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Chapter Ten

D ax

I haven’t given myself a moment’s rest since what Dahlia calls ‘the Great Flood’. Asher has given me twenty-four- hoara access to his gymnasium. I’ve tried to keep in peak condition so I can win.

It took two days after the torture to feel half alive again. Asher gleefully informed us I withstood nine minimas at the collar strength of five. “Better than I’ve ever witnessed!” he said.

His torment is working —he looks to be in his mid-twenties.

Dahlia and I said our goodbyes to each other a few moments ago. I reassured her I’ll see her after my match. She acted as if she believed me. We both know that not only could I die in my contest, but my failure will sentence her to death as well.

The media are here, delighting in our dramatic fall from grace.

“Was it worth it Dahlia?” one of them calls. “Was sex with that big gladiator beast worth your current imprisonment?”

She’s dressed in a filmy white dress designed to photograph well. She’s wearing an older model pain/kill collar. It’s larger than more recent versions and makes a more striking picture around her delicate neck.

Asher has to be getting a percentage of the box office. He orchestrated our fake deaths and since he entered me in this deathmatch, he’s been releasing stories about our resurrection at his sainted hands. He’s billing himself as Asher the Tenth, the original male’s son.

He’s right about one thing. The masses don’t question any of it.

We’re on the Guerra Gladiator Gaming station. I’ve heard it’s the plushest, fanciest hotel in all the galaxy. Where they drag me, into the bowels of the station near the arena, is a stinking drackhole like all gladiator holding cells.

The Septus games are a seven-day orgy of food, sex, and death. The richest beings in all the galaxy travel to this event. Attendees include kings, presidents, award-winning actors, and premier athletes.

More business deals, fornication, and wife swapping occur during these days than the rest of the annum combined. The games are just a backdrop for decadence and debauchery.

Tonight’s card will have four Cestus matches to warm up the spectators, then three matches to the death. I’ve been in deathmatches before. It’s bone-chilling to walk into a fight knowing only one of you will walk away. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a dracking liar.

But now that I have Dahlia, I have so much more to live for. And when I think that Asher has every intention of following through with his promise to kill her if I lose, it makes my heart seize in my chest.

When he was dracking with us over the last few days, it was always Dahlia’s actions that determined if I was punished or not. I knew how much pressure that put on her, but now I’m experiencing it firsthand.

My opponent is Crassus, also a premier fighter. Asher didn’t allow me to watch vids of his previous fights, but I saw the male fight live once. I was next on the docket and watching through the doorway during his match.

He’s a powerful copper-hued humanoid with natural protective plating covering his chest, upper back, and arms. They look like the same material as animal horn. It will be harder to penetrate than skin.

Muscular and powerful, he practically shakes the ground when he walks. One swipe with his arm could bring a male to his knees. I’ve heard his race described as ‘fighting machines’. I’ve never seen one smile.

Retiarii like myself are paired with murmillos like Rinn on Aeon II or secutors , which is what Crassus is. Secutor s are equipped similarly to murmillos. Their swords are the same, their shields are round instead of rectangular. They also wear helmets that cover not only the back of the head, but the face.

I prefer to fight secutors over murmillos for one reason —the helmet. You’d think their additional protection would put them at a distinct advantage, considering I have no shield or covering of any type. But the helmet is a liability. It’s hot, constricted, and the eyeholes obliterate their peripheral vision.

I can win this match.

Dahlia

My shit detector is on overload. Being anywhere near Asher is always nerve-wracking. I never know when he’ll pull some stunt to scare me or threaten my life. But today is the worst yet because he’s brought me to his private suite here on the gaming station.

The rooms are palatial. There’s a huge living area complete with dining room and a private kitchen although I doubt any cooking will happen here. Why would it? He can have the finest buffet delivered any time of the day or night with the snap of his fingers.

His eight well-armed bodyguards are bunking in two rooms off the living area.

