"You!" said Fatso to Jack. "Help Bronze Stallion carry that one," and she pointed to the paralyzed Warrior.

"I have a better idea," said Jack. "Why don't you un-paralyze him so he can walk?"

Umala's eyes flashed, and the pain hit again. Jack had been expecting it, and tried not to let it completely overwhelm him this time. He tried to stay aware of what was happening around him. He sensed himself falling to the ground. He felt the tension in his muscles as he convulsed, the rawness in his throat as he cried out, but then his eyes squeezed shut, and he couldn't remember what he'd been trying to do. The only thing he knew was pain; the only thing he wanted was for the pain to stop.

And then it did. For a moment, his mind was fuzzy and almost blank. Then his sense of self returned, and his surroundings snapped back into focus.

"…haven't got time for it now, Umala." It was the crime boss's voice. "You'll be able to work on him after dinner. It's obvious Bronze Stallion can carry the other male by himself. We're going to the Big Room."

Jack felt an hand on his arm. "Come on, get up." It was Skinny. Her tone was firm, but not unfriendly.

Jack stood up, trying not to shake. He looked around and saw that the Bronze Guy had the Warrior slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The Warrior was a big, heavy man, but the Bronze Guy wasn't exactly a 98-pound weakling. He met Jack's eyes, and Jack realized he had picked up the Warrior by himself to defuse the situation. To get Jack off the hook.

The crime boss began walking around the row of chairs, toward the back of the room. "Get moving!" snarled Fatso, glaring at Jack.

Jack started following the crime boss. Skinny walked behind him, then the Bronze Guy carrying the Warrior, then Fatso. They all trooped through the door in the back of the room. Jack paid close attention as they crossed a wide, slightly curved hallway – which looked as if it might encircle the Arena – and then went through a door on the other side. The doors opened for the crime boss without her touching any controls. Those damn neural implants, thought Jack. How would he be able to unlock doors without them?

Now they were moving down a corridor. The walls, floor, and ceiling were grey and slightly unfinished-looking, and the lighting managed to be both dim and harsh. It looked like a warehouse or storage basement. When they reached the end of the corridor, another door opened, and they all stepped out into a large, echoing space.

Jack figured this had to be the Big Room. It was just a rectangular chamber with the same bare walls and harsh lighting as the corridor, but it was half the size of a football field. About forty naked, painted, Collared men where standing or sitting or lying in it. Their movements filled the chamber with a vague rustling, but Jack heard almost no voices. The men were located mostly at the two narrow ends of the room, and up near the walls some of the men where surrounded by furniture. But none of them were gathered in groups, as you might expect. Each man was separated from the others, and the spacing between them was strangely regular. Then Jack noticed that there were squares painted on the floor, and each man was inside one.

Jack saw a man pacing within one of the squares. He would cross the small square in a few quick strides, but turn sharply around when he reached the thick white line that marked the edge. Then he would pace in the opposite direction, and turn again when he reached the other side of square. Jack noticed he never set foot on the white line, or allowed any part of his body to lean over it. He treated it as if it were a physical barrier. Jack wondered if there were a force field there, but if so it was completely invisible.

"Honored One," said Umala, "I'd like to take a moment to put that one on the Ropes." She gestured toward the Warrior. "That way, he can start reaping the rewards of his insolence while we're at dinner."

The crime boss waved her hand dismissively. "All right," she said.

"Bronze Stallion," snapped Umala, "bring him!"

The door through which they'd entered the Big Room was at the center of one of the long sides, and immediately in front of it, down the center of the room, was a clear swath that didn't have any men in it. The floor lacked those painted squares, but it contained some odd fixtures. There seemed to be several pairs of shackles, and close to each was a pedestal with a black box on it.

Umala walked to the shackles at the center of the room, and the Bronze Guy trailed behind her, carrying the Warrior. "Put him down," she said. And the Bronze Guy did – though Jack noticed a fractional hesitation before he obeyed her command. Then, presumably at Umala's mental command, two more shackles descended from the ceiling, suspended by cables.

"Now bind him," said Umala, her voice hard.

The Bronze Guy sent a pleading glance toward Skinny, and she said, "Wait a minute! That isn't my Bronzy's job. Get one of your males to do it."

"For Goddess's sake, Eli," said the Big Boss Lady, her voice full of exasperation, "your male is right here. He can do it."

"But, Mima…"

"No buts!" snapped the crime boss.

