Chapter 10

Flotsam

Chapter 10: The Arena

I am looking up at a two storey hologram of myself holding a severed head, imaginary blood dripping around me like gruesome rain.

“She is magnificent!” thunders Steadfast Freya, clapping me on the shoulder.

“One finds the severed head a bit much...” sniffs Bluebell critically.

We are here to see the gladiatorial spectacle commemorating the end of Shift Change, but really we’re here to see Halley-11. These last few days since my trip to the Grove have been spent finding a routine and definitely not fantasize about green women fucking. Which has mostly meant working in Hank’s bar and learning the basics of space bartending, with occasional solo trips into the city for errands. Errands, I suspect, that I was being sent on just so Hank and Freya could fuck without me uncomfortably listening. On one such errand to buy dried Groveberries from a nice old woman, I saw a hologram poster of myself, but wearing armour and holding a chainsaw sword. Gladiator Halley. And so here we are at the Arena. Or more accurately, next to the Arena, in the Plaza of Champions, standing at the foot of a giant holographic representation of myself with a severed head. I shake my head in disbelief.

“We should not tarry here,” Freya suggests. “Events have already commenced and we would do well to be in our seats before Halley the Destroyer fights.” I nod in agreement, but Bluebell stamps a hoof. “Snacks!” she lows. Freya rolls her eyes. We push into the crowd and begin to tack towards a row of food stalls.

The Plaza is awash in sapients: humans from all over the city, here to celebrate the end of their holiday, with a healthy representation of Reptilians, who seem to just love a good fight. Foreign food smells fill the air and busker music rises over the chatter of the crowd. Street performers carve out little pockets of space and amaze onlookers with feats of acrobatics or sleight of hand. Near another towering Champion hologram, hawkers have gewgaws laid out on carpets and bully the crowd to buy their wares. A pair of giant cartoonish monsters stage a battle, oblivious to the crowds, hologram puppets performing a Kaiju show for kids. Small drones zip through the air, trailing colourful streamers, either decoration or advertisement. Grey spheres sedately hover over everything, observing. The entire thing has a carnival atmosphere, a barely contained giant party.

Honestly, I’m feeling more than a bit nervous. The noisy crowd, while a fun spectacle, is triggering all kinds of anxiety complexes. Even before my trailer park days, I always avoided big gatherings like this, missing out on festivals, concerts, and big sportsball games. Which has always been a total bummer. On Flotsam, I’m going to do things differently. What’s a trip to a crowded Arena when you're the clone of a woman abducted by aliens? Deep breaths and try to have fun.

It occurs to me as we squeeze through the throng that the crowd is made of humans and Reptilians. For the first time on Flotsam, I don't really see any Blues. “Bluebell,” I ask, “why are there so few Blues here?”

“This one’s species does not condone violence for entertainment. To be seen attending the  Arena would harm ones Social Standing and enjoying the games is a form of Deviancy,” the cowgirl replies. Freya frowns and scoffs.

“Why did you want to come?” I ask.

“One is here out of friendship and a sense of anthropological curiosity. As one becomes more mammalian, one wants to understand the human fascination with violence, the way it thrills your species.”

Freya snorts and waves one of her hands dismissively, “She is just here to feast on snacks!”

Bluebell moos in amusement, “One does love snacks!”

I spot a group of Blues standing near a towering hologram of a Reptilian gladiator. These Blues are a decidedly punk rock looking bunch of aliens. Their androgynous bodies are taught with muscles, and their bare torsos and arms are covered in jagged tattoos. On their elongated heads they wear skullcaps with bright ponytails or mowhawk-like fans of hair. Three of the group are juggling knives, sometimes launching them back and forth between them, performing for a small audience . “What about them?”

Bluebell smiles, “Other Deviants!” She returns a circle-in-the-air gesture that one of the tattooed Blues makes at her. A Blue greeting? “Unlike this one, who was made Deviant for her perversion, these Blues are philosophical Deviants. They have rejected the Social Contract to practice a life of personal freedom and personal achievement. Their counterculture emphasizes competition and they believe that strength and force are types of personal realization.” Bluebell moos thoughtfully, “They love the Arena.”

