The suggestion hangs in the air like a plasma charge waiting to detonate. Fight for myself. Against either a deadly alien gladiator or whatever nightmare creature Thek-Ka represents.
“That’s not...” I start, then stop, because the truth is, I don’t know what the alternatives are. And judging by the expressions on both their faces, neither do they.
From somewhere near the platform’s edge comes a soft whimper. Jitters, who has been cycling through panic colors since the moment Thek-Ka arrived, suddenly goes completely transparent and drops to the deck plating like his structural integrity just gave up entirely.
Even the anxiety blob knows we’re completely screwed.
“Zola,” Crash says quietly, and there’s something in his voice I haven’t heard before—vulnerability mixed with determination. “I need you to listen very carefully. When I give the signal, run for your ship. Do not look back. Do not try to help. Just run.”
“What signal?”
But before he can answer, Thek-Ka makes a sound like grinding metal mixed with anticipation. “Enough discussion. The terms are set by your actions, whether you intended them or not. The human female has chosen her alliance by refusing toflee, by standing at your side, by bearing witness to matters of honor. The old ways are clear.”
“This isn’t law, it’s a trap,” I snap.
“The old ways are absolute.” Thek-Ka’s compound eyes fix on both of us with mechanical precision. “Single combat. To the death. But since the female refuses to acknowledge her status as prize, perhaps we should... simplify... the terms.”
One of his four arms moves with casual precision, and suddenly there’s a weapon in his grasp—something that looks like it was designed by engineers who believe function follows lethality. The business end is pointed directly at me.
“The Golden Viper fights for his honor and his life. The human female fights for her continued existence. Separate battles, but concurrent. Let us see which of you proves more... entertaining.”
My blood turns to ice water. He’s not offering me a choice between being a prize or fighting for myself. He’s forcing both of us to fight, separately, at the same time.
“That’s not single combat,” Crash says, and there’s something deadly building in his voice.
“No,” Thek-Ka agrees with obvious satisfaction. “It is not. But it is far more interesting than watching you two pretend this is about honor when clearly other... biological imperatives... are at work.”
The vanilla-honey scent around Crash intensifies so suddenly that my head spins. His protective instincts are going haywire, but there’s nowhere safe to put me, no way to shield me from a threat that’s targeting both of us simultaneously.
“Run,” he says again, but his voice is rough with the knowledge that it won’t matter. “Please, Zola. Run.”
But where can I run to? My ship is on the other side of the platform, past Thek-Ka’s position. The emergency shelters are compromised by whatever weapons he’s carrying. Andaccording to alien honor codes I never asked to be part of, I’m already complicit in whatever’s about to happen.
I’m trapped. Not by choice, not by heroic decision, but by circumstances beyond my control and cultural codes I don’t understand. Standing next to a male whose biology is screaming “mate” while an alien nightmare prepares to hunt us both for sport.
This is so far beyond safety violations that I’m pretty sure there isn’t even a form for it.
From the deck plating, Jitters makes a sound like the universe giving up and going home. I know exactly how he feels.
Thek-Ka spreads all four arms in a gesture that looks disturbingly like a benediction. “The circle is sealed. Hunt well, Golden Viper.” The platform lighting shifts to something that looks disturbingly like arena illumination.
My scanner, apparently deciding that discretion is the better part of equipment valor, finally gives up and simply displays: I QUIT.
And that’s when the real nightmare begins.
3
Biochemical Emergency
Crash
Theemergencylightingburnsmy retinas like molten gold, and every predator instinct I’ve spent three years suppressing roars to life in my chest.
This is not how I imagined my death.
Standing in makeshift combat lighting with an Exoscarab honor warrior who wants to finish carving me into decorative pieces, while the most beautiful female I’ve ever encountered is trapped in the same nightmare because I couldn’t keep my biology under control long enough to get her safely off this platform.
Zola’s scent—that intoxicating blend of determination and barely controlled fear—mingles with my own mate-recognition pheromones until the air around us shimmers with biochemical chaos. My body doesn’t care that we’re about to die. My body is convinced she’s mine to protect, mine to claim, mine to keep safe, and the fact that I’m spectacularly failing at the last part is driving every Velogian instinct I possess into overdrive.
