Tales of the Federation Reborn 1

by Chris Hechtl

  The guards did a bed check twice before they were locked down for the night.

  Marcus spent some time massaging and stretching. He tried to drink the sink water but using his dirty hands didn't seem right. He made a mental note to get a better shower in next time. He tiredly crawled into bed and ignored the complaints of the others the best he could.

  :---{|}=====>

  His life became that routine for the following week. The exercises varied as did the trainers. None of the trainers ever introduced themselves. Some preferred to do weight or other training exercises; others wanted them to practice sword drills all day.

  Some of the trainers actually took the time to teach. They would explain a technique or pass on some sort of wisdom in fighting, like hooking a shield or twisting it just so to prevent a hook.

  On the fourth day, they were given mock shields. They were heavy and attached to their left arm and manacle. They had to carry them all day and had to deal with them while eating, much to some of the amusement of the guards and staff. Marcus didn't care.

  Occasionally they could hear the cheers and bays of the crowd over their fighting practice.

  Lomis and the director would walk the lines with the trainers once they advanced to the level of sparring. Each sparring pair was paired up carefully. They were not allowed to leave a marked area on either side of the path. If any tried or threw something that left the area, they were stunned and then tortured for their act.

  To his surprise they were fed relatively well—fed, bathed, and even given rudimentary medical treatment. If someone survived a battle in the arena, the director did his best to keep them alive once they were outside it. He had wondered why until he'd realized that the director saw them as an investment. Each that survived built a following of haters or those who would bet on their winning. That made their eventual downfall all the sweeter.

  But the investment part—he realized it was an investment in time, training, and skills. The director was in some ways like a general, hoarding his people when he had to and expending them wisely.

  And it was all for entertainment. What was that his grandam had said about Rome and bread and circuses? Marcus shook his head, trying to put such errant distractions out of his mind.

  He studied every person in the pits. He did his best to learn how they moved, how they thought, who they favored, and even what their life history was if that was possible. Everything went into his mind for possible future need.

  He was aware that others were studying him, sizing him up so he did his best to imitate the moves of those people with no experience with weapons. He wasn't sure who he was fooling though.

  They had stuck to the history books with the gladiator weapons. Swords, shields, pitchfork-like things, weighted nets, whips, and axes. Hand weapons in other words, all melee. Nothing effective that could be thrown any great distance. He knew why. They didn't want the fight to be over too quick, and they definitely didn't want the audience to be injured.

  Audience participation, yes. Injured or killed, no.

  :---{|}=====>

  It took an entire week before their class was tapped to go into the arena for the first time. The night before led to a rash of near hysteria and two suicides. Marcus wondered briefly why there hadn't been more. They'd been trained with blunted weapons, but there was always a way to end one's life with such tools if the person wanted to badly enough.

  Most likely the watching guards and staff would prevent such “waste.” He wasn't sure. They definitely took stride to keep the sparring at the level of practice, not full combat. Any who strayed into battle lust were stunned or beaten into submission.

  He did reconfirm a fervent wish to not be stuck in the hole. The shaking, battered wretches who had come out hadn't earned much sympathy from their fellow prisoners. A few were contemptuous of them.

  :---{|}=====>

  “You fight to live one more day. For some of you, every day is precious. It is its own reward and punishment all wrapped up in one. A few, demented enough, here will fight for what glory you think you can get from the cheering of the crowd. Whatever it takes I suppose,” the trainer said, shaking his head at such stupidity. “You are only fooling yourself; you are but a moment. A brief candle in the night to make them happy. They are fickle, you may rise, but eventually, eventually they will grow bored and you will fall. Fame will end. They are fickle like that,” he grimaced, tracing a scar on his chest. It went from one shoulder to his hip. “In the end, you will die. It is how you die that will be your legacy. For those of you with the heart, your death will sing to others, will spread the spark of wonder through others, inspiring them.”

  “Yeah, go down in glory. It's all rigged,” Marcus muttered.

  “Glory, right. Like he said, we'll be forgotten. They'll move on,” Tiberius said.

  “They watch it, not just the crowds, but also on television and tridee,” a bonobo female said. They looked over to her. She was wearing a servant's collar. “It's all to show them how better they are than us. To show the masses that we're just dangerous aliens and animals to be put down for our troubles.”

  “Eventually they will come for you as well,” Tiberius said. “So you don't strike back?”

  She shivered. “You don't even speak of such things here or anywhere. They take their time with those who dare strike back. I've seen it,” her haunted green eyes bored into his. “Trust me in this, you do not want that path. A quick, clean death is much preferable to that,” she murmured as she finished policing their plates onto her tray and then moved off.

  Tiberius watched her go, ever thoughtful.

  “Those that …,” the trainer went over to the gorilla and slapped the back of his head. “Pay attention!” he snarled. Tiberius snarled but ducked his head and then looked up to the trainer as he schooled his attention into proper expressions instead of the hate and rage he wished to express. “Better,” the trainer said. “Those that don't want to fight are put up against alien beasts. If they survive, they will keep fighting them or learn to fight in the arena against a proper opponent.”