He’s ensconced me in an opulent bedroom right next to his. I’d have to be blind not to notice there’s an adjoining door between our rooms. The first thing I try to do is lock it from my side, which earns me a one-second shock to my collar.

Holy fuck, that burns every nerve and synapse in my body like the fires of Hell. I have a new appreciation for what Dax endured.

“You’re my property, Dahlia. You have no freedoms. None. You will do what I tell you to do when I tell you. That door shall remain unlocked.”

I’d wondered about this from the beginning. In fact, it surprised me that out of all the evil perpetrated by this male, he hadn’t already resorted to sexual behavior, especially in front of Dax.

I thought I’d hated before. Chrissy Andrews in junior high mercilessly teased me about my hair for two years. Every night, after I said my prayers, I tried to keep my thoughts from straying to various ways that she might die. I failed miserably at keeping those thoughts at bay. I did, however, collect a veritable bible of ways to kill a junior high school girl. Not that I’m proud of it.

Yeah, I thought I’d hated before, but how can you really experience hate until you’ve met a true villain? I’m standing stock still calculating whether his unwanted sexual advances would be better or worse than the snake pit when I mentally slap myself. I’m powerless over what this madman does. I only have power over my own brain. I will live through whatever he throws at me. I refuse to even consider what might happen if Dax loses his match —I won’t live through that.

D ressed for Dax’s fight, I’m wearing a diaphanous dress that shows most of my breasts and sweeps down to my ankles.

Asher summoned a hairdresser to arrange my hair in curls adorned with what I can only assume are gold, diamonds, and rubies. She applied makeup, painting my lips into a perpetual pout.

I’m wearing diamond and ruby earrings and golden bracelets on both wrists and one upper arm.

I’m kneeling at Asher’s feet under threat of punishment.

“Look at me,” he orders.

When I do, I get a swift flash of Dax in this position and how seductive I found it. It’s certainly not sexual being on the receiving end, especially with Ashhole leering down at me.

Now that he’s forty or fifty years younger than when I met him, he’s handsome, except for the sickly green skin.

I always wished that life was like a Disney movie where the villains looked villainous or ugly or warty or in some way showed on the outside the rotten shit that festered in the cesspool that was their soul.

In real life, we have to learn how to distinguish the good guys from the bad guys. Although it wasn’t hard with Ashhole.

He shows me my new pain/kill collar. It’s huge and covered with sparkling diamonds or a facsimile thereof. As he removes the old and snaps on the new he says, “This should keep your lover preoccupied during his match. I assume it would be too much to ask for you to look up at me adoringly from time to time.” He laughs and attaches a sparkling leash to the collar to complete my stylish ensemble.

“So,” I ask boldly as I stand up, “what’s the youngest you’ve ever shrunk yourself down to?”

“I think I’m there now. I haven’t looked this young for maybe a thousand years. All thanks to you and Dax.” He attempts a smile, or an imitation of one, but it only results in him looking awkward and uncomfortable.

“There’s a short window every eighty years during which my special gland’s rejuvenating powers work. Once I ingest a drop of the two donors’ blood, I can only feed off of the two of you. I’ve never found such an obliging pair. You exceeded expectations. Tomorrow my gland will return to its normal functioning and will no longer be able to rejuvenate me.”

He glances into a mirror on the wall over my right shoulder and admires himself, wiping a stray hair off his forehead.

“We’ll be arriving fashionably late. You won’t have to sit through too many boring deathmatches, just a few, so your terror can amp up as you worry about your lover’s fate… and your own.

“I’m a male of my word, Dahlia. I’ll release you both if he wins and kill you if he loses. Too bad I won’t be able to slaughter him personally, but he’ll already be dead. You know I won’t hesitate to murder you, perhaps slowly. It’s in my nature.” He shrugs and tosses me a devilish smile.

“However…,” his eyes dip to my décolletage, “I’m prepared to make you a deal. If you agree right this moment to stay with me, provide me with any… services I require, I will let you live. Until I tire of you, then I will release you and provide a stipend each annum to allow you to live comfortably.”

