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Sci Fi & Fantasy / Beyond The Dreams - Chapter 1
Ionic energy shackles restrained her wrists, their gloomy radiance piercing the deep dark of the cell. The air was rapidly becoming bitter and heavy in this confined space where the silence ruled. The Faulxis would not exchange any contact with the outside so only the fight could absorb her mind. This moment of isolation was filled with necessary concentration. The slave was named Axia; she was combatant of the arena, a so-called Owned.
She heard the release of the locks, the door opened on silent hinges; the screams of the crowd instantly reached her, breaking the silence of her mind. She was unmoved by not knowing anything about her opponent. No name, no physiological nor genetic data, nothing had been revealed. The law was strict, all the more for the Masters than for their Owned who were forbidden to discuss their past opponents with any person other than their respective Master. They would be one against the other, her life versus her opponent’s and that was all that imported in the end.
Axia crossed the threshold of the armored gate that had kept her secluded. She started walking down the hallway that would soon bring her to the arena. The yells of the crowd were more distinct as she progressed. She could not distinguish what they were saying but the regular rhythm of their jubilations accompanied the loud beats of her heart. She was not scared, “fear freezes the mind”; she was no novice and did not panic; these dull beats, which echoed in her chest, followed affluxes of blood, surges of adrenaline.
She emerged in the arena, receptive to the voices, the screams and the excitement filling the air. She felt wrapped up in this wave of sounds. All chanted the name of her rival in one unique voice, I’Saljya. They paid to see blood poured out of soulless beasts fighting to survive. They liked having power, being in control of one’s life when, at the same time, they had none over their own; they were one of the too many proofs of the System’ monopoly.
The crowd’s eyes turned in a massive uniform wave to the instigator of the confrontation, the Precursor, who had just appeared. Axia did not flinch, all too familiar with the endlessly repeated ritual. Self-absorbed, the Precursor waved at the crowd, knowingly admired. The bets would be high and the people thankful for the spectacle, but the fight would have to be bloody for the people to really enjoy themselves.
The crowds were different, the Precursors varied, the rivals remained ever-changing but this arena always too familiar. The metal structure was smooth, polished, reflecting every spec of the bright light given by the powerful floating Luminex. Each and every seat spreading around and above her was full. The most privileged shared the closest spectacle when the populace squeezed against one another at the top, looking like buzzing ants. The black tint of the sky trough the glass roof curved above the battlefield. The stars were absent, shying away from the future massacre. Two plasma screens dominated both end of the arena, sheltering the blazon of the Precursor, instigator of the fight. Soon, they would shelter violence.
No one paid attention to Axia. The rare glance from the audience sheltered sadistic curiosity as they were waiting for the other beast’s entrance, the one they considered the favorite. For them, Axia was only the prey.
A black suit made of fixagil hugged her body like a second skin, molding her muscles and underlining her figure. Her shoulders and arms were bare; the fabric stretched on her torso and thighs, hints of skin showing though the thin fabric. Her fighting gear was never too protecting as it could determine survival rather than death. The Final Verdict was drawn from several variables; the Owned’s apparel being one of them. Thick, covering fabric was a protective barrier and thus considered an advantage. In the instance of a good fight, the fallen fighter could be granted survival by the people; however, their leniency could be negatively swayed by such beneficial attire. Besides, Axia needed the fixagil’s lightness and stretchiness to keep her agility and speed unaltered. She needed those qualities to carry out her fatalities: fatal hit of the fight adding honor to the victory. Unfortunately, she had so far to attempt one. Her past opponents had fallen dead before the Verdict. That had brought a lot of dissatisfaction from the Precursor as well as the people. They demanded their ruling and despite her numerous victories, she had remained infamous.
She made her way deeper in the arena, facing the empty opening where the other Owned would appear. She waited. Most of the crowd had now noticed her. She could feel their looks on her, all the more intense. She knew in their mind, they were trying to estimate how long she would last. Everyone was waiting for the entrance of the star.
A voice shouted out of nowhere, deep, taunting, filling the arena with words. The Precursor was introducing the fighters. Axia listened carefully to her rival’s introduction. She smiled to herself as she gained a little confidence. She would soon face a Maxist, from the original race Emualde, an opponent she was familiar with.
Yet, Axia knew that she had to remain focused. Each Owned was different in their own way, in their abilities and in the technique they followed. Knowing the race revealed physical characteristics and tendencies of this type of opponent but the training given by the Master made any real anticipation foolish.
She was now staring in front of her, still waiting. The shackles disappeared, freeing her. Her tension was rising. Her nerves, reacting to her thoughts of autodefense, vivified; a flood of chemical reactions spread within her body, sharpening her visual and neurological acuities. Her neurons electrified. She looked at her limbs instinctively. The sharp blades ran along her forearms, emerging from her flesh. She would have never known it resulted from a transplant. No delimitation marked her skin where the metal melted with her tissue. The perforating needles that formed her nails were also part of her body. A flat extremity shaped perfectly the tip of her fingers, stretching, decreasing, to form murdering pikes…those pieces of metal were her only ways of survival, projections of herself.
