Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Vennkor

T he Female sits with her back against the far wall of her cell, her legs stretched out before her, and her arms crossed over her chest. She is staring at the patrons still gathered in front of her cell as if she can shame them into leaving. They are nothing but excited by her show of fury.

The Hov did not send her into the Arena to fight yesterday, nor have they put her on the list for today’s fights. The Hov know their audience well and will no doubt keep her in the hypogeum for many more days, giving all their patrons time to analyze the newest gladiator. Only when interest in the Female has reached fever pitch will they debut her before their wealthiest clients. A virgin gladiator’s first fight is always the most profitable for the Hov, and it is evident they intend to reap as much profit as they possibly can from this Female. Not only will this be her first fight; it will be the first time any of her species has fought. She is a first among firsts.

The spotlight over her cell is as bright as yesterday, casting shadows over the rest of us. Reke sits comfortably in the part-darkness as he watches the Female with as much concentration as the Arena patrons on the viewing platform.

I pluck at a stray thread of my breeches, determinedly ignoring everyone. At my feet lays a flavel, a weapon I have little experience with. It is crudely designed and built, comprised of a spiked head attached to the handle by a short chain. It is virtually useless in close quarters; I am more likely going to injure myself swinging it than any opponent I am set against.

Thoughts of thrusting the spiked head between the bars of my cell and sweeping it through the crowd tempt me, but I hurriedly dismiss them. The spiked head is much too large to fit between the bars. More importantly, the invisible electronic barrier surrounding the viewing platform would ensure I died before I injured any patrons. While I long ago accepted my death will be within the walls of the Arena, I am not yet desperate enough to purposefully destroy myself.

From the corner of my eyes, I catch sight of Reke moving to the edge of the circle of light encompassing the Female’s cell. He tosses something through a gap in the bars, hitting her pink tinted cheek.

“What the fuck was that?” She wipes her cheek and then inspects her hand, but there is nothing to see there.

I could be one of the crowd, watching with bated breath. It is not just her apparent fragility which is captivating, but her fierceness. Is this the moment she will reveal her hidden strength? A stinger perhaps, which will strike Reke through a gap in the bars, paralyzing his muscles?

Again, Reke throws something small at her. I think it is a coin, although how he smuggled them into his hypogeum cell is beyond my imagination.

She tries to catch it in the air and misses. It hits her forehead, right in the center. She smacks her hands down on the floor of her cell and begins to stand. Her balance is off, and her bare feet slip to one side. She is not yet accustomed to the faultless floor, designed only for the Hov and anyone wearing gravity-lock boots.

All gladiators are barefoot. It keeps us at a disadvantage, except when we are in the Arena, where a thin layer of gritty sand covers the floor.

“Don’t throw—” Her angry retort is cut short as Reke throws a third coin. This time she turns her shoulder, and the coin misses her, hitting one of the bars near me with a light ping .

“You piece of shit.” She points a finger at Reke as if she does not realize who she is talking to. As if she does not realize that he is the most dangerous among us.

Mayhaps she can eject poisonous darts from her fingertips.

The eager crowd has fallen silent. They stare between Reke and the Female, their fingers flying over their tablet screens as they take notes. Others turn on their cameras, filming the exchange. No doubt a few are broadcasting their footage straight to the illicit network.

I should be grateful that while their attention is on her, they are paying me no heed. But the greed in their eyes triggers an emotion I had long thought I no longer felt. Anger. And not anger directed at anything to do with me. I am angry on her behalf. If I could have reached through the bars and throttled every single patron gawking at her, I would have.

I clamp down on the alarming strength of my feelings.

I should not care.

I do not care, I remind myself.

“Pay him no attention.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. At least I kept some sense of intelligence, enough to lower my voice, with the hope only she can hear me. “Reke enjoys playing with his food. By reacting, you are only making the game more fun for him.” And for those observing.

She turns to face me, slips on her knees and lands on her rounded ass with a wince.

“I can understand you.” She narrows her eyes, squinting past the bright light directly over her cell and into the darkness of my cell. Evidently, she cannot see me clearly. “Why can’t I understand them?” She nods to the crowd. A few more patrons have gathered on the viewing platform. News of her confrontation with Reke has already spread.

I shrug. That she does not understand how translators work, combined with the fact that I have not seen one of her species before, confirms my suspicion that she is of a barbarian clan who has yet to discover significant space travel.

The Interplanetary Guidelines state that all contact with barbarian planets and the species they house is strictly forbidden. Of course the Hov have ignored this law, as they ignore all laws .

A barbarian gladiator will bring them much wealth. Abducting her was well worth the risk.