Skinny subsided with a pout, while Fatso smiled.

The Bronze Guy showed no expression. He hadn't shown any since the women had arrived. But his whole body seemed to slump. He bent down and attached the shackles to the Warrior's wrists and ankles, moving as if his limbs weighed a thousand pounds. After securing the shackles, he got a sort of mouthpiece from a drawer in the pedestal. He put it into the Warrior's mouth, and fastened it around his head.

Jack kept his emotions locked away as he watched. It was clear something bad was going to happen to the Warrior, but Jack couldn't see any way of stopping it.

The cables retracted back into the ceiling, pulling the Warrior's body up by the shackles around his wrists. At the same time, cables played out of the floor to the shackles around his ankles, allowing his body to be lifted. Soon, his body was suspended in a spread-eagled position.

The Warrior suddenly lifted his head and pulled at the shackles, obviously no longer paralyzed. His eyes fixed on Umala, and he clenched his teeth down on the thing in his mouth and made an angry sound.

Lights started flashing on the black box closest to the Warrior. A large red light came on in its upper surface, and, three seconds later, the Warrior's body began to convulse. His face clenched in agony, and he groaned around the bit in his mouth. Jack realized it was intended to stop him from swallowing his tongue or something. He realized the black box was sending Punishment commands to his Collar.

Looking around the Room, Jack noticed that many of the other men paid scant attention to the gut-wrenching spectacle of the Warrior's torture. Most of them looked over briefly, but then went back to what they'd been doing – which was mostly pacing and staring into space, or sitting and staring into space, or lying down in a curled up, defensive posture. Not a good sign, thought Jack. Not good at all.

The red light went off, and the Warrior slumped against his bonds. Jack felt his own body relax in sympathy, but the respite was short-lived. After a few seconds, the red light came back on. Umala grinned as she watched the Warrior's body begin to jerk against the Ropes once more. She even started chuckling. This woman is a walking cliché of evil, thought Jack.

"Umala," said the crime boss, "I'm ready to inspect your side of the Room."

Umala wrenched her attention away from the Warrior's torment with a certain reluctance, but she said, "Of course, Honored One. Right this way."

"Eli," added the crime boss, "I believe I've seen enough of your Wrestling operation for this visit. Why don't you put your males in their cells, and then join us?"

Skinny frowned, apparently unhappy to see Umala get a chance to talk to the Big Boss Lady alone. But she looked at Jack and said, "I think I'll put you next to Bronzy. Come on."

Jack followed Skinny down one of the rows of white squares. Skinny stopped in front of an empty "cell" and gestured for Jack to go in. Without being told, the Bronze Guy walked into the next cell.

Jack stayed outside the white line. "So what's the deal here? Is there a force field or something?"

"No," said Skinny. "There's nothing except the Collar. That's all we need to keep males in line – or hadn't you noticed? Now get in." And she followed this up with a Warning command.

Jack stepped inside the "cell." It was just a painted square about 12 feet by 12 feet, with nothing inside except a thin pallet and a floor fixture that appeared to be a primitive john.

"That square," said Skinny, pointing to the lines on the floor, "marks out your allotted space. You're safe as long as you stay inside the white lines. But if you step on or over the lines without a woman's permission, your Collar will automatically start giving you maximum-intensity Punishment. And it won't turn off until you get back inside the lines. Understood?"

"Yeah," said Jack. "I get it."

"Good," said Skinny. "If you do well in the Arena," she added, her tone upbeat, "you'll be given a bigger and nicer cell." She gestured toward the "cells" near the wall. Some were larger, and had furniture in them. "And you'll get extra privileges, like better food and more conversation time. If you're a good boy and follow all my instructions, you could end up living just as comfortably as Sweet Ass." And she pointed toward the largest "cell," which was up against the far wall and had several "rooms" of furniture, including bedroom, living room, dining room, and fully equipped bathroom. Only everything, including the bathroom, was completely open. It was like an apartment in a goldfish bowl, only without the bowl.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You've got the stick down," he said, "but your carrot needs work."

Skinny gave him a perplexed look, but then her gaze shifted to the Bronze Guy and she smiled. "You're allowed to speak to Bronzy," she said. "because he's special. But you aren't allowed to speak to any other males without permission. Understood?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. If the men weren't even allowed to talk to each other, that explained some of their silent listlessness. But people in prisons usually found ways to communicate even when it was forbidden.

