Surviving Skarr

I decide to test that theory. The cold makes my jaw clench, makes it difficult to spit words out. “What if…we…don’t want…to stay?”

She has an answer for this, too. “We’ll get you set up on your feet and give you enough food and clothing, and then you can go. No one’s keeping anyone captive. You’re free to do as you like. But we hope you stay and become part of our people. Our family.”

Family?

Fools. I am on a planet of fools.

Rubbing my hands near the warmth of the fire, I’m trying to keep from laughing aloud at the female speaking to the group. She thinks this place is friendly and kind?

Clearly she has no idea what is going on. Then again, neither do I. Is that part of this particular game, then? Are we to locate some sort of data pad with rules? Is that the first piece of the puzzle? I consider this.

The female with the glowing eyes continues to talk to the prizes—the soft ones that are clearly not here to fight—and reassures them. She tells them how she woke up here confused but the blue male with the horns helped her out. I eye the two of them together, and it is clear she is his prize.

So that is his method. He has tricked the female into coming to him. Clever. Very clever. I shall have to watch that one closely, see if I can learn his tricks.

“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.

Chapter Three

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-ski

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 i

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?”

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.”