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Chapter Nine

S hadow

I get back to my room and flop on my bed with one arm thrown over my face. I’m elated and scared as hell. I can kill people in the arena, but flirting with a beautiful woman flays me alive. I used to do this for sport. Hell, I used to do this for a living. But talking to Petra, being present with her—telling her my truth—you’d think I’d just run a marathon.

I want a nap before the “big event” but my neck itches. I walk into the bathroom and look at the mirror. Actually, I’ve covered the mirror with a towel, so there’s nothing to see. I haven’t had to studiously avoid mirrors for fifteen annums . Gladiator restrooms are utilitarian affairs without amenities like mirrors. Just as well, what gladiator has time for vanity? Most of us wouldn’t like what we see anyway.

When we moved into our own rooms a few days ago, the first thing I did was cover the mirror. The last thing I want to see is my ruined face. I know I’d be happier remembering my fresh undamaged twenty- annum -old face. Who needs pesky reality to intrude?

But I want to see what Petra sees when she looks at me. I need to see it.

Not yet, first I’ll shower.

I’m clean and dry and still not ready for the unveiling. When we were rummaging through the contraband in the hold we found a case of Sillerian whiskey. The whiskey’s aged for one hundred annums and has a Sillerian worm in the bottom of the bottle. Each bottle is worth thousands of credits. Every gladiator took one—spoils of war. Mine has been sitting in my room. I think I need some fortification right now.

Okay, I’ve had two, maybe three shots and I’m no more ready than I was when I began. I’ve faced worse adversaries in the arena. I can do this.

I approach the dreaded mirror from my right and rip the towel off. I edge closer slowly until I see the tiniest bit of the right side of my face. Then I move a micron at a time until I have the right half of my face in the mirror.

I’m no longer a youth. It’s been fifteen annums since I’ve looked in a mirror. I’m no longer the callow young male who thought life was easy and endless. I’ve trained and experienced hardships and fought countless times in the arena. You can see that in my face. At least I can. I believe I can see every battle I’ve ever fought in the tight draw of my lips, the rage and sadness in my eyes.

The bottle still in my hand, I take one more slug of whiskey and move farther to the right. Still all flesh and blood. No metal attachments. An incremental step right, now I see the edge of the harsh black metal. Another step—so foreign, so severe.

One more long pull at the bottle and a large step to the right. Let’s get this dracking thing over with.

I thought I was ready for it, but I’m not. Gods, look at this. This is what Petra sees. Soft little Petra sees this forbidding metallic, robotic eye looking back at her when she looks at me. This soulless red unblinking oculus.

Only a moment ago I’d been afraid to look and now I can’t pull myself away. I lean even closer, punishing myself; I’m inces away from the mirror.

If the ruthless, metallic, vicious prosthetic wasn’t scary enough, there are the spidery crimson remains of what used to be unblemished flesh. The word monster comes to mind. I heard that once when one of my owners brought his young son with him to the ludus where I trained. I see myself through that young boy’s eyes at this moment. Monster is pretty apropos. I shouldn’t have changed my name to Shadow. It should be Monster. Monster it is.

I take one more long pull at the bottle then throw it up against the wall. It shatters, a shard ricocheting and cutting my cheek. The worm, dead for a century, is clinging to the wet spray on the wall.

I don’t want to think. At this moment I don’t want to be alive. I think the whiskey’s done its job. I’ll go to sleep.

I wake, it’s been hoaras . My head aches. I’ve always heard that Sillerian whiskey gives a hell of a hangover. I glance at the clock; they’re probably all having dinner right now. All excited about their party. No one wants a monster at their party. Not even Petra. She must be the nicest human on Earth who doesn’t want to hurt the monster’s feelings. Look how nice she was to Dax.

But I’m lying; I’ve smelled her arousal. That can’t be faked. For some ridiculous reason, she’s attracted to me. Must be the sex. What happened in that shower was pretty spectacular. It couldn’t be me. I’ve hidden from the truth for too long, but now I’m aware. I know what I look like.

I look over at the outfit I sewed. It’s staring at me accusingly. It knows I’m not going to wear it.

I’d start drinking again, but my head is still pounding from the first round. I get up and start to pace. I have to remember that my world has turned upside down in the space of the last few hoaras , but nothing has changed for anyone else. Petra is still expecting me to show up. I asked her to dance. I kissed her and asked to come back to her room with her. If I don’t make an appearance, it will hurt her feelings. But how do I show up and not see myself through her eyes all night long?

I told her earlier, I want to be the male she thinks I am. I think for a long moment. I realize this is a choice point for me. One of those seminal moments that heroes in olden stories used to have. The fork in the road, the decision you can’t take back.

Take the right fork, and I’ll be alone and angry and ostracized and swim in my own hatred and self-pity for the rest of my life. Take the left fork and move on with life. I’ve been living a fantasy for fifteen annums . A fantasy that I was still twenty- annum -old Dakon. I’m not Dakon. And I’m not Monster. I’m Shadow. And Shadow deserves a dracking life. Finally!

