Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Vennkor

M y scudding shoulder aches as I pierce the lid covering my food. The polyplastic disintegrates, its integrity broken, and I shovel tasteless, near-textureless mush into my mouth. A ravenous silence fills the mess hall as the remaining gladiators also collect their meals.

On the wall opposite, a screen shows highlights from today’s fights for us to study if we wish to learn about our upcoming opponents. And beside that is another screen, scrolling through tomorrow’s list of fights. I do not bother searching for my own name. Nevertheless, I stare relentlessly at the list, not even bothering to look away as I continue eating.

“She is not there. I already checked.” Vlet takes the seat opposite me, partially blocking my view. He drops his bowl onto the table, and gray mush splashes against the lid. His scowl deepens. Bowls were not invented with Locranians and their exoskeletons in mind .

I bend further over my end-of-day meal, my shoulders hunched as if that will be enough to hide me from all of Vlet’s eyes—the real and the decorative ones.

“She is never on the scudding list,” he says, stabbing the lid of his bowl with one sharp finger. Resentment colors his tone.

There is a fresh break across his left arm, where one of the bone plates of his exoskeleton has been cracked. A messy line of clear glue has been used to mend the break—ruthless but effective, two areas the Hov excel in.

He favors his right arm as he lifts his bowl and angles it against one side of his extended jaw. He makes a complicated tipping/tossing motion and swallows a mouthful of food. Then he glares at another gladiator who thinks it might be a good idea to sit in the empty seat beside Vlet.

I do not recognise the Anor’os. He stinks of terror, but he snarls a warning before backing away from our otherwise unoccupied table. Already, fresh scars decorate his chest, and he has evidently learnt to disguise his weaknesses when faced with another gladiator, for all that he cannot control how he smells. I am impressed, despite myself. I suspect he will not make an easy target in the Arena.

In fact, he reminds me a little of myself when I was first abducted. I had taken a job on a Freighter, ferrying trade goods from Ves to our nearest galactic market. Our Freighter had been attacked and the crew captured—myself and two other Ves’os males. We were brought to the Arena, and I never saw either of my companions again.

I think the Hov wanted only one Ves’os, a reminder to their patrons of the escaped Torksten. Mayhaps my companions were executed. Mayhaps they were put into cryostasis, to be woken only after I have been killed.

Mostly I think it would be better if they were already dead.

More recently, I have begun to hope they are in stasis. Escape is not impossible, Nina had said. I cannot believe her, yet I find myself wishing …

Before such thoughts can evolve further, I kick at the empty chair beside me. Whatever the fate of my companions, there was nothing I could have done for them. All three of us were doomed from the moment the Hov set their sights on our Freighter.

“She will not survive,” Vlet says after tossing back another mouthful. “I have been watching her, trying to see what has you and Reke so fascinated.”

“Leave off,” I growl my warning. I have never been in less of a mood to talk.

“We all know she is not a warrior.” Vlet ignores my temper. As one who has survived longer than almost all others, he has very little left to fear. Certainly, he has carved a place for himself, having claimed the best hammock, the best mess hall table and the privilege of eating in silence.

Today, though, he is more determined to goad me than to ignore me. Jealousy does not suit Vlet.

“Maybe the Hov will gift her to Reke. They will film him rutting?—"

I slam my hands on the table and stand to the sound of scraping chair legs. The silence strengthens as everyone looks at me. Turning my back on Vlet, I climb the stairs that spiral up the center of the mess hall. At each floor there is a platform from which two dozen sleeping rooms can be entered, but I do not stop until I have reached the very top of the staircase.

When I glance down, the hall has shrunk considerably, and while I can still see Vlet, I can no longer feel his eyes focused on me, goading me into responding. I kick open the door to my bunk. It hits the far wall with a satisfying thud and rebounds, but not before I have stepped inside.

My room, if I can call it that, has four hammocks, two on either side, one above the other. I have pilfered the blankets from the spare three hammocks, each emblazoned with the Hov emblem. One I have folded into a pillow, and I climb into my hammock, hiding my eyes in the crook of an elbow.

I should not have left so abruptly. Doing so was as good as admitting Vlet’s words had achieved their desired effect. I should return. I should lie to everyone; I should make them think that I do not care. Instead, a wave of exhaustion has me turning onto my side as I attempt to settle more comfortably among my nest of blankets. Closing my eyes, I grant myself the privilege of conjuring Nina’s face in my memory—her pale hair, her blunt teeth, the tiny brown spots that decorate her pink tinged nose.

I need you to come with me when I escape, she had said, her liquid eyes filled with unsuppressed emotion.

I am unable to withhold my moan, and it sounds so awfully like desperation and desire. For nearly two Common years I have thought of nothing but surviving my next fight, and the short time beforehand spent locked in my waiting cell was the most detested part of each day. Now, I cannot wait until I am sent to the hypogeum. Now, my waking hours revolve entirely around obsessing about when I will next see Nina.

When we are apart, she is at the center of my thoughts. When we are together— But we are never truly together, for always we are separated by bars.