2. Abigail

2

ABIGAIL

" T his is revenge for me turning you down, isn't it?" I muttered as I pushed my way through the crowd, searching for a good place to view a fight I didn't want to watch. Predictably, the best places had been claimed by journalists who'd gotten in early, so I set my eye on the space behind the crew from Blood, Guts, and Video , shrugging my apologies at the annoyed glares of the aliens as I shoved my way past.

"Never," the over-friendly voice of my editor spoke through my implanted comm. "That's all in the past. You were simply the best available asset, and this is a great opportunity."

Yeah, sure. Totally believable. "What makes you think I'm qualified for this, Tony? I don't do sports coverage, let alone illegal blood sports."

He chuckled, an unpleasant sound in person. Beamed directly into my brain made it about a thousand times worse. "You have the number one qualification in the business, Abigail. You're on the right planet at the right time."

I grumbled under my breath, but that was hard to argue with. Just bad luck for me, and good luck for the agency. Elbowing my way through a group of Akedians with more viciousness than was strictly necessary, I finally reached the space I wanted and looked at the fighting pit itself.

The converted warehouse gave it a brutal, industrial feel, all bare concrete and metal. Crowds filled the space around the pit itself, most of them fans of one fighter or the other, but with a sizeable minority just here to see someone's blood without a care for whose it was. Bookies circulated through the audience, taking last-minute bets, and followed by vendors who offered refreshments and memorabilia to those who fancied paying hundreds of credits for cheaply printed t-shirt designed by someone's ten-year-old child.

In the middle of it all, the cage waited. Thick bars welded together, it looked like overkill, more art than precaution. A way to make the fighters seem more dangerous, and to thrill those in the front row, because no one could break through bars even half that thick.

I'd never admit it worked on me, not anywhere Tony might hear.

At last, I looked at the fighters themselves. Shrouded in mystery, this was the first time I'd seen either of them, and for once I saw an appeal to the event. One fighter, Toragah, was a scaled blue lizard with a metal arm and a shimmering blade, scarred and angry, prowling back and forth. I looked him over, getting a solid record of him before the fight. The other, Gragash, was…

Well, he was stunning. No two ways about it. Green skin covered powerful muscles, and while he stood at least seven feet tall, his shoulders were broad enough that he almost looked stocky. Tusks protruded from the corners of his full, firm lips, adding to the appeal of his chiseled jaw. He wore a scowl that dripped contempt for everything, everyone, around him.

Aside from that scowl, he was kind enough to wear very little. A broad gorget to protect his neck and upper chest, a kilt short enough to show off his powerful thighs, and a gauntlet that crackled with lightning.

He moved like a tiger, graceful and deadly. My stomach filled with butterflies as I watched him, and I caught myself chewing on my lip.

"Oh, so that's your type, hey?" Tony's voice reminded me I really should have killed the camera feed before ogling the fighter, and my cheeks burned. "More into the monster than the man? I guess I should have kept up the karate."

Blinking the code to disable my eyeware cameras, I hissed my reply. "Wouldn't have helped, Tony. I can't imagine a world in which I wouldn't kick your ass in a fight."

Brave words. Probably stupid ones, the sensible voice in the back of my mind whispered. As usual, she turned up a moment too late for me to act on her advice. I kept myself in good shape, and Tony was more than twice my age, but he was still bigger and meaner than me. I wouldn't bet on myself in a fight.

It shut him up, though, which was the main point. I'd take the immediate victory and worry about consequences later.

Blinking my cameras on again, I tried to work out what fans of the sport would pay to see. I'd have bet my last Credit Imperial that my natural focus would be popular with more fans than they would like to admit, but that wasn't what Alien Arenas would pay me for.

The two fighters strode back and forth, glaring at each other impatiently. They wanted the fight over with, both of them straining at invisible leashes and snarling insults at each other. Trash talk; I wished I was close enough to make out the words. The amplified voice of the announcer drowned out everything as she worked the crowd until, at last, they were eager enough for her taste.

