Arena of the Blood Moon Part Four

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

First published online in Abandoned Towers Ezine October 9-September 14, 2009

Part Four

A murmur of anticipation rolled through the Nilbog audience above the arena. 

Brackett stood motionless, backed against one of the partitions and trapped by three Sen’oggi whose laser axes pointed at him and crackled threateningly. As he waited for the Wor’osh to arrive, his eyes swept over the other prisoners, the Nilboggi gladiators, and the seemingly inescapable arena, wondering how he was going to get out of this one.  His eyes flashed toward Ginsberg and he guessed that his partner was wondering the same thing.

He didn’t have long to ponder before the doors beneath the platform slid open again and Brackett heard the faint hums and whirring sounds of the robotic armor.  The noises grew louder, and then Gom’jol, Wor’osh of the Nilboggi, stepped into the light.

His robotic armor; a complicated skin of servos, winking lights and glowing sigils; made him look strong and menacing.  The helmet hid his features, and its lifeless lenses glowed red, as though with a madness for battle and bloodshed.  The Wor’osh strode into the battleground with confidence.  He held the staff of a laser axe in the firm grasp of one metal hand, with the other he motioned to his Sen’oggi.  “Let no one interfere,” his synthesized voice commanded, “This contest is for me and you-man alone.”

As one, the three Sen’oggi warriors saluted and slowly backed away from Brackett, their weapons still trained on him.  Then they turned to police the crowd of prisoners gaping from the relative safety of the arena’s perimeter wall.

Gom’jol waved an invitation to the patrolman.  “Whenever you are ready to die, you-man, let us begin!”

Brackett frowned then, grunting through gritted teeth, he brought his laser axe around in a wide arc. 

But the Nilbog leader was too quick, and with impressive speed he brought up his own staff to block the attack. He pushed Brackett’s weapon away, then his own staff belched forth a blade of pure energy which he thrust forward.

Eyes wide with panic, Brackett managed to push the invading weapon aside then swung for the Wor’osh again.  The armored warlord jumped back, brought his axe up, knocking Brackett’s weapon into the free-standing partition, where it stuck in place.

Brackett tugged at the staff with all his strength, but could not pull it free.  As Gom’jol’s axe came crashing down upon him, he jumped back with a cry of alarm. The Wor’osh stabbed again but Brackett deftly dodged and rushed in to slam his enemy against the partition wall, ripping the laser axe from his armored hands.

With lightning-quick reflexes, the Nilbog warlord reached up and seized Brackett’s weapon, still stuck in the partition wall, and pulled it free. He slammed the staff against Brackett’s with such force that it sent the patrolman into a spin.

Brackett swung around, slammed Gom’jol’s staff aside, and thrust his laser axe into the chest of the robotic armor.  The Wor’osh’s chest exploded with sparks, electricity crackling over the metal skin of his suit.  As the lightning-dance subsided, Brackett pulled his blade from the warlord’s chest plate. The Wor’osh fell to the floor with a crash that reverberated through the vast audience chamber above.

The patrolman coughed and waved the smoke away, helping it dissipate.  “Now then,” he said, “we’re going to discuss the release of all these prisoners, and we’re going to do it face-to-face!”  He rolled Gom’jol over onto his back then brought the laser axe down to the Wor’osh’s throat and destroyed the clamps that held the helmet in place.  Thrusting the butt-end of the handle beneath the helmet, Brackett forced it off the Nilbog’s head.

Then he looked down at the Wor’osh’s face and gasped at what he saw…

The Wor’osh’s face was thin, hollow.  His wrinkled, leathery skin, a sickly pale pallor, hung loosely from his muscles like an over-sized suit.  Blemishes and spots were scattered across his hairless cranium.  But his eyes were lit with the fire of hate, and he glared up at Brackett even as he gulped for breath.

“Kill me then,” Gom’jol rasped, “But know that you will never escape this moon alive!”

Brackett frowned down at the aged Nilbog with macabre fascination.

“What are you waiting for?” Jol’bur yelled down from his private box.  “He is your enemy who has taken away your freedom and forced you to duel to the death!  He is a great threat to you all!”

“No he isn’t!” Brackett spat back.  “Look at him!  He’s nothing more than a poor old man!  I’ll bet he can’t even move without this mechanical suit.”

A murmur rippled through the Nilbog audience above, and Jol’bur acknowledged it with a worried glance before shaking a fist at Brackett.  “The Wor’osh is strong and cunning! He is the veteran of many battles!  If you do not kill him now, you will suffer his retribution!” 

Brackett allowed himself a moment to wonder whom Jol’bur was trying to convince, then waved his partner over.  “Ginsberg, help me stand him up.” 

Together, the two patrol officers pulled the Wor’osh to his feet.

Above them, the Nilbogs began to disperse.  “Where are you going?” Jol’bur cried as he leapt out of his seat.  “Remain in your seats!  The duel is not yet finished!  My P’Trohg is a great threat!  His daring plan will make us all heroes when the Empire has regained the sector!”  He was ignored and  before long, only Jol’bur remained in the audience, abandoned by his people, his guards, his advisors, and even the Sen’oggi.  Alone, he fell into his seat and despaired.

The old Wor’osh frowned at Brackett.  “You are a cruel one, you-man. It would have been kinder to kill me.”

“I’ve already told you,” Brackett replied, “that’s not our way.”

Ginsberg shook his head.  “I don’t get it, where’d they go?”

