Claimed by the Alien Gladiator, page 23
“You’re not going to die!” Emlee calls from the top of her tower. With me momentarily distracted, Okros begins swinging his clawed hands. I have just enough space and wherewithal to see that gladiators from other teams are encroaching on the central plaza, using Okros as a distraction. Suriat and Slaga are knocking them down as fast as they can, but there are too many of them.
I don’t have time to waste with this mutant. I back up to the tower and find the raptor that Emlee wounded, which is still flopping on the ground. I step on its neck and wrench out the little spear. Okros laughs, but his nasty laughter cuts short when I hurl the spear at him. It lodges in his shoulder.
He wrenches the spear out with one hand and throws it on the ground. “You pitiful iron fool. Do you think this pathetic dart will stop me?” He spreads his arms wide, which I realize is a precursor to him releasing the energy beam. I race forward with my shield and knock him off his feet, then scramble away. The beam opens up to the sky and manages to knock out a flying platform. One of the judges falls with it, hurtling down to death in the sand.
Okros begins to stand again, with his beam still flared. As he rises, the angle of the beam is such that it hits a portion of the audience before cutting down the side of the ring. Judging by the screams, he hit a lot of people, and many more will likely die in another stampede. But as usual, all the people in other parts of the arena seats cheer even if they crouch down a little, because this is just one more spectacle for the enjoyment of the rabble.
He faces me directly, the beam hitting my shield. I can feel heat and even a little force emanating from the other side. I lurch forward behind my shield, aiming the lead-lined metal directly into the energy beam, and bash into him.
Okros grunts and rolls. This time, his beam stops. I peek around the shield to see that he’s staggering to his feet, looking a little consternated. I run into him again and knock him back and down. Every time he tries to stand, I do my best to get him on the ground while keeping the shield between me and him. He’s getting tired and battered, while my adrenaline keeps going.
Finally he lands face down. I angle myself so that I can hit his head repeatedly with the widest part of my shield while keeping most of my body as far away as possible. He cries out in his awful voice, his ugly face muffled in the dirt, as I hit him so hard that his withered horn cracks off. It almost sounds as if he asks for mercy.
Suriat shouts behind me. I turn and see my friend ready to throw a trident. Instead of stepping aside, I motion for him to throw it to me – and when he does, I catch it with my tail. With one arm bracing the shield, I use the other to hurl my weapon directly into Okros’ back. The throw is strong enough to bury the tines right through his chest.
Okros twitches, then falls still.
The crowd, or what’s left of it, erupts in boos and cheers, so loud it hurts my ears and almost drowns out the shouts around me. Some of them are even chanting “Viktor”, Emlee’s name for me. I don’t have time to appreciate that or admire our victory, because enemy gladiators are trying to scale the tower … and this time it’s tipping over.
* * *
Emlee clings to the wooden bars of her cage as it tilts with her in it. Amidst the shouts, I run to where I think the top of the tower will land. Presuming the cursed thing stays together as it leans over. The base is crumbling, and I would like to murder whoever slapped this thing together.
With a groan and crash, half the tower topples over, the cage bouncing off. Wooden bars break around my head, and I somehow manage to get my arms up in position to grab Emlee before she falls on the ground or on my horns.
I set her down on the ground and embrace her. I need to feel her pressed against me, and I also don’t want everyone else looking at her naked. My beautiful female is in my arms, trembling. From over her shoulders I see Slaga emerging from the rubble at the base of the tower. He waves at me, then points out at the rim of the arena, where the owner stages are positioned.
Sideran is in House Oloran’s still-damaged stage. So are Arvassa and her uncle Dulemus, but they’re letting themselves out the back. Sideran grabs Pylus by the head and drags him out to his own stage. We can hear Pylus hollering and protesting. Gadu pulls up on his platform and tries to interpose.
“You told me Viktor would fail. Do you know how many credits you just cost me?” Sideran shouts at Pylus, and his words are picked up by Gadu’s microphone and transmitted through the arena speakers.
