Chapter 10
The Corsairs took the Traverse by storm. It started as a rumor; there happened to be a string of attacks on Hegemony convoys traveling near the Traverse, and they shared similar qualities. The convoy would send a distress signal which claimed that they had come under attack by a small fleet of military frigates or cutters, and when reinforcements arrived they would find all of the Hegemony's civilian vessels dead in space, with their engines destroyed. Every Batarian on board was dead, and their cargo was missing. The military escorts were either blown to smithereens or missing in action. This happened four times before the galactic rumor-mill began to spread the word that there was a new player on the piracy scene, one with a vindictive streak a mile wide and enough firepower to endanger Council patrols.
The name began to circulate in the Terminus, mainly from the planet Romus. Warlord T'Lanus struck a deal with the Corsairs, allowing them to refit their vessels in her spaceports as long as they paid her tribute. She also made it clear that any Asari slaves who were liberated from Batarian vessels were to be sent to Romus, where they could be redirected to their homes…for a price. A warlord she might have been, but heartless she was not.
Ex-Specialist Taylor would say that about half of the popular rumors about the Corsairs were true. They rarely left survivors when they raided a convoy, yes, but they didn't make a habit out of eating Batarian youths raw in the middle of an active raid. Currently the big, Human man was sitting at a workbench in the hangar of the Jolly Roger, cleaning the gore from his armor and checking his guns. He had a permanent grimace plastered on his swarthy features, and it apparently slipped his notice that he was currently scrubbing a squeaky clean spot of his breastplate in continuous circular motions. Again and again and again.
"Taylor?" Jon said from beside him, startling his fellow Corsair from his thoughts. "You know you've been cleaning that same spot for five minutes, right?"
As far as pirates went, Jon was basically the stereotypical image. A lanky fellow with yellowy skin and narrow, slanted eyes. He had a crooked nose and a few fake teeth, his skin was basically an appalling collection of scars and contagious diseases, and his hair was as greasy as the treads of a Grizzly armored personnel carrier. He swung down onto the bench beside Jacob and clapped his dirty old Avenger down beside Taylor's pile of blue and white armor. Or, it would have been blue and white, if it wasn't painted a macabre collection of purple, orange, and green.
Jacob grunted and returned his attention to his armor.
"What's on your mind, mate?" Jon asked. He spoke English with an accent that was an unusual mix between Scottish and Australian. The colonies all had their own distinctive accents, and Arcturus had a big enough native population that it was beginning to develop its own culture, but many of them were so similar to Earth's nations that it was impossible to tell where someone was from just by listening to their voice. Regardless, Jacob was glad to find someone whose lips matched the voice in his ears.
Translators were great, but nothing compared to speaking the same language.
"Nothing," he replied, regardless. "Just some old baggage."
"I see how it is," Jon answered, beginning the process of meticulously dismantling his weapon and inspecting each aspect of the machinery before slapping it all back together again with something of a haphazard grace. Taylor had only ever seen people do it the Alliance way, which was efficient enough but nothing close to what essentially amounted to an art-form in Jon's hands. "What?"
"Just the way you clean your gun," Jacob said, gesturing at the spectacle. "Its...interesting."
"Aw, you Alliance types need to get out more," Jon said with a nasty grin. "Out in the Terminus, nobody has time for your crisp little field manuals."
"The Terminus?" Taylor asked, feeling stupid. He'd been with the Corsairs for six months and he still hadn't taken the time to talk to anybody other than in passing. It had been a good decision at first, since casualties had been heavy for the first six or seven raids, but they had gotten to the point where they hardly even got scratched and Jacob still felt like he hardly knew anybody.
"Oh, aye," Jon said. He made a show of puffing out his chest. "Romus, Ilium, Omega, you name it. I've been there."
"Is that why it doesn't bother you, then?" Jacob asked before he could stop himself. Jon blinked, raising one of his bushy eyebrows.
"What?"
In for a penny in for a pound.
"The killing," Jacob clarified. Jon looked genuinely confused. Jacob sighed. "Forget it."
