Once the freighter had come to a rest, a number of, what appeared to be, med-mechs entered the hold. Systematically, they performed brief physical inspections on all of the
passengers
, seeming to check their vital stats before outfitting them with some kind of restraint collar. They then injected each with a hypo booster, the contents of which Jarred could only speculate on. Strangely, once his own physical had been performed, the mech refrained from injecting him with the same booster, leaving him that much more curious as to what the hypo contained, as well as why the others had been injected, but not himself.
That particular mystery became less relevant as the hold’s bay door unsealed, lowering into its open position. As med-mechs completed their exams and exited, a number of security-mechs entered in their place. In unison, the restraint guards that bound all of the passengers to their seats, unlocked.
“Rise,” one of the security-mechs ordered, “and exit down the cargo bay ramp in an orderly fashion.”
Jarred supposed that’s what they were to the mechs. Cargo. No different than any other shipment of goods, accept that they could be directed. He couldn’t fault them for that. They were machines, programmed for whatever purpose their owner’s saw fit. They didn’t feel guilt or regret. Those things didn’t compute. The organic beings that had brought them here though, and those that waited in the arena to be entertained by their deaths,
could
feel those things, but chose not to. He
could
fault them.
As he and the others were herded, much like cattle, out of the freighter and through the, near empty, bay they had docked in, he allowed himself the minor pleasure of fantasizing about what he would do to the people that had so arbitrarily sentenced them all to death, if he ever had the chance. It was a distraction, of course, that took away from the clear focus of his real objective, but it was only a momentary one and served to bolster his resolve.
From the bay, they were led through a series of scarcely lit corridors, the mechs not requiring the aid of illumination with infrared optics, to a large and rather simple looking holding cell. It had no barrier fields, or reinforced blast doors. It was, quite literally, a cage. A wall of metal bars was all that would keep them contained in the room, along with the security-mech detail that remained outside of it once they had all been moved inside. The only other exit being the large door on the opposite the cage barrier, which no doubt led into the arena.
The cell itself was filthy and wreaked of the of hoards of fearful arena fodder that would have passed through it, the prisoners that surrounded him now adding to the pungent aroma. The sounds of a chanting crowd could be heard through the walls and ceiling. The muffled cheers and the stomping of feet. It obviously did little to calm the strained nerves of his fellow
sportsmen,
most of which sat cowering of the cell floor. Jarred’s own heart was also pounding, as he anticipated what was to come. He didn’t try to calm it. The adrenaline was pumping now, readying him for battle. He would need it when the door before him finally opened.
The time passed slowly, as he waited for it to do just that. In a way, the waiting was more agonizing than not knowing what he would be faced with on the other side of the door. Whatever it was, he felt he was prepared for it. He
would
defeat it. And then what? That was the part he was truly unsure of. What if he
did
survive the contest? What would happen then? How would he be able to escape this place, the Sect, the Rai Chi? How would he return to Elora?
He attempted to clear his mind again. Those were questions he couldn’t even consider at the moment. First he had to survive. Devoting any of his focus to anything but that now would only serve as a distraction that would leave him vulnerable in the arena. And he would fall. He would deal with escape when the time came and when the opportunity presented itself. For now, his focus needed to be on one thing and one thing alone.
A loud bang sounded out from the arena door, a bolt lock of some kind disengaging, reminding Jarred of what that one thing was. It was followed by the sound of old metal grinding on even older metal as the arena door began to rise, allowing the bright light on the other side to flood inside, temporarily blinding him. The chants and stomping of the crowd grew louder as the sounds were allowed to flow inside with the bright light.
Glancing back towards the barred cell wall, Jarred saw the security-mechs begin to prod at the cowering prisoners with their stun batons, urging them forward towards the opening. He didn’t need any such encouragement. He was eager to enter the arena. Ready to face what it had in store for him. Turning back towards the glowing doorway, he took another calming breath. And stepped through the light.
Chapter 33
“Welcome to the Blood Dome!”
Traug put on his most hospitable persona as he ushered the Rai Chi onto the arena’s private viewing balcony, though he was sure to not appear too cheerful, or overly friendly. From what he had observed, the warrior race thought little of such pleasantries. In fact, he was certain they would have viewed any such sentiments as a weakness on his part. He spoke confidently and to the point, ensuring he always maintained a level of respect, or what they would perceive to be respect, as their high placement of themselves called for no less, but he did not grovel.
It was one of his gifts. The ability to read other beings. Doing so, accurately, allowed him to determine what drove them, and in turn, how they could be manipulated. The Rai Chi had appeared to be lacking in the more common motivations, but even they were driven by something. It hadn’t taken Traug very long to ascertain what that was.
Pride. They were a fiercely proud race, these warriors. It was their primary driving force. They attempted to veil it in colorful, yet meaningless terms, such as
honor
and
glory for their Gods
and people
, but that was all they were. At the base of everything, their motivations were personal, as he had learned from Shu’ma’s own actions.
He had been issued some kind of mandate from his superiors to capture and return with the human bounty hunter, as Traug’s surveillance of the Rai Chi’s, supposedly private, holo-communique had indicated, though he had chosen to ignore the directive. To put his own need for personal vengeance before that of his mandate. A very telling move on his part.
Traug’s intuition had served him well in offering up the arena’s amenities, as had Shu’ma’s lust for blood. Another trait the Rai Chi seemed to share with so many other species. In truth, the more he observed them, the more similarities he was beginning to see. He supposed they really weren’t so different after all.
