4. It All Comes Down to One
4
It All Comes Down to One
B laze
Now that I’ve figured out how fucked I am, I decide the only way to live past the first minute is to belong to one of the gangs. I immediately realize that if I’m accepted—big if—and if I make it past the first few hours—another big if—I’ll be expected to “earn my keep” with whoever is the biggest, baddest male in the group.
So, the small group of cockroach-like Frains is on the “Do Not Disturb” list.
Taking a deep breath, I sidle toward the group of guys who I think might be cyborgs. Their silver skin is dull, and their eyes are all the same shade of slate blue. As I approach, their brows seem to furrow in unison.
There’s no easy way to shoulder my way into the crowd, so I ask, “Can I run with you guys?”
The tallest sneers and examines me in that way some guys do. Not the surreptitious checking-you-out look, but the in-your-face slow slide down and up and down again that doesn’t try to hide he’s thinking about which hole he wants to plunge his cock into.
“There’s an entry fee,” he taunts as he pulls his cock from his pants and wags it at me. Wags it!
God help me, I’m actually considering it when all seven other guys whip their cocks out as well.
“Too steep a price,” I say as I back away before they decide to take what I don’t want to give.
I approach a group of nine gray Hyperions. The nubby, bony protuberances on their heads almost form a crown. Their noses are all creased at the bridge as if they smell something bad.
Undaunted, I ask to join them. They don’t even state a price, they just laugh. “You’d slow us down. Human or Morganian?”
Humans are prohibited in space. The Federation forbids interference with planets that don’t have interstellar space flight. Humans are still being abducted in droves, it’s just not legal. I’ve seen dozens of human females in my intergalactic travels.
I don’t know the reasons other women are abducted, but I’ve been told I was taken due to my special “skill set.”
Humans and Morganians look so similar we can’t be told apart except by a DNA test. Because we’re illegal, we’re instructed to say we’re from Morgana. As if that is going to matter in The Game.
I don’t feel a need to answer his question. I just saunter away as I go into deep-thinking mode. Well, it’s not exactly deep thinking, it’s more like panic.
I’m the shortest person in this room. By a head, maybe more. Give me a weapon and I’m a threat, but with my bare hands? I’m bound to be the first casualty of the night. By the way the males in here are staring at me, I’d lay even odds I make it out of this room alive.
The door from the anteroom slams open with a commotion. A male from a race I’ve never seen before staggers in. If he’s not a gladiator, he should be. Wide shoulders taper to a trim waist.
Patches of his iridescent blue/green skin look odd from this distance. Thicker? Callused? They form a thick V from shoulder to shoulder, and are sprinkled on his forehead and cheeks. His ears are pointed, but instead of giving him a kinder, gentler look, they just enhance his strength and power.
I spent enough time with the stoner crowd to know what the look on his face means—he’s high. Normally guys with builds like him don’t dope. They’re too busy pumping iron to want to put their bodies at risk with unknown chemicals. If I had to bet, I’d put my money on his owner throwing him in this game and betting against him.
Now that I see this male, I realize what all the males in the room had in common. They were all petty criminals—scarified, tatted, predatory, and a little hinky, seeking safety in numbers.
This male is different. Though he’s partly out of it, he stands tall and proud, like he owns the place, even as he sways slightly from side to side. Although he’s obviously high on something, his hooded ice-blue eyes are shrewd as he assesses the room. He’s sizing everyone up, taking their measure.
On his first appraisal of the room, his glance passed over me without notice. The next time around, he assesses me. Not in that “I want to fuck her” way that is coming from every corner, but as if he’s considering my merits. I have no idea why this five-foot-two female has captured even one second of his attention, but I’m going to run with it.
His gaze stays with me as I cross the floor to him. He seems carved in stone as he watches me—neither approving nor disapproving. Neither interested nor uninterested.
“Can I run with you?” I ask, my tone somewhere between cocky and deferential.
When he says nothing, I decide I have nothing to lose if I lay my cards on the table. “I figure I might not make it out of this room alive. Running with you might help me make it out the door. If I don’t, the others may be so focused on killing me, it might help you. Give you a head-start. It’s a win-win.”
The corners of his lips tip almost imperceptibly. It’s the only movement he makes. He just stands there like a statue.
Titan
She’s probably human. I can’t imagine a scenario that would explain why a Morganian female would be fighting for her life in this event. I’ve never been near a human before. She’s barely bigger than an eight-year-old of my species.