Skinny stepped into the Bronze Guy's "cell" and embraced him, her hands wandering possessively over his body. The Bronze Guy just stood there passively. "I'll come for you after dinner," she said. "I have something new in mind for us." Then she frowned and said, "Sorry I couldn't stop Umala from making you bind that male. I know how you hate to do those things." At that, the Bronze Guy's arms went around her, and he hid his face against her shoulder.

Jack's eyebrows rose. He instinctively knew that the Bronze Guy despised himself for obeying Umala's command to bind the Warrior. In his shoes, Jack would have felt the same. But was he really turning to Skinny for comfort? What was that about?

The two of them hugged for a moment. Then Skinny began planting quick kisses all over the Bronze Guy's face. Her attitude was weirdly light-hearted and playful, but not mocking. There seemed to be some genuine affection there. With a sigh, she disengaged from him, her glance going to Umala and the crime boss walking together on the other side of the Big Room. All the men on that side were down on their knees and elbows, with their foreheads to the ground. Skinny gave the Bronze Guy a parting smile and said, "After dinner." Then she headed toward the other two women.

When Skinny had gone, Jack looked at the Bronze Guy and said, "Don't think I ever introduced myself. My name's Jack O'Neill. What's yours?"

"Bronze Stallion," he said.

"No," said Jack, locking eyes with him. "I mean your real name."

The Bronze Guy's brows drew together. His gaze went through Jack and into the middle distance, staring at something only he could see. "My parents gave me a different name," he finally said, his voice subdued. "But I'm not that man anymore. Now, I'm just Bronze Stallion."

Jack's eyes flicked away, and he shifted restlessly. He hated to see this man so full of self-loathing. Jack met his eyes again and said, "If you don't want to use your real name, that's up to you. But I'm not calling you Bronze Stallion. Mind if I call you Buddy?"

The man's lips twitched. "No. Why should I mind? Since coming to Ashora, I've had four different names. What's one more?"

At that moment, the Warrior's suspended body underwent a particularly violent spasm, and his agonized cry forced its way past the bit in his mouth to reverberate through the room, echoing and re-echoing from the barren walls and floor and ceiling. Then the echoes died away, and the Warrior slumped against his bonds. There was a silent pause, the usual background rustling of the Big Room absent as all the men froze for a moment.

"So, Buddy," said Jack to the Bronze Guy, "is it always this pleasant around here?"

"Pretty much," said Buddy/Bronze Guy. "Watching somebody getting tortured on the Ropes is the staple form of entertainment in here." His mouth thinned. "And the big guy just had to ignore my warnings and get himself off to a great start."

"How long you think she'll keep him up there?"

Buddy gave one of his barks of unhappy laughter. "Are you kidding? He spat in Umala's face. She'll leave him there all night."

Jack grimaced, remembering what the Collar pain was like. The thought of having to endure that for an entire night boggled his mind. And then he remembered – that was probably what he was facing himself. Tonight.

"I'm kind of surprised she didn't put me up there, too," said Jack.

"So am I," said Buddy. "I would have thought she'd want to start softening you up on the Ropes while she's at dinner. Until she gets back and can start working on you in more… intimate ways. But I think she was worried about annoying Mimoisa. So you lucked out! You get a breather before Umala starts on you. And then you only have to endure her for the rest of the night! You don't know how incredibly lucky you are. The only other man in here who's ever been that lucky is Sweet Ass. So for the gods' sake, try not to fuck it up. Don't give Umala an excuse to get her claws in you again."

Buddy gestured at the suspended Warrior and said, "You don't want to end up in the same stew as the big guy. Tonight is just the beginning for him. Umala won't be satisfied till she's reduced him to a quivering wreck. And she will. She's done it to dozens of men." His mouth twisted. "Including me, of course."

"How long you been in here, Buddy?" asked Jack, his voice soft.

Buddy went into a paroxysm of "laughter." "Forever," he gasped. "For ever and ever and ever." It sounded more like he was choking to death than laughing.

As suddenly as it started, his strange fit ended and he shrugged. "Actually, I don't exactly know. Eli came on board about a year ago, but I'd already been here for a long time. I'm not sure how long, though. See, before Eli came, Umala was in charge of this whole place. So she had free rein to do whatever she wanted with all of us, not just the Fighters. And I was her favorite toy. I went a little crazy, I think. Anyway, I lost track of time."

He looked into Jack's eyes, his gaze serious. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a broken man. I'll do anything they tell me. So don't trust me."