Sideran’s stage zooms overhead, and Pylus flops over the side. He manages to grab onto the edge, but Sideran stomps on his hands, and our so-called master drops. We race around a building to see his body broken on the sand. Suriat immediately gets to his knees and searches Pylus’ gaudy clothing, retrieving the control device out of Pylus’ sleeve. He stomps on it, and we look at the pieces for a moment. Maybe we’re going to be free after all.
Sideran’s stage drops down lower. Ditakian guards stand around the edge with guns drawn. The firing starts, announced by the blasts above and the impacts on sand and flesh. The guards are shooting at the surviving beasts and so-called criminals in the ring, as they usually do unless Sideran is feeling merciful. Today is not a day for mercy. Cries echo out as the survivors are hunted down and shot.
Raxu appear with large canvas sand-sleds to remove the bodies. They work quietly and efficiently to carry off the dying and the dead. Meanwhile the crowd shouts and throws coin down in copious amounts. Gerakos, having somehow lived through it all unscathed, lopes about on his long skinny legs with an upturned shield, grabbing handfuls of coin and tossing it into the makeshift bowl.
The Smaragdine announcer’s voice echoes over the sound system in an uncharacteristic sober tone. “House Oloran has forfeited. The Lord of Eremipo has declared his extreme displeasure at the killing of his prize fighter.” The audience boos loudly in response and the air is filled with garbage being thrown at Sideran’s stage.
Then a shot sizzles by my ear and hits the sand nearby. Another follows. I see a gladiator fall ahead of me, blood spurting out of his back. That bastard Sideran is going to slaughter us all.
“Get down!” I yell, and pull Emily to the ground with me, cursing the sand that must be scraping and burning her naked skin. I grab the shield and hoist it over my head. If Tasiman is going to pull through, now’s the time. I get my bearings and, squatting down with my free arm around Emlee, we crawl toward the Corpse Gate. I can only hope whoever’s left alive on our team will head in the same direction.
There’s a shadow and a thud. I lift the shield up enough to see one of the Ditakian guards has fallen, with a trident in his chest. The surviving light-fighting Smaragdine of all Houses are hurling their tridents at Sideran’s stage. One even strikes some critical piece of machinery on the underside of the platform, and it lists to one side, causing another guard to fall off. The stage rises higher, while the remaining guards move back from the edge. Sideran is shouting over all the noise, with just a hint of Ditakian bellowing.
We get up and run, me still hoisting the shield over and behind us. There are many bodies of both people and animals in our path, and we run around or over them, and through bloody sand, as we wind through the temporary buildings.
The arena wall comes into view, and there is the Corpse Gate, with two Raxu hastily dragging in a sand cat ahead of us. I’ve never been through this gate. I always expected when I passed through it I’d be carried feet first.
This gate has a portcullis door, and I can see the metalwork shaking. Something’s sticking in the gears – a long metal shaft. Tasiman must’ve had one of his Raxu sabotage the gate to keep it from being closed during our escape.
As we run under the portcullis, something catches me in the arm. I drop the shield and in doing so, I spray Emlee with my own blood. We fall to the ground, and I find my arm is almost half burned off by a laser. I barely feel the pain even though I can see my own scorched flesh hanging from bone.
In the confusion, I see Sideran on a judge’s platform. He lifts his gun for another shot, one that will kill me or Emlee. The audience’s booing is loud, and they’re throwing garbage at him, but his position in the middle of the ring makes it difficult for even the best throwers to hit him.
Our view is blocked. We hear the zing of the laser gun in the distance, but there are only sizzling sounds, and we’re still alive. I look to the side and see that Suriat has grabbed the shield and is holding it over the three of us, grunting with the effort of holding up the weight.
“Keep moving,” my friend hisses. The three of us retreat into the tunnel beyond the gate, with difficulty because my blood is slicking the entrance and my body doesn’t want to move any more.
I just want to lie down on the sand with Emlee in my arms.
“Oh no, you’re not dying,” she says, and helps Suriat to drag me forward. Once we’re out of sight of the arena, Suriat drops the shield. Around the bend of the tunnel, there’s a large room with big tables and drains in the stone floor.
Tasiman is there, with colorful fabric draped over his arm. Another dress for Emlee. The color drains from his ruddy face when he sees me. He rushes forward to help prop me up.
