Dragon's Capture Read online

  Rising to my feet, I meet the gaze of each of them.

  “It’d be easy,” I say.

  “Easy?” K’sara asks. “Nothing about our lives is easy.”

  “Yes, it would be,” I answer him. “Easy to give in. Go into agreement with it all. This is where we are, what we are. Gladiators. Train every turn, fight every fourteen. Eventually we’d lose, but maybe between now and then, we would build some prestige and get to retire in something resembling comfort.”

  “Doesn’t sound bad,” Todd says.

  “No, because it’s easy,” I answer him, rolling my shoulders and feeling the moment. They’re all staring at me, counting on me. “Easy, you see? It’s how they win. Breaking us down with the lure of easy, going through the motions. No time to look at the big picture. No time to think clearly.”

  “Ha, this easy not,” Mesto says.

  “But the promise is,” I insist. Visidion’s eyes dance with an internal fire flowing support to me. “The promise of a brighter future, do the routine, fall into it, and agree. We can’t do that! We can’t go into agreement because the moment we do, that’s the moment we lose.”

  “Lose?” K’sara asks, leaning forward.

  “Yes. We lose, they win. That’s what you have to see. They’ve designed an entire system around future rewards, pushing you to agree. There has to be a way off this planet. We have to find it. We can escape. We can be free.”

  “What do you know?” Todd grumbles.

  Todd and I lock gazes. Cold sweat runs down my back, and then a tremor races through my right thigh. A reminder of what is waiting for me. A race. Which will be the end of me first, epis withdrawal? Or the other. . . the big secret I haven’t told anyone.

  “I know,” I say, throat dry, eyes scratchy. “I’m sick, very sick. I’m dying. Every day I wake up wondering if this is the last one. Every day I face the ease of going into agreement with the ‘way it is’ or doing the hard thing. Making the hard choices.”

  Purposefully I avoid Visidion’s gaze, but I feel it boring into me. My arms shake, and I can’t look at any of them anymore. The words sit heavy between all of us.

  “Rosalind,” Visidion says, his voice tight with unexpressed emotions.

  “No,” I say, pulling my hand away before he can grasp it. Tears well in my eyes. “You all have to see what I see. I don’t know how long I have. It may not be long—or it might be. All I know is that every day I don’t have the luxury of easy. We have to escape. I don’t want to die on this godforsaken shit-hole of a planet, far from my people. They need me. And so I need you.”

  Turning my back on them I walk out the door into the cool night air. When I’m released from their gaze, my tears fall free. I haven’t cried since that day in the doctor’s office. The day he said the words, giving me my diagnosis. Cancer. The tremors, passing weaknesses, and occasional moments of being dizzy. I’d thought it was exhaustion from pushing myself too hard. How wrong could I be?

  Cancer, an almost unheard-of disease. Dr. Traven said he had to dig deep into the ship journals to identify what it was. The forefathers of everyone aboard the generation ship had gone through extensive genetic testing to screen out all possible defects. Somehow, whatever made me susceptible to this had gone unnoticed. He told me then I had a year, maybe two. Tumors were growing in my body, slowly affecting my nervous system, and the symptoms would only grow worse until one day I would be too weak to stand.

  The door to our hut opens and shuts. Wiping away the tears, I cross my arms over my chest, bracing myself. Bulging arms wrap around me, and Visidion rests his head on my shoulder, pulling me tight against him but not saying a word. I stiffen, waiting for the sympathy or the questions, or any of the myriad things that come when someone finds out you’re dying. All the things I avoid because I don’t want to deal with them. He tugs me closer, tighter to his chest, and remains silent. Holding me.

  The tension grows until my muscles tremble. Any moment now he’ll say something.

