Page 107 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

107

Down to Three

J ahzara Zedd

“Are you suggesting I do this inspection at your convenience?” I ask imperiously, pulling up to my full seven-foot height and staring at the Anthen guard who had the temerity to suggest I wait until morning to investigate the cell block.

“No, Miss Zedd.”

“You’re fucking right,” I tell him with a toss of my head. “I just arrived. I want to be on this shithole planet for the absolute least amount of minutes possible. That means I’m going to inspect these assholes when it serves me. Which is now.”

“I’ve been instructed to accommodate you,” he says. His tone indicates he’d rather cut my head off than do as I wish, but The Galaxy Network is paying the top officials of this prison planet handsomely. We give them buckets of money. They do as we say. Simple as that.

“Right this way, Miss Zedd.”

My space vessel parked as close to the cell block as possible, but on the short walk to the entrance—a battered metal above-ground door that immediately descends into the soil below—I’ve gotten a pound of sand in my long, black hair.

It’s a thousand degrees out here in the middle of the night. I imagine it’s unbearable during the day. That should add an extra difficulty factor to the show.

I thought The Game: Down To One vid series would make my career, and it did. It was a disaster, but a profitable one. The disastrous part was that the couple who won embarrassed my supervisor and the network.

We made a fortune. Although my boss gave his life for messing up so royally, I got a raise and a promotion from working at a planet-wide network to the premier network throughout the galaxy—TGN—The Galaxy Network.

Down to Two, the sequel, scored the top ratings for every time slot it occupied. It was a financial success, even topping Down to One , but I earned an enemy in Commander Pleer. A high-ranking official in the Galactic Federation, he tasked me with making sure the geneslave he entered into the competition died a spectacular death.

He wanted it to be a lesson for all of his genetically enhanced abominations. Oh, that’s right, they call them products, although everyone in the galaxy refers to them as geneslaves.

Even though things went sideways, I came out smelling like a pella flower, garnering another raise and producer credits for the next season of The Game: Down to Two .

So here I am, doing my own location scouting. I don’t want anything to go wrong on this series. There’s too much at stake.

The moment I step through the doorway, the fetid stink of sweaty bodies smacks me in the face. It reminds me of wet canine hair. Disgusting.

The lights flick on, and as I step into the cavernous cell block, I can see the depressing area in all its glory.

I’m here to see if there are enough prisoners to fill out the roster for the upcoming program. Tomorrow, I’ll get a tour of the nearby area to determine if it will lend itself to The Game . One thing is certain, I’m not stepping out of the hover we brought with us. Not in this heat. I’ll inspect the planet from the cool interior of my personal vehicle.

Three guards hurry up the walkway to greet me. They look like little boys caught breaking a rule. Who knows what these lowlifes do in their off time. The cream of the galaxy’s crop does not wind up guarding convicts on a prison planet. These animals are one rung above the ones they confine.

I walk the hallway, flanked by my own guards on either side as well as two prison staff, one in front and one behind me. As disgusting as this is, I must admit, my instincts were right. There’s plenty of male flesh to compete in the upcoming games.

“Tell them to get off their lazy asses,” I instruct. “Have them stand at the back wall of their cells, palms on the back of their heads.” For a moment, I consider making them stand naked for my perusal, but half of them are already nude.

These males toil in the hot mines all day, doing backbreaking work. They’re all prime specimens except for a few that don’t look long for this world. The ones who survived are hearty. It will make for great viewing entertainment. In fact, it’s great viewing for me right now, except they are no more than animals in humanoid bodies—some more humanoid than others.

“You have another barracks? Just like this one?” I ask.

“Yes, Miss Zedd. Approximately one hundred in each facility.”

Facility? Four syllables. Is he trying to impress me? These are styes, not facilities.

Every male here is an evildoer. Their deaths will feel righteous to my viewers. They won’t have to feel complicit in these males’ deaths. In fact, they’ll feel like honorable executioners.

Perhaps I could put someone into the competition who was unfairly accused. Then I could manipulate the challenges so he wins. It will confirm the illusion that good triumphs over evil. The folks on the outer rim will eat that up from the dilapidated couches in their shacks as they munch on their meager food supplies.

“What have we here?” I say, stopping in front of a cage with not two but three inhabitants. I thought this was an all-male prison.

The audience has been rooting for male/female teams during the last two seasons. I don’t understand why, but both successful females were small, weak humans. Why they were viewer favorites is beyond me.

Really? Is this a human? They must multiply like vermin. They’re everywhere.

What are the odds that the two males in this cell are the geneslaves Commander Pleer brought in at the last moment to kill the geneslave he’d slated for death in Down to Two ? Yes they are, in the flesh, or… fur as it were.

“Why are you imprisoned?” I have a feeling I know the answer, but I want them to confirm it.

“We disappointed our Commander,” the furry purple one says.

“Pleer?” I ask, baiting him.

He nods.

The furry one has claws and fangs. It’s the big one who interests me, though. There’s something about that shimmering third eye that makes me wonder how he’d perform in bed. Well, the eye and his size. If he’s size-proportionate, his bed partner would be in for a treat.

I shake my head to rid myself of that thought. These animals are dangerous—bred to kill.

“And you, female?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

“I was accused of eating a pie that wasn’t meant for me.”

The little bitch is lying. I’m not so affronted at the lie, but at how pathetic it is. Does she expect me to believe she’s on this prison planet because of a pie ?

“Do I look dumb?” I ask, spearing her with my angriest gaze.

I must admit, her timid expression, eyes wide and attempting to look guileless, is amusing to watch. I need a falsely accused contestant, but after the trouble I had with the last two humans I ran into, it won’t be this one, even if her pathetic story is true.

It suddenly hits me with the force of a meteor storm. Down to Three. Of course, that should be the name of the next series, not a second season of Down to Two .

Two males and a female. The audience will go wild for it, especially now that we set the precedent, and the audience knows we’ll show them the contestants’ bedroom activities including dosing them with aphrodisiacs if we need to improve the ratings.

Threesomes. The ratings will go through the roof.

I turn on my heel and hurry up the steps and out the door. As soon as I escape the sting of the blowing sands and am back in my vessel, I call my assistant.

“I want you to locate a female prison, make a deal the warden can’t refuse, and find me ninety-nine decent-looking females to participate in the next season of The Game . When you’ve arranged that, contact the art department. Get them out of their beds and have them work all night if they have to. I need them to change the logos and ad graphics. I’m changing the name of the next season. It will be The Game: Down to Three .”