14. Unexpected Attack
14
Unexpected Attack
T itan
She’s short and slight and limping. She’s got a rag on her head and a lizard on her shoulder. And I’d be dying of thirst by now if it weren’t for her.
“Rowdy,” she says.
“What?”
“I think we should call him Rowdy. You know, because he’s silent. It’s ironic. Funny.”
“I was thinking of Big Eyes.” I say with a straight face.
“Speedy,” she counters.
“Red.”
“You’re not getting it, Titan. We’re going for the opposite of what he is.”
“ You’re not getting it. I’m going for the obvious.”
Then we both laugh. She gives a little hiccupping giggle. Who would have expected we could have a moment’s fun on the day we might die?
Although our odds are getting better all the time. The drone says there are only twenty of us left.
Blaze leans over and pulls me down by my shirt so she can whisper in my ear.
“I think we’ll be safe until tomorrow. The network isn’t going to send anyone else after us until people throw millions of credits at us during our porn show tonight.”
“I had that thought,” I say out loud. As we’re about to step away, I realize Red scampered from her shoulder to mine when she was whispering in my ear. His tiny claws are clinging through my shirt into my plating.
“Six-legs likes me,” I tease.
“Chatty’s a good boy,” she responds, tipping her chin in the air as if she just gave the definitive answer.
“You’re a hard female.”
“Yep. Had to be.”
I want to know her. I ache to know everything about her. In that alternate universe I invented when we were by the stream, I would know her. We would have talked for hours and hours in bed, after I’d pleasured her in a dozen ways.
I picture it. A soft bed under a window with the light streaming in on us. I would have kissed every spot on her silken skin while she told me about her life. She’d be too proud, too private to blurt out all the details of her history. I’d have to ask questions between my kisses, drawing her out as I provide understanding without a speck of pity.
I’d know how she got so hard—and why. I’d know how difficult it was when they abducted her, and what her parents had been like, and if she ever had a pet before Big Eyes. And I’d know why they call her Slayer. I imagine that’s an important story.
I stumble over a rock in the road because I’m one percent in the present and 99 percent in my imaginary universe where Blaze and I have time. So much time.
“Titan?” her tone is tight, fearful, even though the Blaze I know never seems fearful.
I’m fully back in the present, instantly on guard. Fuck. This might not be the work of the network. This just might be another joke the gods like to play on fools like me when we dare, for even the briefest moment, to believe something good might come our way. When we’re arrogant enough to believe we deserve happiness.
Crindles .
I didn’t know they were native to Marentine, but here they are—a swarm of them.
“What the fuck?” Blaze is going for swaggering bluster for the cameras, but she’s afraid. I can feel it.
“Crindles ,” I answer.
“I don’t know what those are, but it looks like a couple of dozen man-sized tarantulas that have been crossed with scorpions.” She’s crossed the line from fear to terror. Her voice is high and tight.
There are so many of the scuttling beasts I can’t count them. Even if we had laser weapons, we’d be hard-pressed to kill all these creatures. We don’t have laser weapons.
“I’d do better with the sword, Blaze, but you would too. Pick. Quick.” We might have a chance if we both had swords, but that club will be slow and ineffective against the monsters. I discarded the Halckon female’s scythe an hour ago. The blade would have fallen off the shaft the first time it encountered anything with more substance than butter.
“Club,” she says. She knows I’ll be able to slay more of them than she will. But she’ll be almost no help with that heavy club.
They’ve surrounded us in a circle, maybe twenty feet from us. They’re chittering in high, squeaking sounds. I doubt we have more than a few seconds to organize. We exchange weapons and put our backs to each other.
“Titan?” her voice is small, like a terrified child. We both know we’re not going to make it out of this alive.
“You’re a fine female, Blaze. Wherever human warriors go after they die, you’ve earned your place there,” I tell her. It’s the highest praise one warrior can give another.
The drones have closed in, not wanting to miss a moment of the action.
“Now would be a great time to let me buy that laser rifle I’ve been wanting,” she shouts to the camera. “Right fucking now! That would be great!”
She hasn’t been a slave long enough to know, truly know down to the marrow of her bones, that help isn’t coming. Slaves like me, who’ve been in servitude for over a decade, we gave up expecting help long ago.
The scratchy chirping of the monsters gets louder, their feet, all six of them, are tapping anxiously in place, ready to attack as soon as they receive some signal. For a moment I wonder if they’re mechanical, sent by the network to kill us before we demand our credits, but Blaze was right. They’d be stupid to kill us when we’re going to make them rich later tonight. These beasts are alive. And deadly.
They launch all at once, coming from 360 degrees. They’re so ugly, their looks alone would strike fear into you. Their two front legs have pincers, their four hind legs scuttle. Thick, bristly spider hair covers their bodies. Their mouths open sideways as the level of their chittering increases.
Dozens of pincers snap as they launch their assault.
“Not much you can do but keep them at bay, Blaze. Hold the club with both hands and swing right to left and back again. I don’t expect you to be able to kill any. Killing one will get your bat stuck in a carcass and leave you open to assault by the others. Just try to keep them from you. I’ll do the killing on my side. If you get into trouble, yell ‘help’ and we’ll rotate to the right.”