I find both Earthers and Morganians boring to look at—no striking colors to draw the eye, no feathers, no suede-like skin that feels good under a male’s palms. Usually their breasts are bigger than most species, but not this one’s. They wouldn’t fill a male’s palm.
I see three gladiators in the room. The rest are all bottom-feeders, prison scum, military AWOLs, and perhaps a few hapless fucks like myself who pissed off the wrong people.
I don’t want to run with any of them. Although I don’t know how people earn points in The Game, I can only imagine it will be quite a coup to kill a gladiator. Whichever of these groups I choose to run with will be the first to try to kill me.
I was going to go it alone, but this human is right. Perhaps my brain is still addled from the drugs, but I think it might be good to take her as a partner. She’ll be an easier target. If she draws the eye as an easy kill, it may get me through the initial mayhem and help me find a place to watch, recover, and re-group.
I rub my chin and look at her like she’s an insect to make her worry that I won’t agree. When her shoulders slump and her gaze flicks from mine, I say, “Don’t slow me down. I won’t stop for you. I’m in charge. Don’t question my authority and never disobey an order.”
She gives herself away when her brown eyes spark with surprise, but she doesn’t say anything, just puts her hand out toward me, thumb up, little finger down.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a handshake, an Earth custom. It means we have a deal.”
I knew she wasn’t Morganian. “Our deal is you can run with me. I’m not helping you. I’m not saving you. I’m not risking my life for you. I’m in charge.”
There are large vid screens on each of the four walls. They spark to life and spotlight a red Halckon female. Through a trick of photography, it looks as if she’s in the room with this sweaty mass of losers about to enter The Game . In reality, she’s nowhere in sight. She’s somewhere safe, I’m sure.
Halckons tend to be a pretty species—both their males and females. Their red skin is pleasant, and their features are even. This one is beautiful, although it’s hard to tell how much of her looks have been enhanced by cosmetics and computer graphics.
“Welcome! I’m Jahzara Zedd. Welcome to The Marentine Network’s world premiere of The Game! TMN is breaking ground. There has never been anything like this in the history of the universe!”
Spotlights flash through the room, stopping for a few seconds on various males, then roving on.
“We’ve assembled quite an interesting group of contestants for this event. We’ve got a tote board that will tell you about each one, but we didn’t want to bother your heads with all that information until they narrow the field a bit. That should happen in about an hour.” Her pretty face contorts into a vicious smile, showing far too much of her teeth. She’s going to enjoy announcing the death toll, I can tell.
“The rules are simple. Here is a map of Corinthus. Right here…” A red dot lights up on a digital on-screen map, “is where our entrants are housed. And here,” a green dot flashes northeast from here, “is the goal. It will be marked by a flag with The Game logo.
“As you know, this program is called The Game: Down to One , and that’s exactly what we mean. Only one person can claim the prize of one million credits along with manumission papers if they are a slave or exoneration papers if they have a criminal record. In order to do that, all others must be officially and verifiably dead.
“We have hordes of drones that will follow our contestants to validate and confirm every kill.
“We’ve designed this game to be ever so exciting for you and we’ll run it around the clock until we have a winner. If you have to tear your eyes from the screen, we’ll have recaps available for only a few credits per hour.
“We reserve the right to change the playing field, change the rules, bring in fresh new contestants, and provide food and arms for those we deem worthy, providing you, the viewers, have voted the contestant of your choice enough credits. We’ll be asking you to vote for your favorites for only one credit per vote. Look!”
A tote board lights up with numbers flying next to one hundred names. The screen is scrolling fast, but there aren’t many votes next to my name. People like to vote for the underdog, so I’m not surprised to see they’re not inclined to vote for a male with arena experience.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Slayer.”
Slayer? Perhaps there’s more to her than meets the eye, or maybe someone has an interesting sense of humor.
“I’m Titan.”
She doesn’t need to know more about me. We don’t need to be friends, nor are we going to know each other long enough to need more than first names.
She’s got three times the number of credits as me and seems to be one of the leaders on the tote board.
“You’re doing well,” I tell her as I reassess my strategy. If she’s going to get enough votes to earn a weapon or food, maybe I should make sure she lives, at least for the next hour.
“Good luck to each and every contestant,” Zedd says as the doors fling open along the far wall. “Remember, it all comes Down. To. One.”