Freya nods, “They are a wise band.”

With Freya being the crowd equivalent of an icebreaker, we are soon standing standing by a cluster of foodcarts. Something they are making smells delicious, and my mouth waters. I grimace, the persistent knot of anxiety in my stomach rules out eating. Bluebell happily begins collecting her supplies. From a scarred old Reptilian she buys an enormous bag of something like popcorn sprinkled with bright orange-red powder. A cute little bakery cart run by masked and robed humans sells the Blue cowgirl a large satchel of sweet cakes. A large thermos of sweetened tea and a tub of custard-analogue later, an excited Bluebell says she has what she requires. “Moo,” she adds a little bashfully, “One’s lactation requires a great many calories.”

Laden with supplies we begin the crowded journey to find our seats. The Arena looms above us, one of the largest structures on Flotsam, a giant cylinder devoted to combat. From the outside it reminds me of an air and space museum crossed with a jigsaw puzzle. Salvaged chemical rocket engines, each unique and multiple stories tall, form columns ringing the structure, each hung with bright cloth banners marking entrances. Between rocket columns the skin of the Arena is a quilt of different perforated steel plating raggedly welded together. From a distance it gives the Arena a uniform look, as though purpose built, but up close it's as improvised as the rest of the city, the substrate of the junk desert made monumental.

At the Fuchsia entrance we scan our Keybands, enter the building, and climb a long spiral ramp upward to our tier of seats. I stumble on a tricky kind of angled stair, and Freya catches me. Flustered I step into the knave of the Arena. I squint my eyes against the brightness, and goggle at the sheer majesty of the space.

As big as the Arena appears on the outside, somehow it seems even larger from inside. The floor of the arena, the actual fighting surface, is a circular pit filled with shockingly white sand. Around this pit is the original arena, an ampitheatre of cut red stone benches that step upward from the central pit. Above this are row after row of seats bolted to scaffolding, so steep they are almost stacked. The seats themselves are remarkable, a riot of recovered chairs from all manner of space debris: simple metal seats bolted next to wing-backed command thrones, next to rugged fighter pilot ejector chairs, rank after rank, as far as the eye can see. Above the collected space chairs are two levels of steel shipping containers cut with wide windows; scavenged private boxes. Finally just below the roof membrane, is a lattice of scaffold, a hanging standing-room-only gallery that people clip themselves into with carabiner harnesses. The place is packed with murmuring, chattering sapients creating a living cylinder of people and aliens surrounding a white Circle, lit with beams of sunlight and industrial lighting. It’s huge and claustrophic all at once.

The next event begins just as we we squeeze into our seats. In the Arena Circle below are two slight women, short and wiry, holding bows and wearing small quivers of arrows on their backs, ankles, and wrists. They are clothed in tight shorts and sportsbras, and their skin is painted in a dazzle camouflage of colourful lines, one red the other blue. Their hair is worn in tight braids, held in place with arrows, and is dyed in the opposite colour of their bodypaint. They look like twins or, since I’m living evidence, clones. Calmly, they pace out distances and stick arrows head first into the sand.

“They are warrior-acrobats, sisters from the Circus Armada,” Freya informs me.

The two archers strike a pose back to back, arrows nocked and bows drawn. A giant holographic Jumbotron floats in the air, showing a close up of the two pretty women smiling in fierce joy. A hum fills the stadium as drones hover out of trap doors on the perimeter of the circle. The drones have a wing and two rotors, like miniature versions of those Osprey planes in the videogames Clem used to play. Except in place of a fuselage, the engines and wing support a kind of nerf gun looking canon. One of the drones lazily wobbles and with a thump discharges it’s canon, firing a black sphere that expands to a softball, strikes the ground, and keeps growing into a shiny black bowling ball. A warning shot. “Immobilization rounds,” Freya says, “Non-lethal yet very effective.”

