2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

B ecca

“Look lively. Grab your partner and line up against the two long walls.”

Look lively? What, exactly, does that mean? I shrug when I recall that the female to my right looks like a zombie. If looking lively is the goal, I guess I have an advantage over at least one person in the room.

And what, exactly, did the bright red, winged male mean when he said to grab my partner?

The group, which had been milling aimlessly in this small convention hall, quickly forms into duos. Most of the pairs consist of a male and female of matching species, but a few are mixed. When they’ve all paired up, I’m the only singleton.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m in one of my recurring dreams. Everything is hazy and disjointed, and I’m filled with a sense of urgency, searching desperately for something—anything—without knowing what it is. The confusion is overwhelming, leaving me with a lingering discomfort, an unsettling sense of not quite knowing what’s going on.

Why do I feel that they all had more advanced notice about this—whatever this is—than me? I count nineteen pairs… and me. Everyone—even the gray-skinned, slack-jawed zombies—have taken care with makeup and hair (if they have hair, that is).

Me? Perhaps I was a last-minute addition to the mix. My long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail at my nape, my white chef’s uniform has chocolate smudges on it, and I’m pretty sure there’s a stripe of flour on my face, though I keep wiping my cheeks hoping to remove any telltale streaks. Access to a mirror would have been nice before they pulled me out of my job in the kitchen of the Grand Starlight Hotel, had me collect my clothes, took me up five flights in an elevator, and dragged me to this sterile conference room.

I was abducted from Earth over a year ago. You’d think I would be used to alien ways by now. Perhaps I am. Three things are certain: I should expect the unexpected, I’ll be shown no mercy, and whenever I get comfortable, I’ll be sold and shuttled to another owner.

I should consider myself lucky that I was in culinary school on Earth when I was snatched. As soon as my first owner discovered I had a skill, he put me to work in his kitchen. Although I’ve been sold three times since then, I’m glad to be working in kitchens instead of bedrooms, which is what I understand most human abductees are used for.

The strident sound of footsteps marching down the hallway interrupts my thoughts. The doorway bursts open and a green male is forced into the room by eight soldiers, all pointing rifles at him.

“There!” The male with the microphone points toward me and the newcomer is shoved in my direction. He takes his place next to me, a growl vibrating in his throat as he tosses his long dark hair which is mixed with white strands. I imagine it’s the only protest he can make without getting shot. His thick tail, which looks to be all muscle, thrashes so wildly that it whips against my calf.

“Apologies.” He spears me with a regretful look, then his lips thin and his eyes slit as he focuses on the male behind the lectern.

“Listen up!” The red, winged male announces, the spikes on his face quivering. “I’m the assistant producer, Brekkan Zhizh, here to introduce Arisha, though she needs no introduction. This beautiful female makes more money in a single day than most people could earn in five lifetimes. Everything she touches turns to gold, and she’s deigned to be the Mistress of Ceremonies and Executive Producer of the Cosmic Confections Competition.”

He straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin as though his status skyrocketed by the mere fact that he’s introducing her.

“She convinced the Cryosyne government to cancel the upcoming Winter Gladiatorial Games for something more exciting. And you all are lucky enough to be part of the project. I expect you all to listen closely and do as she says.” He lances a pointed look toward the male standing next to me—a clear warning.

Arisha, known by only one name because she’s so famous she needs no other signifiers, sashays into the room as though there’s an audience of thousands rather than the mere fifty of us in the room.

She ascends the stage, her lithe form draped in a shimmering gown that seems to be made of starlight itself. The fabric shifts and swirls around her lavender skin, a mesmerizing display of celestial blues and silvers that set off the iridescent sheen of her smooth, hairless skin. Her large, almond-shaped eyes are a striking violet, flecked with gold, and seem to hold the wisdom of the ages. When she speaks, her voice is a melodic lilt, at once soothing and commanding, captivating the audience with every word.

She takes her place at the lectern and announces, “Gladiatorial games are trending poorly in the court of public opinion. Income quarter over quarter is down eighteen percent.”

She frowns, then mumbles, “Why am I explaining economics to a bunch of bakers?” Regaining her bearings as she remembers to talk down to us, she discards her courteous affectation and continues, “The Cryosyne government has asked me to take their initial vision for the Winter Games in a different, more lucrative, direction.”

“Our research indicates that females in the sought-after twenty to forty-five demographic enjoy baking shows. But they also enjoy watching males. That’s why I’ve developed this competition with male/female pairs.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she visually inspects each team, her mouth pursed to indicate none of us measure up to her high expectations.

When her gaze circuits to me and the male next to me, she addresses us directly. “There were twenty teams chosen out of over two hundred applicants for this highly coveted competition. One of the teams canceled at the last minute. Luckily, you, gladiator, didn’t receive the comm that we’d canceled your match. Since you’re here on Cryosyne, you’ve been… repurposed.”

She gives him a bright smile that makes her beautiful face even more lovely. The way she wields it tells me it’s seldom failed her, but it yields only a scowl from the male on my right.

Arisha continues, undaunted, as her gaze spears me. “And you, human, happened to be in the right age and were working right here, under our very noses in the kitchens of this hotel. You… what’s your name?”

