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I also want to know what he meant when he said he saw vids of how I treat females. There's vids of me somewhere? I want to know more, because I don't have memories. Somehow, they've been taken from me. There's pieces of information in my mind, but when it comes to who I am—to Crulden—there is a vast, yawning emptiness that worries me. Who am I and what was my past?
Fighting, I think. They want me to fight. I know that from the conversations that they have when they think I am not listening. I do not know what that has to do with females, but I do know I would never fight one. I imagine the scared, pitiful ooli that came to clean my cell. I imagine the strange pale female with the pointy face and the way she looked at me with no fear in her eyes. I would not fight either one.
Strange.
The scientist does not leave his vantage point on the other side of the cell, so I crouch low and wait. He knows what I want. The question will be if he sends it.
A short time later, however, I hear the hiss of the elevator's arrival and then the scent of ooli.
And soup.
I snarl, moving right to the edge of the glass. "If you send that creature in with food, you will not like what I do to it."
The scientist's eyes widen. His fear perfumes the hall, even if he pretends otherwise. "The female or the food?"
"Is there a difference?" I ask coldly.
There's a wash of terror in the hall—the ooli female. Let her be afraid. I do not want the stink of her in my cell. Timidly, she puts the soup in the food slot and shuts the door. A moment later, a bell chimes on my side, indicating that I can now take the soup I do not want.
I open the slot, take the bowl, and slam it against the glass, right where the scientist is standing. It makes an orange, streaky mess, but I don't care. I imagine it's drugged. I imagine it's all drugged, and they're just trying to find the right mix that will make me their pliable little servant. I step forward, trying to look as menacing as I can through the glass. "You think you can get me to do what you want for a bowl of swill? You think I am that easily bought?"
"I do not think you are easily bought at all," the scientist says. His words are brave, but I can smell his fear. "We are only trying to figure out your price."
"I. Want. The. Female," I state again. "The pale one."
"You don't get a female," the scientist says. "I'm sorry."
5
MINA
Aklish returns to the kitchens, breathless and terrified. "I can't go back to the elite cellblock,” she tells the overseer. "He doesn't want any ooli there!"
My heart sinks. Irritation flares. He thinks if he insists enough he can get whatever the fuck he wants? That's not how this works. I grit my teeth and continue washing dishes, hoping I'll escape notice until I can slink away to my quarters.
"Mina," the overseer says, shattering my dreams. "You are needed to go clean your cellblock."
I dry my hands on my apron, nodding. There's no use in arguing. It'll make them wonder what I'm afraid of, and if I show that I won't do part of my job, I become a problem. If I become a problem, I get shipped out. "Sure thing," I say, even though I want to strangle a certain fearsome-looking gladiator. How the fuck am I supposed to stay under the radar if he's acting like this?
I get my cart and I practically stomp behind it all the way back to cellblock C. I hammer at the buttons on the elevator, jaw clenched, and by the time I get up to the right floor, I'm seething with no outlet to vent to. I can't gripe to my fellow slaves, because they'll gossip straight to the overseer in the hopes of getting favors. I can't complain to my owner, because he'll get rid of me. I sure can't complain to the guards. They’re clones and just as gossipy as the slaves. I don't have any friends here because I'm human.
I roll my cart toward the alien's cell. Even before it gets into sight, I can hear him snarling and flinging objects at the glass. I turn the corner, and the scientist is there, watching him. The hairs on the back of my neck rise again, and I do my best to seem cool and neutral and unaffected as I approach.
Immediately, Crulden—the gladiator—quiets as I come into sight.
The scientist looks at me long and hard and then disappears down the hall.
I look at the disaster on the other side of the glass. Crulden's ripped his bed from its moorings and tossed it against the shatterproof glass. There's soup smeared all over the barrier, and a fine beige powder all over the floor. The blankets are whole, at least, but the rest is a disaster.