"Nah, mate," Jon said quickly. "If that's what's on your mind, then spit it out. I'm not sure I'm followin' you."
"Well, every raid I've been on the boarding party makes short work of the armed crewmen, but the Captain insists that we leave no survivors, even if they've already surrendered," Jacob said. He fidgeted and put down his armor, figuring there was no way he was going to concentrate on that as well as the conversation.
Jon nodded in understanding. As far as crooks went, he was a fairly sympathetic guy, even if his breath could knock you unconscious at ten paces if the wind was right. "That's the way it works. Out here, the laws you've been following in the Alliance are seen as a weakness."
"Is it really necessary?" Jacob asked.
"They'd do the same t'ya if you'd let 'em," Jon said. Seeing that he wasn't getting through to ole Alliance, he changed tacks. "Look at it this way; these blokes don' speak your language. You think you're showing 'em mercy by letting 'em off with a warning, but they just come back next week and stick a bullet in your arse for the trouble. They respect power here, not whatever passes as honor back in Citadel Space. The Corsairs' whole mission is to strike fear in the Hegemony and get 'em off the backs of the Alliance colonists. To do that you have to speak their language. Namely: bullets and blood."
Jacob sighed. "Every shot I took at a guy kneeling in plain sight or at someone whose back was turned felt like it tore my guts out. I come back with less and less of myself every time."
"It's a social thing," Jon said, finally putting his gun down and fiddling with the iron sights. "You were raised by decent folk, I'd wager. They taught you decent things. These guys and guys like me, we weren't. My da told me 'if someone throws a stone at you, throw knives at them. The next time, they won't dare to throw anything.' That's just the way things are."
"I feel like I'm out of my element," Jacob confided, wondering what in the hell he was saying. Jon gave him what he must have thought was a reassuring smile, but it turned Jacob's stomach more than his attitude.
"You are, Alliance," Jon told him bluntly. "There are a lot of you folk in the Corsairs, and some of you do better than others. But we're heading back out there tomorrow. I think maybe you'll get used to living without your guts after a time."
Satisfied that he'd done his good deed for the day, the pirate stood up, taking his gun with him. As he left, Jacob muttered under his breath, "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
Ex-Specialist Taylor picked up his armor and began to scrub once again, but he didn't think he would ever get the stains out.
Amos dubbed his roommate Hairy, due to his utter lack of hair. He thought the name was suitably ironic, considering the creature's only patches of fur worthy of note were two lines on the brows of his eyes and a matted, knotted mess around his jaws. Amos assumed that the creature was male due to his stocky build and earthy scent, but he figured that with aliens anything was possible. It hardly mattered what gender this creature was.
After the confrontation with the big lizard, Amos had been subjected to a series of invasive examinations and then doomed to spend his days in what might have been classified as an apartment if it wasn't bereft of furniture and other basic necessities. His roommate happened to be an alien that Amos had never seen before—which begged the question: just how many different aliens actually existed?
When Hairy spoke, it was a different sound and cadence than the other aliens. The presence of merely two eyes, which were not entirely black like the slavers' eyes, along with the utter lack of fur and the unique voice were just a few of the differences between this creature and Batarians. It was one of the many aliens that Amos had seen since his arrival on this planet.
For example, there were the blue/purple/white females which Amos collectively dubbed Blues for their colors, there were the lanky, stinky things with huge eyes that Amos called Twigs for their thin limbs, and the large, brutish carapace-wearing things which Amos called Spikes for obvious reasons. His captors, Amos knew, were Batarians. As for Hairy, who was currently inspecting him with as much, if not more interest as Amos had showed him, Amos decided that he would call his kind Rutashes after a blind creature on Amos' home world, due to the dullness of his eyes. There was no light at all in them; they were dark like the beady black orbs of the Batarians, except Rutashes had a white part and a colored part. It was really quite fascinating.