“Becca.” I learned shortly after my abduction that no one wanted to know my last name. I’m a slave. Our owners don’t give two shits about who we were before they slapped a slave collar on our necks.

“So you, Burka, and you…” She lifts an eyebrow at the male destined to be my partner, but he doesn’t answer her, so Brekkan Zhizh supplies her with the name. “And you, Pyne, are now partners in our baking competition.”

“I don’t want to participate!” Pyne says in a deadly serious tone. His perfect, symmetrical face is thunderous, his lips clamped together and his eyebrows slant in rage.

Two of the soldiers hurry to stand in front of him and are about to smash his face with the butt-ends of their rifles when Arisha yells, “Stop! He needs to look good for the cameras.” Her face is now as angry as Pyne’s; her expression incredulous that the soldiers would be stupid enough to disfigure a contestant.

Directing her words to Pyne, she says, “You came to perform on galactic TV. You were prepared to be beaten, possibly killed, in the arena. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be part of a bake-off.”

“Because I’m a gladiator , not a cook .” That last word was spoken with so much disdain, he might as well have said “excrement.” Then he turns to me and says, “No offense.”

“I doubt anyone enjoys being punched.” Arisha seems genuinely confused. “This sounds so much more enjoyable. But I tell you what, I’ll sweeten the deal and double the amount you agreed to. Besides…” She waves her arm at me. “Your new partner is a slave. If your team wins, she’ll be set free. Don’t you want to try to rescue her?”

When he doesn’t jump at her offer, she adds, “A big, strong male like you doesn’t want to be a hero?”

He gives her one last furious look, folds his arms across his chest, and gives the smallest of nods.

With that, Arisha fills in details about the rules. “The winning team will receive one hundred thousand credits to split.” She spears Pyne with a contemptuous look and adds, “Except for you, gladiator. You will receive fifty thousand credits just for entering the competition and another fifty thousand if you win. And Beaker, if she wins, will receive nothing but her freedom.”

Although money sounds nice, my freedom will certainly be good enough.

She regains her imperious stature, focuses on the rest of the contestants, and adds offhandedly, “There will be immunity challenges as well as baking competitions. If you win the day’s immunity challenge, you cannot be removed from the contest that day, even if you fail the baking challenge.”

I wonder how dangerous the immunity challenges will be. This Bake Off was designed to take the place of gladiator fights, after all. I’ve been around alien species long enough to know nothing is as it appears up here in space.

The prospect of being freed sounds good, though. Not that I’d know where to go or how to support myself once my slave collar is removed. Well, I guess I can continue what I’ve already been doing—cooking and baking in commercial kitchens. Frankly, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I want to be freed.

As a slave, at least I don’t have to worry about having a roof over my head or enough food to eat. Then I remember that my owners own more than my time and my skills—they own my body. I guess that’s a good enough reason to want to win this competition.

Arisha continues her speech, explaining how each team is expected to work together throughout the competition. I barely register her words, too focused on the sinking feeling in my stomach. I’m a chef, not a reality TV star. Not only don’t I want to be a part of this ridiculous spectacle, but I imagine this is going to be a lot harder than Arisha is making it sound.

Suddenly, she’s standing right in front of me, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed as she looks me up and down.

“Bacon.” She taps a manicured finger against her lips as she glares at me. “Look at your partner.”

I turn to look at him, taking his full measure from his knee-high black boots to his black leather kilt to the long, muscular tail that emerges from a hole in the back of the kilt, to that amazing naked green chest that would make a bodybuilder jealous. And his humanoid face. It’s perfection. Even the thin scar that slashes from above his top lip to his chin isn’t ugly. It just seems to call attention to how symmetrical every other feature is.

“He is going to be a fan favorite.” She holds up her hands. “I know. He knows nothing of baking. That’s not going to be as important as that chest.” She purses her lips and looks at me pointedly. “You’ll have to do the work of two, but he might be more of an asset than a liability.”

I want to argue, to inform her I don’t belong here, don’t belong in space, and certainly shouldn’t be a slave. But I’ve had that kind of tantrum before with previous owners. I learned very quickly at the end of a shockstick that I am, indeed, a slave, and a slave’s job is to do as she’s told.

Arisha laughs. “And you, Pyne, the viewers are going to love you and your… assets.”

Pyne’s tail lashes behind him, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

Arisha waves a dismissive hand. “How about this, Pyne? If you make it into the top five, there will be a bonus for you. Now, let’s get all of you settled into your quarters. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow!”

Before I can protest, a guard grabs my arm and drags me toward the door. I look over my shoulder at Pyne, who is being urged toward the door at the business end of a few guns. Our eyes meet, and in his gaze I see a mirror image of my own frustration and helplessness.

After traveling corridors and elevators, we arrive at a doorway. One of the male soldiers announces, “Here you are. Your room.”

Room? Singular?

He places his hand on the palm reader and when the door opens, sure enough—one room, one bed, one bathroom, like every hotel room I’ve ever been in.

Certainly, this isn’t right.

“Where is he sleeping?”

“Since he’s two heads taller than you and weighs twice as much as you, I’d say he sleeps on whichever side of the bed he wants.”