When she raised her head, her opponent, maybe the last, had appeared in front of her. The physiological data was quickly established. She was wide, muscular and manly. Her height was massive. She would be powerful in her hits. The Maxist was wearing a protecting corset and a pair of pants in leather. In the case of a defeat, she would certainly receive the Judgment of Death; but, she was convinced to win. This analysis was confirmed in Axia’s mind as she discovered an ironic grin deforming the rival’s mouth, uncovering rows of threatening teeth. The razors shined under the powerful lights, sharp as scalpels. Those yellow slanted eyes stared at her without blinking.
Axia could not help it but she could sense something strange emanating from the chemical aura of her rival…but could not define what it precisely was…the music started, opening and rating the fight. Popular, the music excited the crowd all the more. Electronic tonalities was all Axia needed to hear. The fight began.
*
Malit ran his fingers through his short brown hair, squeezing its dampness in his palm. He wiped his shiny hand on his pants leg, absently. He had not realized he was sweating so profusely. The air felt damp and heavy in his lungs, his shirt stuck to his back. He was nervous and did not know how to cope with that emotion. Doubt was something uncommon for him as he always tried to believe in his Owned. Today nevertheless, he kept on wandering if she would overcome the unknown, if she could triumph. But how could lie to himself like this? Had he thought about her when he had sold her future away? Had he been worried about her death as he had deceived her? No, he had only thought about himself.
Deep certitude haunted him, the fact that their relationship would be lost whether she lived or died. He had committed a Master’s worst offenses, he had broken the Combat Rightbeing Rules and above all, had betrayed his slave. His stomach turned and he could have reeked had he eaten. He could feel his guilt creep on his face now ravaged by worry. His brow sheltered a perpetual frown, his eyes undecided, his thoughts continually turning to his sin.
She had confronted a Maxist in the past; she could not possibly fail to discover the renegade biochemical data. How could she then not understand what he had done? Logic, cause and effect, were all part of her training. If she survived this fight,-a thought he had not even seriously considered, as in his mind, he had made the decision that would send her to her death, she would extrapolate all too easily and could only make one logical decision based on her conclusion; she would lose her hold on their essential bond, on the most fundamental notion of an Owned-Master relationship: trust, and he could not blame her for that. Detachment or death would always be his fault.
He tried to focus his mind on the imposing spectacle of the arena. Constant, the brouhaha enveloped the whole scene with an invisible curtain of sound, omnipotent. Most of the crowd had taken their seat, invading the steps like colorful little moths. Malit looked up, squinting trying to detail the top of the arena. The highest portions of the walls were only a blur joined by a gigantic cupola of glass. The night was well on its way, making the scene all the more dramatic.
The crowds’ screams were rising. He could feel the people excitement, faces intently staring at the empty opening on the left, high-pitched voices chanting the enemy’s name. They knew their favorite slaves, their favorite races; the Maxists could always be one of them.
As every race introduced in the circle of the arena, secondary changes had been performed on their original being, creating new fighters. The Emualde race had been twisted to become the famous Maxists race. At their birth, feline hormones were injected in their pituitary, allowing them to develop all along their growth, the intrinsic speed those hormones gifted them. Sharp wolf-like teeth replaced their normal jaw gifting them as flesh slaughterers. The most dangerous, however, were the razor blades protruding from the phalanges of their fingers. Each hit would bruise and slash. The members of the Emualde ethnicity were originally pacifists, rejecting any type of aggression whatsoever. The transformation of this race into a new type of Owned, worthy of the arena had been doubtful at first. Nevertheless, and it had been surprising, sadism and fury was their only behavior. They seemed to take great pleasure in it, as if their past rejection now overturned was entertaining it all the more.
The cushion behind his back suddenly felt hard; his mouth, dry. The cries of the crowd had abruptly become exasperating…If only he could leave. Rather, he knew he wished to get out of himself.
His slave had just appeared in the arena, emerging on the right. Unlike most of her age, she had not accomplished any fatality. Yet, the perfection of her technique was admirable. She was one of his most successful female trainees, losing her would be a waste but a loss he had decided to endure.
She looked calm, and as every slave, resigned. She stood still, quiet and composed, her face silent of any expression. Malit knew she could accept death tonight and that, without any regrets, as it was her understood destiny. Her hands were bound in front of her thanks to energy shackles. Their discrete glow tinted of blue the skin of her wrists. She was usually free in the arena and in the Community but any transport between both was made as secure as possible. Her blades split her forearms; her needles elongated her fingers, their metallic color shocking against the pale pink of her sunless skin.