The drones form up in a circular formation, revolving sedately around the outer edge of the arena floor. Until, suddenly, by some unspoken command, each drone skews off, suddenly with a mind of its own. The two archers spring into motion, tumbling away from a barrage of black spheres in smooth somersaults. Both archers come up with arrows drawn, simultaneously letting fly, and sending two drones tumbling to the sand. The women both instantly move, dodging more spheres, one doing a cartwheel where she plucks an arrow out of the sand along the way, nocking and shooting as she lands, dispatching another drone. I grin in delight as it becomes a kind of dance, the drones swooping and shooting, the archers leaping and spinning off each other like dancers. They come together, snatch arrows from their partner’s quiver, and shoot and shoot and shoot, drones raining around them. It’s impressive and actually quite beautiful.

I hear a rowdy commotion and see a group of dudes happily berating a friend who is hunched over a hologram with something recognizably like crosshairs on it. “That one is piloting a drone right now,” Bluebell tells me. “As part of their act, the archery performers sell control of the drones to the audience. If the drones manage to immobilize the performers, the pilots will be awarded a significant prize of Currencies.” The rowdy dudes roar in mirth and the pilot curses as his hologram control snaps off. Below, a drone skewered by an arrow, falls almost lazily to the ground.

Freya makes a disgusted noise, “These pilots are such fools! They do not marshal the strength of their numbers to hunt as a pack, or utilize the tactics of the wing.” The Nordic woman thumps her chest with her two right arms, “If I had control of the drones I could quickly dispatch these tumbling archers!”

Bluebell rolls here eyes and moos rudely, tossing orange-red popcorn at Freya.

The two archer acrobats are rapidly running out of drones to shoot down. One archer picks off another drone from her knees and curls up into a ball, Child’s Pose yoga style. The other archer runs, vaults off her back, and launches herself through the air, firing four arrows, before landing in a controlled tumble. Only one drone remains, circling for a better angle of attack. The two women launch themselves into a series of backflips, the drone firing a barrage of spheres as it swings around. The women, mid flip, each snatch up an arrow, and arrest back-to-back. They let fly, simultaneously hitting the final drone, which plummets to the ground, dead. The pair holds the pose as the Arena erupts in celebration, Reptilians drumming their tails and humans clapping, or whistling, or stamping their feet. I’m standing with my fist in the air shouting and feeling a bit silly.

I blush as I sit back in my spacefighter jock seat. Freya smiles and playfully elbows me with one of her arms. In the Arena Circle the archers alternate between waving, blowing kisses, and collecting arrows from the wreckage of drones. A troop of beautiful human women and men wearing bikini and brief analogues come skipping out to shovel debris into scuttling robotic trash bins. Freya summons a hologram from her Keyband and taps out something in a menu.  Bluebell is complacently chewing on snacks, snout and fingers stained with the orange-red dust of her food. A cloud of quadcopter drones fill the arena, one cruising over to Freya, and delivering a chilled, probably alcoholic beverage. The scantily clad pretties finish cleaning and the archers take one last bow; the Arena is reset for the next exhibition.

A huge horn blares, like one of those alpine things, and a hulking creature ambles into the circle. It looks like an ape crossed with a warthog; I almost giggle when I think of a joke from one of Clem’s stupid cartoons. The creature, or maybe Sapient, is covered in a pelt of slate grey fur and absolutely bulges with muscle. He, based on his bulging TV wrestler briefs, would probably be a dozen feet tall but is hunched, walking on all fours like a gorilla, knuckles on the ground. His face pushes out in a stubby muzzle, pig-nosed with sharp looking tusks. His eyes are large and surprisingly soulful. “Aggronotham the Strongest,” Freya purrs with appreciation. “An Orckonian from a high gravity planet. He is a talented bard who fights challengers to earn his keep.”

Bluebell pauses her munching and moos like a sigh. I glance at both women and see a pair of crushes. I look back at the huge Sapient, frowning. “You are both attracted to him?”

“Oh yes,” Bluebell says dreamily.

“He is a warrior and poet both,” Freya says. “Of course.”

“And he is endowed like one of your human horses!” Bluebell says, before mooing lustfully.