Hairy said something to him again—he hadn't quite gotten it through his thick skull that Amos couldn't understand his speech—and Amos merely wrapped his leathery tail slowly around his own right arm. "I cannot understand you," he replied to the creature in the tongue of his native city, knowing that his words would mean nothing. Hairy heaved his broad shoulders and glanced through the tiny window, across the crowded streets and the sprawling plains beyond.
This was better than a cage, Amos decided. Even though he couldn't interact with the other slaves as well as he would have liked, and even if he felt as though he might find himself stuck with a makeshift knife at any moment by one of the more unstable denizens of the filthy apartments, Amos was glad that he could wander the halls. There was a cafeteria, which Amos discovered served meals every day at certain times, although he had no way of knowing when those times were. They rang a bell to let people know that they were handing out whatever garbage they had whipped up in the kitchens. It took several weeks for Amos to get used to the length of day.
Amos did not know what laid in store for him on this world, but he settled in and determined to weather the storm. If his first fight had been any indication of his future battles, then he was sure he would be able to survive. The doctor had said something to him about buying his freedom, and there was an inkling of hope worming in Amos' chest that refused to fade despite his unfamiliar surroundings. Something in his eyes must have betrayed his determination, for Hairy caught his gaze and gave him a slow, encouraging nod. Amos didn't know what was intended by it, but he took it to mean that Hairy was expressing his solidarity with the strange creature who shared his room, and that was some small comfort to him in this incoherent place.
Amos wondered if Hairy would take offense if he tried to climb into the Rutash's bunk. Surrassi spent a lot of time in close contact with each other, touching each other in conversation and sleeping beside each other in close quarters. During his time in the military Amos had been content with sleeping among the outcasts of the barracks, and whenever he returned to his home he took whatever opportunity he could to remain close to his parents.
It was more difficult at home because Father and Mother were constantly having sex with each other. That certainly hadn't been a problem in the barracks, since there wasn't a female to be found within fifteen miles of the military base and males were too competitive to submit to each other without…violence. Such behavior was discouraged at every opportunity, for the Kingdom required children, and children could not be produced by men or women with a taste for their own gender.
Regardless, Amos was starting to feel incredibly isolated. He hadn't communicated meaningfully with another creature in what felt like months. Still, Amos had no desire to get into a fight with his hairless roommate, so he gave up the idea for the moment. Maybe later, or maybe if he came back to the room when he was injured, then Amos might move to sleep nearer.
He didn't think that Hairy would be able to object too much, considering the difference in size and strength between them.
Eventually, Gimp came with his escorts and started barking at Amos while the Surrassi was lumbering through the halls of the complex. Unable to understand the orders, Amos made as if he was going to continue on his way, but he was rewarded for his attempt with a hefty shock from his collar. Hissing and leaning against the wall, Amos glared at Gimp and cracked his tail like a whip.
It obviously did not intimidate the Batarian at all. He said the same thing, gesturing at Amos. "Thakrus" was the only word that Amos could pronounce in the entire diatribe. By now there were some other slaves watching the scene from their doorways or crowding at the end of the hall.
Amos scowled and endured repeated punishments for his failure to read Gimp's mind and divine his intentions. By the time he stood up for the sixth time, he began to stalk towards them with the intent of taking that little black remote and shoving it so far down Gimp's gullet that his hand would burst from the creature's belly. Surprisingly, this must have been what they had wanted him to do, since they turned and began to walk away from him.
Leading him to the entrance of the facility, they checked him out and practically dragged Amos through the streets until he came to a squat, rectangular gym not far from the slave dormitories. It was open to the sky and the ground was covered with a layer of blood-splattered sand.
Under the intense gaze of the hot red sun, Amos was pushed into a sandy pit. The finely ground rock was hot under his feet and light reflecting from the metal walls of the arena forced him to narrow his eyes. Amos was given an archaic spear—it was nothing like the sophisticated weapon that he knew from the King's army—but he knew better than to turn it on his captors when he wore the collar around his neck. Surely, he could have killed one or two of them before he was be brought down, but for what purpose? Perhaps they would kill him them, and he would have accomplished nothing. Putting aside his violent fantasies, he hefted the unfamiliar weapon and waited.