“No.” I didn’t need to give this much thought.

“I’ll allow you two minimas to reconsider. I’ll tell you a little secret,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially and assumes an impish expression that comes across as strained posturing. “Your lover isn’t going to win.”

“You don’t know that.” Why I stoop low enough to jump to his bait is beyond me.

“Oh, but I do. Did you forget the little lecture I gave you a few days ago? A cabal of powerful people? Playing with the downtrodden’s lives? License to do whatever the drack I want? Don’t you remember what happened on Aeon II? I killed you and Dax in front of 80,000 people and walked away. How hard do you think it was to rig this fight? It didn’t even cost me anything. All the parties involved will bet on his opponent and make some credits off the deal.”

My heart hurts like his hand is squeezing it. I can’t breathe for a long moment. He tampered with the fight. Dax is a dead male walking. Which means my hours are numbered too.

“So? Certain death or be my bed slave? I have to warn you, though, I like it rough.” He reaches under the gauzy fabric that pretends to cover my breasts and pinches a nipple hard enough to wrench a squeak of pain from my lips. “A little anal, some face dracking , a few requests for you to satisfy my friends under the table at our monthly klempto games. With the promise you get to retire when I grow weary of you.”

He spears me with an innocent gaze, sincerely waiting for my answer.

Pictures of what he described flash through my mind. I can’t sell my soul. That life would kill me and would be more painful than death.

“No,” I say with finality.

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” He rubs his hands together vigorously. “Tonight should be fun. Death in the sands all the while I can play out fantasies of how I’ll torture you before I kill you. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

He pulls on my leash harder than is necessary and drags me into the living area. His eight bodyguards flank us, and we’re off through ostentatious hallways lined with vids of the most beautiful places in the galaxy. The place is deserted. Everyone must already be in the arena.

The station is built in stacked, round decks which all circle the main attraction —the arena. Each room has a view of the action, but Dax told me the stands will be packed because the excitement of watching the matches live is unparalleled. People feed off the salacious nature of the event, the screams of terror, and the blood. I’m sure Ashhole bought the best seats in the house.

If I thought the coliseum on Aeon II was surreal, then I have no words to describe how bizarre it is to see the juxtaposition of opulence and blood-frenzy that greets me when we walk through the massive crystalline doors.

Aliens of every description are gussied up in their fanciest clothes clutching champagne flutes and tasting exquisite-looking canapés. All the while they’re screaming at the gladiators in the arena below. “Kill him!” “Idiot, how could you miss?” “You deserve to die after a drack -up like that!”

Schooling my features into a mask of calm nonchalance, I tell myself, “ I am a leaf on the wind. I’m not really here. This is all a dream… a nightmare .

I’m two Dahlias, one who is settled at Asher’s feet on the thickly carpeted floor, the other whose brain is operating like the galaxy’s fastest computer. I’ve skipped the ‘oh woe is me’ thoughts about my rapidly impending death and jump right into calculating a way to avoid the promised torture. After the last few days, I can’t handle any more of what he’ll dish out.

If I’m a very bad slave in public, I wonder if he’ll kill me right here. What if I stand up, scream at Asher, and punch or slap him? I can try to run. It will humiliate him and he’ll have to slay me then and there without having time to torture me.

I picture shouting to everyone in the arena that he’s thousands of years old, but half of this crowd is probably part of the ‘cabal’, as he called them. The others would think I’m a maniac.

If I could run away, he’d have to activate the collar. If I keep running, he’d have to turn it up until it kills me. It seems the easiest way to ensure a quick ending. I take a deep breath, firming my resolve.

I sneak a glance over at him and remember the motherfucker can read my mind. He’s smiling, delighting in my terror. He has the audacity to wink at me, then leans toward me.

“First of all, Doll, you’d be lying, twitching in a pool of your own vomit long before you’re dead. It isn’t that easy to kill someone with one of these.” He caresses the collar, his fingers trailing down the column of my neck, under my neckline, to my nipple, which he pinches.