And they’re upon us. The noise goes up twenty decibels and is even higher pitched. It’s accompanied by their sideways jaws snapping with menace.
Luckily, the dead Halckon bought or was gifted with a fine sword. Its blade is honed sharp, and the way the weapon is weighted is a thing of beauty. I’m doing pretty much what I told Blaze to do—hacking right to left and back again.
These things are deadly and numerous, but they are not smart. When I kill the biggest, they all stop for a long moment as they regroup. Perhaps they have a hive mind. I have no idea what’s going on, but they’re frozen. Their heads tilt to the side while they communicate with each other.
“I’m moving forward,” I say as I step into their pack and pick off five of them, easily lopping their heads off before they all come back online.
“Help!” she says, and we rotate a half-turn to the right.
It’s like I’m back in the arena during one of the melees they forced me to participate in. There’s a moment when you’re being bombarded by too many enemies. Your mind can’t think. There are too many variables, too many directions and opponents and permutations and possibilities to parse through. I discovered at those moments, the only way to stay alive was to turn off my brain and allow my body to do what it trained for my whole life.
When I pulled my thoughts out of the equation, when I allowed myself to go on autopilot, I was stronger, faster, and more deadly. It’s what I do here.
It’s a dance where I’m the only one who hears the music. I step forward and back. I move to the left and the right. I turn, placing my back to the crindles I’m supposed to be fighting so I can kill the deadliest ones attacking Blaze. Then I spin and slash the ones approaching from my side.
Time stands still. Or maybe it moves faster than the speed of light. I’m a blur. My movements are out of my control, almost as if I’m a puppet being directed by a force greater and stronger and smarter than myself.
I’m panting and wet, sweat dripping off every surface when I come back into regular time and find I’m standing amid a pile of quivering, hairy limbs. The death cries of the disgusting creatures still pierce the air. None of them are scuttling, though. I’ve hacked them to bits.
Making sure no more threats exist in front of me, I turn to look for Blaze, certain she’s lying in a pool of her own blood, her head severed from her body by one of their sharp pincers.
She’s doubled over, gasping for breath. Before I help her or hold her or find the courage to see how badly she’s hurt, I survey the carnage, stepping into the pile of severed limbs, ensuring none can live to harm one more hair on her head.
Like a male possessed, I forge into their midst, chopping and slicing and piercing their thoraxes until I’ve ensured each and every heart has quit beating. Then I run to her side, grab her by her upper arms, and peer into her eyes.
She’s covered in blood, dripping with it. But she’s breathing.
“Where, Blaze? Where are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, unable to speak, eyes wide in terror.
“Please, Blaze. Neck? Legs?” She’s a mess, dripping blood and entrails.
“Your belly, Love. Did they pierce your belly?” That would be terrible. It would be the most excruciatingly painful way to die. By the end, she might beg me to hasten her trip to the afterlife.
“I don’t know.”
I’ve seen this before in the arena. It’s shock. Her mind quit working. Her lips are numb. She’s still clutching the club tightly in both hands.
Turning in a full circle, I look one more time, but no more crindles are encroaching. I lift her, somehow keeping my sword dangling from my wrist as well as avoiding the bat she won’t release from her tense grip.
Running to the stream, I slip, and we both almost tumble down the embankment. Wading into the shallow water, I set her bottom down in the middle of the sandy stream, plunge my sword into the stream bed next to my right foot, and wash her with swift and steady handfuls of water.
When I look down at myself, I see I’m covered in blood and guts, too. Am I bleeding? I feel nothing, but that’s not surprising. I’m still in the in-between place between autopilot and reality.
When I’ve thoroughly bathed her, I inspect her, then pull her to standing to scrutinize her more thoroughly. There’s a deep slice on her forearm that would require stitches if life were normal. She certainly won’t get medical attention while participating in The Game .
Her thigh also has a crimson gash. And that’s it. All the rest of the blood she’d been bathed in was crindle blood. Not hers.
Her mouth is working, but she’s saying nothing. She’s in shock. It’s understandable. I bathe, then inspect myself for injuries. Nothing but a few scratches on my thighs’ thick plating.
I have no idea how long the battle raged, but one of the suns has already set, the other is edging toward the horizon.
The drones, as always, are close enough I could almost reach out and grab one. Looking straight into the camera, I say, “You want your show tonight? You’ll get it, but not like this. This female needs medical supplies: antibiotics, antiseptics, a portable medbot to stitch her up, and plas-film. We need food and water—plenty of it. Do some recon and do it quickly. We need a safe place to bed down for the night and we need to get there before it’s pitch black. We’ll give you a show. It will be money in the bank for you. But you have to do your part.”
I turn my back on them. Fuck them. We’re worth millions to them tonight. Taking care of their fighting stock—their fucking stock—is a small price to pay.
Blaze
My lips are numb. Not just my lips. My hands and legs. I was so hot earlier, but I’m cold now. My teeth are chattering even though it’s still got to be close to a hundred degrees out here.
My mind is sluggish, like I’m walking through quicksand, only it’s my thoughts that are slow. I hurt all over, although maybe that’s just my imagination. I almost died a hundred times today, or is that just a bad dream?
If that’s a dream, then the good part is a dream too. The part where Titan called me “love.” Is that a dream? I’m not sure if I want it to be real or not.