Beast was voted Captain on our other ship, The Devil’s Playground, it’s the one the gladiators seized after they rescued us. Normally Aerie would be there with him but she’s been here for a few days to negotiate a better fee and higher price for Stryker’s match as well as to visit me.
Within an hour, WarDog and I are filing down the ramp along with almost everyone on board. As we pay our entry fee for the matches, the guy at the ticket booth shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the crimson-skinned male’s voice is deep and gruff, “contestants enter over there.” He points to our left with his lips.
“Me?” I point to my chest as if my word needed clarification. He thinks I’m a contestant? Seriously?
“The beast,” he clarifies.
“He’s my pet.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “Contestants and their handlers get in free, but it makes no difference to me.”
Once we’ve paid, everyone onboard files in and we find seats along what on Earth would be the Mezzanine railing. All of us, that is, except Dax and Stryker. Dax is Stryker’s best friend and will be down in the contestants’ area with him until his match.
The arena is ancient, as old as the Colosseum in Rome, maybe older. The beige stone seats are in ringed tiers going all the way up to the nosebleed section. The sand in the arena seems to be made of the same stone as the seats and the structure itself.
Everything would be buff-colored if not for the thousands of patrons filing in. They’re aliens of every stripe—literally. And their wardrobes are equally colorful.
Smells of spitted meat assault my nose. I see WarDog sniffing it, his black nose squinching with every inhalation. Maybe I’ll buy him a treat when the nearest hawker comes by.
The stadium is filled with the noise of eager fans excitedly talking about the upcoming matches, males and females walking up and down the aisles taking bets, and music that sounds like bad porno pouring from ubiquitous speakers.
Maddie is sitting between Anya and Grace, each of whom is holding one of her hands. It’s obvious how much she cares for Stryker, she’s pale and worried, her teeth tearing at her lower lip.
Stryker is a muscular male with spotted red skin and heavy scars, especially on his face. I’ve always liked him. Maybe it’s because he’s the opposite of me. I’m timid and quiet and think before any word slips from my lips. Stryker is loud and brash and says the foulest, funniest shit that flies through his brain. My filter is on overload, and he doesn’t have one. He cracks me up. When I’m with him I always feel a bit less uptight.
“Welcome females and males,” the male announcer calls from the podium. He’s light blue, with puffy tufts of hair at his jowls and two yellow spots on his cheeks. He’s colorfully dressed in what can only be called a dress. Either his deep voice belongs to a woman, or his species has taken the kilt idea to the max.
“Our first match of the day will be a rare treat. Most of you have never seen a Skylosian. Since their planet was decimated, they’re incredibly rare. If perhaps you’ve seen one of these beasts before, I doubt any of you have seen a Skylosian match.
“Don’t worry, these beasts will not come to any harm today. Due to the Meretrian Agreement, these beings are not allowed to fight to the death. The first animal to roll onto its back, exposing its neck will be declared the loser.
“Their handlers are at the ready to stop the fight at a moment’s notice. Negrid,” he announces with a flourish as an animal that looks astonishingly like WarDog enters the arena.
WarDog has been lying quietly at my feet since I’ve been seated. He’s usually content to just hang out with me wherever I am. Now, though, he sits up straight and looks directly out at the action. They’re clearly the same species.
Shadow is one seat over from me. From what I’ve been told, he’s fought in every sector of the galaxy for over a decade.
“What is that?” I ask him as I lean over Petra.
“I’ve never seen that species fight before. He’s called a Skylosian.”
I pointedly look down at WarDog and Shadow gets the message.
“I guess your friend there is a Skylosian,” he confirms with a shrug.
Digging my fingers through the hair on WarDog’s ruff, I make sure I go all the way to his skin so he can feel my presence. His muscles are different than a moment ago, tighter. I think I’m anthropomorphizing, imbuing him with human qualities where none exist, but I wonder if he’s anxious about what will happen to the canines in the arena.
“Montem,” the announcer says as Negrid’s opponent enters the ring at a trot, the long, chocolate hair of his mane rustling in the breeze.
The two dogs are kept on long leashes by their handlers, but once they’ve jogged around the periphery of the arena to excited applause, they’re pulled up short and are now facing each other in the middle of the arena.
“At the ready,” says the announcer. “Begin!”
The handlers release their animals and step away. They prominently display the equipment, about the size of a cell phone, aloft in their hands. It suddenly dawns on me that whatever the Meretrian Agreement is, it was meant to reassure patrons that the fighting animals won’t be harmed.
The paradox is not lost on me that many of the matches here today will pit sentient humanoids against each other and