“Beings come from all over the system to enjoy the games. They are quite exhilarating.” Shu’ma snorted at the comment, dismissively. He obviously felt himself above such . . .
simple
trappings. Traug could sympathize, though they did fulfill a purpose. “Not that one such as yourself would be taken with such things,” he added, turning back to take in the view that the special seating allowed. “Though I believe today’s
particular
events will hold your interest.”
The private balcony was situated at the top of a tall solitary spire, high above the arena floor, providing an excellent view for its high profile occupants, though Traug doubted they were impressed. The arena stands held a full capacity crowd, as was often the case for the blood games, the rhythmic chants that boomed from both the amplification system and the excited spectators bolstering what was an electrically charged atmosphere.
“In that one thing,” Shu’ma’s translator regurgitated after the warrior had replied, “I believe we are in agreement.”
A grin came to Traug’s face as he glimpsed one of the large arena doors begin to rise open. He noted the two Rai Chi’s obvious looks of interest, as unsuccessfully concealed as they were, and his smile broadened. This had indeed been a brilliant plan.
Let the games begin.
* * *
The wild roar of the crowd was nearly deafening as Jarred and the rest of the slaves stepped out into the arena, the spectators having to number, what he estimated to be, upwards of ten thousand. The rising tiers of viewing stands seemed to climb up, almost without limit, to overlook the sandy arena pit, and from what he could see, it looked as though every seat had been spoken for. The event had drawn quite the crowd. In addition to the large percentage of Syntax employees that would be present, the events no doubt a perk to their live-in work assignments; at a
reduced
admission price; the arena would also be packed with avid blood sport enthusiasts and gamblers.
The viewing stands encircled the fighting pit completely, but for a solitary structure at one end of the arena, which divided the stands from the edge of the pit’s high wall midway to the top of the highest stadium tier. It protruded outward from there another ten meters, presumably so that none of the spectators could gain access to the viewing balcony built into its summit. It would serve as a private, secure viewing area for high profile guests. Jarred glimpsed the easily distinguishable figures that dwelled within the structure, feeling their eyes on him in turn. Today it was the Rai Chi who watched from the premium vantage point, but unlike the rest of the roaring spectators, they had not come to enjoy the games. They had come for him alone. To watch him bleed. To watch him fall.
He was afraid he would have to disappoint them.
Jarred glanced back as the heavy gate dropped shut behind him, sealing them all inside the arena. In a mass, they worked their way out into the center of the pit area, an avalanche of jeers and hisses raining down on them, along with disposable food and beverage receptacles and other garbage, as the crowd began to take notice of their arrival. The motley crew he found himself a member of was obviously not what the spectators had come to see.
Once Jarred and rest of the terrified slaves had settled in the pit’s center, the amplification system boomed to life with the animated voice of a sporting commentator.
“Gentlemen, ladies, children, beings of all forms . . . behold these most wretched creatures that soil the sacred battleground below! Your hatred for them is well placed! Their kind were a plague to many worlds in centuries past, mad beings devolved into rabid cannibals! A diseased pestilence thankfully cleansed from the face of the system by Sect extermination squads! They are savages! They are monsters! Behold . . . the Cursed Hoard!”
The hate filled roar that followed
the over-the-top introduction shook the ground beneath Jarred’s feet. He looked at the cowering beings around him. Hardly the vicious monsters the commentator spoke of, though the audience seemed to hate them no less for it.
“And now,”
the booming voice continued, dramatically, the hateful jeers of the crowd transitioning into those of excited anticipation.
“Your heroes for this event! The cleansing warriors! The light in a time of great darkness! The Blood Dome is honored to present to you . . . the Exterminators!”
Jarred had believed the reaction to their own announcement to be strong, but the thunderous applause that came from the introduction of the gladiators rendered it nearly insignificant by comparison. Hoots and cries of approval mixed with a chaotic orchestra of varying noise makers, all of it overshadowed by the almost rhythmic thumping of the stands. The noise continued to grow more powerful as the arena gate, opposite to the one Jarred had entered the arena through, began to open. After a purposefully long moment passed, increasing the tension and excitement in the stands, slow moving figures began to move out of the darkness of gated tunnel. The gladiators.
The Exterminators.
Each of the imposing warriors looked impressive in their own right, there were six in total, and was clad in unique battle armor, hardly reminiscent of any Sect trooper, though Jarred guessed the crowd cared little for historical inaccuracies. Even without their combined arsenal of brutal looking weaponry, the poorly named
Cursed Hoard
hardly stood a chance of surviving more than a few moments. Jarred knew he was in for a harrying fight himself. This would be a slaughter, and all for the blood thirsty pleasure of the crowd.
Jarred took, what he assumed would be, a last glance around at the petrified faces of the slaves with him, and was taken aback when he didn’t see them. Instead of thirty-plus fearful, pathetic beings cowering in the face of their own certain deaths, he found something else entirely. Something that chilled him to the bone. Their hunched, broken figures had become quite rigid and eerily still. Saliva dripped from most of their mouths, or what passed for mouths for their respective species’. More so, it was the eyes that caught Jarred’s breath in his chest. Eyes that had once conveyed an understandable fear and despair now stared, unblinking and dilated, with a hungry animal focus, ahead. They were filled with rage and what he could only describe as madness.