The spear may not have been of Surrassi make, but as far as weapons were concerned there were very few practical differences between one type of pole weapon and another. It only took a few experimental swings for Amos to become accustomed to the weapon's balance, but he knew that it would take longer than that for him to achieve any kind of skill with it. At least his military training would not go to waste.
A Spike entered the arena and was given a long metal blade. Amos was confused for a moment, since this alien was not wearing a collar like Amos, but had come forward to fight nonetheless. There was no audience here to watch this contest. The Spike's blade glinted dangerously in the sun when the creature brandished the weapon. The alien settled into a threatening pose, and its dark, beady eyes closely inspected his new opponent. Like the lizard-beast, this alien's joints were unfamiliar to him, and so was the stance that it took.
Amos assumed that this would be a battle to the death as it had been before. Immediately, he decided that he would not provide his captors with the entertainment they were surely seeking. He would end this as quickly as he could, without playing games with the life of this pitiful soul.
Gimp and the guards stepped behind a clear screen which appeared to be made of glass. The scratches and dents in its surface stood testament to its sturdiness, however. The doors to the arena closed, leaving no avenue of escape.
The other creature obviously understood the harsh language of their captors, for a command was given and he began to advance. Taking cues from his enemy, Amos settled into his own stance and gripped his spear tightly. He considered throwing it and skewering the Spike before he could close the distance, but that would have been cowardly, for his enemy was armed only with a bladed weapon, and this was as close to a duel as these aliens would likely ever get.
The chief advantage of the a spear compared to the sword in the Spike's talons was reach, and Amos sought to exploit that by harassing his opponent with swift jabs to the center of mass. Knowing that he could not remain at the edge of Amos' range and avoid injury for long, the Spike circled just out of reach for a moment, and when Amos came forward for another attempt at harassment, he attempted to bat aside the spear and come close for blade-work. The second advantage of a spear over a blade was flexibility; Amos could change the distance of engagement at any time with little warning. Allowing his spear to be knocked aside, Amos spun the haft about so that the counterweight crunched into the side of the Spike's skull. Staggering and disorientated, the alien swung wildly, but Amos leaned away from the blade and turned his spear once more as he stepped back out of reach. Leaning forward in a powerful lunge he suddenly impaled his enemy through the chest as the Spike feinted at the wrong time, blocking the final retaliatory strike with his left palm on the Spike's wrist. Lifting his leg, Amos kicked the creature off his spear and watched dispassionately as he fell to the sand.
It was over. Less than thirty seconds had passed.
There had been no enmity between Amos and this creature; there was no reason for Amos to have slain him other than poor circumstance. But Amos did not allow himself to feel remorse for what was necessary. Perhaps Amos would have felt guilt for killing the alien if it had been before the Battle of Tyre, but having witnessed battle on such a terrible scale, this duel hardly disconcerted him. During any armed conflict, Amos' role as a warrior was to deal death efficiently; mercy was reserved for peace-time.
Blue blood gushed from the gaping wound in the alien's chest, and Amos ignored the furious shouts of his captors to bow respectfully to his fallen enemy. That much, at least, was deserved. When he straightened again, his spear was suddenly wrenched from his grasp and he was shoved down into the sand. Voices roared, and he watched as his captors tried in vain to stem the tide of blood. Even though he was ignorant of his enemy's physiology, he knew that the wound was fatal. The barb on the spear was easily as long as the creature's chest was thick, and Amos had skewered him utterly upon it. A through-and-through puncture.
Amos wondered briefly if he had been expected to spare his opponent, but he decided immediately that unless he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that these were not battles to the death, then he had no choice but to fight with lethal intent. To do otherwise would be naive and dangerous.
He was brought up by his arms and dragged bodily back to his apartment, where the guards pushed him to the ground and stood vigil over him while the others continued to shout.