The Precursor surfaced. A wave of applauds rose instantly. Everyone stood in one common move, army-like. His pedestal was higher, enough to be admired by a lot of the crowd but close enough to observe every single act of the fight. He waved at the crowd with an enthusiasm Malit knew fake and calculated. His appearance was clean-cut, his stature imposing. His starched button less blouse extended to his upper thigh, its silver color contrasting with the matt black of his straight-legged pants. The fit was perfect, the style respectful.
They presented themselves as impressively as they could but it would never change Malit’s thoughts towards them. He despised all of them and this Precursor in particular, as he had been the source of the treason. He damned those players of life. They served the System all too well and enjoyed it all too much. They only sought violence, blood and money, key elements of the fights. Oh yes, the money. They earned it exerting the power of life or death, deciding upon someone’s final instants or possible rain check. Ultimately, they had the most power over the fights in the arena. First, they were the ones choosing which Owned would confront each other, partially predestining the issue of the fight as they could anticipate who would prevail. Then, they submitted their confidential bet on their analysis and prediction, assuring their income. In the end, they announced the sentence. Their way was the only way and anything was good enough for them to get what they wanted. Nothing was too big to stop them. The recalcitrant Master that he had been had winded up a weak obstacle. Their manipulative nature had been trained to perfection, flawless. They reached for the darkest part of a person, for the vice, and twisted it so that it sounded too attractive to be rejected. The limits between the good and the bad were quickly blurred, soon to be forgotten. That was exactly what had happened to Malit.
Once again, he was brought back to his stalking remorse. He felt disgust for his behavior paired with shame; yet, he tried to reach for excuses. Essentially, the fault had been driven by the power of money. He could not forget the amount that he had been offered, so much more than what an Owned of Axia’s potential was worth. Yes, there was the work he had invested training her, but if not today, she could die tomorrow. Also, the Rules forbad him to reveal his Owned any data concerning her rival, renegade or otherwise. Admittedly, he could have notified the Revisers but what would have happened? It would have been his word against the Precursor’s…and he knew very well it would have ended up in his disfavor.
The entrance of the Maxist brought his attention back to the arena. She was a giant compared to Axia’s petite frame. Her height was impressive, over one foot taller than Axia. Her body frame was manly, without any curves: her shoulders were wide, her hips narrow, her legs straight. Her tanned skin stressed the carving of her body by her muscles. What appeared to have been dark hair had been shaved short, leaving one thin line in the middle of her scalp. Her face was even less attractive than the rest of her anatomy. The physical changes performed had enhanced the uncontested unappealing nature of the Emualde. It was there that the difference with a humanoid could be drawn. The eyes were yellow, cat-like, and furtive, no white. The brow was a series of hairy spikes, the lashes inexistent. The cheeks were meatless, carved, accentuating the protrusion of the animal teeth. The lips were thin, barely closing on the transplanted jaw. The ears were slits, dark lines on each side of the head. Deep purple vessels threaded under the colored skin, furrowing the bare scalp and forehead.
He quickly considered the abilities of the opponent. She was obviously strong and powerful. Yet, Axia could probably use her own agility to her advantage. Strength often made slave forget technique and swiftness. The Maxist would have the speed, thanks to her genetics. The presence of the glands would push her to want to wound first, taking full advantage of the cheat. One thing stood on its own as a major disadvantage for the beast: her confidence. Her apparel was blatant, revealing her arrogant certitude of victory. More than that, her eyes could not lie. They expressed silent laughs, scorn, detailing Axia with conceitedness. This was an amateur’s mistake to believe the fight ruled out right off. However, Malit doubted this would make the end of Axia’s opponent. In his mind, he preferred to consider Axia condemned. No one could save her now, not even him if he had wanted to. The death of one’s creation was never easy, but with an Owned, you had to get used to it, sooner or later, it would happen; and a deal was a deal after all.
*
Axia recognized the musical theme. It was familiar but tricky and she did not like it. Plus, the missing data made her feel uneasy. Sensing data was the most challenging; interpreting it should not have been this difficult. She had been trained for interpretation…what was wrong here?
The Maxist hauled at the sky, a throaty roar uncovering the beast’s teeth. Axia was not intimidated. She was ready. Defense was her safest choice, at least for the time being. She hoped that she would soon come to grasp with the unknown characteristic of her rival. Then, her offense could begin, composed of analyzed attacks.
The blows fused, rated by the rhythm of the music that maintained a quick tempo. A multipole attack, hits by mutiplicity. Each movement was accelerated, leaving a thin path of color in the air. The fists would not stop, the fluidity of the chainlike reaction was near perfection. Axia’s heightened reflexes allowed her to dodge and block the hits right before their impact point, the open palms nearly brushing against her skin.