A shrill whistle started the fight, and the gladiators leaped at each other, blurs colliding with an impact I felt in my bones. Their attacks came too fast for me to follow, and I just had to hope my camera caught enough of the grisly detail to hold a fight-fan's attention. A few seconds later, the fighters parted, catching their breath and circling.

The Orc warrior left a trail of blood, and his foe moved slower than before—both had taken injuries in their clash. I couldn't tell whose were worse. Their next exchange was more cautious, neither fighter going for the quick kill. They exchanged light, probing blows before the sheer strength of Toragah's mechanical arm forced Gragash back.

My heart was in my throat as I tried to stay focused on the fight, despite the way I winced every time either fighter delivered a solid hit. From the sound the fans made, this was a great show. I forced myself to keep watching, swallowing my horror at what might happen at any moment.

Why do I care what happens to that Orc? I didn't have an answer, just a solid certainty I cared. I had to force open my hands from fists so tight my nails cut into my palms as Toragah drove Gragash back against the cage's bars. The bigger alien's sword blurred, moving too fast to see, and Gragash had nowhere left to run. I froze, staring, and I wasn't the only one. The whole arena fell silent, Toragah's fans with anticipation, Gragash's with dread.

Gragash's back hit the bars, and Toragah thrust without hesitation. Time slowed to a crawl for me as the point of the blade stabbed toward the orc's neck. It was perhaps an inch away when Gragash's lightning-gloved hand struck the sword, sending it past him and between the bars.

Though Toragah must have been surprised, you couldn't tell from his reflexes. He leaped back, withdrawing his blade—or trying to. The orc gladiator smashed his gauntleted fist into the blade, and, caught between his hand and the bars, it snapped. Toragah only kept a couple of inches of steel, looking at the remains of his blade with almost comical confusion. Before he could recover, Gragash had stabbed the rest of the sword up under his chin. Lightning crackled over it.

The silent moment stretched, and then, finally, Toragah fell. Gragash stepped aside, and the giant blue warrior hit the floor of the cage with a thump that broke the crowd's paralysis. All around me, they went wild.

"Abigail, Abigail, those are some amazing shots," Tony said. He sounded no more sincere than before. "You're going to win awards for this."

"There are awards for reporting on illegal sports?"

"Not officially , no, but come on. These are gold, and if nothing else, Alien Arenas will pay you extra. This is your ticket to the big time, honey. Stick with me, and I'll make you a star reporter."

Sure, except I never want to see anything like that again. Glad as I was that Gragash won, the kill was still a grizzly sight I wouldn't forget in a hurry.

"Don't call me honey, and thanks, but no thanks. Somehow, I think your help comes with a price tag I don't want to pay."

"Aw, don't be like that. We can make a lot of cash together, you know. You got some dynamite shots of Gragash! Do you know how rare that is? That fucking Orc never talks to the press, never does photoshoots. When someone manages to get a picture, he always looks like he's about to rip the photographer's head off. But you? You got him looking sad. "

The glee with which Tony said that made my skin crawl. Yeah, wonderful, awesome, I got a photo that shows the killing machine's secret misery. I shook my head and tried to ignore the creep. At least he wasn't anywhere nearby, so I didn't have to worry about him turning up and wanting to celebrate or something. Then again, he was only in orbit. I'd rather have a few lightyears between us.

He's got a point about the money, though. I got good pics, and the video will be worth something even if I flinched at some of the good bits. I sighed. Money was a powerful motivator, especially given the debt I'd taken on for my implants. When I got them, I'd had starry-eyed dreams of investigative reporting, following shadowy figures, breaking open conspiracies at the heart of the Terran Hegemony. Seeing the galaxy.

Instead, all they got me was a creep in my head and a chance to travel to such delightful spots as…an alien bloodsport arena. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Pictures were one thing, even ones that showed a new side of a pit fighter. But if I'd seen a side of him no one else had, maybe I could snag an interview, too?

Worth a try. And not, I told myself sternly, as an excuse to get closeup shots of his amazing abs.

Not just that, anyway, a thirsty voice in the back of my mind piped up. There's also his magnificent ass.

Telling myself to shut up was unproductive, so instead I rolled my eyes.