Aggronotham stands to his full height, throws back his head and howls. The crowd of spectators rumbles their appreciation noises. In a wonderfully rich, cultured voice Aggro shouts, “Who has come today to challenge the Strongest!?”

As if in answer another blast of the alpine horn sounds, and four new combatants enter the circle. They are Blues, bare chests and arms covered in lean, ropey muscles, their blue skin covered in jagged swirls of tattoos. They wear loose pants and steel shod boots and gloves and brandish bat length metal clubs that spark with electricity. The four Blues form a loose circle around the Orkonian, shifting their weight from foot to foot. “Deviants!” Bluebell lows happily.

Freya scoffs, “They shall be as chaff before the reaper.”

“Indeed?” Bluebell says, voice a little wounded. “One would not be so confident. These Deviants are versed in the ancient technique of Groupstrike.”

Freya smirks rubbing her four hands together, “Mayhaps we shall make a wager?”

Bluebell moos with determination, “We shall! If the Blues win, you will give this one a dozen jars of Hank’s honey.”

“A steep price,” Freya says happily. “And when they are defeated?”

“If Aggronotham is victorious, one will give you two dewars of her milk.” The two women shake hands, one from a set of four and one snack stained and hoof tipped.

The horn blares and the Blue combatants start to circle Aggronotham. Hidden drums slowly tap out a rhythm in time with their steps. One of the Blues feints a straight on attack, and simultaneously another Blue dashes in from the side. Aggro ignores the feint, turning to meet the second Blue, who throws a very conservative taser chop. The drums pick up the tempo, catching the rush of action. The third and fourth Blue, as if on silent cue, have already launched their own attacks and both strike the Orconian with blows that crackle with electricity, staggering the hulking alien. Larger drums boom like thunder with each blow. The five fighters come apart, the Blues circling, the drums slowing to a cautious tap tap tap. Again the entire Blue group launches a silent, coordinated attack, moving as a unit to feint and strike, drum music swelling to match the action like a Taiko team. This time the Blues press their advantage as Aggro lashes out at nothing and is struck by repeated electrified blows. The drums thud and surge, making the entire Arena shake with percussion. Blindly Aggro throws a mighty arm out, and with the crash of a gong, he lands a glancing strike on a Blue, sending them tumbling. The Blues regroup, and the drums quiet. The Orckonian shakes his head and gathers himself for the next assault.

“They use Scentspeak to act as one,” Bluebell says with pride.

“They fare better than I expected,” Freya mutters with grudging respect.

The Deviant Blues reset themselves and begin another round of silent, scent signaled attacks. The drummers eagerly increase their beat. This time one of the group, the struck one, moves just a little too slowly and the Strongest manages to catch them with a solid punch that hurls the Blue off their feet and leaves them groaning on the ground, clutching their ribs. The other Blues continue their blitz, coming in waves, landing staggering hits on the Orckonian. Drums pound and thunder.  Aggronotham accepts another blow, howling through his pain, and snatches up his Blue attacker, lifts them above his head, and throws them at another Blue. With a reverberating gong sound the two Blues smash together in a tangled heap. The Strongest laughs in triumph and scoops up a fallen taser club, turning to menace the final Blue. The Orckonian waves his sparking club like a small wand in his huge paw, and takes a shuffling three-limbed step forward. The final Blue drops their club and flees. The drums instantly stop. A victorious Aggronotham lifts his head and howls in victory. The crowd goes wild!

“Coward!” Freya shouts happily. She turns to Bluebell, a huge grin on her face. “I believe you owe me some milk.”

Bluebell moos in disgust.

There is another lull in the action while the scantily clad pretty people come jogging out with stretchers for the Blues. Aggronotham the Strongest helps one of his adversaries limp out of the circle, smiling and clapping the Blue’s back. While the Arena resets, a very fat human in a robe of flashing holographic colours floats into the air in the center of the Arena. “My fellow Sapients!” he booms, “Aggronotham the Strongest remains undefeated in the Circle!” The part of the crowd not distracted by eating or ordering food roars with approval. The floating man makes quieting motions with his hands, “For our next Exhibition, we are pleased to present a Reptilian Proving! The Matriarch Sssllissa has come to us to bear witness as twelve suitors fight to sire her next clutch!” The huge jumbogram screen cuts to a large brown Reptilian with a sickly crest of rust coloured feathers on her head and arms. She hisses and bears her fangs and her Reptilians entourage drum their tails. “Sit back and enjoy the carnage!” Shouts the fat man as he drifts out of the Circle.

