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The grand colosseum is at capacity. I'm not sure how many spectators it can hold, but certainly, it runs into tens of thousands. The tiered stone bench seating holds frenzied, blood-lusting crowds who scream in feverish excitement as they chant for blood. From the vantage of the more civilized gallery, they appear to be a colorful, writhing sea. Their wildness crawls under my skin, merging into one great cacophony of raucous revelry.
Overhead, shuttles zip past in endless streams. Some take steep ascents into the outer atmosphere as they head for deep space, others hang low in the brilliant blue sky as they ferry beings from one place to another. Although this strange community has many rustic districts, other areas are high-tech beyond my personal understanding. When I first arrived, I would watch the shuttles like I was watching a lost hope. Now I barely notice them, and my senses are filled with other closer concerns.
I blink grit from my eyes. Everything about Zure is gritty. It layers the stone ground and is cast into the air by every hot breeze.
I have lived here for three months and hated every moment.
The great orc lady who sits beside me holds out her goblet. I hasten to collect the rustic pitcher of wine from the not-very-rustic cooler. They like to play uncivilized but draw the line at warm wine.
I carry the pitcher to her and fill her waiting goblet.
She doesn't thank me as she draws the full vessel to her lips. I am a slave, a cherished pet to my orc mistress, one she enjoys keeping in her company. But I'm still a slave. No thanks are given to one like me.
She is calm, unlike the savage crowds. A regal presence with high standing in the community watching the blood sport taking place on the sandy floor of the grand colosseum.
I return the pitcher to the cooler. The machine whirrs and rumbles as it powers up after the opening, and I hasten to my low stool beside my mistress.
"No!" she cries, rising from her padded lounger and sending wine sloshing over the stone floor. Her favored gladiator has fallen and is being dragged away to the boos of the crowd.
Her mate chuckles. They like to make bets on the winner of the games and are competitive with one another
How did I end up here as a slave? That's an excellent question and one steeped in mystery. If I knew who had betrayed me, I would… I would do… nothing.
There is nothing I can do. I am a slave here. I am powerless.
I thought about trying to hack into my orc mistress' computer. But their technology is as alien to me as my mistress, and I have no hope.
Before I became a slave, I was wealthy. I can only presume somebody sought to remove me and claim what was mine. There are a few candidates, my brother, for one. He is weaselly and weak, but I struggle to believe he might have done this to me.
Then there is my sister, who is vain and pretentious. But I also find it hard to assimilate that she might have betrayed me.
Finally, there is my slimy uncle, a man I thoroughly abhor. He is too stupid to plan my kidnapping and extraction to another world. I cannot believe it is him either, which leaves me with nobody, nobody at all.
I have spent many nights pondering how I came to be here, fruitless nights scouring every interaction and memory for some hint of the truth. If nothing else, I would like a target for my desolate anger to help me better reconcile my fate.
I'm not reconciled, I admit. And as hot days come and go, my hope diminishes.
I am roused from my sorry rumination as a great cheer goes up.
The final contest has begun.
Far below, two monstrous males fight under the high, brutal sun. Sword slashing, triton stabbing, and blood spraying to the crowd's jeers, boos, and cheers. The spectators have a favorite. Crowds always do, I have come to understand.
The male orc sitting beside my mistress rises from his seat and roars his encouragement. He is alien to me, towering, green-skinned, and heavily muscled. I call them orcs, although they are merely aliens who look like orcs. Beside him, I am tiny and fragile. Even his mate is head and shoulders above me.
On the gritty colosseum floor, the two males continue their deadly dance. In keeping with the bygone theme, they are dressed like gladiators of old. Although they are nothing like human gladiators, the term brings to mind.
The green-scaled bipedal reptilian creature brandishing a net and triton goes by the name of Roderick. He is the local favorite and always a crowd-pleaser.
His counterpart is an outsider, red-skinned and humanoid with great size and musculature…. And then there are his curved black horns and the long, sinuous spear-tipped tail. His name is Kastor, and he is a kind of Devlin. They come in various colors and textures with skin, fur, or scaling.
Oh, and they have unusual reproductive equipment, according to my mistress, who discussed this in detail with her friends over lunch. I tried not to listen. Whether Kastor has two cocks or just the one with protrusions is the least of my concerns.
Today's finale is particularly ferocious. The risks of participating in the fights are high, but so are the rewards: money, precious jewels, and even slaves are gifted by various wealthy patrons to create the prize packs. There is no shortage of gladiators vying to compete.
I have seen bodies carried off more often during the finale than in earlier bouts. Careers are made or lost on the outcome as often as not, as are lives. Some of those who fall will recover in the replicators. But sometimes they leave in pieces, the kind of pieces that cannot be repaired.
The crowd only cares for one outcome as they chant for blood.