“Give me that,” Emlee says, grabbing the fabric from Tasiman. Before I can stop her, she’s tearing it to pieces and tying one tightly around my arm, above the wound. “Get me a short stick, a rod, something,” she yells to the group.
“You shouldn’t have ruined your dress,” I mumble out. “You need clothing.”
“Shut up. I’m making you a tourniquet,” she says. She winds a metal tool handle in the fabric, tightening it until I’m about ready to die from the pain. “I hope tourniquets work on aliens,” she grits out. The word doesn’t translate very well, but I vaguely understand that she’s trying to stop the blood loss.
Black dots swirl before my eyes. “I love you, Emlee,” I say, trying to reach my good arm out so that I can touch her face. Then it all fades away.
35
Chapter 33
Emily
Viktor has passed out from the pain and blood loss. I’m not surprised. Whatever the hell they were shooting from Sideran’s platform, it cuts through flesh like a chainsaw through particle board. A bone is visible, the ulna in human physiology. At least the edges of the wound are burned. Pretty sanitary weapon, all things considered.
Where his previous wound closed on its own and left barely a scar, this one is far more serious.
I should be freaking out, I realize. My man could be dying, I almost died, I’m naked, and just fell off a tower after being attacked by giant vultures and a radioactive alien. But all my medic training and experience has led me to this moment. I can be calm while I tend to my patient. I’ll fall apart later.
Tasiman pulls a rough cloak out of one of his packs and drapes it over me. I’ll thank him later, but nudity is the least of my issues right now.
After making sure the fabric is turned tight above the wound, I use the other strips to soak up blood and pull the wound closed. I’m glad Viktor isn’t conscious for this, because otherwise it would probably hurt so much he’d pass out anyway. While I tend to him, I hear familiar voices – Suriat, Slaga, and a few others from our team have joined us. But the Raxu clean-up crew have already disappeared.
Tasiman rummages in his packs and pulls out little bottles and boxes. “Iodine solution to offset the radiation from Okros. And then the chip extractors. Quickly now, before Pylus decides to recover his property.” He hands out the bottles first, and we all drink the salty, metallic fluid, then toss the bottles to the side.
“Pylus is dead,” I say, taking a box and pulling out the device. I place it on the back of Viktor’s neck where I think his control chip must be and pull the tiny switch. With some clicking and whirring, Viktor soon has a small patch on his neck.
Tasiman uses one on me. It hurts like a motherfucker, and I might get infected from unsanitary black market tech, but I’ll deal with that later. Everyone else applies a chip extractor to each other, with various moaning and groaning about the pain, and we toss the devices on the floor.
“We must go now,” Tasiman says, wringing his hands together. “I didn’t plan for him to be seriously injured. They’re waiting for us in the corpse wagons. Leefa and her children.”
“We’ll carry him,” Suriat says, nodding to Slaga. They lift him up and place him on one of the swathes of dirty fabric the Raxu use to transport bodies. Not the best gurney, especially when they lift it up and it turns into more of a hammock. The sight of Viktor’s head lolling to one side just kills me. Tasiman follows my eyes and runs to support Viktor’s head. The whole party takes him through the exit.
I turn my attention to the younger fighters, doing what I can to bind their wounds. Only four of them made it this far. Fortunately, none of them are wounded as badly as Viktor.
Swift footsteps and a tinkling sound precede the appearance of Gerakos, running breathlessly and barely holding up a shield heaped up with coins. “He’s coming,” the spindly teenager gasps out, coins falling out on all sides. “Sideran. And guards.”
“Go, go, go!” I say to everyone. I get one last piece of fabric around a Smaragdine’s arm. I push him toward the exit where everyone else has fled. Gerakos lingers briefly, but I tell him to get out while he can. I clutch the rough cloak tight around me, effectively covering myself from neck to ankle.
Crazy thoughts run through my head. Maybe I can delay Sideran enough so that everyone else can escape. I always make myself useful. He might not kill me if I play it right. At least, he might not kill me right away.
Heavy footfalls come from the tunnel to the arena. Sideran is flanked by two Ditakian guards, and they level guns at me. All three are spattered with assorted liquids and substances, the embodiment of the crowd’s disapproval.
