Page 46 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

46

The Chant

B laze

My head feels like it’s about to explode. When I went through my psychology phase in high school, I learned the words for this—cognitive dissonance. It means holding two contradictory things in your head at the same time.

How can I have sex with the male I’ve come to love as much as life itself, all the while knowing that one of us will most likely be dead in an hour? It’s enough to make anyone crazy. Time after time as he brings me to the heights of bliss, instead of being swept away by anxiety or bitterness, I force myself to stay in the moment. For the most part, I manage to succeed.

I dive into the depths of those blue eyes. I permit all the sweetness, all the passion, all the love I feel for him to show. Even more difficult? I allow all the affection emanating from him to penetrate the defenses I’ve erected around myself since my earliest memories.

Together, we are a thing of beauty. The stuff legends are made of. Fairytales even. Well, except for the threat of our imminent death hanging over our heads. It has occurred to me that the network—or the Feds—could pull a fast one and kill us both. Nothing they could do would surprise me.

But again, I dive into the now and allow myself to whisper a lifetime of I love you’s, to pepper him with a thousand kisses, and to recite all the aspects of his character I’ve fallen in love with over the last few days.

A drone flies close to the window and Zedd’s strident voice penetrates the glass with the words, “It’s time, idiots.”

We dress in the clean clothes they left for us, make our way to the foyer, and board the waiting hover, which flies us back to the commons. They’ve mowed and erected chain-link around the park. I imagine in its day it was designed to be like Central Park in New York—a large place to gather and have fun in the middle of a city.

Although the buildings bordering it are now dilapidated, the park is large, dotted with a few healthy trees and shrubs. It’s already filled to overflowing with a sea of red. Thousands are here, pressed in as close to the newly erected stage as is possible. It’s fifteen feet high and bordered with a rope, reminding me of a wrestling ring.

There are so many drones in the air it’s a wonder they haven’t crashed into each other. Large billboard-sized screens border all four sides of the area. They display the festivities and throngs of people until Zedd and Hahn come on screen.

“Welcome, welcome,” Zedd says, “to the finale of The Game: Down to One . Let me introduce Katann Hahn, Executive Vice President of TMN—The Marentine Network. He’s worked tirelessly to provide the excellent coverage you’ve been watching over the last several days. He’s dedicated to not only your enjoyment, but to enforcing the rules and ensuring we’ve been scrupulously fair. He’s going to join us for this, the final scene of the real-life drama about to unfold for your viewing pleasure.”

She blathers on in an endless recap of events, then, “We’ve got a real treat for you. Get your credits handy, because in an unprecedented move, we’re going to allow you, our dear viewers, to vote for the winner of this competition.”

The fake soundtrack goes wild with gasps and then wholehearted applause. Watching the crowd, however, gives an entirely different story. There are only a few, in all the thousands congregated in the throng, who aren’t wearing red. Even they don’t seem excited by the prospect of sending either of us to our death.

“We’re giving you ten minutes to jump on your comm-links and vote for your favorite at only one credit per vote. Vote early and often. While you’re doing that, would you like to hear from Slayer and Titan? How about it?”

The soundtrack plays thunderous applause while the live crowd votes with their silence.

“Slayer? Care to give an impassioned speech? Beg for your life?”

Really? After everything they’ve put us through? They actually want me to beg for my life? I take a deep breath and exhale through pursed lips, trying to slow the jackhammer of my heart slamming inside my chest.

I step forward toward the nearby drone waiting to document my tearful plea. I’m still holding my male’s hand. No. My mate’s hand. If one of us is going to die today, I want to be his mate. I don’t need a ceremony or a member of the clergy to say words over us. What we just did in that bed was as much of a commitment as we need.

“Jahzara Zedd just told me to beg for my life,” I say, my eyes downcast. “I’m ready to beg.” I look directly into the camera and say, “I’m begging you. You who have been designated judge and jury, to vote. Vote with your heart. And your head. Your vote won’t just be for my life, or Titan’s. It will be for your future.

“Voting to kill one of us. No, to make one of us kill the other, would be telling the powers that be that they have dominion of life and death over other sentient beings.”

The big screens that border the commons have been displaying my speech, but they all go dark. I know if it weren’t for the throng of live witnesses, I would be receiving a shock right now.

“I’m sorry, females and males,” Zedd’s voice intones over the empty screens. “We’re experiencing technical difficulties.”

It’s silent for a while, and then we hear what is clearly a comm call. An unfamiliar male’s voice comes over the speakers, “Shut that little female up. Turn off all the cameras and tell the sniper to take a shot. We’re too exposed. You need to end this. Now!”

The screens jump back to life with the word “Truth” in white on black. Then my live-action picture is broadcast again. Half a minute goes by with me just standing like a deer in the headlights until the words, “Keep talking, Slayer,” flash on the screen.

“I am begging for my life. Not only for my life, but Titan’s. You don’t have to vote at all. Don’t vote to kill either of us. By doing this, you’re actually casting a vote for yourself. Let’s stop this way of life where the network and the rich have control over what you watch and what you think and what you believe are the important things in your life.”

I pull Xzavic to stand next to me.

“Look to your left and your right. Are your family members nearby? Tell them you love them, hold them tight. Realize what is of real importance in your life. It’s the people you love.

“Do things really bring you happiness? Give it thought. Stuff doesn’t bring us happiness, people do.

“Not voting to kill us means you’re voting for this way of life to change. It means voting no to slavery. Voting no to endless wars. Voting no to turning a blind eye to the abductions of people from peaceful planets and putting them to work for your entertainment.”

Whoever has highjacked the broadcast is now showing pictures that illustrate my words. Wars, gladiator fights, people of many species behind bars.

There’s a picture of a male in a wheelchair without legs. At first, I think it’s someone who looks like Altair, then I realize it is Altair. Sly fox. He knew this was coming. When Xzavic was dealing with Monteen, we cooked this up together. I was so relieved to hear he was in a Resistance Safe House. He said the authorities raided his bunker within minutes of us leaving his house, but he’d been prepared and escaped through a back route.

I look at the screen on the nearest drone. Before my speech, the numbers were flying next to both of our names. I had one hundred votes to every one of Xzavic’s. It’s not surprising. Everyone loves an underdog.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this competition resulted in a tie?” I ask.

Within seconds, my numbers stop climbing and his are rolling so fast it’s hard to read. Half a minute later, he’s surpassed me. Then both numbers start going up. One second he’s ahead then three seconds later I am. Then again, his surge up.

“Stop!” I say. “It’s impossible for you to get our scores even. Your votes are only making the network richer, anyway. What do you say? Shall we agree our votes should be even? That neither of us must die today?”

One person in the crowd screams, “Neither!” then the chant begins. “Neither! Neither!” It’s loud. Thunderous. There are so many voices saying just the one word over and over that the quickly erected stage vibrates from the noise.

“Enough!” Katann Hahn’s face fills the screens. The network has regained control of the broadcast. His face is quivering in anger. His desire to murder us is clear.