  He paced away. “The arena matches are sometimes scripted along a theme. Our director and the populace like that. They enact great battles or other events—some from our past, some from Earth's past. Some are farces, but all have a deadly purpose at their heart.”

  “Learn to follow the rules or you will be broken. A tool that proves too dangerous will be eliminated. There is no escape from this path. So learn to embrace it. I've lived here for ten years,” he said, head held high. “I've watched countless others come and go. I am the last of my class.”

  Lucky you,” Marcus murmured under his breath. He wondered briefly how many friends, relatives, and others the man had killed to get where he was.

  It wasn't really fair of him to think so cynically about the man and his motives though, he realized after a long moment. The man had done what he intended, to do anything it took to survive.

  “Veterans are not normally paired against a greenhorn unless they are wounded or unless they are outmatched two to one. I've been in two when the crowd started to turn against me. I won both. I managed to win back the crowd's favor by being better than my opponents. Being the underdog can do that,” the canine said, eying the group coldly.

  “Some of you may be forced to fight with one limb. Others may be staked out in the arena. Whatever it takes to make the balance of forces used against you. That can be used to your advantage if you keep yourself from panicking and think,” the dog stressed.

  “A few of you, a lucky few, will be allowed to blood yourselves in the executions. Don't count this in your favor. You are just being tested to see if you can handle it. Do not show mercy to them! They earned their fates!” He barked, rounding on the group. “Do as you are told. Make sure you use flourishes,” he said, making cutting motions. “Don't end it too quick or you will regret it,” he said. “The same for those who fight as gladiators. Even if your opponent is down, do not go for the qui
ck kill unless instructed. Back off and check the crowd and the box. If the light is green, then you can proceed. If it is red, you must back down.”

  He scanned them. “It can save your own hide someday, so don't abuse that test of life or death.”

  :---{|}=====>

  On the evening of the seventh day, they found out that the weekly executions were scheduled to take place in the nearby stadium. The meats were filed out into chain gangs, then down a heavily guarded tunnel, one with cameras and automatic weapons, through a series of backstage jail locks before they were escorted into a holding area. There they had to watch from below ground as the executions took place.

  “This is your first taste of the arena. Tomorrow you will see it for real before you are selected for combat. Get used to it.”

  Each of the meats was lined up to watch the executions. Some whimpered, a few retched at the sight before them of people—some alien, some human, and some Neo—that were chained to poles in the stadium. The poles were arrayed in a circle at the center of the arena. Apparently the entire works rose and fell through a series of elevators.

  Even the gladiators who were released to torture the poor souls came up a ramp from the ground Marcus noted. His cold eyes measured the crowd, measured how high they were above the arena floor.

  He took in the guards, the weapons, even how the prisoners were chained. The humanoids had their limbs chained above to the top of the pole and a few just by the neck.

  He also noted that the human gladiator who was unleashed on them had been dressed in an executioner outfit. He had some sort of whip. It wasn't until the thing crackled and glowed blue did Marcus realize it was a neural whip. Then he too wanted to wretch as the whip was turned loose onto the prisoners, some of which had to have been children.

  Finally, he closed his eyes when his errant mind imagined that fate for a family member. Wouldn't it be better to spare them that? To end their misery before it? Or to not have a child at all?

  “I think this one is cracking,” a guard said, poking Marcus into opening his eyes.

  “No, just getting bored,” Marcus murmured.

  The guard blinked, then frowned. “You'll get your chance soon enough. Maybe even sooner than you'd want,” he said as he laughed and walked off.

  :---{|}=====>

  The following day they got another change in their routine. After morning calisthenics and breakfast, they were escorted back to the arena. The guards watched them warily as they were trotted through the backstage area and then up a ramp into the sand-covered arena floor.

  “Here is where you fight. Here is where most of you will die,” the director said, standing at the box. “This is where I sit from time to time if the emperor or a high lord is not here to watch,” he said, hands stroking the brass railing. “You watch for this,” he thrust out a fist and then held out his thumb. He wiggled it. “Some of you have them, some don't. If you see this,” he held his thumb upright, “it means life.” He pointed it down. “If you see this, it means death. The crowd will vote on the fate of the loser. Even if they vote for you to die, make certain you give them a good show. If you don't, I'll make certain your death will linger,” he warned.

  Marcus studied the man and then turned his eyes around the arena. It was like a sports auditorium he'd read about—high seats going ever higher, public exits and stairs, no sign of cover. There were weapon emplacements, lights, cameras—no way to get out. No, once within the arena, there was no way out except on a stretcher or walking.

  He knew which one he would pick. But how long would Lady Luck bless him? She hadn't been too charitable with her blessings so far, he thought caustically.

  On the way back into the backstage area, a gorilla tripped. Four of them went down, including Tiberius. They rolled and slid helplessly down the ramp. When they got to the bottom, they groaned.

  “What a tangled mess,” a trainer said, shaking his head.

  Lomis shook his head, eyes wide. “Oh my, no.”

  “My arm!” a gorilla said, clutching at her arm.

  “Never mind that, my knee. My ankle!” another said.

