Thread and Stone

Chapter 1

UNRECOGNIZABLE

AMARA

THE OTHER TWO nurses go statue-still, faces turned towards their shoes like the lack of eye contact might save them from a little work and discomfort. Selfish pricks. It’s times like these I wish I were a shittier person.

Hand raised, I step forward and say, “I’ve got it.”

Solta waves in confirmation and returns to her datapad with complete disinterest. If no one had volunteered, she would’ve randomly assigned someone and never checked whether they’d done the job.

She doesn’t care if the gladiator lives or dies, as long as she doesn’t have to deal with him. Fucking infuriating.

Gripping my med-bag, I follow my escort away from the Nurse’s Room and down the darkened passageway.

Light from the outside world bursts beneath the cell doors in glowing strips that cast strange shadows over the jagged surface of the stone floor.

The shadows are fitting, but the warm glow is not.

It just adds another layer of incongruity to an already unsettling environment.

Like a haunted house with children’s songs playing in the background.

There’s nothing warm here. Nothing comforting.

Just stone, death, and the promise of a lifetime spent in perpetual hell.

The walk is short, maybe 30 feet or so, but with each step, my will to continue shrinks. The fetid stench leaking out of Cell 3 is already so thick in the air my eyes are watering, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to regret my decision. But I ignore it and keep moving.

Embrace the suck, Amara.

Yuxta, my pain-in-the-ass escort, pushes one of his three-fingered hands into my back, ushering me right up to the door. His face is placid and unmoving, and I can’t help but wonder if he even has a sense of smell. Probably not. There’s no way his poker face is that good.

I wait for him to sort through the keys while I try to think about anything other than the smell.

It’s not easy. The species on the other side of that door is a level of rank I didn’t know was possible, and that’s why I’m here.

Fighting for every breath. Because if I don’t keep this fucker alive, no one else will, and I don’t feel like giving the Magistrate another dead slave.

A clunk reverberates off the orange-hued walls as Yuxta turns the lock.

“When was his last dose given?” I ask.

He shakes his shoulders in what I’ve determined is a shrug before saying, “Wait inside when you are done.”

I bite back a sarcastic remark as I realize the guy who can’t remember when he sedated the giant space-spider thinks that I’m the one with memory issues.

Clenching my jaw, I drop my gaze to the ground. Sure, Yuxta seems nice, but I’m not dumb enough to assume he’s on my side. A single snarky comment could be the end of my road, and I’m saving my final ‘fuck-you’ for someone a little higher up the food chain.

The door swings open and I step over the threshold, holding my breath.

“I will return rapidly,” Yuxta says.

I nod at the awkward translation and wait for him to partially close the door behind me. When he’s gone, I dart past the sedated alien, drop my med-bag on the table, and stick my face out of the hole in the wall that serves as a window.

The rush of fresh air and sunlight is like a drug, and I take my time soaking it in.

From here, the view of the sprawling Calidus desert is stunning.

Endless, undulating dunes stretch out as far as the eye can see.

Distant rocky outcroppings cast long shadows through the morning haze.

Sand dances in the breeze, bursting upwards into the pale sky with enviable freedom.

What a beautiful prison.

With a final breath of untainted air, I leave the window and face my task.

My patient, the spider-like Thoratlium, is on the bed with his many legs sticking upwards in the exact way you'd expect. If I were to go off smell and appearance alone, I’d say the guy is dead. But he’s not. The creepy bastard is chittering in his sleep.

Taking shallow breaths through my mouth, I slip on a pair of gloves, turn on the adjustable lamp, and inspect his injuries.

Deep gouges run along his carapace, and one of his legs is cocked at an unnatural angle.

Definitely broken. Or dislocated? I don’t know.

Alien physiology isn’t my forte, and in the year I’ve been here, no one has offered me any real training.

“Looks like you got quite the ass-kicking,” I mumble as I fill a syringe with a fresh dose of sedative.

Since Yuxta couldn’t tell me when the spider got his last dose, I’m giving him a ‘safety-dose’.

Dying at the hands—claws?—of a giant space-spider is not at the top of my to-do list, and neither is being deemed a ‘criminal’ and mysteriously vanishing.

No one will outright say what happens to the nurses who break the law and vanish, but we all know. The Magistrate loves his overcomplicated rules and thinly veiled threats. God, I hate that fucker. I can’t wait to give him a thinly veiled threat of my own.

The spider’s leg twitches as I stick the needle in the joint near his carapace, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Holy shit,” I gasp as my heart tries to pound out of my chest.

Ok. Calm down. He isn’t waking up, he’s just twitching.

I’d love to say I’m not scared of the gladiators, but that would be a lie.

They’re all scary. Even the ones that don’t look threatening are here for one reason and one reason only: they’re really good at killing.

This little guy might be smaller than me, but he’s heavier than shit and he’s still alive.

Since only one gladiator can leave the arena with a pulse, it’s clear this eight-legged freak is capable of some serious damage.

With the sedative in his system, the spider’s chittering finally quiets down.

While I’m grateful for the sedatives, I’m not so grateful for the reason we use them.

A while back, I asked Solta about it, and she gave me some cock-and-bull story about the nurse’s femininity distracting the gladiators, resulting in poor fight outcomes.

But if that were the case, why have only female nurses?

It makes no sense until you realize the Magistrate is scared of us.

I’ve read enough history books to know that when a subjugated people are allowed to communicate freely, those in power don’t last very long.

I work quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds while taking frequent breaks at the window for fresh air. Surprisingly, I haven’t puked yet. Yay for me!

