Maxym
MAXYM
The cold water hits me full in the chest. I open my wings.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” I snarl at the three clerks who want me to drop my weapons.
I eat up all the violence I can get, and the dome provides all the sustenance I need.
The water increases, and I don’t relinquish my weapons. I did well today. I vanquished everything in the dome. I deserve praise, not punishment.
“Stand down,” the captain, a Xnosson bull who claims to have been a gladiator once, stands to one side, watching the efforts of the clerks.
The water is shut off.
“Do you want me to use the net again?” he asks gruffly. “Because I will if you don’t drop your weapons.”
My head pounds. I want to lie down somewhere cool and quiet, but the ever-present violence bubbles up again from within.
On the other side of the ante chamber, Klynn roars out his anger as he glares over at me.
I know where he’s going. It’s where I want to be too. I open my wings, staring the captain straight in the eye.
“Don’t do this, ,” he growls. “Don’t make me follow you. I’ve better things to do than chase you down.”
I beat down once, the draft knocking two of the clerks off their feet.
“Do you really want to live off pikrats for the next three nova-days?” the captain says, exasperated.
What I consume is not uppermost in my mind as I fling the sword and dagger at him and get airborne. It takes less than a nova-second to be out of the ante-chamber and, with Klynn hot on my feathers, it takes no time at all to descend into the undercroft, swooping through the struts which hold up the dome and going deeper into the foundations until all is silent.
Silence helps the feral rage I can’t control anymore. The darkness, the chill, the damp—it tests my body and makes me forget what I am.
If I even know.
Somewhere above me, there is a snarl, quickly cut off. Klynn follows me to make the dome guards work for their credits, he has no desire to be in the undercroft or consume pikrats. He only exists to make life difficult for others.
I don’t know if I exist at all.
My life was bad enough when I was accused of murder and sent to the dome. Now with the volcano of rage I feel after the head injury which saw me in the medi-bay for more time than I care to remember, it’s even worse. The rage I have is uncontrollable.
It left me feral, needing the violence of the dome to keep me from ripping every living thing I encounter limb from limb.
I slump in the dark. It’s filled with the dripping of water and the occasional scurry of a wary pikrat. They’ll become curious soon, too curious, and I’ll have a disgusting meal.
It’s all the turmoil deserves. It’s all I deserve.
And the worst thing is I’m a better fighter for it. I was good in the dome before, but now I’m unbeatable. My odds are excellent. I’m being paid thousands of credits for my deaths. The procurator is pleased. My future is secured.
Until the day I die.
In the undercroft, in the dark, in the cold, I could already be dead. These are my little deaths. This is where I feel what it’s like to be living once again as my breathing slows and rationality returns.
I’m covered in the dirt from the dome. My feathers itch, and I would like a bath and a hot meal which isn’t raw. I’d like to be how I was before my injuries, even if it was a life sentence.
With a groan of pain, I slide to the floor. The rage is replaced by resignation. I can’t stay here, not while my head hurts and blood flows. I close my eyes. If I rest for a while, I can return. I’ll be punished but not much, not while I’m making credits for the procurator and Tatatunga’s council. They don’t care about anything else.
When I wake, water is dripping onto my face and pikrats skitter away from my feathers. I heave myself to my feet, the heel of my hand shoved into the scar on my forehead as I stagger back through the struts and stone columns until I reach the entrance.
Not surprisingly, there are a couple of Zarvu guards. One of them is called—I wrack my limited brain—Keef.
“Look what the Cirmos dragged back,” he barks with a laugh.
“And he’s supposed to be the crowd favorite.” The other guard who is not called Keef looks me up and down. “He’s half dead.”
“I wish,” I grumble.
“You’re coming with us, gladiator. The captain needs to see you,” Not-Keef says.
“Vrex off,” I growl. “I’m hungry.”
“I prefer Klynn,” Not-Keef grumbles as he reaches for his pulsar weapon. “He doesn’t even pretend to be nice when we capture him.”
I slam my wing into his neck, and he drops the pulsar as he chokes, his hands around the offended part of his anatomy. The other guard fumbles for his weapon but he’s too late. I already have the fallen pulsar in my hand.
“Come on, ,” the so far uninjured Keef says, wheedling, his palms flat. “I’ve never hurt you, have I? I’ve always been good to you, haven’t I?”
It’s not untrue.
I power up the pulsar.
“You’re a murderer, like they say,” his friend chokes, hand still clutching at his throat.
I fire at him, and he yells as the bolt impacts the wall immediately behind him.
“You want to find out?” I snarl. “I’m happy to provide proof, one way or another.”