I’m putting on the clothes I sewed, and I’m showing up for my life. I’m showing up.

Petra

Shadow’s not here. I had wondered earlier today if he’d show up to the party. I didn’t even give it fifty-fifty odds. But then he came for the haircut. He kinda sorta smiled. He flirted with me, and after the kiss and the promise of dancing and sex, I moved the odds to 100%. But he’s a no-show now. I guess they’re all correct. He is a dick.

Even little Tyree is here. She and Grace have struck up a friendship. They eat together at most meals. They’re the only females on the ship who aren’t paired up. They both seem shy and quiet. After what Shadow told me about his history with Grace I feel sorry for her. All the other women seem to be doing okay. I’m sure we’re all freaked and lonely—so far from home, friends, and family, but they seem to be taking it in stride. Grace? Not so much. I hope Shadow can make peace with her. It would probably be good for them both.

I look around, checking everyone out. The women are all in casual clothes, but it’s so nice to see everyone’s individuality expressed—and no crappy blue jumpsuits. They look so happy.

The males have definitely upped their game. They tell us they all sewed their own clothes instead of working out in the ludus today. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were all hoping to get some nookie tonight.

Me? I’m still wearing the Frank Zappa t-shirt I was abducted in.

My back is to the door, but I keep twisting my head over my shoulder to see if Shadow has arrived. Every minute that passes increases the odds he’s not coming. Why does it feel like I’m in Junior High again? Everyone out on the dance floor but me—feeling left out and snubbed.

I feel like I always have—alone and ostracized. I’m still the little girl who came to America and went to school knowing exactly seven words of English—one of which was pizza. I don’t fit in. I never did.

Ever since I was abducted, my self-erected protective walls haven’t been performing their usual job. I cried the other day on the bridge with the captain. And I feel like crying now. My eyes begin pooling with tears and my jaw clenches. I ball my fists until my nails bite into my palms, trying to control my emotions.

And then he’s here. He looks amazing. As handsome as I’ve ever seen him. It has nothing to do with the fabulous haircut I gave him, either. His outfit is so... Shadow.

It’s not a hell of a lot more than his loincloth. By that I mean it doesn’t cover much more than his loincloth, which I think he’s wearing under his new clothes. There’s a thick black leather belt around his waist with a flap of leather about five inches wide that hangs down to cover his junk and falls to his knees. It’s masculine and sexy, and the fact that he made it himself is totally cool. He’s also wearing a matching sash going over one shoulder and ending at the opposite side of his waist. It’s kind of like my old girl scout uniform sash, made out of the same material as his belt, and designed, I suppose, to cover my rabid, sex-crazed bite. How very thoughtful of him.

He approaches me, leans down and asks me if I’ve already eaten. When I say no, not wanting to admit I’d been waiting for him, he strides over to the buffet table and fills two heaping plates.

It’s funny, I thought our little thing was a secret, but he’s not keeping anything hidden now. He’s solicitously asking me how I like the food, even offering to get me seconds. It seems like our whole little group is aware of the shift because they seem to be elbowing each other and pointedly looking in our direction.

Oh well, drack them. Did I use that word correctly?

We’re the last to finish our meal, and as soon as we scrape our plates someone brings a comfortable chair for Grace to sit on while she plays her instrument. As the guys move the tables and benches out of the way I call out, “We can’t keep calling it an instrument, what should we call that thing?”

“Music gadget,” Dahlia suggests.

“Music maker,” calls Steele.

“Grittar instead of guitar,” offers Savannah.

“String thing,” Maddie pronounces.

“I like that,” I add. “Let’s vote.”

The women all like string thing. I’m not sure it rhymes in the men’s languages, but they’re all so happy at the thought of dancing with their females they don’t really care about much else.

“My first party. My first dance,” Dax says. “I’m not sure what to do.”

It strikes me that these guys have been in cells, or in their training ludus for most or all of their lives. Never been to a party? Oh, my heart breaks a little.

“Just loosen up and have fun, Dax,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about what you look like. Pretend no one is watching. Dance like you’re a free male!”

Zar practically ejects from his seat, putting a hand up to make sure he has everyone’s attention.

“Everyone, before we start the festivities I have an announcement to make. Actually, it’s an admission.” He pauses. “I know you females have taught us about democracy and voting. I appreciate the confidence you’ve shown in me by voting me your leader. And I had every intention of having everyone vote on most big issues when there was enough time to make those decisions.

“But I made what my lovely Anya would call an ‘executive decision.’ We needed to change the name of our vessel for obvious reasons. I had the mechanics paint the name on the ship. She’s now called Sweet Deliverance.”

“Yes!” one of the males agrees, pumping a fist.

“Sweet Deliverance, indeed,” says another.

Before Grace can start to play, Dr. Drayke pops out of his seat. “Can I have everyone’s attention?” His blue face is pinched, his lips pressed firmly together. He looks like he has to tell us someone died.