Now to address the leg.

There’s definitely something wrong with it, and I’m leaning towards dislocation.

I prod along the joint and frown. The exoskeleton’s still intact, and if I remember anything about bugs, they don’t have an endoskeleton. But this is an alien, not a bug. And I’m pretty sure bugs can’t be this big without having an endoskeleton. Right?

Wishing I had a textbook on alien orthopedics, I grab the leg, say a prayer to whoever’s listening, and yank. There’s a satisfying pop, and the leg settles into a more natural position.

“Would you look at that,” I mutter. Somehow, I nailed it.

Feeling content, I splint the joint, rip my gloves off, and wait for Yuxta by the door.

The gap he left is just wide enough for me to get a consistent flow of fresh air, but I have to lean awkwardly against the doorframe to enjoy it. After a few minutes, my muscles start to burn, and my impatience grows. Yuxta should be back by now.

Resisting the urge to poke my head into the hallway, I grip my med-bag to my chest and try to let my mind wander. Eventually, I hear the familiar thud of boots.

Finally.

The door swings open, and I’m face-to-face with … not Yuxta.

“Come,” Kyvern says. His nearly translucent skin bunches at his nose as he takes a deep sniff of the rank air.

I grimace. Fucking hell, I think he’s enjoying the stench.

With an obedient nod that feels very forced, I step into the darkened hall and try to appear non-threatening. Kyvern’s ability to flip from calm to violent in a heartbeat is shocking, and the last thing I want is to piss him off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Kyvern and wait for him to close the door. But he’s just standing there.

I’m about to ask what’s wrong when his lips curl and my stomach sinks.

Fuck me, that’s a smile. Kyvern doesn’t smile.

Forcing myself to stay calm, I keep my eyes low and my breathing steady, but that goes out the window a second later when he lowers his head and fixes his dark, predatory eyes on me.

Instinct takes over, and I run.

A laugh that sounds like breaking glass follows me. Not good.

I turn to look, feet still propelling me forward, and watch as Kyvern coils his muscles and slams the cell door shut.

The crashing sound of metal on metal hits me like a thousand knives.

Panic swells. I try to breathe through it.

It’s just a sound, Amara. You’re fine. But I’m not fine.

Terror takes root. Nerve endings scream.

Adrenaline burns as my heart works to escape containment.

I try to stop the downward spiral, but I’m already too far gone.

Past the point of no return. My ears roar as a familiar fog creeps over my vision until all I can see is that bright square of light in a sea of shadow.

I grip my face, trying to push myself back to the present.

Back to reality. But it doesn’t work. My legs are still moving, but the square of light isn’t getting any closer.

Because it’s not real. But it feels real.

Something catches my foot. My stomach rises as I drop.

I reach out, bracing myself to meet the stone floor.

But it’s not stone. No, no, no, no. Cold metal presses into my skin.

The smell of sweat and shit and death surrounds me. And then the screams start.

My entire body jolts as something touches me.

I try to fight back, desperate to strike my attacker, but my arms feel like lead.

They’re too heavy. And I can’t see. Oh my god, I can’t see.

Hysteria rises in my throat until I realize I’m not blind.

My eyes are just closed. I try peeling them open.

They’re sticky, and my vision is blurred.

“You are safe,” someone says. Hands touch my shoulders. Non-threatening. Not an attack. I blink a few times, and Roveen’s slim face and drooping antennae come into focus. Not an attacker.

My head falls back, and I groan at the unforgiving surface beneath me. Something sharp is digging into my spine and my bare thighs. Because I’m on the floor. In the Nurse’s Room.

“How did I—” I stop when Roveen’s antennae go rigid and she flicks her eyes to the side.

Solta’s watching us with an annoyed expression. “She is fine, Roveen,” Solta says. “Get back to your duties.”

Roveen gives me an apologetic glance and stands. The motion is enough to throw off my equilibrium, and I have to close my eyes to fight the nausea rising in my throat. Eventually, the feeling goes away, and I’m able to open my eyes again.

Neat shelves of medical equipment tower over me from my prone position. Everything looks odd from down here, and the floating, disconnected feeling in my body isn’t helping.

It happened again.

I want to scream in frustration, but it won’t help. I should get up. Try to act normal. But I can’t. Not yet.

The underside of the table catches my attention, and my first thought is, ‘Huh, no gum,’ followed by a surge of unwanted memories.

The smell of leaves in the fall. The feeling of grass under my feet.

The nostalgia of an old book. I push it all down, and I try to ignore the ache in my chest. There’s a reason I pretend I had no life before this.

I’m ok. Everything’s ok.

Cool stone sucks the unwanted heat from my body as I try to piece together what happened before the flashback. I remember the Thoratlium, and—

Fuck. I press my palms over my eyes as the image of Kyvern’s sadistic grin comes rushing back.

Breathe, Amara. Breathe and forget.

Nope. Not working.

I sit up, grab the trash can Roveen must have left, and empty the contents of my stomach.

I despise the weakness of the human mind.

I should be able to push past this, to find a way out of the constant flashbacks, panic attacks, and blackouts, but I can’t.

I’m stuck. And somehow, the flashbacks are worse than the events that caused them.

Being in that box was awful, but being a prisoner in my own mind is worse.

When I’m confident my stomach has revolted as much as it can, I drop my head between my knees and drag my fingers over the uneven surface of the floor.

Somehow, nothing but rain, wind, and time ate away at this solid slab of stone, changing its unwavering surface into a nightmare of sharp peaks and deep crevices.

Changing it until it became something dangerous and unrecognizable.