. The humans looked up and over to him. “The bonobos are smaller. Most are female,” he said.
“Ah. I'd thank you for the information but you really shouldn't speak without permission,” the director said, coming over to look Marcus in the eye. “Ah yes,” he murmured. “You do have the spark,” he said almost lovingly. “I see that now.” He turned abruptly and walked away. “Mark that one down for us. Gladiator,” he said.
“Yes,
sir,” Lomis said.
“How many more?”
“Ten to go to bioweapons,” the assistant said.
“Dame Mengla set a quota of fourteen from each shipment, sir. And they have to be varied in species unless they come as a family unit.”
“Well, she's not getting it. We've got other quotas to meet. We compromise with biowarfare just like everyone else,” the director said with his nose in the air.
“Damn it … fine. You get to explain it to her,” the doctor doing the exams looked up, glaring at the director.
“No, that's what underlings are for. I outrank you,” the director replied with a smirk as he turned his back on the doctor.
“Mother fracker,” the doctor muttered.
The director held up his crop like a baton. “Moving on,” he said briskly.
The gladiators were segregated by species, their will to fight, and seemingly ability. Aggression was sorted out as well with the most aggressive going to those who could handle them. If they became too aggressive against their handlers, they were earmarked for early shows. “Now, the trick is, we want to pit the more timid but slightly aggressive creatures against our human gladiators,” the director said to Lomis. Lomis nodded.
They'd spent the better part of an hour weeding through the group to get a dozen for the bioweapons department. “Now, for those of you smart enough to be listening, you will be trained to fight.”
That news perked up a few ears.
“But of course, not to win,” the director said, hands behind him as he held his crop in a tight grip pressed against the underside of his butt cheeks as if for support or as a seat.
“You will be trained in theater, in ways to draw the battle out—to make it look good. If you win the crowd’s favor, you may live another day despite losing a match. Anger them or me and you won't survive it, that I guarantee,” he warned.
“In the end, you will go down. One way or another, none survive for more than a year, even as a gladiator. And for those to be tortured, well, you may pity them but do not be foolish enough to offer them mercy. You might share their fate if you do. I don't like it, but I will punish such stupidity.
“If you wish to refuse to fight each other or a human fighter, so be it. You will be publicly tortured or set upon by an animal—one not as, I was going to say as elevated, but I should say as smart as you, right?” he asked in an aside to Lomis. “Dear me, I am slipping,” he tisked tisked. “Be that as it may,” he drawled, returning to address the group at large. “You will serve your purpose. It is what you have left. So, make peace with whatever deity you wish, then prepare yourselves well.”
He left without a backwards glance. Lomis hastily trotted to follow in his wake.
:---{|}=====>
Later that evening Marcus and the other new recruits found out that there were gladiators and human prisoners in the pits as well. They were segregated from the aliens and Neos however. The human gladiators were either people who volunteered out of some sort of sick psychopathic drive for glory or whatever or a soldier who pissed someone powerful off. A few of them were working off a sentence. One or two had been given the death sentence, but it had been mitigated for past deeds to allow them some sort of “clean death.”
The veteran Neos and aliens warned the group to steer clear of them whenever possible.
The human prisoners were people who had pissed someone powerful off or had been caught or accused, tried, and convicted of treason. Many were sentenced for helping Neos or aliens. Apparently the Horathians thought it was fun to pit them against the very beings they'd tried to shelter and aide.
Marcus regretted not getting a better view of the outside when he'd had the chance. He replayed what little he remembered in his mind over and over at night. His mind traced the route they'd taken, every twist and turn before his mind would turn inevitably to the first step, how to get out of the pit.
The gladiator pit training ground was a high walled structure of stone and concrete. It was deep in shadow half the time since the sun was only directly overhead for only a few hours each day. To combat this harsh spotlights were arranged to pour light into the courtyard. The windows on the inside walls were far up, too far to get easy access to, and besides, they were all barred. There were two balconies, also almost impossible to reach. Fences and guards were everywhere, segregating the population. He had also noted the flying drones, some of which were armed. The guards were in the towers or walking the walls.
He'd heard a few of his fellow “classmates,” also known as new meat by the scornful guards, that they were going to lash out the first chance they could. Their targets were the guards and humans. Some hoped that the guards would be their trainers.