“Second,” he moves his hand to my throat, then tightens his grip incrementally until my airway is completely obstructed. I try not to reveal my terror, but eventually I’m clawing at his hands to remove the pressure so I can breathe.

“Isn’t it awful to have a master who can read your mind?” he chuckles. “I just might keep you around a while. Your grief over your lover’s death will be exhilarating even if it no longer rejuvenates me.”

His full attention moves to the action below us. When he realizes I’m not watching, he orders, “Keep your eyes on the fight. I’ll punish you if I find you looking away or closing your eyes. Get used to it. I definitely want you to see every modicum of Dax’s fight.”

I face straight ahead, but it’s easy to focus on the rail that surrounds the action, rather than the gladiators themselves.

It strikes me that something was wrong with Asher when I looked at him just now. And not just that he’s a walking serpent in humanoid skin. No, something wasn’t quite right. It dawns on me what it is.

This reverse aging thing has been fascinating to watch. During the first few days since our capture, he appeared to regress from seventies to somewhere in his thirties. Over the last couple days he’s aged down to his early twenties. Just now he looked younger than me, and I’m twenty-four. If I were a bartender, I’d card him.

The movie Benjamin Button leaps into my mind. Although Asher’s a sadistic psychopath and could order his henchmen to do anything he wants whatever his age, the idea that he may soon look too young to drive piques my imagination.

What kind of self-respecting mercenary would take orders from a pre-teen? This might buy me some time.

What if I make him ‘un-age’ like crazy right here in the stands today? What if anyone in the crowd who was watching saw a twenty-something male enter and sees a preteen leave? I have no idea if this will help me, but what have I got to lose? My terror won’t even pique his interest, I’m petrified all the time, this is nothing new.

My mind projects an endless loop of watching Dax die today. I imagine it in a thousand ways, each more horrifying than the last. I’m mind-fucking myself to mind-fuck Ashhole, but I don’t care. Watching picture after picture of gruesome ways Dax could die, I then reduce it to slow motion as I pan in for grisly close-ups.

It isn’t long before the terror is real. My dread is palpable. I vow to keep my mind circling through this horrendous self-imposed horror show. His mind reading ability won’t make him suspicious, anyone in my circumstances would be picturing these things. I’m just doing it with dogged determination. Underneath the panic and revulsion, I hope against hope we can find a way out of this.

Dax

For the fanciest arena in the galaxy, these drackers can’t even provide their fighters a bench. I’m squatting on the floor with a glimpse out the arched doorway to the arena. This is the first of tonight’s deathmatches, mine will be the last.

I used to relish fighting. I lived a stark life, devoid of emotion. That’s not true, I allowed myself lust and pride, both of which were my reward when I won a match. It was all I could hope for, so I worked hard to excel. I won almost every match I ever fought.

Everything is different now. I don’t enjoy fighting. I never relished killing. I certainly don’t revel in wondering if I’ll be alive or dead in an houra . Wanting to ensure Dahlia’s safety is my only concern.

Pulling my thoughts to the here and now, I ground myself. I don’t have the luxury of sparing even one ounce of concern for Dahlia. I allow myself no worries about the outcome of the match, although I wonder if we can trust Asher to make good on his promise to set us free if I win.

Narrowing my focus to one thing, I stay in this moment. I will be present and fixated on every movement, strategy, and gambit so I can win this match. There will be no stalemates, no referees to call the match when one of us is badly injured. Just one winner, and one dead male. And if that dead male is me, it means Dahlia’s death as well. I must win this match.

“Crassus,” the announcer rumbles over the speakers. “Crassus, owned by the esteemed house of Lantinae comes to us from planet Kreeg. He prevailed in his deathmatch at these very games last annum , and was voted both best performer and most likely to live to be invited back the next year. Let’s welcome his return. He’s certainly met our expectations.”