Jack felt an ache of sympathy deep within him. This man had been a slave for years, subjected to God only knew what kinds of sadistic abuse, but his heart wasn't dead. He was still trying to protect others, to the extent he could. That was impressive as hell.

Jack longed to reach out to Buddy. He wanted to make the man realize he wasn't worthless – far from it. But, as so often in such situations, Jack felt unable to express what he felt. And what could he really say to this man, anyway? What could he say that would mean squat to someone in his predicament?

Jack stood frozen for a beat. Then he spoke, his voice quiet and matter-of-fact. "Every man has a breaking point," he said. "Even the toughest. He wouldn't be human if he didn't."

A change come over Buddy's face. His eyes became riveted to Jack's, and there was a highly charged moment of wordless communication between them.

The moment was broken by a new sound in the Big Room. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack had seen the three women leave the room a few minutes previously, through the same door they had used to enter. The new sound was coming from the opposite wall. Jack turned in time to see another door open. A man came in, pushing a big wheeled cart. Savory smells came from the cart, and Jack suddenly realized how hungry he was. How long had it been since he'd eaten that disgusting bowl of mush that the Stumpy Blond had given him?

"Hey," said Jack, "is that food?"

"Yeah," said Buddy, "but not for the likes of you and me. Real food is one of the perks they give to the guys who do well in the Arena. The rest of us get a kind of white slop. It's nutritious, but not very appealing."

A wave of annoyed disappointment went through Jack – closely followed by a wave of irritation with his own reaction. Bad food was the least of his worries. He needed to find a way out of this hellhole.

Jack studied the man pushing the cart. There was something odd about him. He walked with a kind of limp – an irregular sort of stride. And he jingled as he walked, because there were bells in his hair. His hair was done up in multiple plaits – as seemed to be the universal style on Ashora – but the plaits had been stiffened somehow, so that they stuck up from his head. With the bells on the ends, his hair looked sort of like one of those medieval jester's caps. And the paint on his body was hot pink, loudly calling attention to his genitals and butt. His face was painted in an exaggerated manner, too, with hot pink circles on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The total effect was clownish and ludicrous.

As the man walked past Jack's cell, Jack got a good look at his face. One side of his mouth was pulled up in a sort of half-smile, but it wasn't really a smile. There was something wrong with that side of his face. And his eyes were wide and vacant, yet full of fear.

The guy's not all there, thought Jack. He realized the man had sustained some sort of brain damage. A head injury, or maybe a stroke. That was why he'd been given the grunt work – he couldn't perform in the Arena. And evidently, he'd also been made into a sort of "fool" or clown, which was incredibly cruel. Just the sort of thing you'd expect from Umala. Jack felt disgusted.

On the other hand, it didn't escape Jack's notice that the man was permitted to walk around without supervision. The women probably figured he wasn't with-it enough to create any problems. Jack wondered if there was some way he could use that…

"If you're wondering whether you can use Squealer to help you escape," came Buddy's voice, "forget it. He's terrified of Umala. He won't do anything that's against the rules."

Jack gave Buddy an annoyed look. He was uncomfortable that Buddy had read his mind so easily – and even more uncomfortable at what he'd been caught thinking. Using a mentally handicapped man for his own purposes was probably not the most ethical of moves. After all, there was a good chance it'd get the guy in trouble.

Guilt made Jack's voice especially sharp as he snapped, "There's gotta be a way out of here! For all of us." He glared at Buddy. "But we won't find it if we give up hope."

Buddy looked away and started "laughing" again. It was an ugly sound. Jack knew that Buddy had been through hell, but the man needed to change his attitude. This kind of thing wasn't doing him or anybody else any good.

"Hey!" he barked. "Snap out of it!"

Buddy abruptly stopped laughing. In a subdued voice, he said, "Actually, there is a way out of here. In fact, there are two."

He looked at Jack and said, "One way is to be sold out. See, sometimes there's a woman in the Arena audience who wants to get up close and personal with one of us. Occasionally, the Syndicate will oblige – for a price. There are rooms in this place that are used for renting us out. But the Syndicate doesn't do that for just anyone. The woman has to have the kind of background that makes the Syndicate certain she won't object if she finds out how we're treated. Occasionally, one of these women asks to buy one of us, and the offer is high enough to make it worth the Syndicate's while."