Marcus knew better than to speak up or vent along with them. It was too dangerous, too foolish. He got his food from the line and then took a seat near Tiberius and ate quickly.
That evening he enjoyed a real bed. He had a cell of course and shared it with four others, all apes, but he didn't care. They had a functional toilet and bunks. There was no window, but there were bars on the cell door instead of a metal door some of the other cells sported.
To get to cell 881, they'd taken a route along stairs and metal grate covered halls. The metal grates allowed one to see through to the lower levels, or conversely, up through levels. Doors and checkpoints were everywhere. Every prisoner had a special collar with a chip in it to let them in and out of the various areas.
It just meant he'd need a chip or card or something that the guards carried. But he didn't see one.
:---{|}=====>
The following morning they were allowed a brief time to get squared away before they were ordered out and down to the main courtyard to begin the morning calisthenics. There was some inquiry about breakfast but none of the inquiries were directed at the guards. No one was foolish enough to do that.
They were lined up in the courtyard, replacing a group who were just finishing up their routine. It was then that they found out that their trainers were veteran gladiators or Neo slaves of some utility.
Marcus grimaced but went through the motions as they showed them various stretching exercises. Apparently they were a surely bunch, none seemed eager to introduce themselves or talk. Quick barks of orders were it for the time being.
:---{|}=====>
After porridge and tepid water for breakfast, they were marched out again to jog around the outer perimeter of the courtyard while the more advanced gladiators trained in the center area. Marcus noted each was paired off. They took turns, making pretend swings and showing each other how to defend or take a blow.
Jogging was always a pain in the ass for a chimp with their short legs. Jogging in chains was just asking to trip up. Many of the Neos did so before they got the hang of a sort of shuffle jog.
“What's the matter with them. They too scared of us getting away or something?” an Orangutan asked scathingly.
“Learn to talk when you are asked a question, meat,” a trainer growled.
On their third lap, Marcus realized the advanced gladiators were watching them. Halfway through the lap he realized why, they were being sized up. Even some of the guards were watching.
:---{|}=====>
After ten laps they fell in to an open area and were given a breather. The trainer, a Neomutt, was hardly winded and rather scathing in his assessment of their condition. “Pathetic,” he said over and over.
Marcus ignored the crap as he massaged his aching legs. After forced inactivity of months and months, suddenly being expected to jog was a bit more than any of them should have to endure. And it wasn't like they were being fed any sort of a proper diet either! It was a wonder that he could jog at all; half of his class had fallen out on the third lap.
“Here,” a female bonobo said, handing him a dipper with water in it. “Sip, don't guzzle it or you'll puke. You puke, you clean it up. They might make you lick it up,” she warned.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the dipper with both
chained hands. He took a sip carefully, swallowed, waited a beat, then another and another until the water was gone.
“That's enough. One to a customer,” she said, taking the dipper back as he held it out as if for more. He felt the water in his stomach. Hopefully he wouldn't have to run again. “You keep your head down,” she said and then she went on to the next person.
After a ten-minute break, they were put to work with plastic swords and axes. They had to swing at battered manikins stuffed with straw and taped up. He did that until his arms grew tired and the lunch bell sounded.
:---{|}=====>
Lunch was sandwiches, tasteless but filling. They spent some time getting cleaned up before the Neomutt trainer barked and got them moving again. They did three laps around the courtyard before he had them fall in for more sword and ax practice.
The sword work apparently got to a few people. One or two threw their weapons down. The trainers would approach them warily, then get into their face or talk with them until they picked up their weapons and fought on again.
Those that flat out refused to go along with the plan were escorted off by guards. The guards hooked poles up to their collars and then walked them at beyond arms length, sometimes deliberately into walls or door jams until they were escorted into the building and then down the stairs.
When the third such misfit balked and was escorted off, the lead trainer shook his head. “If some of you are wondering, they are going to the hole. They'll be there a couple days. No food, just water, usually piss when the guards are in a mood. You come out of the hole blind and as weak as a kitten—easy meat. Don't go that route,” he said.
Marcus nodded, ducked his head and then went back to practicing his sword swings.
By evening he was exhausted. He like a lot of the meats were swaying with exhaustion. They were allowed to eat meat rolls and biscuits for dinner, then they went outside for more jogging. Then, when he noticed the sun was down and the glow from the city around them was lighting the sky, they were marched into the barracks.