Axia realized the safety of her defense was no solution. She needed to break this pace unless she wanted to see her speed weaken little by little, resulting from the loss of energy brought on by the speed she needed to maintain. Moving on her opponent was a risk she had to take, regardless of what the Maxist was hiding. One last hit was directed to her brow when she blocked it, seized the arm, twisting it, and counteracted by hitting the Maxist in the jaw; no open wound, just enough strength to disrupt the rate of the infernal aggression. The desired effect took place. The Faulxis had enough time to move away from her opponent as the Maxist restructured her now disordered moves, gaining back control over her muscles.
“Forget this data.” Axia thought, “I don’t really have any other option.” She knew that if she kept on being defensive, she would soon tire herself without even impairing the Maxist’s resources. The Maxist was strong; she would win in a fight over strength. Axia had to take advantage of her speed.
The Maxist started running towards her, closing the distance between them. Axia started whirling, her arms on side her body, her hands creating a right angle with her torso. She gained speed, getting closer to her enemy; the picks formed by her fingers whipped the air, emitting a high whistle. The animal stopped short in her run, taken aback by Axia’s speed. Axia whirled again and again, the needles inches away from her enemy’s skin. The Maxist flipped back, now trying to get away. The needles brushed against her trunk as she bent back…if she weakened, she was clawed. One circle, four feet, one back flip…the agility and speed were being tested…the breathings accelerating…the public, their eyes staring, waiting for the blood they aspired to…the music still flowing…all knew the gore close… One circle, four feet, one back flip…Axia pushed herself further, just enough, before totally holding back…a halation rose on the screens: the first blood had been poured, falling on the ground, soiling for the first time the perfectly polished metal…a few dark droplets now congealed…the music slowed down, just in time it seemed.
The Maxist remained standing still, panting, blood pearling on her chest, drooping from a horizontal nick crossing her skin. The lacerated leather exposed some flesh of a fresh red shade. The surprise could be read on her features, her mouth slightly open in an awed expression; her eyes wide, pupils constricted, focused on Axia, stunned. She was bigger yes, but she could not be more agile. Axia, in a defensive stance facing her, her breathing short, kept a fixed look. They were observing each other, evaluating how much had been gained and lost, more mentally than physicallly. The crowd could be heard all the more as the exhilaration had risen in the presence of the split of the liquid of life. Nothing would now unhook the visual attraction they all shared with the center of the arena.
The music resumed its engulfing wave with a beat of bass, bringing with it a gigantic jump from the pseudo-feline. She ended her move falling with all her might on Axia who fell straight to the ground. The razor blades lacerated her tissues in an effusion of blood, darted deeply in her flesh; the jaw was getting closer to her face, the warm breath grew stronger…Axia, powerless, her shoulders immobilized by the pain felt the cold of her back against the iron ground spread to her insides as the teeth were closing on her.
*
The rival had started strong and powerful with a multipole attack. She obviously desired a short and quick fight. Malit had noticed straight away Axia’s defensive attempt. He also could imagine all too well the reason behind that choice. Given the Maxist’s strength, she had reacted very well by breaking the rhythm, imposing her own offense. In the same breath, she had gained some popularity among the crowd by pouring the first blood. From there on, the heart of the fight had started what they had all been waiting for.
Axia’s small advantage had disappeared as quickly as it had come. She should not have been surprised by the change of rhythm, amateur’s mistake. The Maxist’s move had been successful and Axia had collapsed. She remained down, the Maxist mastering her. Anger bubbled in Malit. He had taught her better than that! She should have remembered that particular moment after all those burning wounds suffered during training. Suddenly, without any preemptive thought, he screamed. An order, a name, hers, dry in his mouth: “Axia!”, too soft to be noticed by the crowd all too absorbed with the gore, but distinct enough for Axia whose sharpened senses were attuned to his voice. As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he froze, staring ahead, his eyes no longer focused on the spectacle. He remained a block; still, shocked by his own behavior. What had he done? How could he ? He had promised himself to never do it again. It had been so long ago, a time he had almost forgotten, when he was still inexperienced, he had had that as an excuse back then…
It had occurred during his first year of training at the renowned Macdalas School. Their corporal punishment was just as famous as it was threatening. He still remembered the circumstances that had brought on his mistake, this one single cry to his basic slave, a situation all too familiar to this one… It had happened during a practical fight, it had been a yell of encouragement and exhilaration, but nonetheless forbidden.
He could still feel the leather strips slashing his back, the sympathizing but furtive looks of his comrades during the execution of the punishment… The words of the Orientor echoed in his mind: “Article eight of the Rightbeing Rules of Interracial Fighting. A Master instructor can never, under no form whatsoever, intercede during a fight; whether his slave is in difficulty, whether there is proof of unfairness, or for any other reason at all, any type of communication must be repressed. Punishment for a verbal intervention during a practical exercise: twenty hits.”