  Warm breath breezes across my cheek, and still he’s silent. My resistance crumbles, and I melt against him. He takes my weight, holding me up. As the tension fades, the elasticity of my muscles goes with it, and I collapse into him. I turn to face him and meld to his hard muscles, and then rest my head on his shoulder. Unbidden, the tears return, and I let them fall, soaking his shoulder. I cry until there’s nothing left, and still soft sobs wrack my chest. I don’t know how much time passes in silence. His hands stroke my hair and rub circles on my back, until at last I’m empty. All the pain and fear is exhausted.

  The truth is out there. He knows.

  Straightening, I wipe my cheeks dry, unable to meet his eyes. Shaking my head to clear it of the cottony cloud filling it, I take several deep breaths until my lungs fill and empty without catching on the last of my emotions. Feeling back in control at last, I rest a hand on his chest, staring at the chiseled muscles. I let my fingers follow the lines, their tips tingling as I trace the edges of scales that overlap across his skin. One of his large hands cups my cheek, and I nuzzle into it without further thought.

  His other arm is around my waist, and it strikes me that I’m encircled by him. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Soft but intense waves of love and concern wash over me, and somehow it’s a physical sensation. My skin burns as it washes over me, warming to his feelings. Slowly I raise my eyes towards his. My stomach is clenching as a cold ball of fear forms, fear of what I’ll find in his eyes. I don’t want to see it, but it’ll be there. Sympathy. The one thing I don’t need. Unable to avoid it any longer, I meet his gaze.

  It’s not there.

  Not a sign of sympathy. Concern and what I can only label as love shines from his eyes, but not a hint of sympathy. His fingertips trace the line of my jaw and cross my lips, pulling them open as he passes across them. Soft, gentle, a touch filled with desire, but more, it conveys feelings below the level of words. Tightness in my core throbs with sudden, unexpected need.

  Rising on my toes, seeking his lips. I find them and we kiss, causing exploding fireworks through my thoughts, blasting away trepidation. His lips move against mine, devouring doubts, reservation, and worries. Through his lips, he gives himself to me and I cannot but respond the same.

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I lift myself into his kiss, and then he lifts me off my feet, matching our heights. When I lock my legs around his hips, the bulge in his pants presses hard into my core, fanning the flames higher. Desire runs through me with a wracking shudder.

  His tongue drives past my lips, claiming my mouth as his. Giving myself to him in ways I’ve never opened to another, I am his. This moment, right now, nothing else matters.

  Disagreements, worries, duty, all crumble before the assault of his lips on mine.

  My hips grind instinctively, seeking relief for the pounding need in my pussy. A deep, empty ache that calls to be filled. Never in my life have I felt such burning desire.

  Keeping an arm hooked behind his neck, I force my other hand between us, into the tiny gap between my hips and him, sliding it under the binding of his pants. I touch his cock for the first time. A sigh bursts from my lips when it jumps under my touch. He hisses pleasure, and I push my hand further between us without easing the grinding of my hips against him. I encircle his dick with my hand —there are the ridges I’ve only heard about. I find its soft underside and stroke it lightly.

  He groans into our kiss, thrusting his hips forward hard, pinching my arm between us. His tongue, more insistent, drives in and out of my mouth. One hand curls in my hair, tugging, and I stroke his cock faster, responding to his desire.

  His hips thrust faster, harder in response. The pounding deep in my core consumes me.

  “You there!” an outside voice intrudes, jerking my awareness back to our surroundings.

  Visidion hisses, loud and angry. He sets me on the ground and steps in front of me, facing the intruder.

  “Back in your hut,” a guard says.

  T
here are four of them, part of the nightly patrols.

  Stupid, how did I let this go so far? I should have known this would happen. Visidion tenses, hands balling into fists, tail rising.

  Stepping around him, I place a hand on his bicep, hoping to calm him.

  “Sure,” I say, eyes downcast but keeping the patrol in my gaze. “Right away.”

  “Good,” the guard says, hand on his sword.

  Unlike the weapons we’re issued as gladiators, the guards have steel with sharp edges. Our wooden, blunt weapons wouldn’t stand much of a chance against them. Even if we did, it’s not these four I’d be worried about, it’s the dozens more on the walls and scattered throughout the compound, ready to come at a moment’s notice. We’re outnumbered. Visidion tenses, leaning forward. Tightening my grip on his arm, I will him to stand down.