“This is unexpected,” says Bluebell, one hand coated in her custard desert. “Usually a Proving is a private matter, handled out of view.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Bluebell licks at her custard covered fingers. “When a Reptilian female is fecund but is unsure which male suitor to have quicken her eggs, she offers them a challenge. It can be any sort of contest, but is often combative.” The cowgirl sucks on a finger, “One has never seen a Proving, or heard of one being showcased to the public.”

“Aye,” Freya agrees, “'Tis strange. I suspect that this Sssllissa has designs on becoming Flotsam’s next Dragon, and is using this stunt to increase her prestige.”

“Dragon?”

“Flotsam is an unusual planet, for there are many Reptilian clans here working within a single Syndicate hierarchy. The Dragon is like a judge who presides over disputes between clans or Syndicate factions. The former Dragon was recently assassinated, so there exists a power vacuum on Flotsam, with many ambitious Matriarchs vying for the throne.” Freya shakes her head, “If staging a fight in her honour is the best this female can do, she has a poor claim.”

Bluebell moos, “One has heard the interim Dragon is infertile, so perhaps this courtship display is aimed at upsetting her claim.”

Freya grunts and sips her electric blue beverage.

The alpine horn blasts and a dozen Reptilians charge into the Arena Circle. Most are nondescript Reptilian males with brown or black-green scales, but a trio stand out. One emerald scaled male is an absolutely giant, bigger even than the female whose eggs he is fighting for, and seems like a favourite to win. Another male has jet black scales and is tall and very lean, flexible like a snake and just as trustworthy. The final standout is a diminutive, but powerfully muscled male with ruby red and white scales, confident despite his small stature. All of the Reptilians brandish wicked looking curved knives and are sizing up their opponents.

The jumbogram shows Sssllissa the matriarch standing in her private box, holding one of her pathetic rusty feathers. She opens her clawed hand and the feather drifts slowly down, floating and eddying, until it comes to rest on the Arena sand. As soon as it touches the ground, the Reptilian combatants spring into motion, blades flashing. The Reptilians in the audience begin to beat. A steady. Rhythm. With their tails. Thump. Thump. Thump. A brown Reptilian pounces on a Black-green one, wrestling and stabbing. The jet black male dashes over, deftly slashes both males, leaving them hobbled and bleeding. Two down. Thump. Thump. Thump. The emerald giant lumbers at a brown male who gamely stands his ground. The giant lands a crushing stabbing blow and the brown is down, clutching a bleeding and broken side. Three down. Thump. Thump. Thump. The ruby male hisses and six other males look up, thump their tails, and form a ring around the towering emerald. Treachery! Two black-green males charge the emerald at once, one getting smashed off his feet, but the other lands a slash on the giant Reptilian. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“What the fuck?” I ask. “Isn’t this cheating?”

Freya grins savagely, “A Reptilian Proving selects only for the victorious, and cunning is more desirable than strength.”

Waves of Reptilians come at the emerald, hacking and slashing. The giant manages to smash one of his lesser attackers out of the fight, but attrition is starting to slow the hulking male. Thump. Thump. Thump. Jet slithers around the edge of the fight, stabbing opportunistically. Five down. Ruby just holds back waiting, letting the other males break themselves. Thump. Thump. Thump. Emerald crushes a male and Jet dances in to finish the job. A black-green male rushes Ruby, who deftly ducks a wild swing, and rapidly stabs the male multiple times, one two three four five. The attacking male falls, black blood welling from its chest. The small red Reptilian hisses and picks up a second knife. Thump. Thump. Thump. Five are left.