Buddy gave a twisted smile. "So there've been a handful of men who've gotten out of here that way. But I doubt their situation improved much. 'Cause why do you suppose a woman would be willing to pay a fortune to keep an illegal, off-the-books chattel-male hidden in her basement?"

Jack shifted restlessly. "What's the second way?"

Buddy smiled again. This time, his expression was almost serene. "The second way is the good way – losing a Combat to the Death." In a very soft voice, he added, "It's not impossible, even though we're not Fighters. They have sometimes used Wrestlers as sacrificial lambs in the Games." He sighed. "If only Eli would let me go…"

"Hey!" snapped Jack. "I don't want to hear that! We're both getting out of this place – and not by dying."

Buddy looked at him, his expression bemused. "Oh, gods," he said, "you sound like…" He stopped abruptly, and looked away.

But Jack realized he'd been about to say that Jack sounded like him. Like the man he'd once been. And Jack felt something unpleasant worming around in the pit of his stomach. If he stayed in this place long enough, would he end up like Buddy?

The queasy feeling passed in a wash of anger – and resolution. I'm not hanging around long enough to find out, thought Jack.

"Look," said Jack, his voice quiet, "I'm not asking you to actually do anything. I'm just asking for some information. You must know a lot about this place."

Buddy looked down. "Sure," he said, almost whispering. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. For all the good it'll do."

"Okay," said Jack. "You mentioned the audience for the Wrestling Matches wouldn't want to see anybody get hurt, right? Couldn't we let them know there's real violence going down around here?"

"Don't you think the Syndicate has thought of that? We Wrestlers aren't allowed to speak to the audience, or communicate with them in any way. When we're in the Arena putting on a show, several Trainers are watching carefully the whole time. If a man tries anything, they use the Collar to stop him in his tracks. And then they make up some excuse for the audience. 'Sorry, sisters, this male is especially unruly. He was going to break the rules and really hurt his opponent.' The few Wrestlers that have tried to communicate with the audience got nothing out of it except a long, long session on the Ropes. Believe me, Jack, it's not worth it."

Jack thought about Sweet Ass throwing kisses and hamming it up. Wasn't that communicating with the audience? But he said nothing more.

"What about the Collars?" he asked instead. "The anti-aggression programming has flaws, doesn't it?"

Buddy gave another bark of laughter. "Definitely," he said. "Sometimes the Collar goes off just if you get really angry – even if you weren't planning to actually do anything about it. The Trainers always think that's good for a laugh."

"But," pressed Jack, looking toward the Warrior, "that guy was able to spit in Umala's face. That counts as aggression, doesn't it?"

"And look what it got him," said Buddy.

Jack held Buddy's eyes and waited. After a moment, Buddy sighed and looked away. "Yeah," he said, "sometimes the Collar misses something. It's rare, though. And even when the Collar doesn't actually prevent the act of aggression, it always kicks in right afterwards. The man goes down, Paralyzed and Punished. So what difference does it make?"

Buddy's eyes met Jack's again, his gaze full of pain. "A while back," he said, "one of the guys in here managed to punch Umala in the face. Broke her nose."

"Sweet," said Jack.

"No," said Buddy. "No, it wasn't. Because you know what Umala did to him then? She put him on the Ropes, and left him there. She only let him down long enough to give him a little water, so he'd stay alive. And so she could torment him in other ways, right there in the middle of the Big Room, in front of everyone. At first he resisted her, but eventually he was begging for mercy and doing anything she told him. But even then, she didn't stop torturing him. She put him right back up on the Ropes. We all thought she was going to leave him there till he died, but Umala is crueler than that. After a few days on the Ropes, he didn't talk anymore. When she let him down, he'd just start screaming at the sight of her. Or trying to, cause his throat was too hoarse for much sound to come out. That's when she stopped the torture, and let him live.

"See, the Collar is supposed to allow Ashoran women to control men without physically harming them. But it isn't designed to be used so continuously. Overuse of the Punishment function can cause brain damage."

Jack started, and his gaze went to the "clown" who was pushing the cart around at the near end of Big Room, passing out meals to the men in the "premium cells."

"That's right," said Buddy. "You've already seen what's left of the brave man who punched Umala in the face. Are you starting to get it?"

Jack looked back at Buddy and said, "Yeah. That settles it. Duty calls. The universe is going to have one less sadistic bitch in it."

Buddy looked stunned for a moment. Then he shook his head and looked down. "You really don't get it," he said. "Any man who creates enough of a problem around here will end up like Squealer. And if that isn't a fate worse than death, I don't know what is."

