Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
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?”
I’rec shakes his head again. “They are not prizes. They are stranded here, just like you. They have been abandoned, just like you.”
“So you admit we are not wanted,” the moden says slowly.
“Not by those that created you, no.” I’rec gestures at the wristband that each of us wears. “That is why you were sent here to our world. The one that dropped you here has brought others. If this message is correct, you have been brought here to live because you are not wanted on other worlds.”
I rub my chin, considering this. It does not bother me that I am not wanted, according to him. Obviously this is a mistake. I am an excellent, fierce gladiator. It is more likely that they cloned too many from my sire—because he was the best—and I was the unlucky one sent with the other rejects simply due to logistics. That’s fine with me. I can conquer rejected gladiator clones as easily as other gladiators. But this I’rec brings up an interesting point. “So if no one wants the females…we can take them?”
The other males perk up, looking to I’rec.
“No. No one is taking anyone. The females are your equals.”
I burst into laughter. So do the others.
I’rec does not laugh, and it occurs to me that he is serious. “Females are not equals. Females do not fight males. They fight other females, or they are given away as prizes to males that win.”
“You will change that thinking fast,” I’rec tells me. “A female might not be as strong as you, but I have met plenty that are smarter. If you are not wise, you will end up alone and full of regret.”
Bah. Wits. I was not bred for wits. No one is. “Tell me more about the females.” I lean in. “Someone will come and take them away soon, yes? Because they have been accidentally abandoned here with us?”
Again, I’rec shakes his head. “Females live side by side with the males in our encampment. I remember V’dis told me that when he was a glad-tater females were kept from them, but you are no longer gladiators. You will become part of our tribe, and everyone in our tribe is welcome to come and go as they please.”
“We are no longer gladiators,” the praxiian echoes, a blank look on his face.
“There is no need here for such things. Here, you are just a hunter or a tribesmate. There are no battles to be fought or won upon this planet.”