Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Nina

I can report water does (thankfully!) exist on this planet, and I’m given a cup at the end of the day, along with a meal of a mushy brown substance that tastes suspiciously like cardboard.

I’m not sent up into the Arena. I’m not sent anywhere. Vennkor was right when he said the day ends when all the cages are empty. Well they’re all empty but mine. When that happens, my ogling watchers leave and I’m finally fed.

Completely by accident, I discover the pop-out toilet set into the super-smooth back wall of my cell. The button to activate it is the same color as the wall, and I only press it when I lean against the wall, steadying myself. The toilet is hardly more than a bowl that pops out of the wall, and as far as I can tell, there’s no way to wash my hands, which completely grosses me out. But I suppose washing is the least of my current problems.

After dinner, the lights automatically switch off, and complete darkness engulfs the underground room. For a while, I take comfort in the darkness. I feel like I can finally cry (and take a piss) in the peace of my own company.

Not having a bed to sleep on is also not a big deal, I tell myself as I strip off my sweater to use as a pillow. Still, sleeping is rough. I wake up every time I need to roll over because the floor digs into my hip and shoulder, and the muscles in my neck are so stiff every few hours I have to sit up and tip my head to the right to crack the joints and release some of the tension.

Spaceships and those five unconscious women fill my dreams, and I wake up in darkness, covered in sweat and hating that I couldn't do anything to save them.

I spend what remains of the night wondering if they’d even have wanted to have been saved, since being saved would have meant they’d be locked in a gladiatorial cell. Would they have preferred to die in space than to be sent into the Arena?

I guess I’ll never know the answer.

When my spotlight finally turns on again, I’m lying diagonally across the floor of my cage, staring up at the crack in my ceiling. Maybe today it will open, and I’ll be sent into the Arena like Reke and Vennkor were. An involuntary shudder rushes down my spine as I remember Vennkor’s scars.

I touch my own scars, the only two I’ve got. One runs horizontally across my right arm and is my constant physical reminder of the crash. A piece of metal sliced open my arm. The only reason I survived is because the paramedics gave me a blood transfusion even before they’d managed to cut me free of the car. That’s my other scar—the tiny prick of the needle from the transfusion.

There’s no way I’d survive a fight like the kind that have sliced up Vennkor. Six months of karate lessons is feeling like the world’s biggest joke.

I could probably fight off a Human bag-snatcher. I could probably even fight off a Human attacker with a small table knife. But an alien the size of Vennkor holding that brutal-looking weapon with the spike studded hitting end? Absolutely no fucking way. I’d be dead before I could blink.

Which begs the question: why was I abducted? I’m clearly not gladiator material.

The parasites gathering on the dais in front of my cage are deluding themselves if they think betting on me will win them any money. Unless of course they’re all going to bet I’ll lose, in which case, fuck them!

I don’t sit up. I don’t want to give the watchers my attention. I barely look around as the other cages are filled with gladiators. Well, I look around long enough to check for Reke and Vennkor, but neither of them is here this morning. Maybe they’re in another waiting room. Vennkor said there were other areas like this one. Or maybe they’ll cycle up through the cages as they start their slow spin.

Or maybe … maybe they’re dead already.

That thought makes me want to cry again, so I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. Reke and Vennkor aren’t exactly my friends, but at least with them on either side of my cage, I didn’t feel so completely and utterly alone.

Sitting up, I try speaking to the alien in the cage to my left, but she’s that woman from yesterday with the four arms and all those daggers. When she growls at me low in her throat, displaying all those rows of sharp teeth, I clamp my mouth shut. If she wanted to, she could totally throw one of those daggers through a gap between the bars, and I’d be dead before I even got to see the Arena.

The alien in the cage on my other side doesn’t acknowledge me at all. He’s sitting with his back against the far wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He wraps his snake-like tail around his feet, his entire body shaking.

My nursing training hits me hard. I want to check his pulse. I want to wrap him in a blanket and check his medical chart to see if there’s anything I can do to help. Not that I can reach him. Not that there’s anything I could say or do that would help.

He’s one of the first to be lifted into the Arena, and I try very hard not to listen to the muffled shouts and cheers of the crowd. They don’t last long, and then the next fight begins, and I’m left imagining someone dragging his dead body off a baseball field, his tail still twitching like when you accidentally cut a worm in half.

I bury my face in my hands, remember Vennkor’s advice and turn my back to the crowd. They can stare at the bird’s nest that’s my unbrushed hair instead of my tear-streaked face.

There’s got to be a way to escape this place. I hate my cage more than I’ve ever hated anything. I want—make that need —to get out of here.

I search my pockets for anything my captors might have missed. I’ve never accepted that women’s clothing should be close fitting and pocketless. I’d much rather have pockets than be fashionable, and I’ve always taken full advantage of said pockets, cramming them full of anything useful under the sun—paracetamol, thermometers, chocolate, string, pens, white board markers, lip balm and spare change. I fish out the measly remains: one Band-Aid (the plain, boring kind) and the plastic casing of a pen. All the best parts, including the ink and nib, have disappeared.