"Is that when you gave up?" asked Jack, his voice soft. "When you saw what happened to that guy?"

"Maybe," whispered Buddy.

"Then I guess what Umala did to him served her purpose well," said Jack.

Buddy's head snapped up, his eyes locking with Jack's. He looked angry. Good, thought Jack.

"That man's name isn't Squealer," said Jack. "Did you ever know his real name?"

"Yeah," said Buddy. He hugged himself and looked away again. "I don't want to talk about him anymore."

Jack decided to let the subject alone for now. He switched tack.

"If you don't mind my asking," said Jack, "how come you don't have one of those extra special nice little pens? The ones where you get fed real food? I got the feeling Skinny likes you."

Buddy gave him a sour look. "Don't let Eli hear you call her 'Skinny.' And yeah, she likes me. I'm her favorite, so a lot of nights I sleep in Eli's room. And get fed real food." Buddy jerked his chin toward the near end of the Big Room, where Squealer had arrived at the "apartment," and was passing a tray to Sweet Ass. "But I don't get one of those cells because I'm not a success in the Arena. Eli's always telling me the crowd would like me better if I showed more enthusiasm, but, for some strange reason, I can't seem to manage it. Guess we can't all be masochistic exhibitionists like Sweet Ass. He actually enjoys the Wrestling Matches.

"Of course, even Sweet Ass didn't enjoy what Umala did to him. Nobody's enough of a masochist for that. But he does like the stuff that Eli does. He's jealous of my position as Eli's favorite."

Jack hesitated, unsure how to ask about Buddy's relationship with the strange young woman. His interaction with her hadn't seemed entirely hostile. And Jack couldn't help thinking that if Buddy had some kind of "in" with one of the boss ladies, maybe that could prove useful, too. "Is it something you'd mind giving up?" he asked.

Buddy's mouth twisted again. "Can't say I'm thrilled with the stuff she makes me do. On the other hand, I'm grateful to her. She rescued me from Umala. And at least Eli isn't a real sadist. I mean, she likes to play dominance games, but the stuff she's into doesn't even hurt much."

Jack raised his eyebrows, and Buddy grimaced and looked away. "Yeah," he said, "I know. I'm pathetic. But Eli is capable of being kind. In some ways. When she first came here, and took me away from Umala, I was a basket case. I mean, even more of a basket case than I am now. And Eli was… nice to me. She didn't force me to have sex with her right away. She helped me get some of my sanity back."

"So," said Jack, "first she helped you get your sanity back. And then she…" Jack winced, "forced you to have sex with her." Jack couldn't bring himself to say "raped you." That just sounded too weird, too melodramatic.

Buddy sighed. "Eli doesn't understand that there's anything wrong with that. And that's not just because she's a criminal who grew up in a criminal family. All Ashoran women think like that. They say that men can't be raped."

"You sound like you know a lot about Ashora," said Jack. "I mean, not just the Underworld."

"Before I came here," said Buddy, "I spent two years as a regular chattel-male. Of course, I thought being a chattel-male really sucked, so I resisted in every way I could. My first Keeper got fed up and sent me back to the Bureau of Liberation. The Bureau sent me to Orientation House for a course of 'corrective discipline.' Which wasn't fun, but it was a cake walk compared to what goes on around here. So I didn't learn my lesson. When I was re-assigned, I continued to resist, and my second Keeper was a Rescued woman who had it in for men anyway. One day, this woman told me I was more trouble than I was worth, but she knew how she could get some value out of my mangy hide. She contracted with the Syndicate to sell me to them. Together, she and the Syndicate arranged an 'accident,' and the Syndicate did something to my Collar that made it report me as dead. And that's how I ended up here – out of the frying pan, into the fire."

"I take it the Syndicate has people at Euthanasia House who do something similar," said Jack. "They make a man's Collar report him as dead when he's not, right?"

"Right," said Buddy. "The Syndicate contracts with a woman named Esestia, who's on one of the evaluation teams at the Bureau of Liberation. She recommends men for termination, and arranges for them to be sent to the Syndicate's people at Euthanasia House. The Syndicate does something to their Collars, and the men end up here." He gave a twisted smile. "Officially dead."

"You're not dead, Buddy," snapped Jack. "And where there's life, there's hope."