The fight was going on in front of him but it unfolded in his mind as a landscape through the glass of an Omnibus. his eyes, empty. His mind was busy with the images of his memory.
His vision was still foggy, his ears ringing when the Security Guards took him away.
*
The razorblades progressively disappeared in the flesh of her shoulders, now lodged in the head of her humerus. Each additional second intensified the electrifying pain as each bore of pressure added to her enemy’s fingers, threatening to shatter her shoulders. Axia could feel the sticky wetness drain on her chest but she was pinned to the ground.. The legs of her massive rival opened on each side of her pelvis, her weight anchoring her own hips to the ground and the throbbing of her own shoulders making any slight move a sharp agony. The teeth were closing on her, ready to tear her face apart. The yellow eyes anchored to hers, sheltering sadism and pleasure. “Axia!” This command, perceived by her trained ear, was the click that made her instinctively react. She crossed her legs, twisting slightly her waist on the side, releasing the tight pressure of her enemy’s stature. Ignoring the overwhelming pain, she inversed the vector of the force pressing her down, raised her arms, pushing against the Maxist chest, and rolled now on top, the razors still darted in her shoulders close to being separated from her body.
A head blow shattered cartilage and bone, accompanied by a delightful crushing noise, transforming the rival’s nose into a mesh of bright flesh, punctuated with the whitish color of the bone. Just as Axia had expected, her opponent yanked the metal out of her shoulders to bring them to her face, assessing her destroyed nose with the tip of her fingers. Axia stood, backing away from her opponent. The Maxist, a bloody nose, her vision blurred, rose, wobbly. She spat a big blob of coagulated blood, clearing her trachea. Her eyes narrowed, reevaluating the situation. She had lost assertiveness but her determination had remained.
Axia’s shoulders throbbed; the ache of the lacerated tissues was spreading in her veins, fiery. She could feel it spreading slowly in her arms, and she knew it would not stop there. Poison, it could be nothing else, there was the biochemical data she could not identify. But how? The Maxist she had beaten in the past had not sheltered such characteristic! This would be food for future thoughts.
Each hit, in addition of cutting the skin, would free more of the unknown substance in her systemic circulation. Axia was all too scared of the effects of this poison that she did not know. Her body could take cutting and blood loss, but who knew what would happen now.
She moved on the Maxist, initiating a svedja offense, king-fu, karate, taekwondo mixed at random. Her blows were precise and rapid but the Maxist was keeping up. Phases of offense and defense succeeded one another, mastered by one opponent or the other. Axia focused on her rival’s fists, the weak dose of poison already affecting her metabolism, slowing her down slightly. The beast had noticed it and the light of insolence had brightened in her eyes.
As the Maxist switched to her offensive phase, Axia, having lost speed, stopped, unexpectedly, one of her blow with her hand. A new surge of poison secreted by the glands entered her vessels. Axia seized the manly arm and sliced, neatly, soiling her forearm with blood. The beast knelt under the intensity of the pain, her arm split open down through the bone. In a fraction of a second, she forgot this defeat. Before Axia could dart her needles, the Maxist planted her teeth such as a vampire in the calf in front of her. The viscous blood splattered as Axia bowed, holding her calf where the warm liquid ran down her ankle. The Maxist was back on her feet, now above her, her face smeared with blood, a satisfied grin twisting her lips.
Hands smeared with her own blood, Axia pushed against the metal ground, trying to rise on her good leg. She was half way up on one straight leg, her torso and head still bent forward when the pain rushed in her mind, her reason close to shattering under its omnipotence. The Maxist was gashing her back with her poisoned stingers, the blades tearing Axia’s docile skin, freeing the toxic substance in high dosage…As the Maxist raised her hands off Axia’s back, preparing to submerge her razors once again, Axia turned her head back, bending her legs at the knee, pivoted on her heals, now facing her opponent. She extended her limbs, arms and hands in a perfect straight line, perforation. A short second unfolded while the Maxist kept her undecided look on Axia, still shocked, almost reproachful, her hands still up in the air in front of her. Axia’s fingers disappeared in the Maxist’s chest, nested in the path opened by her needles. Soiled with blood, the metal rods came out on the other side of the speared body. Surprised habited the monster’s features covered of red. The blood from her nose was turning dark brown, gelatinous, but the blood dyeing her mouth looked like a fresh coat of lipstick.
The Maxist began to dislodge herself from the metal poles. The blood stream escaping from the wounds thinned as the needles pressed on the vessels, trying to detach. The sliding of the needles on the spongy flesh, moist of blood and lymph, gave out a suction noise as the air entered the now empty wounds. The Maxist fell to the ground at Axia’s feet. She was crawling, her legs hanging behind her, lifeless. Her spine had been perforated, paralyzing her lower extremities. Two bloody streaks spread on the polished ground. Tongue-like, they stretched out progressively as the Maxist advanced, pushing back on her elbows, her eyes now sheltering fear, staring at Axia.