“I have an announcement, also. This might not be the right time or place, but everyone except Axxios is here. I probably should have told you all earlier. I... took the liberty... before the overthrow…” He stops completely, his mouth open as he grasps for words. “I gave all the females a shot to prevent pregnancy. It should last about six Earth months.”

Low murmuring erupts from the other tables. “I thought it would be easier for all of you when you got to Hyperion. It would have been so much harder when you were separated and sold if you had been carrying young.”

The room is silent for a moment. I notice Zar and Anya looking at each other—I can’t read their emotions.

“It’s completely reversible if any of you would like, a simple shot…”

“Thank you, Doc,” Maddie announces. “That would have been a burden. I would have found being pregnant hard to bear if we’d wound up sold as slaves on Hyperion.”

“Dr. Drayke, the previous captain would probably have had you killed if he’d found out,” Zar adds. “You risked your life to spare the females the hardships that would have resulted from pregnancy. I thank you.” He nods his head and thumps his chest toward the doctor.

A few others voice their agreement.

And with that, Grace shyly grabs her instrument and begins to play some beautiful music.

No one needs to be asked twice. We all pair up and begin to slow dance. I don’t think Grace knows how to play anything fast. Besides, I think all most of us want to do is touch our partner and glide intimately around the room. The doc and Tyree take off; this will not be an enjoyable spectator sport.

I don’t know anything about Shadow’s history, but this male has definitely danced before. His left hand holds my right, like ballroom style back on Earth. It doesn’t feel creepy to have his metal prosthetic hand holding mine. For some reason, it’s as if we’ve touched like this a hundred times before.

His right hand rests snugly on the back of my waist, pressing me so close to him I can feel his erection against my abdomen. No argument from me. I rest my head on Shadow’s thickly muscled pec, close my eyes, and let him lead us around the floor. No fancy moves, none are necessary, nor would I know how to follow anything but the most basic of steps.

With my eyes closed, I forget about the other couples only feet away from us. I burrow into a cocoon of intimacy with Shadow. I put my mind on pause. No worry thoughts, no obsessing about what will happen in the future. I narrow my focus to one thing—right now.

Right now I’m aware of the tips of my breasts pressing into the hard expanse of Shadow’s naked chest. I’m aware of my arousal insistently ramping up between my thighs, and I’m aware of how wonderful and completely right I feel.

Shadow’s hand roams up to tangle in my hair, which I wore down today and reaches almost to my waist. His hand cradles my head, then drifts down to my waist, then below to squeeze the globes of my ass—so erotic. He moves us until my back is facing the rear wall, and his hand reaches under the hem of my shirt, in between my leggings and my skin and grabs my bare ass. His hand stills, waiting, I guess, for a murmur of protest from me. My lips are sealed.

His fingers dip down behind and instead of giving him the protest he’s waiting for, I press his hips closer to me and feel his cock kick against its covering. I eagerly spread my legs in invitation, and he slips a finger lower, all the way to my core. He sucks in a hissing breath and bites my neck. “Petra, you’re so wet.”

“Mmmm,” is all I can respond. I don’t want to leave my protected bubble.

His hand deserts its post and returns to rest staidly on the small of my back. I wonder if he’s surprised by my tolerance. He did what men all over the galaxy evidently do; try to see how far they’ll get until a female protests. I’ll bet he never dreamed there’d be no objection from me. I guess he doesn’t know me very well.

A few moments later, I hear a throaty chuckle escape his mouth.

“What’s so funny,” I ask, still mostly in la-la land.

“The air in here is... rich with the smell of arousal. Not just yours, Petra, all the females. I think there’s going to be a lot of romance on board the ship tonight.”

“Yes. It gives the words Sweet Deliverance a new meaning.”

He stops dancing and pulls away from me enough to move his hand in between us. He tilts my chin up so I can look at him. He gazes solemnly down at me, then bends to drop sweet closelipped kisses on my cheeks and nose and forehead.

He seems to want to say something, appears to think better of it, then stands up to his full height and dances with me again. This time we’re really dancing, not just plodding along, and I’m afraid I’ll step on his feet.

“Stop thinking, Petra. Let the music take you.”

I do that, just like I told Dax. And it works. We twirl around, completely one with the music, one with each other. Letting go, moving in his arms, being in this moment is exhilarating—and romantic.

Then all at once, Maddie urges, “Grace, take a break, you’ve got to be tired after playing so many songs.”

As soon as Grace finishes the number and takes a sip of water, one couple after another thanks everyone and swiftly takes their leave. I see, there was a method to Maddie’s madness. She grabs Stryker’s arm and practically yanks him out the door. Rileigh and Doctore scurry out next, hand in hand.

Pretty soon it’s just Shadow, Grace, and I.

“Petra, I’d like to speak with Grace alone for a moment. Can I come by your room later?” He spears me with a panty-melting look.

“Absolutely.” I leave quickly, hoping he’s going to clean up his old business.