"And where there's no hope, there's no life," said Buddy, his voice distant. He suddenly seemed distracted. Jack followed Buddy's gaze to the "apartment" on Umala's end of the Big Room. There was a giant guy moving around in it. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and built like a truck. Like the other Fighters, his body paint was done in a more menacing style than the paint on the Wrestlers – more like war paint. There were red and black zigzags on this body. The upper half of his face was painted black, but there was bright red around his eyes.

"The thing is," said Buddy, "Esestia can't recommend just anyone for termination. There have to be enough aggressive qualities in the man's psych profile to make it plausible. Most of the men she sends over here are just soldiers or warriors of some kind – but there are a few who were criminals back on their home worlds. And there's one," he said, his voice suddenly full of loathing, "that really should have been put down."

Jack gestured toward the giant in Umala's largest cell. "I take it you're talking about the red-eyed monster," he said.

Buddy grimaced. "Yeah. They call him Bruiser. He's the champion of the Games. He's also Umala's pet – and tool."

Buddy kept looking toward the other side of the room, his body tense. Now he seemed to be following the movements of the brain-damaged guy they called "Squealer." Squealer had taken his cart to Umala's side of the room, and was passing out meals to the men in the "premium cells" over there.

"Tool?" asked Jack. "You saying he helps her torture people? I mean, helps her freely?"

Buddy glanced over at Jack, then quickly looked down. As if he'd suddenly remembered something. Like maybe that Jack was scheduled to be tortured "after dinner?" "Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack looked at the giant on the other side of the room. So Umala had a "henchman?" It figured.

The brain-damaged guy and his cart had arrived in front of Bruiser's "cell," but the guy wasn't handing over Bruiser's dinner. He seemed frozen in place. In fact, he seemed to be trembling, because you could hear the bells jingling in his hair.

Bruiser came to the front of his cell and yelled, "Get in here, Squealer. Now! Or I'll tell Umala on you! And don't forget my dinner, you moron."

Jack heard Buddy make a choked sound, and saw him turn away. In fact, most of the men in the Big Room were directing their gaze away from Bruiser's cell. A charged silence had descended over the room.

Crap, thought Jack. Something bad is about to happen.

The brain-damaged man took a tray out of the cart, his movements jerky. In the silence, the jingling of his bells was very clear. Then he crossed the white line, into Bruiser's cell.

Bruiser immediately seized the tray and put it on a table. Then he seized Squealer by the hair. Squealer began making high-pitched whimpering sounds as Bruiser dragged him to a chair and forced him to bend over it.

Jack realized what was going to happen and quickly turned away. But he couldn't block out the sounds. Squealer began keening and wailing in a way that sounded barely human – but was nevertheless heart-rending. Clearly, this was how Squealer had gotten his name.

Jack swallowed his bile, and then swallowed all his emotions. He took all his pity and horror and dumped them in his mental cellar. He took his fears about what was going to happen to him later that night, and dropped them in there, too. Then he closed the huge, heavy trap door in his head and turned the wheel to lock it. When he was done, his mind was cold and clear. He was sharply aware of everything around him – yet his inner self felt one step removed from it all.

Which was a good thing, because the Warrior had begun to scream again, adding his cries of agony to the piteous wailing coming from the brain-damaged guy. God, thought Jack. This really is the pit of hell.

It reminded him a lot of Sokar's hell moon, Ne'tu. Only without the fancy ambience – no burning pits of lava or spooky caverns or other over-the-top Goa'uld touches. This was the no-frills version of hell. The human version. Just a big, grey warehouse stuffed to the ceiling with anguish and despair.

Jack experienced an uncharacteristic moment of philosophical sadness. Why did people have to do this kind of shit to one another?

There was no point in asking. They just did. Always had. There was always somebody out there who felt they were high-and-mighty enough to take and use and kill as they pleased. If it wasn't some power-hungry dictator or corrupt regime, it was some bunch of fanatics with a lunatic scheme for creating the perfect society. The Goa'uld weren't the only would-be gods around.

That was why Jack had become a soldier. Sure, war was hell, but the point was to keep the bad stuff away from the civilians back home. Some of it, anyway. Jack was perfectly willing to go to hell and back if it meant some kid wouldn't have to. After all, he was a ruthless bastard. Better him than someone softer or nicer.

Jack closed his eyes, gathering himself. He knew that very bad things would soon start happening to him, but he also knew he would endure. He would survive whatever the bitches and sons of bitches threw at him.

He would survive so that he could kill them.

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