Axia’s back where the flesh had been shredded was pulsating with more aching pain. She had to act now and quickly. The amount of poison filling her blood would soon shut her body down completely. She was starting to taste the bitterness in the back of her throat. Her moves were rapidly becoming slower and slower. She had to end this.
She cut her rival’s vain attempts short, pushing her harmed leg on the bloody hips. The beast had lost her confidence. She was vainly trying to cut Axia, waving her arms in front of her. Axia dodged with no difficulty. The last gleam of hope buried in the Maxist’s mind faded away as she let herself go to the ground, dominated.
The Faulxis regained conscious, newly aware of the musical intonations, the screams of the crowd… The fight had taken over her senses. Nothing other than the aim of survival had reached her mind until then.
She laid her eyes on the steps, scanning the crowd. She could feel the sadism in those eyes, the high induced by violence. She could hear their almost unanimous quickened breath brought on by excitement. Her muscles, numbed by the poison, were progressively failing to react to her brain influxes. She focused on the Precursor. Satisfied by the blood, he rose, studying the crowd. The spectators, conscious of the imminent end, stood up as well. The music had not stopped but only recessed to a background atmosphere.
The imposing screen, transmitting the images to the people on the higher steps, switched images. A close-up circled Axia who was waiting patiently. Pearls of sweat could be spotted on her face. Her features were closed up, her brows furrowed, her pupils dilated, feverish.
The gong rang. The Precursor pronounced a word, fatidic, amplified by a voice synthesizer stuck to his neck: “Vote!” A few seconds elapsed, solemn. The gong rang again. All the faces turned to the screen. The window showing Axia reduced to a small tile at one corner, revealing the dooming data.
The numbers spoke of themselves. The Precursor turned to Axia. Looking directly at her for the first time, he authenticated the Judgment, nodding slowly.
Axia grabbed the leather corset, raising her enemy’s bust. The Maxist’s breathing was now whistle, her lungs filling little by little, her mouth spitting of her own blood: hemorrhage.
“No fatality once again. It’s for the best this time.” Axia thought.
She seized the sticky head, the bones clutched, the tissues ripped...
A few applauded, some screamed…but any real fervency was absent. The public was upset and disgusted. They had probably lost a lot of bets today.
Axia exited the arena through the same opening that had brought her there. Behind her, the screen blinked out, erasing the sentence: “Final Judgement – Quick death.”
*
They had made their way through the metal skeleton supporting the arena, bringing him to a small room on the outskirts of the circular infrastructure. The tints of his past were still present in him, obscuring his present linger: the wait of the judge and of the punishment; every breath altered by tension. The only variable lost through his years of practice was his youthful fear. It had long been traded for the belief that everything is predetermined, factorized in the issue of one’s life. Fearing would not change anything; acceptance could only make it more manageable.
He wanted to get out of this room, to see his slave, witness the end of this fight predestined to her defeat…but after all, of what use would it be? There was nothing he could do now, he had already done enough…
He was a con. His role was to give the slaves ways of preservations, ways to save themselves from death…instead; he had brought her to it. Ultimately, he had lowered himself to the level of the beings he despised the most, the Precursors. He wondered why he followed his remorse, it was useless. He had to assume consequences for his acts and decisions as he had always been taught. Whatever consequences may come, he would not coward down, desperately trying to find excuses for himself. Precursors were manipulative, true, but he could not dismiss his error in the matter. He should not have let himself get influenced so easily. Yes he had felt defensive as he opened his front door to the Precursor. A mental alarm should have sounded when his tone had been calm and poised, unlike the aggressive nature they unmistakably always adopted. Pleasing was an adjective that could never be attached to the role of a Precursor. Malit replayed the meeting in his mind, each hint of the Precursor’s manipulation now interpreted; the way the Precursor had brought about the subject, his dismissing words gnawing at Malit’s reserve...the aim eventually reached. The timing had been perfect, right before the fight. It had given the Precursor enough time to fill his traitorous role without leaving a breach of time long enough for Malit to come back on his word, pushed by his remorseful conscious. It was all done now, the fight should be near its end by now.
Malit knew very well he should not have ordered Axia, regardless of the Rules. His slave was expected to show her abilities without guidance, using her training and techniques to prevail. As a Master, he had to appreciate that notion all the more. He could have never imagined making such a mistake. But then again, he could have never imagined betraying Axia either.