Two drab green males are pressing Emerald, who looks halfway hobbled. The green males rush Emerald at once, one is batted away, tumbling, but the other stabs the huge Reptilian in the side. Emerald roars in pain and snatches up his attacker by the throat, holding him aloft and shaking him. Thump. Thump. Thump. Ruby, sensing his moment, dashes towards the back of the distracted Emerald. Ruby leaps, very much like a bird, and lands on the back of Emerald, knives stabbing in like handholds. The small red Reptilian stabs and climbs, and then drives both his blades into the back of Emerald’s neck. The towering Reptilian makes a wheezing sound and falls forward, crushing the male he was choking beneath his bulk. Ruby rolls nimbly to his feet. Thump. Thump. Thump. Jet catches the other drab green male watching and coils around him like a lover, slashing out his throat in a spray of black blood. There are two left. Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Cunning prevails!” Freya says merrily, four fists clenched, eyes shining. “But the backstabber is in trouble now!”

The sinuous jet black and small ruby Reptilians stand facing each other, their fellow combatants lay bleeding on the ground, some writhing and hissing, some totally still. The watching Reptilians have stopped drumming their tails, making the Arena eerily silent. The ruby male holds his two bloody knives loosely, stands confidently. The jet male shifts his weight, back and forth, back and forth, like a cornered snake. I agree with Freya, the jet male is clearly outclassed by the ruby, who is still fresh and uninjured, and clearly the better fighter. I feel like the Proving is already over.

The ruby male waves his hand in a signal, and a close up of his face fills the jumbogram. Ruby bears his teeth, “Sssllissa! Are theesssse truly your ssssuitorsss? They are unworthy of me!” The male hisses, “You! Sssllissa! Are unworthy of me! I revoke my claim!” The ruby male turns his back on where the matriarch is sitting and walks towards an exit from the Ring. The jumbogram shows Ssslissa standing in her box, howling in fury!

Jet, seeing an opportunity, lunges after Ruby, knife leading. Ruby waits until the black Reptilian has almost stabbed him before turning, lightning quick, landing a double slash that leaves the jet male laying in the sand clutching his side. “Unworthy!” He roars.

“That did not go as the female intended,” Bluebell suggests thoughtfully.

“No,” I agree, I bet that fucking didn't.

“An embarrassment!” Freya says chuckling. “I sense the scale marks of the Serpent on this debacle!”

“Serpent?” I ask.

“The Interim Dragon,” Bluebell says.

The scantily clad clean up crew flounces out, escorting a team of rubber suited Reptilians and their floating drone stretchers. Sssllissa and her entourage make an angry retreat among jeers, mostly from other Reptilians. Fallout already. Freya orders another drink and Bluebell starts in on her sweet cakes. The Circle, emptied of injured aliens and raked clean of bloodstains, sits ready for more carnage.

The alpine horn blares again and two armoured figures step into the Circle. The amplified voice of the announcer rings out, “Our Challenger! Vrax The Shamed! A fallen Nordic warrior, exiled from Holmspace for crimes of violence and lapses of moral cowardice! Shamed, he fights not to regain his lost honour, but to demand your respect!” The jumbogram focuses on one of the fighters, a hulking Nordic man with an enormous axe. He stands as tall as Freya and is wearing red scaled, Kevlar-like armour on his torso and legs. His four arms are bare, the top two holding a menacing two-handed battleaxe with a severe looking spike, while his lower right arm wields a short thrusting sword, one that has more of a punching grip than handle. His fourth arm seems to be a robotic replacement, the skin of his bare arm ending abruptly above the elbow and blending into an industrial looking sharpened claw. He has shockingly blue eyes and his long blonde hair is tied up around his head in elaborate braids. Around his forehead is a faintly glowing headband like a high tech crown. The Arena boos and hisses and whistles and jeers; clearly Vrax The Shamed is what Clem's wrestling show would call a heel. The Gladiator growls through gritted teeth.