“Emily,” Sideran says, his eyes burning with intensity. I hate the sound of my name on his lips. “Where is Viktor and all the rest?” His eyes brush over the discarded chip extractors and iodine bottles.
I have to ignore his question. Play for time. Give them time to escape. “You tried to kill us all.”
“House Oloran killed my prize fighter. As the Lord of Eremipo, I have absolute authority here. It’s my right to punish those who destroy my possessions.” He takes a step forward, gun still leveled.
I decide to move past the basic injustice of executing gladiators for killing another gladiator in a fucking Death Match. “Are you going to kill me now?” I ask, lifting my chin with outward defiance, while internally hoping and praying that everybody is in the wagons and they’re already moving out.
He closes in on me and grabs my chin. “I might play with you a while before I tire of you and sell you to a brothel.”
“You smell terrible. You should go take a shower,” I say with all the bitchiness I can muster. I’m just telling the truth – between the rotten fruit and shit smells, his stench makes me want to vomit.
Sideran’s fingers dig in, but I just close my eyes and pretend I’m relaxing into his grip. Delay, delay, delay, is what I’m telling myself. This is how I make myself useful. Viktor will survive. Leefa and her kids will get to Eletheria. Maybe Gerakos will grow up and get himself a girlfriend.
“What are you smiling at?” he says. I open my eyes and realize his face is very close to mine. His breath is on me, and it’s so much like Viktor’s, I can’t stand it. Forget the rotten smells, it’s the heat and the odor of spice and metal that triggers me. I may never see my lover again, and I don’t want to experience this evil version when Viktor is gone.
I give him a fake-ass smile. “I just want to be useful.”
Sideran stares at my mouth and mutters something about using me. He grabs me by the hair and presses his lips to mine. When he tries to invade my mouth with his tongue, I writhe, trying to get away, but that just seems to excite him more. I can’t do this, my brain and body scream. He even tastes like Viktor, but only enough to make it even more disgusting.
Sideran releases me and stares at my neck. “I’ll have these marks removed.” His fingers run over the marks Viktor gave me.
This is what really sets me off. Those scars, the silver and dark blue bumps are mine, and nobody can take them.
“You’ll have to take me first,” I say, while trying not to puke from nausea. Good thing he can’t tell a human smile from a rigor mortis jaw, don’t-barf look.
I wrap my arms around his midsection and press myself close, as if I’m into this asshole. As if I’d ever be. He presses back, with evident arousal, and starts pulling the cloak away. When his hands start moving around my ass, I grab at the gun and pull it away. He grabs at me, but I drop down, and he only gets the cloak.
So now I’m naked again, aiming an alien gun at an alien asshole. The guards are ready to shoot me, but wait for orders from their boss.
“Emily. You little idiot. You’re too stupid to even know how to use that,” Sideran barks out with a toothy sneer.
The joke’s on him. Even though I never carried a gun on the job, I did get time on the shooting range as part of my emergency responder training. I point the gun at him and start pressing anything that seems like a trigger or a button. Sideran is on me, but in the struggle, there are loud noises and the gun leaps in my hand. The guards have ducked down. Sideran is rolling on the ground clutching his head.
I think I shot him in the eye. Serves him right.
I run blindly out the exit, following a large, rough-hewn tunnel until it raises up slightly, and I see blessed sunlight up ahead. Out in that hot, blinding light, near the tall curving wall of Broken Stone Arena, a Smaragdine man stands alone, with his tail twitching in anxiety. Suriat’s been waiting for me. He leads me to a wagon with a Raxu driver, hitched to a couple of large beasts even hairier than the driver.
Suriat grabs my hand and helps me climb in the back. And then there’s the awfulness of having to burrow under dead aliens and animals. Some kind of tarp is thrown over the mess, blocking out the light. The wagon creaks and rocks into motion, and I’m now glad I haven’t had anything to eat or drink for hours. Because it’s getting hotter and stinkier by the moment, with fluids leaking down on us, corpses shifting and weighing more heavily on us. The rocking doesn’t help. Also, the wheels are squeaky. Some dead Serontian’s sharp elbow is jostling my face.
