Chapter 23 Penny
PENNY
My plan sucked. It might be the worst plan in history, even counting the idiots who played with antimatter. It had exactly one redeeming feature—the chance it might work.
For Varok, anyway. Me? I’d die, bloody and in agony, on the sands of an alien arena. The Collectors hadn’t told me what fate they planned for me, but after the show they put on when we first arrived, I could guess.
The servitors dragged me into the Hive without speaking, throwing me into a cell barely large enough to lie down in. They stripped me with cold efficiency, leaving me naked and shivering before they withdrew. No sooner had the door slid shut when a disembodied voice questioned me.
“Where is the art you took?” The speaker sounded male, angry, and slightly out of focus, like a chorus of voices almost speaking in unison. A Collector. At least I’d attracted the attention of the people in charge.
“You’ve got it,” I said, crossing my arms and picking an arbitrary piece of wall to glare at. “You recovered it along with me, unless you geniuses didn’t recognize its travel case.”
“The Night Watch is where it belongs. The other pieces—where are they?”
I’d almost forgotten that Varok had stuffed his stasis field with loot before I hijacked his getaway plan. Well, if they blamed me, that left the big silver idiot in the clear. “I’ll tell you—in exchange for The Night Watch and my life, along with a trip to a safe planet.”
The squawk of outrage was reward enough for my demand. “You will tell us or suffer the consequences.”
“Yeah? What, I’m supposed to believe you won’t feed me to your monster-pets?” I snorted. “So I don’t know what you’re threatening me with.”
“The art!” A harsh buzz of static filled the air as the speaker shouted. “You barbarian, the art you have hidden will be destroyed unless we recover it.”
“So make me an offer.”
“We will slay you quickly. Your end need not be painful.”
“That is a terrible offer. I’d rather not die.”
“You are mortal. Your death will find you. I give you the chance to die without suffering.”
“No deal.”
And with that, the negotiation ended. I kept glaring in case he said something else, but the cell remained silent and eventually I had to rest. How long I spent there, shivering on the cold, hard crystal of my cell, I couldn’t tell.
The constant dim lighting gave me no clues.
There was no clock to watch, and they’d stripped me of everything, including my comm.
The walls and floor were all hard crystal with nothing to soften them.
Getting comfortable was impossible, and I wondered if hypothermia would rob the Collectors of their arena show.
I curled into a ball, hugging my knees and conserving heat as much as possible, but my muscles started screaming at me in short order.
At least I’m protecting Varok, I told myself. He’d better be taking advantage of that.
The thought of losing him was worse than any physical pain, like an ice dagger in my heart.
It hardly seemed possible that I’d never see him again, never feel his fierce grip, his firm, full lips on mine.
I’d even miss our stupid arguments, and the way he jumped head-first into problems without a plan.
My eyes stung, and my body shook. Just the cold, I lied to myself.
At last, the cell door slid open with an ostentatious whoosh, drawing my attention back from my half-slumber.
Beyond, I heard the shouts and chants of the crowd, but the doorway stood empty.
A brief spark of hope flared in my heart before I ruthlessly crushed it.
This wasn’t a rescue. It was my execution.
For a moment, I considered staying in the cell. Why should I collaborate in my own death? But resisting seemed pointless. At best, I’d buy myself another few minutes of freezing discomfort before someone dragged me out to die. At worst, they might just wait for me to leave or starve.
So I straightened up, stretched to relieve my stiff and aching muscles, and left the cell, doing my best to move with poise and confidence.
Fortunately for me, no one was watching, at least not in person.
A bare corridor led me to another chamber, its walls decorated with sculptures of alien warriors.
Across from me, a massive set of double doors led out to the arena, and flanking the doors were a beautiful pair of matching tables, carved from some ancient alien wood.
Antiques no longer up to the Collectors’ standards?
The table to my left held a wide variety of weapons.
Any weapon I could ask for, provided I didn’t ask for anything more advanced than a sword. To my right, a table laden with armor.
“I have no idea how to use any of these,” I protested aloud. No response was forthcoming.
Swallowing my anger, I lifted one weapon after another, searching in vain for something I’d be able to use effectively. A pair of daggers, fast and deadly? If I got that close to a monster, I’d already be dead. A long, curved sword? I could barely lift it, let alone wield it.
In the end, I chose a spear, on the theory that it’d keep the fight as far from me as possible.
In case it didn’t, I picked up a short, wickedly sharp sword.
I knew the theory from a thousand documentaries—the spear to keep my foes at a distance, the sword in case they got past it.
That had served human armies from China to Rome for millennia.
Practice, of course, was something else entirely.
I’d never held either weapon, let alone trained with them.
A few practice swings of the sword left me wincing at the weight.
I doubted I’d even be able to hold the damned thing for long, but it was better than facing my death unarmed.
At least it gives me a chance to fight back.
I turned my attention to the armor, which was even less promising.
It wasn’t useless—the hyperceramic plate would stop a bullet or spread the impact of a blaster bolt.
Would it hold up against the crystal claws of the Collectors’ pets?
I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. None of the outfits on offer covered enough of me to keep me safe.
“Arena armor is always about showing off the gladiators rather than protecting them,” I reminded myself as I picked through them, settling on the armor least likely to get in my way. “It’s better than nothing. Probably.”