Hairy came from the bedroom and saw what was happening. He heard the shouting from the arena, but said nothing. Likely he knew that his words would not he heard, but still his eyes rested heavily on Amos. Suddenly the door slid open and the rest of the guards, along with Gimp, came into the cramped apartment. There was malicious intent in Gimp's black eyes, and Amos understood immediately that the creature was committed to making his life as miserable as possible. He was proven correct when Gimp gestured curtly to the guards and they began what Amos would later remember as the most brutal, meticulous beating he would ever receive. They were very careful not to break any of his bones as they crowded around him and rained blows upon him, but even so they managed to crack several of his ribs. They paid special attention to his sides, where the ribcage ended but above his pelvic bone, driving hard fists or pointed boots into the soft tissue with reckless abandon. Whenever Amos rose up, roaring his fury, the collar took him about his neck and threw him bodily to the ground, convulsing as he hissed and spat like a rabid beast. Gimp watched this all with a satisfied look on his face, fingering the controls of the little black remote.
Eventually, it was determined that Amos had taken enough. The guards stepped back, and the Surrassi spat a wad of blood onto the grimy floor. When he was thrown onto his back, every inch of his body throbbed with pain, and even the slightest movement provoked agony.
Amos had not even noticed them leave, and Hairy wasn't about to approach him when he was growling so viciously. It felt like hours had passed by the time Amos calmed himself down and began to gather his senses. When he finally motivated himself to try and regain his feet, Hairy stepped forward from where he had been watching and hauled the Surrassi up by the arms. They looked at each other for a moment, Amos in shame and Hairy with an unreadable, foreign expression on his features. Then they went about their business.
Just when his bruises finally began to heal, the guards returned. Amos was expecting another beating, but instead he was led onto the roof of the dormitory and shoved into the back of a dark black transit car, where he was sandwiched between two heavily armored guards. The ride was smooth, and Amos got the impression that they were moving incredibly fast, but he could not see out of the windows from where he was seated between the plated shoulders of his escorts, so he knew nothing of the route that they traveled. When the car alighted on a squat platform beside a wide, cobbled street, Amos was led toward a sprawling coliseum. The streets of this city were flat and wide, crowded with vehicles and pedestrians alike. The buildings were newer, constructed of glass and steel, and the sheer number of citizens far outmatched anything that Amos had seen in the mountain-city. There was already a crowd gathered under the darkened arches of the colossal stadium, but the guards took Amos around the throng, deep down into the catacombs.
Despite the apparent wealth of this city, the underground portion of the arena was unfortunately familiar to Amos in squalor.
Thick chains clacked together as slave-warriors walked through dimly lit tunnels. Bloodstains, fresh and old, soaked into the dirt floor and filled the air with a familiar biting stench. Amos could feel his heart begin to beat more strongly as he scented the air. Armed guards stood in shadowed corners and beside open doorways, watching the fighters prepare themselves for what would likely be their deaths. Slaves sat upon the benches, wearing archaic suits of armor and clutching imitations of obsolete weaponry. Some of them were trembling with fear, and others regarded their surroundings with jaded eyes. The feral, mindless ones were held in their cages, weighed down by manacles and chains. It was these pitiful creatures, helpless even within the sanctity of their own minds, that Amos most feared. Amos had no time to inspect them more closely, as he was taken quickly through the catacombs and into a tunnel, where he stood before a familiar metal gate.
Beyond the spiked, unforgiving bars, an enthusiastic crowd of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, gathered in the wings of the coliseum. The whole scene reminded Amos of the sporting events of Xixisax, where great multitudes would gather to cheer for their chosen champion. Massive screens of impressive size and quality displayed Amos' face as he peered out at the sea of bodies in the stands, and the instant they caught sight of him a pregnant hush fell over the masses.
Amos figured they had never seen a Surrassi before. He drew himself up and glared into the camera of the small hovering drone.
When the grate shuddered and ground open, Amos stepped gingerly out onto the unfamiliar battleground. The stone arena floor just outside the grate was slick with blood, and Amos paused as he peered at the fresh signs of a recent battle. He could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears as the rich aroma wafted up to meet his face. Shaking his head, Amos was forced to proceed nearly to the very center of the arena just to put his feet on less treacherous ground. The crowd fell almost silent when they saw him standing before them, and astonished whispers swept through their ranks.