  The assistant sucked in a breath. “Damn it, the director isn't going to like this,” Lomis said, shaking his head.

  :---{|}=====>

  “So you are saying three of the four who were scheduled to fight are down due to injuries?” the director demanded. “You do know the admiral is going to be in the crowd with his family? In the box?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lomis replied, practically sweating. “It, um, wasn't my fault. They tripped and fell down the ramp. It's slippery with sand and well chained …”

  The director raised an imperious hand. “Enough out of you. Do we have a replacement?”

  “Out of that mess, there are two other greater apes, but they are both marginal in fighting ability. The orangutans have the reach, but their short stubby legs wouldn't make for a good showing.”

  “And the others?”

  “The Gashg …”

  “No. Too evenly matched,” the director said, cutting his pitch off.

  Lomis gulped. That was his best pitch he'd prepared. “The others are suboptimal, sir.”

  “Then we do our best with what we've got. We pick the best from a menu of bad choices I suppose,” he said.

  “Well, there is this one. The one you liked during entry day, sir,” the assistant offered, pulling up a file. He turned his tablet to show the director.

  The director studied it, then slowly nodded. “Very well. We'll have to make it good. I believe he is from Dead Drop as well?”

  The assistant turned the tablet, checked the file, and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, good then. Admiral Cartwright is lord there, so he should appreciate it. We'll have to pad things in the chimp's favor of course. If he should lose too easily, the admiral might take it as an insult to him,” he said.

  “I'll do what I can, sir. But the matchup is far from even. Shaving some points will …”

  “I'm not so certain. I have been watching this one along with some of the others. He has been holding back. I think we should give him this opportunity to let us see what he is capable of … if he wishes to survive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  :---{|}=====>

  “Damn, buddy, that sucks,” Marcus said, studying the wrapped knee and ankle. “What the hell?”

  “Luck I guess, or something like it. Murphy's gremlins and Lady Luck all rolled into one I suppose,” Tiberius said, massaging his calf and thigh with his massive hands.

  “So …”

  “So, they let me off fighting, the same for the other injured,” Tiberius stated.

  Marcus nodded slowly crossing his arms. He now wondered if the fall had been prearranged or not. They were definitely getting out of the fight, but for how long? Would it piss the director off if he suspected a ruse?

  They'd had the afternoon off, much to his surprise. Everyone had been at ends on what to do. He'd ended up visiting Tiberius once he was released from what the Horathians considered their infirmary.

  “Marcus!” a voice bellowed.

  Marcus poked his head out of the cell door. He saw a couple of trainers standing there. They oriented on him as someone ever so helpfully pointed him out before he could duck back into his cell.

  “You are up, Marcus. Come with us,” the lead trainer ordered.

  “Frack,” Marcus murmured, rising to his feet.

  “Good luck,” the gorilla said, clasping his hand in his.

  “Luck, yeah right,” Marcus growled, waving a hand. “I'm coming,” he said as feet began to march in his direction.

  :---{|}=====>

  Marcus was escorted to the arena quickly. There he found out his first battle would most likely be his last. He was set against the Neopolar bear, a tough customer. She didn't seem happy about having to fight but was in a foul enough mood to do so. He wondered briefly if they'd given her drugs or something to amp up her aggression. Was she near going primal? H
e hoped so. She'd be ever so slightly easier to fight.

  He'd need every advantage he could manufacture. Cheating wasn't out of the question either he thought.

  Two robots stood guard as his chains were removed. He rubbed at his limbs, feeling glorious at being so free after being fettered for so long. Once they finished that, they allowed him to bathe and prepare. A doctor checked him over thoroughly. He wasn't certain as to why. It didn't make sense, but he wasn't going to complain about the delay.

  He was surprised that he was allowed to wear armor. The bear was going in bare-ass naked, and she was not amused at the sight when she saw him being outfitted. Normally the new gladiators fought nude, with natural or enhanced weapons at least for the first few rounds. Then they earned armor. The best gladiators wore silver, platinum, chrome, or gold armor.

  His was steel colored and battered. He had shoulder pads, a helmet with no face guard, and some flexible thin armor over his stomach along with grieves and gauntlets. His feet were bare.

  He was also surprised when he was outfitted with a taser sword by the lead gladiator assigned to get him ready. “This thing is good, but heavier than a normal sword. The switch is on the pommel; be careful you don't accidentally set it off.”

  Marcus nodded, testing the heft. The blade was a broadsword design. He'd rather have a rapier, but beggars couldn't be choosers. “You've only got one shot in its capacitors, so you'd better make it good. Don't let ‘em see you've got that,” the trainer who was assigned to outfit him warned.

  “Right.”

  “Bears are a bitch to fight. Thick skull, so don't bash at it. Stay out of arms reach as much as possible; they've got those claws and well, strength. If she gets on top of you, then you are done for,” the trainer warned.

  “Good to know,” Marcus said simply.

  “Throat is obvious. Too obvious. Guts can be swatted aside by the arms. Go for the legs. Do the dance. Work her, wound her. Chop her down like you would a tree.”