••••••
AMYE DROPS INSIDE. The air, thicker than the tunnels, tastes like the smell of a locker room after the winning gladiator sports. She gags on stale air until her throat dries.
Power.
The basic layout of any of these craft should be similar to IMC designs. She searches for the ON button. Drilling core samples takes a lot of energy. No regulated craft legally uses a small nuclear core as an energy source. The craft would fall apart under natural elements before the power cells drained. The Caltherians never followed such procedures—
Amye presses a button. The lights flash on, but the computer controls take minutes to boot and light up. With illumination she opens the panel over the window built into the main entry/exit hatch.
In the depths of space, she spots the construction web scaffolding surrounding an incomplete craft. Orbiting near it are smaller ships. Construction robots dissect them with plasma torches. They cannibalize other ships to complete the much larger one.
The chittering Scalterrian drops into the pod. Amye grabs her forcing her to glance out the window.
“What the smerth are they doing?”
Among her chitters the word “scavengers” manifests itself.
“Those are ships from people who are dropped in the mine?”
The Scalterrian nods yes and chitters the word “dead.”
“So they lure the already unscrupulous here, indebt them, have them die earning funds in the mine or die in the Dracon Arena. With no one to claim their ships, they cannibalize them.” They’d have a field day with the advanced tech on the Dragon and the living skin that absorbs plasma bolts. “They are already pirates. Why build such a hodgepodge ship?”
The Scalterrian chitters and makes an “I don’t know” gesture.
“I have to warn Reynard.”
Amye runs her hand over the smooth and unbroken wall to the left of the main hatch until she clicks a spot. A cabinet door opens revealing a hidden compartment. Inside are mining tools including a real pickaxe and breathing masks. She grabs the mask.
“Close that escape hatch,” Amye orders the Scalterrian.
“What are you doing?” the tube alien calls from the mine.
“I’m going out to notify my crew of this trap. You do whatever.” She adjusts the mask to fit her face. “Use your computer skills to activate this pod and search for the mineral or use these real tools to dig. Smerth. I have to warn my people.”
“Osirians are so selfish.”
“Smerth’n hell! You used me because I was fresh to dig. I got you in here. We’re even.” Amye slams the escape hatch herself.
The Scalterrian chitters at a much higher frequent tone. She lunges at Amye, who slams her into the pilot chair. “Press this button after I close the hatch to repressurize the room,” Amye points.
She twists the handle. The air seals hiss-pop as they release. Air rushes from the pod. “You’ll be better off in a minute. The air reloaded into the pod will be fresh.”
Chitters fade from Amye’s ears as the air thins. The loss of pressure pops her ears, and she slides the mask over her nose before all of the atmosphere escapes.
Amye crawls outside. The cold bites her exposed arms. She slams the hatch closed and twists the handle securing it. Bolts from the pod. After three paces the thin air slows her to a jog and exertion on her lungs forces her to stop. She’ll have to travel slow, conserving her air. She hugs herself stroking her hands up and down triceps to stimulate circulation. The breather draws in much-needed oxygen, but there’s just enough in the thin atmosphere to fill the alveoli in order to run. She keeps in the starlight for little warmth as she marches back to the casino entrance.
TWO MEN ENTER, one man leaves—
The only choice JarBok gave—face off against the thief in the arena—or fight his way to the entrance of the casino with no weapons.
He drops a duffel bag at JC’s feet, handing her his jacket. “I’m going to want that back.”
She leans in as to kiss him on the cheek and slips a thought in his mind: She’s been in the arena before.
He nods, glancing at the armband they put on her.
It’s broken.
After the kerfuffle no one bothered to check that JC still couldn’t read minds. In an arena where anyone randomly adds obstacles based on what they want to bet, how useful are her skills? He understood most of JarBok’s explanation of the combat as he changed into the blue spandex suit.
They escort his subordinate away and direct him to stand on a floor tile.
The tile gives way, and Reynard slides down before a shut door. Blocks like a track runner would use are lighted at his feet. He locks the strange boots into the grooved places for them.
Cheers of the crowd echo around him.
An announcer booms, “Place your bets! Place your bets! We have for you an Osirian mercenary who claims a Dunderian girl stole from him. Osirian vs. Dunderian. As always, those of you in the booths increase the dangers of the arena by your bets. Keep it sporting! Wager on life expectancy. The greater the risk, the higher the winnings!”
And dead one of us has to be. No just reaching the end. Blood’s demanded. Reynard hears JarBok’s voice.
A second of flaying arms before Reynard understands he was propelled through the air by the track blocks. He recovers his wits and shoulder rolls upon impact with the ground. He pops up to his feet with as much flair as he can muster. The crowd roars with approval.
The expelled female Dunderian lands with more grace. She understands the arena’s procedure, or she’s just nimble. A pickpocket would have to be. Her lavender jumpsuit reveals a well-defined muscular hourglass figure.
She’s no weakling and could outrun me with those gazelle legs. Reynard bolts for the end of the arena. It looks to be the length of a football field.
The whirl of a tile opening forces him to