The unmistakable sound of another gate rattling itself open broke the near-silence. A predator came prowling forward into the hot sun. He was a proud, majestic creature, with a rich golden pelt and slitted yellow eyes. This was not like the lizard-beast that Amos had fought, for this creature had no intelligence in his eyes. He was truly a primal being, and judging by his starved appearance, hunger was the only thing on his mind. The creature reached the place where Amos stood and offered a primal challenge with a hiss and snarl. His rich fur stood on end, and he drew itself up to appear as large and threatening as possible. Which was very large and very threatening.
Amos remembered how he had done the same trying to impress his father as a young cub. He almost smiled. The similarities between this creature and a Surrassi were striking, no matter the leaps of evolution that had taken a beast and made a man.
The Surrassi ex-soldier knew this creature's mind better than any of the aliens he had met so far, and in answer to the hunter's clear challenge, he gave a bestial roar and splayed his claws before the predator's eyes. Amos found that he was more reluctant to slay this beast than he had been the Lizard or the Spike, if only because there was an understanding between Amos and this feline. No matter how primitive it was, there was communication between them that hadn't existed with the other aliens.
Still, it seemed that there was no choice but to fight. Fighting was familiar. It was easy. In some ways it was a universal form of communication. And the beast was starved, blood-thirsty, violent. Amos' challenge was met with a roar.
As his tail cracked like a whip behind him, Amos bared his fangs and rose to his full impressive stature before the proud creature which stood before him with its hackles raised. Even the spectators high above the arena leaned away from the ferocious display as Amos' own roar shook the very stone beneath his feet, amplified a hundred times by the massive speakers above him.
The huge predator probably weighed more than Amos, and would have been truly impressive if it were not starved. With hunger gnawing at its belly, the feline would hardly refuse a fight, even against an opponent as intimidating as the Surrassi. Knees bent, Amos prepared for the beast to pounce. And pounce he did. The cat launched itself off the ground in time with a raucous cheer from the audience. Entirely absorbed in the spectacle, the crowd surged forward again in their seats as Amos rose up to meet the beast in the air. Two predators collided with a bone-shattering thud, and Amos was borne back with the momentum of his opponent. His claws sunk through the pelt and into the flesh of the beast even as he toppled backwards, slamming flat against the hard stone and rolling in spite of the way his entire body screamed in protest at the abuse that he had just taken. His wide feet caught the beast in the belly and Amos threw his opponent over his head, yanking a chunk of muscle and fur from the animal's shoulders as it passed over him. Claws scrabbled across Amos' fur, but scored only minor scratches, and Amos levered himself to his feet as the beast recovered its balance and turned towards him again. They circled slowly, assessing their injuries and trading threats in the form of rumbling growls and low, sibilant hisses.
Amos challenged it again, roaring boldly in its face. Blood poured from the wound in the cat's hulking shoulder, staining its rich golden pelt dark maroon, but the beast was driven mad by the pain. As he charged again, Amos fell upon it, striking at its whiskered face. Its heavy paws swiped at Amos, but the Surrassi was a slippery opponent, and the predator was continually frustrated in its attempts to score a solid blow. Soon the big cat was weeping blood from a hundred scratches, and it launched itself desperately forward in a desperate effort.
Even a primal intelligence such as the beast's knew that it could not compete against the Surrassi's claws and emerge victorious. They were too sharp and the strikes were too vicious. Already its pelt had been torn in at least seven places, and although the big cat knew not the number of wounds that it had suffered, it certainly felt the severity of its wounds. In spite of the pain, its hunger spurred it onward, but the predator knew that it had this last chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Amos did not sidestep this advance, for he knew that he would be caught even if he tried. He saw the determination in the hunter's eyes, and he understood that this was the deciding moment of the battle. Instead or sidestepping, Amos braced himself and whipped his tail around his body, entangling one of the beast's paws as it swiped at his chest. The creature bore down on him and Amos turned with the cat's momentum, throwing it down onto the hard stone. Its hind legs curled up to tear out Amos' belly, but the Surrassi danced sideways instead of collapsing on the cat, away from flailing hind legs. He hoisted it up by its paws, ignoring its wide snapping jaws, and slammed the beast back down against the ground. He heard the crowd cheering and goading them on. More importantly, however, Amos felt himself drowning in the heat which was pulsing through his veins like a wildfire.