He circles the ring to wild applause, his arms held high to receive the crowd’s adulation. I inspect him for weakness —he has none. He’s powerful, confident, and I am well aware of his skill. He stands at the far end of the arena and stabs his three- fierto sword into the sand. It’s only this minima I notice he’s neither wearing nor carrying a helmet.

Holy drack . This lack of proper uniform just tipped the scales from an even match to one in his favor. I’d counted on his vision-obstructing helmet and now he’s not wearing one.

The thin shaft of my trident is flimsy compared to his sword. Besides his natural protection of thick keratinous skin, he has leather ankle greaves and shoulder spaulders. I have no shield or armor of any type.

“And now the moment we’ve all been waiting for —Dax of Thrace.” The stands erupt in boos. “You might have been following him in the media. His owner, Asher the Ninth, punished him for running away during a bloody slave revolt. He and his harlot deceived you, the public, by changing his name and creating havoc throughout the galaxy. He’s escaped the grave to come here to the Gaming Station for your entertainment.

“Unfortunately Asher the Ninth has died, but his heir, Asher the Tenth is here today to carry on the legacy. This will be a fight to the death. As you may have noticed, Crassus’s secutor regalia has been modified; he wears no helmet. We all know who should prevail today.”

I walk to the center of the arena, arms at my sides. I expect no applause or cheers, nor do I receive any. For a fraction of a modicum my eyes flick to the stands to scan for Dahlia, but I bring myself to the present. There is no Dahlia, there is no future, there is no past. There is nothing outside the boundary of the sand and my desperate need to kill my opponent.

I attack. My spear is best used for jabbing, not throwing. His thick, leathery patches of skin protect much of his body but leave his kill zones exposed. I don’t allow myself to consider failure.

He’s a fierce opponent, thrusting when I let my guard down for even a modicum . I’ve been nicking away at him and we’re both bleeding into the fine, cream-colored sand.

“I’m going to kill you, Dax of Thrace. You have no chance.”

I don’t respond. Words never killed an opponent. I don’t want to waste breath or thought on him. I just need to kill him.

He moves within striking distance as I’m pulling back my trident to heave it at his chest. He slashes me from nipple to flank. I don’t feel the pain my nerves are sending to my brain, I only focus on my next move.

His round shield is protecting his chest when I sneak past his defenses and jab at his neck, piercing it with two of my trident’s three blades. Blood gushes as his anguished shouts are loud enough to be heard in the farthest seats.

In my past life, I would have toyed with him to draw this out, to bring more enjoyment to the crowd, perhaps get a bonus from my owner. Today I want to end him mercifully. I don’t give a drack if the crowd gets a thrill or not. He’s cursing and threatening, even as blood spurts from his carotid.

I assess and realize I need to do nothing to hasten his death, he’ll die within a minima . He’s fallen to his knees and is scrabbling in the dirt to retrieve his sword a few fiertos away. I step over and kick it away, noticing he’s lying in a pool of blood, breathing his last few breaths.

I turn my back to him and search the crowd for Dahlia. How could I miss her? She’s in the front row crouched at Asher’s feet, a wide, gaudy collar gripping her throat. Her face is pale, this must have been grueling to watch.

I still don’t trust Asher, I’ve never believed he’d keep his promises to let us free.

The crowd roars in approval and I turn in time to see Crassus has flung his round shield at me with his dying unce of strength.

It smashes into my temple with a metallic reverberation and I fall, hitting my knees with full force.

Dahlia

Oh, my God. Dax won, but he’s lying motionless on the arena sand. He looks dead. Crassus Frisbee’d his shield into Dax’s head and he crumpled to the ground —hard.

Several medics have examined him and now they’re lifting him onto a hover stretcher. They hurry him through an archway. I have no idea where they’re taking him.

I glance at Asher, wondering what he’ll do; he’s still the owner of record. I’m shocked. I’d been so busy picturing a thousand ways that Dax and I could die, experiencing every moment of terror, hoping against hope that it would somehow overload his circuits and take years off his life, I haven’t looked at him for an hour.