I put the Band-Aid on my cut finger, which makes me feel fractionally better. And somehow I survive the brutality of the rest of the day like that—with my back to the crowd, my knees drawn up to my chest and thoughts of escaping and returning home to Grandma running around my head.

I specifically got a job at the nursing home where Grandma lives so I could spend more time looking after her. By now, I’ll have missed at least three shifts. Surely my boss or one of my colleagues will have reported my absence to the police.

I imagine the police knocking down the door to my rented apartment and searching for any clues of where I’ve gone. All they’d find is my uniform, ironed and hanging off the hook on the back of my bedroom door. There’s also that half-finished bottle of brandy in my kitchen I wish had been abducted with me. And if the police go searching through all my cupboards and drawers, they’ll eventually find my dragon shaped grinder, my lube and the half-empty packet of condoms I’ve got stashed in with my panties.

I should probably feel embarrassed. Instead, I’m wondering if they’ll recognise the grinder for what it is. Thankfully, I’m fastidiously clean, if they happen to touch it and not be wearing gloves.

I hope one of the cops at least waters my plants. I’d hate for the rose to die just because I had the misfortune of getting beamed up.

Occasionally, the screaming of the patrons in the stadium overhead interrupts my morbid thoughts. That they find so much enjoyment in other people’s death is utterly barbaric. The Hov might have invented intergalactic space travel long before us Humans, but the fact they’re running a gladiatorial empire, killing and torturing innocent slaves, is despicable. Humans eliminated gladiator fights hundreds of years ago. We might not be slowing climate change, but we’re not still throwing people into stadiums and letting them fight it out to the death.

Bread and circuses, I think the Romans used to call it. Feed and entertain the general populace and you’ll keep everyone happy—and you’ll make a bit of cash.

By the time all the cells are empty and the screaming has stopped, I’ve got another thumping headache. Alone at last, I stretch, working through a few yoga moves I learned from YouTube. Then it’s dinnertime. The food’s just as disgustingly bland as breakfast, but I eat it fast because I’m starving after ages with no food. Then I spend some time savoring my cup of water. It’s a large cup. I suppose I’m using the same crockery as the aliens Vennkor’s size. I’ve got to use both hands to lift it to my lips.

I eventually fall into an exhausted sleep and am woken by my spotlight. I flinch away from the unrelenting brightness of it and find my breakfast sitting on the floor of my cage waiting for me. I must have slept through the guard bringing it.

I gulp down a mouthful of water, wanting to wash away the disgusting furry feeling coating my tongue that gets worse every day I don’t have my toothbrush.

I sense Reke watching me before I’ve properly seen him.

He’s in the cage next to my right again, sitting just outside the spotlight. His bright eyes resemble small lights, and he tilts his head to one side as if he’s watching an interesting TV show.

“Hey, Reke.” I try cleaning my face and my teeth using a little of my drinking water and the hem of my sweater. I wish I could say I wasn’t pleased to see Reke, considering the first (and last) time we met he had his claws digging into my throat, but I am pleased to see him. I can’t deny the slight quickening of my pulse and the swell of relief that wells up inside me.

He’s alive.

He’s proof that not everyone who’s sent up into the Arena dies.

He isn’t built massive like Vennkor is, and he doesn’t have any weapons like that four-armed woman with the daggers. In fact, he’s hardly larger than me. And slim too.

Yes, his muscles are clearly defined, but they’re not so big that they’re constantly bulging. And his thighs aren’t so thick that his pants are threatening to tear down the seams.

Actually, now that I think about it, he isn’t wearing any clothes at all. I suppose I didn’t notice earlier because I was too busy focusing on his cat-like ears and tail (and the fact he was threatening to kill me). He swishes that tail as I watch him.

“Nina. ”

I startle at the sound of his voice, almost convinced that he wasn’t one for speaking.

“Reke.” I think his name suits him. It reminds me of saying to wreakhavoc . With the mysterious glint in his eye and the confident way he holds himself as if he’s got nobody to fear, I imagine he wreaks a lot of havoc, and good for him. The Hov deserve all the havoc Reke can wreak on them and their parasitic audience.

He's sitting on the balls of his feet again, and with an effortless grace, he moves up the bars until he’s at the edge of my spotlight.

At least, I think he’s a he . With a surreptitious glance between his legs, I can tell you that his genitals aren’t on display, for all that he isn’t wearing pants. His fur-like skin is dark all over, with those panther-like spots of dark gold across his chest and back.

I’ve actually noticed that most aliens don’t bother with clothes. Nudity is evidently nothing to be ashamed of, which I suppose that makes sense. With so many different species living together and interacting daily, nobody is judging each other’s bodies because there isn’t a single standard against which to judge.

Instead of focusing on beauty, they appear to be obsessed with displays of strength and intimidation. The average height is over seven-feet tall, and they all have some combination of sharpened teeth, claws, horns, stingers, wings and scales.