There was hardly a coherent remaining in Amos' head. The instant that this proud, feline hunter had stepped into the arena, Amos had unknowingly been drawn deep within himself, beyond his identity as a soldier, back to his ancient heritage as the Surrassi predator. He was the beast that had dominated Xixisax through might and sheer force of will. He was the animal that had risen above his competitors and seized his soul from the blood-soaked maw of Mother Guunet, the patron of the wild. Utter isolation had eroded whatever chains civilization had put upon his base instincts. Even Amos iron discipline and extensive training could not overcome the lusty fire that consumed him in that moment.
It burned away the sorrow, regret, and empty dreams. All that mattered was the fight and the sight of blood. The musky scent of his enemy filled his nostrils as Amos drew a harsh breath and hissed his satisfaction in the face of the lesser creature's futile efforts to rise. For a moment, Amos was free to do what he liked, and his only desire was to bury his fangs in the flesh of his struggling enemy, to taste its blood, to feel the life bleed away beneath his claws.
Amos wrestled with the cat for a moment, then dragged its powerful paw out of the fight with his tail. He took the other leg in a vice grip, wrapped his long fingers around the beast's snout, and sank his fangs into its vulnerable neck, just as he had done to the Lizard. When it tried to bring its hind legs up to push him away he swung his leg up and straddled the creature, stretching it out on the sand as he tore its throat out with his teeth. Instead of pulling away, however, he dug in further. Hot blood gushed into his mouth, and Amos purred luxuriously, rapturously. Cries of excitement and cheers from the crowd turned to a mixture of disgust and sadistic delight as Amos began to gorge himself on his fallen opponent, who continued to struggle weakly with the last of its strength.
When they finally pulled him from the dead beast, Amos' front was drenched with blood, and he was mindless with it. He struggled thoughtlessly against them until his collar finally broke through the red haze with white-hot pain, and he was put down onto the stone, where he writhed pitifully before thousands of spectators.
Amos gasped for breath when the pain subsided. He was hauled to his feet and removed from the arena and doused with frigid water. He didn't remember how he got back to his apartment, but he did remember the uncertainty in Hairy's posture when he walked through the door. The other slaves regarded him warily and kept their distance whenever he walked the halls. Somehow, they had seen Amos lose himself, knew that this was something else, a different creature than before.
Amos might have known the depravity of warfare. The battlefield was at once the ideal contest of might and a terrible travesty; it is both a marvel and a horror. In a struggle for life or death, people turn to things that they would never consider had they remained in their right mind, this Amos knew intimately, for his own actions when he was consumed by battle tended toward savagery, but the things that the Batarians forced upon their slave-warriors opened his eyes to new depths of horror. In battle, although soldiers might give themselves over to their base instincts, and commit terrible deeds, they return to themselves eventually, as their duty demands, yet here in the arena, there was no expectation of honor or civility. In fact it was preferable for Amos to remain consumed by that blood-lust, so that his guilt would never become more than a whisper in the back of the mind. The loss of self, the descent into madness, was worse than any war crime that Amos had ever heard of.
And he couldn't stop it.
Amos wished that he could say he held himself above the savagery. He wished that he had dealt honorably with all of his opponents as he was brought out again and again and pitted against creatures of all sorts, each more vicious than the last, gradually upgrading from beasts to slaves, then to warriors. But he didn't. Amos found that when he was treated like a beast, known as a beast, and feared as a beast he began to act according to the expectations of his captors, he sank below the worst of his own kind on Xixisax, fulfilled his father's worst nightmares.