Now that I inspect Asher I’m stunned to see my plan worked. Well, something worked. The seams of his suit coat that an hour ago fit him perfectly now sag a few inches down his upper arms. He looks too young to shave. A casual observer would think he was a son trying to wear his father’s clothes.

But his eyes haven’t changed. He still has the evil, soulless gaze of a psychopath. And his plan to kill Dax and I just went to shit.

“Come,” he says, grabbing my upper arm in a tight, possessive squeeze. Our procession, including four guards, hurries down the steps and around the curved metal half-wall that surrounds the arena. Moments later we’re in the gladiator area. It reminds me of my high school plays. We designed the sets to trick the audience’s eye. From their seat, they saw one world, but if they stepped one inch past the artificial boundaries, the illusion dissolved.

There’s nothing down here that vaguely resembles the beauty, glitz, and glamour represented for the paying customers.

The floor is filthy, stained with the blood and sweat of the aftermath of a thousand gladiatorial fights. The metal cages where they house the males are small and poorly lit.

I rush through narrow hallways, still in Asher’s claw-like grip, on our way to the small medbay. It’s not much better appointed than the cells. I’ve spent enough time in the medbay of our little vessel to know that the equipment here is far from state-of-the-art.

My full attention is on Dax the moment the doctor steps out of the way. He’s motionless as a corpse. If blood wasn’t pouring from the wound on his temple, I’d think he was dead. But if his heart wasn’t beating, his blood wouldn’t be flowing, so I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

“What’s his status?” Asher barks. His voice broke on that last word, like a boy going through puberty. I don’t think he’s caught on to the fact that he’s not the male he was the last time he looked in the mirror.

“Scalp and temple took a hard hit. Those areas bleed profusely,” the medic says.

Angry arguing drifts in from the corridor. Dax’s match was the last of the night, I’m not certain what’s going on out there.

Captain Zar and his contingent of males from the ship barge into the room. I do a headcount and realize every male on board except Braxxus, one of our pilots, is here in full gladiatorial regalia: black leather kilts and sashes, and weapons on every hip, under every armpit, and encased in every hand. A cadre of males to be reckoned with.

“Out of the operating bay,” the doctor orders at the same time Asher mutters, “What the drack .”

“We have a summons from Dax’s former owner, Asher the Ninth, giving us permission to leave with him and the female, Dahlia, should Dax win his match,” Zar growls. Zar’s race has a strong resemblance to lions, complete with mane, fur, tail, and fangs. We voted him captain after our slave revolt for a reason. He’s powerful, smart, and takes no shit. From anyone.

Zar shows his computer pad to the Master of the Games, who’s now crammed into the medbay with all of us. “Dax’s owner contacted us two days ago inviting us to these games. He paid for our entrance. It says right here,” he points with his clawed finger, “that should Dax win this match we were to take possession of him and the female.”

He stands as tall, proud, and imposing as if he were emperor of the planet. His face is impassive. He waits.

This is ridiculous,” Asher scoffs. “That contract is null and void. My father told me he never intended to let these two go free. It was a ploy to get Dax’s comrades here, to further humiliate this rogue gladiator and his slut —to witness his death. He never intended for them to take him off-world.

“My father passed away and I am now the owner of record. I don’t have to abide by anything —”

“On Guerra Gaming Station, son, that isn’t true. You must follow the existing contract.”

It strikes me that if Asher looked like the adult he is, the Game Master might have made a different ruling. As it stands, what person with half a brain would go against this contingent of eleven surly gladiators to rule in favor of one petulant, arrogant boy?

Ashhole continues to bluster, turning red in the face, as gorgeous, blue Dr. Drayke steps forward, snatches the medpad from the medic and scans the information.

“He’s stable. Let’s get him to our own medbay, Captain,” he says to Zar.

I’m so proud of them, they look and act so legit. No one gives them any grief as they pull me next to Dax’s hover stretcher, surround us both in a protective circle, and jog to the docking area.

We’re off Guerra and entering hyperspace within ten minutes.