“Can you not understand me?” she asks, shuffling a little closer to the bars between our cells. The slight hesitation in her voice and the way her narrowed eyes search for me in the shadows belay her fears. She is brave, this little fighter, for all that she is terrified of not understanding what is happening to her.

If there is one thing I hate more than getting involved, it is the Hov and the patrons who feed on our fear and panic and death.

“The Hov have given you a translator,” I relent, keeping my voice sounding as uninterested as I can. If she realizes I am willing to answer her questions, she will continue to question me, and I cannot allow her to become reliant on me. The sooner she learns the only person she can trust is herself, the better for us all.

Reke throws another coin. It hits the back of her shoulders. Briefly, she closes her eyes and breathes deep.

The waiting patrons take note. Her temper, so close to the surface, always bubbling away, is feeding their obsession with her. Alongside her lack of claws, sharp teeth or any other recognizable defense, she is a mass of contradictions, and nobody has yet decided what to make of her.

I do not care.

“A translator? Where?” She touches the shells of her small ears, her fingers lingering on the golden rings she has looped through her lobes. A signal of her status, I think, marking her as an important member of her clan. Here, they have no such meaning .

“Check behind your ear,” I instruct. “At the back of your neck.”

“Oh, God. I can feel something under my skin. Something small. That’s my translator?” Her brow furrows. “A prosthetic device? Is that why I was on that operating table? But I don’t remember the operation, and there aren’t any stitches. What happens when it runs out of power?”

“What?” It is now my brow that is furrowed.

“Okay … ” Her breaths are shaky. “I guess that explains why I can understand you. But how come you can understand me? Does your translator know English? Are there … ” She runs a hand over her head, flattening her pale hair. “Are there others like me here?”

“Just you,” I tell her gruffly, determinately ignoring the note of distress in her voice. “I can understand you because the Hov push automatic updates to every translator in the station whenever they acquire a new language.”

“But I can’t understand those parasites.” And she jerks an opposable thumb toward the viewing platform.

Parasites. I almost laugh at that. It has been so long since I laughed that I do not remember how I sound.

“The Hov do not want us knowing what the patrons are saying. They disrupt the translator signal for anyone not locked in a cell.” I cross my arms. “You have asked a lot of question.”

“Oh, I’ve got a ton more where those came from. Are the H-Hov are the ugly motherfuckers with the green pustule skin?”

“Mother fuckers? They have not fucked my mother.” She would have ripped off their heads had they tried. And my father would have burned their bodies until all their protective air pockets had popped.

“It’s just an expression. It doesn’t mean—” She sighs. “Never mind. They’re the green ones, yes?”

I nod, then remember she cannot clearly see me. “Yes.”

Behind her, Reke paces the length of his cell. I think he has run out of coins to throw.

That the Female is paying me attention while ignoring him must be driving him wild. I take a selfish step forward, bringing myself to the edge of her spotlight.

I do not care. I do not care. I do not care. I repeat the mantra as though it can ward off my perverse feelings of satisfaction that the Female is talking with me and not with Reke. Then again, if Reke is to be the one to rip out my throat one of these days, at least today I can take a little pleasure in taunting him.

A small gasp escapes the Female’s parted lips as she finally sees me properly for the first time.

I cross my arms over my massive chest. Even for a Ves’os I am large.

Her gaze travels up and down my body, no doubt noting the deep scars across my chest, arms, neck and face, which have been purposefully left by the Hov to show how many times I have nearly come to death. Her gaze pauses on my horns and then she seems to notice the hollow on my right shoulder, and her expressive eyes widen.

An Anor’os tore a chunk of flesh from my chest when one of their arm spikes caught on my collarbone. The Hov had their medical mech heal the broken bone, but they left the scar, nearly large enough for me to fit a fist into, because they thought it made me look more like a proper gladiator.

It is certainly enough to intimidate the Female, and she shuffles back, propelling herself by her hands and feet, until she hits the bars behind her.

I am as reliant on my sense of smell as I am on my sight, and nearly two Common years fighting in the Arena means I have honed both senses. I can smell her fear as much as I can see it. It is a bitter scent that coats my tongue and leaves a foul taste in my mouth.

Moving so fast I have difficulty tracking him, Reke slips an arm through the gaps between two bars and wraps a hand around her neck. His claws pin-pricking her delicate skin.

She freezes, every muscle in her body tensing. He presses his face to the bars, pushing himself as close to her as he can, and breathes in her scent, pulling it into his lungs as if he wishes to pull all of her inside of himself.

“Do it,” I tell him callously, ignoring the physical pain such words cause me. I know I am speaking the truth. “She is better off dead.”