  The tension drains from his muscles at last. I open the door to our hut and let him walk in first. The guards stand staring at us until the door closes on their gazes. The common room of our hut is empty—everyone has retired to their own spaces. Visidion takes my hand and leads the way to our room.

  He settles on our bedrolls on his side, head propped on an arm gazing at me.

  “What is it that’s wrong?” he asks at last.

  Swallowing hard, an urge to lie races through my thoughts. Almost, I do. Something stops me. I can’t do it. Having come this far, there’s no point in holding back now.

  “Cancer,” I answer.

  “What is cancer?” he asks.

  “Mutation in my cells that causes them to grow too much,” I answer. “It creates growths, called tumors, that destroy the cells around them.”

  Slowly he nods, pursing his lips.

  “Epis,” he says at last.

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “Epis has healing properties,” he says. “You said you wondered every day if that would be the last.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, not grasping his point.

  “How long ago did the doctor tell you that you would die soon?”

  How long had it been? I’ve lived with this so long now without examining it that I don’t know. We’ve been crashed on Tajss for how long? We’ve had babies. There has been time for them to grow in the womb and reach walking age, at least. Three Earth years? Five? None of us have adjusted our time sense to Tajss. Since there are no seasons, it’s difficult to judge things like that. Over a year… I should be dead.

  But the tremors still come, the weakness still hits me.

  “It hasn’t grown worse,” I whisper. Visidion nods but remains silent. “Could it be?”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  A dim light of hope lights inside me, and I grasp to it like a child to its mother. A chance, a last, glimmering chance and I’m not going to let it go.

  20

  Visidion

  “Again,” Thrace barks.

  “Ha!”

  We attack the dummies as one, all of us bringing the wooden swords down in the new move we are drilling. The burn and ache in my muscles is extreme. Every time I reach a new plateau of skill and strength, Thrace seems to notice and push me harder.

  Following the motions through muscle memory, my thoughts are consumed with how to escape. I have to get Rosalind back to Tajss. Right now she’s growing weaker, but it won’t be long before the other signs of withdrawal set in. It’s a long, slow, and painful path to death.

  “Again!” Thrace yells.

  The sword hits the dummy, and there’s a satisfying vibration that runs up my arm. I repeat the move until it’s second nature, done with no thought, in an instant.

  “Enough,” Thrace says. “Line up.”

  We shuffle into a line at his command. He walks the line of us, looking at each one of us, nodding as if self-satisfied.

  “Will they make good?” the master asks, his voice drifting down from the balcony that he watches us from on occasion.

  He’s standing there on the shoulder of the purple monstrosity he rides. It would be so easy to crush him—there’s nothing to him. The monstrosity and the armed guards with him are the problem. I can’t get to him without going through them.

  Every night in our hut since Rosalind’s speech, we’ve looked at ways to escape. So far nothing has come close to a viable plan.

  “Yes, sir,” Thrace says, turning to face the balcony. He stands with his arms crossed behind his back, one hand clasping the other.

  “Good,” Master says. “There is heavy betting this turn. If I win there will be rewards.”

  “Very good,” Thrace says, bowing his head.

  The master pulls on the ear of his ride, turning it, and then he and it shuffle out of sight. The guards leaning against the walls of the practice area shift. Two of them are in my line of sight, standing below the balcony where the master was.

  “Rewards,” one of them says, spitting on the ground. “Right.”

  “An extra slice of bread,” the other snarls.

  It’s become obvious that our new master is not well-off, though I would guess he once was. The guards’ armor is ill fitting and shows signs of heavy wear along with lack of proper care. Many walls have cracks or are crumbling. We are surrounded by signs of neglect and decay. The guards’ comments underscore my observations.

  “Again,” Thrace barks, pushing us back into our training routines.