The silence still remained, sheltering the soft breathing of the two men present in the room. The guard did not lift his eyes away from Malit who felt uncomfortable under the marble stare. The second guard came in, looking at Malit in the corner of his eyes, scornful as he addressed a few words to his colleague. So, the Precursor would be coming. Malit was surprised. He would take care of him personally. Malit was flattered, ironically smiling internally.
He did not get much time to pursue his reflection as a few seconds later, the man entered, impassible features. Malit did not believe in that subterfuge.
The two chairs, the table, the luminex above their head…even the expressionless faces of the Forg guards testified of the omnipresent Precursian quality. The Precursor sat in front of him, resting his hands on the table. They appeared all the more threatening on the polished surface of the metal table, dry, hard. They represented the decision between life and death, masters of so many fights.
"Get out!"
The raging voice was back, shattering the silence. The guards left.
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NDawgInstitutionalized reviewed Version 1 -
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Many many props. The world is convincing and drawn out in a harsh detail that leaves no doubt as to the life or death nature of the contest. Axia is a good character, very logical, not given to strong emotions or overconfidence it seems. I especially like the way the reader is thrown into the world with very few reference points, it took me about six pages or so to find out what was actually going on. A lot of the words I didn’t understand, but I’m sure they get explained later. The action, when not weighted down with descriptive text, flows along at breakneck speed, and I was reading as fast as I could to find out how the fight ended up. I’m a little fuzzy on the bond between Owned and Master. It kinda seems like Malik is in love with Axia, but at other times he is so detached it’s hard to pin any kind of humanity on him, but he may not be human, I’m not sure. The concept of the biologically and physically modified fighters is a wonderful twist on the gladiator concept. The story flowed very well but there were a couple of parts that just confused me. Mostly it was grammatical errors, some redundancy, and some spelling errors, but these I’m willing to forgive because (A) you said it was a translation and they don’t always come out exactly right, and (B) because the story was so damn good. I’m definitely going to continue reading what you have posted, and I hope you’ll either post more or get it published so the story will continue, coz it’s too good to drop. Goin in the fave’s.
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mark_93 reviewed Version 1 -
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This is very promising, however there are a few things that could be improved.
The translation, as mentioned in your notes, has made some of the text annoyingly disruptive to me as I read. I can’t help but notice the sentences that are not quite worded correctly. Overlooking this, however, and moving onto the story itself – a nice effort.
Your setting and premise seem quite plausible for what they are. The only gripe I have is that it sounds a lot like many other science fiction stories I have read, with multiple ‘classes’ as such, and races, and so on. While I realise this is integral to the genre as a whole, it seems as if you are ‘throwing’ new words in my direction, almost force feeding me your universe. I would suggest easing us into these things – perhaps, introduce us to one aspect until we are familiar with that, and then move us onto the next. At the moment as soon as I started reading I felt like I had hit a brick wall of terms I had no idea about.
Again, it is true that if you continue reading you slowly understand what these are, all I am suggesting is that you make the transition a bit smoother.
Also, try and describe the stadium in more detail – all I had in my head was the arena from Star Wars Episode 2.
Lastly, don’t dwell too long on extended explanation unless you can make it very interesting, and hook the reader. I began to lose interest in the story fairly quickly, as I didn’t really have any interest or connection to what was happening.
Good effort though, with refining this could become a lot better.
slbynum3 reviewed Version 1 -
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The beginning scene where Axia is stepping out into battle is a good way to start. She reminds me of Wolverine, with the metal coming out of her arms.
This is just my opinion, but maybe you shouldn’t put so much information at the beginning, because it tends to get tedious. Readers like to be thrust right into the action in the beginning of a novel. You might not need all that stuff explaining the battle till later, or at least slowly distribute it through the scene. For example, the paragraph that begins “They presented themselves as impressively as they could but it would never change Malit’s…” seems to go on and on unnecesarily. The suspense before the impending fight was done well though, so no need to change it too much.
I noticed you explained the Maxist twice, through Axia’s eyes and Malit’s. I think you only need to do it once. I would have liked to see what Axia looks like (hair color? body size?). You could have done that perfectly in Malit’s POV.
Your graphic details are excellent. Kudos for that.
I like how you left plenty of unanswered quesions to keep the reader wanting more. If you trimmed this up a bit, it wouldn’t be bad. Keep writing!
Dous reviewed Version 1 -
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i can definitely see this story going somewhere, and i will be following it closely, lol, the only faults that i could see were some minor spelling and grammar mistakes,
i like the setting and the idea of genetically modified fighters
Cilasliag reviewed Version 1 -
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Hi there, I read your first chapter. And the opening paragraphs are gold. I could really picture what is happening. However, the phrase “her life versus her opponent’s and that was all that imported in the end” confused me a little. Did you really mean “imported”? or was it supposed to be “all that was important” perhaps it would be more clear if you said “it was all that mattered in the end”
By the time I got to the second page I really liked where this story seems to be leading me. It really seemed like an alien world modeled after the coliseums of Ancient Rome and then you skillfully added some futuristic features. But you made a couple of typos that are easily fixed.