"Hailing from the darkest, most barbaric planet in space, comes a warrior born of warfare, plague, poverty, and famine!" shouts the announcer. "Your Champion! Halley of Earth! The Destroyer!!!" The Arena erupts in cheers and a thunder of approval. The Jumbotron focuses in on me, or, well, her: Halley-11, the gladiator clone. She is wearing a suit of blue ceramic armour and wields a heavy round shield and broadsword. Her face is lean and angular, severe with traces of scars, a deep one running from her left temple, through her cheek, down to her chin. Her hair is undercut, shaved short except for a crest of longer hair on top, held out of her eyes by another techy headband. Halley of Earth looks more like my badass older sister than a clone of me. Halley holds up her sword and shield and the Arena quiets. She bangs her sword and shield together three times and many Sapients in the crowd, her fans, clap or tail stomp along with her. Clearly the hero here.

The alpine horn sounds again and the Gladiators square off, nod to each other, and start to cautiously circle. The hidden drum team starts to slowly tap out a rhythm. Vrax the Shamed suddenly charges, making great sweeps with his of axe. Drums thud and bang. Halley efficiently gives ground, neatly stepping back or around each slash, sometimes smartly redirecting a blow with her shield. She’s good at this. Carried by momentum, Vrax throws a particularly wild horizontal slash with his axe that Halley neatly ducks under, immediately springing up to barge the Nordic human in his face with her shield. A forcefield made by the headband maybe, snaps into view, blocking the blow. Vrax stumbles back, scalp bleeding from where his head smashed into his own forcefield. The drums snap quiet, and Halley stands relaxed, quirks her eyebrow and smirks. Touché. Vrax snarls, blood dripping down his face. Drums thud as the huge man wades back towards Halley, axe held ready to strike. Vrax lunges, making several more wild sweeps of his axe, which Halley deftly manages, until he throws another apparently uncontrolled swing. Halley sets herself to block and counterattack, but Vrax somehow reverses his axe stroke and hooks Halley's shield with the spike of his axe. He yanks and Halley stumbles, her guard ruined, too close to use her sword, vulnerable. I gasp and Vrax punches her with his short sword, stabbing her in the side. Halley growls and headbutts the Nordic man, their helmet forcefields flickering as they connect. The gladiators stumble apart, Halley bleeding black fluid from a rent in her armoured side. I wince, suddenly worried for her. She smiles wildly, eyes gleaming, and launches her own attack, advancing behind her shield, launching quick little stabs around her guard, herding Vrax, scoring a small cut on an exposed leg, scratching the steel of his claw hand. Drums rattle the Arena. Vrax tries to counter, throws a huge overhand chop with his axe, which Halley somehow blocks squarely with her shield. Snarling, she levers the heavy axe up and away, slashes in quickly with her blade, laying a meaty chop into Vrax's short sword arm. He howls, drops the sword, clutches his wounded arm tightly to his body. Halley spins free, resets her guard, eyebrow once again quirked at her opponent, a manic smile on her lips. Vrax splits blood from his mouth and nods.

Drums swell again as the Gladiators come back together in a flurry of motion. Vrax throws an axe chop that Halley catches on her shield. The axe blade skitters and hooks the edge of the shield and Vrax yanks on it, pulls Halley forward and rips the shield off her arm. In the same motion Halley thrusts forward, driving her broadsword up, stabbing the Nordic human through the meat of his shoulder. As the sword impales his body, Vrax grabs Halley around the forearm of her sword hand with his robotic claw, squeezes her arm with industrial force, trapping her. Vrax growls and brings his axe around for another swing. Halley, grappled and shieldless, punches Vrax with her free hand, a long dagger blade extending out of her forearm gauntlet as she strikes. The blade punches through armour and into the Nordic man's chest, the bloody tip emerging from his back. Vrax whimpers and drops his axe, sags slowly to the ground. Halley's arm, crushed in Vrax's claw, is torn free of her body and falls to the sand of the Circle. The drums fall silent.

The Arena erupts in celebration.

My heart is hammering in my chest.

"Your Champion! Victorious! Halley the Destroyer!!!"

My eyes dart back and forth from the prone body of Vrax the Shamed to Halley's amputated arm.

Medical drones descend on Vrax. Applause, cheers, and Reptilian tail stamps fill the Arena.

I stare at Halley's severed arm, motionless in the sand.

Jesus fucking christ!

**

Chapter 11