  Muscle memory carries me through the stances, allowing me time to think. We came a long way from the spaceport. I’m not sure how far, but Rosalind says it was almost a day’s journey. Even if we escape this place, we’re a still long way from getting off the planet.

  “Tell you what reward I’d want,” I overhear a guard say.

  “A face that isn’t so damn ugly?” the other asks.

  “That white-lady,” he responds, ignoring the jab. The guard grabs his crotch and thrusts his hips. “I’d show her a good time for a reward.”

  The bijass grabs me and I rush him, wooden sword in hand.

  The two guards turn, surprise obvious, reaching for their swords, but too slow. The wooden sword in my hands blurs, striking the speaker about his head and shoulders multiple times. He drops to the ground in a heap.

  "Visidion!" Rosalind yells.

  Ignoring her, I face the other guard. He has his sword drawn and held ready before him. Weaving my own wooden sword in front of me, I establish a defense.

  "I'm going to cut you to pieces," he says.

  I don't answer his words. They're meaningless. Actions are all that matter.

  We circle, the tips of our swords dancing, each probing for an opening. His guard drops slightly and I'm ready. Lunging forward, inside his reach, I swing my wooden sword towards his neck. It hits with a loud crack, and he drops.

  Spinning on my heel I turn, sword held across my middle, back to the wall, ready for anything.

  The other gladiators stare but don’t move. Rosalind is a few steps away, eyes and mouth wide. Thrace stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest. Slowly his arms part and he claps. The sound of his hands coming together is loud in the silence of the training grounds.

  “Done?” he asks, as if what I’ve done is the most normal thing in the world.

  “Yes,” I say, not lowering the sword from ready.

  Other guards are not far away, hands on swords, but none look eager to come forward.

  “Good,” Thrace says. “Back to practice.”

  He turns towards the others and barks out a series of orders. Everyone except Rosalind complies. Her eyes bore into me, then she looks around the area, pursing her lips. Gaze returning to me, she nods, then lifts her own sword and returns to the training dummies.

  Those guards still standing continue staring at me but not moving. I lower my sword and walk back to my position in front of a training dummy. The scales on the back of my neck itch, waiting for an attack, but none comes. Everyone resumes the day’s routine. The other guards go to the two I dropped, gather them up, and carry them off somewhere. Life continues as i
f nothing happened. The hours pass, and at last it’s time for lunch.

  Two servants set out pots of mush on a rough wooden table. Thrace keeps us going through routines until they are done, then calls a break. Stomach grumbling, I walk beside Rosalind to the table. No one speaks as they each take a bowl and spoon the slop into it. Rosalind and I get our bowls and join the circle of the others in the middle of the dirt training area. The mush has bits of meat mixed into it, but overall has no flavor. The silence continues as we eat.

  Usually there is conversation, but today no one speaks. There are some furtive glances at me then at Thrace, who stands next to the table of food, eating. The silence is uncomfortable. I’m waiting for something to happen with no clue what it might be. There must be some repercussions for my actions. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Thrace set his bowl down, and then he walks towards our circle. An itch between my shoulder blades begs to be scratched, and I can barely swallow the food in my mouth as he approaches.

  “Scrub,” Thrace says, stopping next to me and staring down.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, swallowing hard, muscles tensing.

  “Your form was sloppy. Attacking two opponents is foolish, but if you must, work faster. The last four blows on your first opponent were unnecessary and left you open to the second. He was out after your second hit.”

  Everyone’s eyes are darting between the two of us.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer, nodding.

  “Good,” Thrace says, spinning on a heel and marching away. He stops after four steps. “Everyone will work an extra hour tonight, multiple-opponent routines need to be drilled.”

  Groans greet his pronouncement and he turns back to our group.

  “You scrubs think I can let something like that slide?” he barks.

  A chorus of “No, sir” rises from all throats, and all are eyes focused on me.

  “Good,” Thrace says. “Now up and at it. Lunch is over.”