You wrote “this arena always too familiar”. It should be “always was too”.
You wrote “dominated both end”. It should be “dominated both ends”
The third page was very well crafted. I found myself completely impressed with the descriptive viewpoint and liking Axia. But it was bit of let down that it appeared the she was going to have an easy fight.
The fourth page was unexpected. Beginning with a near retraction of her earlier assessment of an easier battle. Then you go on to say that she was taught that any anticipation was foolish. Well, that statement made Axia look foolish. Then the description of Axia put me in mind of a Wolverine type of character, from the X-Men. I was assuming that she was going to be fighting with similar Roman Empire period type of weapons. These things however are only minor bumps and haven’t detracted from the story all that much. Your Description of her opponent is gold
The fourth page brought the introduction of Malit and that he somehow betrayed Alexia. You did this exquisitely. The only thing is the word “reeked” seems out of place. It means “to stink” and it’s not a verb. I think you might have meant “retched” or even better “vomited”.
I found the Detachment or Death being the Master’s fault a little confusing. What is the difference between the two concepts and why is it the Master’s fault? And how would he be held accountable, when she’s the one that would die? It seems rather patronizing of him to worry about looking bad when he is not the one being slaughtered. History seems to recall that when a Gladiator lost in the ring it was his own fault for not being good enough. The trainer might be held responsible if he has a habit of putting out losers or the fighter did extremely bad. But never the Master, because he is the Master.
By the time I got to the eight page I felt that Malik was extremely contemptible. I felt that in your efforts to make him look like he might be an OK sorts with some flaws. His mental condemnation of his associates is base hypocrisy and I find him not credible at this point to cast a moral view about anyone. I would find him credible if he was jealous of them rather than just seeing them as corrupt, when he seems to be no better.
The actual fight scene was astoundingly good. The only problem I had was I found it hard to picture that lumbering behemoth even remotely capable of a doing a back flip. I might rethink that one, if I were you. It makes your fight scene a little less believable.
When I got to the part where Malik shouts her name. I was really puzzled. And then you described how that was forbidden. It made him look he wasn’t a Master at all, but another slave that happened to own other slaves. I think I remember reading that Ancient Rome did have such a caste system, but it is really mentioned and most people don’t know. Mainly because it seems silly to those of us in Modern times. But writing good fiction, I am told, caters to the stero-types and prejudices of those who would make-up your audience of readers. So I still stand on the concept that this is a difficult, but interesting twist. I like how ended this chapter with Malik being in trouble with the head-honcho for interfering with the fight. Well, fair is fair. The Maxist cheated with poison and Malik gave Axia a wake-up nudge. Well surprise, surprise, maybe Malik isn’t so bad after-all.
This undoubtedly the best writing I have seen so far on Hurbis. With exception of my personal views and a few typos, accidental word omissions, at least one missing paragraph indention. I think you should seek to get this published, once you have it looked it by a professional critiquing service. I would like to read more of this story.
Thank you for sharing it.
Good luck,
Dave.
oknapp reviewed Version 1 -
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‘Their gloomy radiance.” i am sorry but this doesn’t go well. Gloom and radiance are two opposites. Gloom is associated with dark while radiance is associated with light. It doesn’t even sound right metophorically. You can fix it by finding another word that matches radiance.
You need to work on your transitions. The reader is one place and suddenly another. You do this in the first paragraph when you introduce Axia. The reader also doesn’t know who opens the gate for her to leave her prison.
What is luminix? is this a light of some kind. The reader will want to know.
Do ants buzz? You can discribe them as busy.
Autodefense, vivified; are these words? I can’t find them. You can fix this by being more consistent with grammar and its meaning.
physiological. This word does not define physical description. It defines they way the body works on the inside. The word you are looking for . “must have to do with human structure eg. outer appearance. You might say “Physical makeup”
His stomach turned and he could have reeked had he eaten. I don’t understand what you mean? You can fix this by telling the reader what he reeked of. Do you mean wretched or vomited? You might try this.
You ask that the reviewer not go from line to line but so i will tell you that you need to look at some of your wordplay. Many words have to be looked up in the dictionary and could be substituted for less complicated wording. I admire an extensive vocabulary but when wrting, one must consider who will be reading it. Sometimes less is more, especially for a piece like this. It is action and fantasy and it will attract younger readers. Here are examples: “extrapolate
recalcitrant”
Overall some very exciting moments during the fight scenes. I enjoyed it. What year did this take place? The year is very imoportant. This story reminds me of Rome and the games. Your charcters are intersting and well drawn. You have a great imagination and with a little more attention to syntax and wording this could be published. Good luck, Sandi
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