They told him that he was a mindless killer, and they rewarded him for it, and so he slew his enemies. He did not do so in the way that Amos the Soldier would have, by fighting honorably and ending their lives swiftly, without pain. He mangled them, tore them limb from limb. He tasted their blood and sank his fangs into their flesh. He let the taste, the scent, and the sounds of their screams take him away from his visceral disappointment, his aching frustration.
If any of his people had seen him, they would have decried him as a mad-tooth. Any Surrassi who resorted to using their teeth in a confrontation with their enemies were considered to be honor-less. Most of the time they were executed like a rabid dog. But Amos was an exile, far from his people, and those who witnessed his savagery cheered for it. When they stood Amos upon the sands, they were not seeking Amos the Soldier. They only wanted his claws and his teeth. They continued to call him by another name; it was a primitive name which was more fitting his monstrous state. Thakrus. It meant nothing to him, but that was better than the name his father had given him because Amos did not want to know what his father would say if he could see his son in these pits.
Despite the deterioration of his mind, Thakrus knew that he had grown in strength and swiftness. He was in excellent physical condition, the best he had ever achieved. Continuous battle had hardened him. He was stronger and faster than his enemies, he was the uncontested king of the arena, and at first even his captors feared him, even despite the collar around his neck. They resorted to pitting him against multiple opponents, since no single creature could stand against him and survive, and the dark, sickly pride that squirmed in Tharus' chest when he took them down further drove the last remaining vestiges of civilized thought from his mind.
All semblance of honor fled from him, and he made no effort to find his voice. Thakrus found it inconsequential; he had nothing to say to the creatures he killed.
At some point Thakrus had gotten into a fight with the other slaves, killing several of them before the guards could split them up. For that he was thrown into a dark cell beneath the arena and left there until he was taken to spill blood in the arena. He never saw Hairy, or any of the other fighters, again. Not until he was forced to kill them, several days later, on the burning sands of the gladiatorial court.
By watching the people who left the catacombs and those who returned, Thakrus eventually learned that these fights were not meant to always end in death. It made sense, at last. Fighters were expensive to buy and expensive to train, so it was best if the entertainment could be found without losing a valuable asset, but by the time Thakrus had figured this out he no longer had the desire to spare his opponents.
They stepped out to face him, and his captors knew by this point that their collared beast never relented in battle, so Thakrus killed them as he was expected to. Eventually, most of his opponents were pitiful creatures who were hardly even fit to die in the arena. They were slaves who had outlived their purpose or criminals who had been sentenced to death. It was all sport to the Batarians, watching these executions, and as the fights began to bleed together in memory, it became sport to Thakrus as well.
When the real fights came, when Thakrus actually had to compete, the arenas were larger and more prestigious in accordance with his fame. The Batarians were not afraid of showing him off as a beast, as a mindless thing, less than them in every way. There was no hint of civilization within him now, nothing that might clue them in to what had been done to Xixisax. Amos was taken to new places in dark cars and long, impressive warships, he was put on display and marched in parades. Thakrus basked in their praise, behind the bars of his cage.
It was only at night, when silence fell upon the cages, when Thakrus curled up alone on the cold metal benches, that he remembered who Amos was. He thought of the days when he could walk freely through green pastures and bright cities, when he could find comfort in his mother's arms, when he could rely on his father's wisdom without fear, when he had not been utterly alone. As darkness closed in around him, he became acutely aware of the collar around his neck, and each of the tortures which had been inflicted upon him by the Batarians replayed itself endlessly in his mind. He knew that, no matter his resolve at the beginning, the collar had dominated him. It had taken him and broken him. It was a symbol of everything that had changed. As twisted as he was, the only comfort he could find was in violence. He fantasized that he was tearing out the throats of his oppressors and rising above them, reaching out for the stars and returning home. No. Not home. Thakrus couldn't bear the thought of facing his parents in this state. The Void itself would be his destination, his absolution.
He dreamed of spending the rest of his years among the infinite vistas of the abyss, anonymous, and that sustained him through the darkest of nights.