“I’m happy to see you,” I tell Reke truthfully. I can’t lie to myself, so I don’t even bother trying to lie to him. He survived the Arena. If he can survive, maybe there’s a chance I’ll survive it too, whenever they eventually send me up there.

“Why?” he asks in a low voice. I wonder if that’s just how he speaks. Or maybe he’s talking quietly because he doesn’t want our parasitic audience to overhear.

I lower my voice, trusting his cat-like ears to pick up what I’m saying. “Why what?”

“Why are you pleased to see me?”

“Oh. Well, because I don’t know anyone else. Other than Vennkor, of course. Is he … ” My heart seems to skip a beat.

“Alive?”

“Yes. He was sent up … " I can’t quite bring myself to say into the gladiator Arena aloud, and so I point at the ceiling. “Is he alive?”

“Barely.” Reke shrugs, as if we’re talking about the weather and not people’s lives.

Barely. But barely alive is not dead, and so I breathe a sigh of relief.

“It’s nice not being alone all the time,” I confess. Which is ridiculous, because I’d love it if the parasites gathered on the raised dais fucked off and left me alone. I guess what I really want is hope that everything is going to be okay, and Reke is the closest I’ve gotten to hope in three long days.

He cocks his head to the other side. It’s basically impossible to know what he’s thinking. I wait a while in case he’s going to say something else, but he remains silent.

“How did you end up here?” I cross my legs, partly facing Reke and partly with my back to the parasites. “Were you abducted from your planet too?”

“I was not abducted. ”

“So you came here on purpose?” I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be a gladiator, especially considering how long we spend locked in cages. This isn’t a life any sane person would choose.

“No, I was made here.”

“Made? I don’t understand.” I frown, thinking back to what Venn said when he didn’t understand what I was saying. “I don’t think that translates.”

Reke grips the bars between us. The gap between the bars isn’t large enough for him to fit his head through, but he pushes his face as close as he can get to mine, nonetheless. “I was created in a laboratory for the Arena.”

“Wait. What?” I blink. “Are you saying you’re an ectogenesis baby?”

He doesn’t answer. I hunt around for a better, less medical question.

“Who’s your mom?”

Silence.

“Do you have a mom?”

More silence. Then: “I don’t remember being born.”

“No … ” I agree. I don’t suppose anyone remembers being born. “Where did you grow up?”

“I don’t remember growing up.”

“Okay.” Now I’m really confused. “What’s your first memory, Reke?”

“The laboratory, Nina. And then the Arena.” His tail slips through a gap in the bars as if he’s trying to touch me. I remain out of his reach still. “Nina,” he repeats, like he’s practicing speaking.

“Was the laboratory like a large white room with a smooth floor and ceiling and walls, and a hard bench where you were tied down?”

“That is right.”

Oh God! That’s Reke’s first memory?

“Have you ever seen grass? Or birds? Or … I don’t know … the alien equivalent of plants?”

He blinks. It’s a slow blink, and for a moment, the brightness of his eyes is eliminated. “I know what these things are.”

He’s got one gold eye and one bright blue one, so blue it reminds me of the endless blue sky of summer. He’s probably never seen a real sky, which is about the saddest thing I can think of. Not that Reke looks sad. He’s watching me with such focus it’s like I’m standing in the center of a stage, which I guess I kind of am.

“Where was the laboratory?” Part of me doesn’t want to know. The other part of me is morbidly interested. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. The way he moves like a predator. The way his eyes glow. The way he doesn’t display emotions I can easily understand. Does he even feel fear? Not that I’ve seen. Curiosity, yes. An interest in playing games, most certainly. He’s like a cat trying to catch a mouse.

Am I the mouse? I have the strangest feeling I might be.

And what will he do if he catches me? Let me go again, like he did the first time we met? Or something more sinister? He is a killer, after all.

That he’s killed people is about the only firm fact I know about him.

“On the space station,” he says, finally answering my last question.

“Is this the space station?” Every answer he gives opens up a world of new questions. I was beginning to think the Arena was on a planet, considering how big this place appears to be. If we’re on a space station, then it’s a bloody large one!

He fits an arm through a gap, beckoning me to move closer.

I stay where I am.

“So,” I try to summarize everything I’ve learned just to make sure I’ve got everything straight. “The Hov are the green aliens who run this space station. And they force other aliens to fight each other to the death in the Arena overhead. You’re a gladiator who was made ...” Saying made gives me the ick, like I’m insulting Reke to his face. He takes no offense, at least as far as I can tell. “Are there others like you?” I’d just assumed everyone here had been abducted.

He shakes his head. It’s such a Human movement I’m surprised to see him make it.

“God, Reke, your life sounds just like a sci-fi movie.” Or a horror film. But I don’t say that last part out loud.

“Nina.” He practically purrs. It’s a deep sound that rumbles through his chest. I wouldn’t be surprised to find his entire body vibrating with such a sound.

“Yes?” Everything he’s told me is swirling around my head at a million miles an hour.

He breathes deep, and I get the impression he’s smelling me again. “Are you scared to come closer, Nina?”