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“We don’t have a lot of technology here. We have to hunt to survive,” the glowing-eyed female says.
I prick to attention at that.
Hunting?
Hunting I know well. There is a game here after all.
ChapterThree
SKARR
As if we are all not in competition with one another, we are given warm blankets to wrap in and handed hot food. I eat mine quickly, the heat of the stew in my belly doing more for my stiff limbs than the near-useless blanket. As it grows late, the females cry more and are comforted. They pile together to “share warmth” in a lean-to crafted for them, and the female in charge goes to join them. I wait to see if they will copulate with one another—a trick some females do to distract a particularly vicious audience—and I’m disappointed they do not. They seem to be sleeping.
If they are combatants and I am wrong, they are the worst combatants ever.
The other splices and I remain near the fire. So does the blue-skinned male with the horns. He watches us with a knowing gaze, and I suspect he is very aware of the game that is being played here. We will need to tease answers from him. We all wait for a signal, but there is nothing.
The male—I’rec—speaks up after a time, stoking the fire with a crude spear. “I have seen your kind before,” he says to the nearest splice. “Fighters. Glad-taters?”
I was right about a game being played here. It takes everything I have not to beat my chest with smug pride. Do they think they shall fool Skarr? I am on to them.
The moden answers the blue one’s question. “Does it matter? We are here now, as you say.”
“It matters because you are fighters,” the horned one points out. “And you are looking at my mate with interested eyes. I am telling you now that she is mine and if you so much as put a finger on her, I will gut you and drag your innards across the valley.”
I laugh, because this language I understand. Do not speak to me of helping hands and living peacefully. Tell me which female is yours so I know what you will fight over. This, I appreciate. And because he speaks so plainly of his interests, I decide I will speak plainly of mine. “There are many females here. Who do we fight to be given one as a prize? You?”
He shakes his head. “You do not have to fight anyone. These females are not slaves. They are free to come and go as they please. Just as you are.”
“Then how do we win females?” the gray one asks. “If we do not fight?”
“You do not win them at all. Your khui decides. It will choose a mate for you. It chose mine for me, and it will choose one for you, too.” The fur-wearing mesakkah-hybrid is clearly trying to be patient with us, as if we are misunderstanding.
One of the cat males rubs his chin. “So we fight this khui? And it rewards us with strong, healthy females to rut?”
“No. Let me explain…” He pauses when someone’s stomach growls. “More food?”
No one says anything. I eye the praxiian and notice he is eyeing me back. We might be hungry, but no one will admit to such a weakness. The fur-wearer, I’rec, seems to realize this after a time and picks up a leather bag, takes a chunk of dried meat out of it and then hands it down to the nearest person. When it gets to me, I grab a large hunk of the jerky and pass the bag on to the praxiian, noting that he yet has his claws. Good to know.
“We have other glad-taters here,” I’rec continues. “Two with red skin, one with golden scales, and one that looks similar to you.” He points at the part-praxiian splice near him. “They were confused when they arrived, because they expected to fight. You are not here to fight. You are here to survive.”
“And if we survive, we get the women as prizes, yes?” The splice leans in. “Is this a breeding program? Only the strongest shall mate and produce offspring to be trained as the strongest of gladiators?”
I exchange an impressed look with the praxiian. If this is a breeding program, I count myself lucky. To live with the singular goal of impregnating as many females as possible might be a dream come true. Then again, I would be quite content with one female to enjoy and a series of regular battles that were not slanted against me.
Seeing as how we have landed in icy weather, it seems that might not be the case. I take a large bite of jerky, and it offends my senses with the spice of it. I keep eating anyhow, because I will need my strength.
“No, no,” I’rec says with a shake of his head as the jerky bag goes around again. “We do not fight each other. We hunt to survive, to bring food back to the tribe. We hunt to prove our strength to our companions and keep them safe and fed. There is no contest. There is nothing to win. Merely survive.”
We are all silent, digesting this. I chew on another bite of jerky.
The moden splice leans forward. “I do not understand.”
I’rec groans. “Which part?”
“The part where we do not fight.”
I nod agreement, and gesture at the sleeping females. “Why send us down with prizes if we are not fighting?”