Professor Tholgrum approached, a smile on his face, with Sorenson at his side. She tossed a quizzical frown up toward the empty audience seats. The Professor clapped Brackett on the back.  “Nicely done, my boy!” he cried, amid some good-natured laughs.  “You have caused them to lose faith in their leader!  When the Nilboggi believe in their leaders, they can do great and terrible things.  But shatter that fragile faith, and they flee like the cowards they truly are!”

“Flee?” Brackett exclaimed, “What do you mean ‘flee’?”

“He is right,” Gom’jol rasped, “My refugees will anticipate that your first move will be to transmit your location and send for support. I daresay that even now, my people rush to evacuate the base and commandeer whatever ships are convenient in the hopes of returning to Nilbog space.”  He gasped for air then glumly added, “It is our way.”

****

Four days later, a cruiser arrived from DSO-29 and members of the occupation force rolled into the dome.  As the doors slid open, Brackett snapped to attention, as did Ginsberg and Sorenson.  The occupation team advanced, led by a man who seemed nearly regal in his flowing robes. The leader regarded them coolly and asked, “Who is in charge here?”

“I am sir, Captain Bradley Brackett.”

“I’m Lorne Dennison, Steward First Class.  I’m here to accept command of this place and see what sort of use it might be put to.”

“You’re welcome to it!” Brackett exclaimed.  “I’ve got about fifty kidnapped people here, all anxious to get back to their lives, and twenty-six Nilbogs waiting to be processed and transported to an approved prison facility.” 

Dennison nodded.  “We’ll see to all that.  I trust you’ve filled out your reports on what’s happened here?”

“Yes sir, right here,” Brackett said as he passed a datapad to the Steward.  “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.  With your permission, I’d like to prepare the Lancelot for departure.  We’ve got orders to take Professor Tholgrum to Deep Space Outpost Twenty-Nine.”

The Steward looked up sharply.  “That request is approved as far as the Sergeant is concerned.  Sergeant Sorenson?  Collect the Professor and deliver him as per your original orders.” 

With a curt nod, Sorenson said, “Yes sir,” and proceeded down the corridor. 

“Take this,” the Steward said as he pulled a second datapad from his belt and handed it to Brackett.

Brackett switched it on and stared at a picture of a Marquadian.

“That is Nuurik Izzar,” Dennison announced, “He’s wanted for the murder of a Galactic Patrol officer at the Diora spaceport.  He managed to escape in a ship called the Rigel Dawn.  Your orders are to apprehend him, before he kills again.”

The End

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Arena of the Blood Moon Part Three

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

First published online in Abandoned Towers Ezine October 9-September 14, 2009

Part Three

“It’s really no use, you know, my boy,” the shrill voice said to him.  Brackett looked up at the defeated expression on Professor Tholgrum’s long face.  “There is only one way out of this terrible place.”

Slowly, Brackett took his hands off of the wall.  “Yes,” he said slowly,” It does appear that way.  But if that’s the only way, then it’s the one we’ll have to use to make our escape.”

The Professor chuckled, letting loose a sound not unlike the sparkling Drassis birds on Glowasoo.  “Ah, to be young and have hope!” he marveled.  Then, he sighed heavily.  “You are a new one, not one of the officers meant to deliver me.”

“No sir, I’m Captain Brackett.  My partner and I were sent to find you and your escort, and deliver you to the space station.” Brackett declared with determination.  “And that’s just what I mean to do.”

“Impossible!” the Professor declared.  “The only way out of this cell is into that arena.  If you can get past whatever opponents or animals they throw at you, you would still have to get past a small army of well-armed Nilboggi!”

Brackett fixed the Professor with a steady gaze.  “Yes sir, and I will fight each and every one of them if I have to, in the course of my duty.  Even their leader…”  With a pause, he frowned down at the floor.  “…whatever his name was.”

“You mean Gom’jol?” the Professor asked.  “He must be a great warrior.  Nilbogs will only follow warriors who pose a formidable threat to their enemies.”

Brackett considered this with no small concern.  “Well…” he said at last, “The ideal thing would be to find a way out through the arena, preferably with minimal combat involved.  But I’ll have to have a look over the place before I can plan anything.”

It was a long wait, and the mounting suspense made him anxious.  Twelve hours later, the doors finally opened to reveal the arena and Brackett did not like what he saw…

The doors slid open to reveal a great, round, chamber cluttered with free-standing wall partitions of metal plates or steelglass.  The perimeter wall featured several pairs of doors, doubtlessly leading to other holding cells and high above it all were tiers of stadium seating, filled nearly to capacity with jeering Nilbog spectators, interrupted at one point by a separated platform for those of high rank.  On this platform, Brackett quickly spied Jol’bur seated to the right of a Nilbog clad from head to toe in an armored suit.  They were surrounded by guards and other Nilboggi.

The other prisoners in the cell reluctantly found their way towards the arena.  Professor Tholgrum sighed.  “Time again.”

“Why don’t we just stay in here?  If we refuse to fight…” Brackett started.  As if in answer to his question, a steady hissing sound began above him.  He looked up and saw several nozzles sticking out of the walls near the ceiling, each one spitting out thick green gas.  With an incredulous frown, he followed the other prisoners into the arena and the doors closed behind them. 

***

Brackett glanced around at the arena. “We’ve got to protect the Professor, and find a way out of here!”  He scanned the arena and swore when he realized that the air vents were twenty feet high on the steep perimeter wall, an impossible climb for any mere human.  “Well that won’t work!”

Jol’bur stood and addressed the prisoners, his voice booming from speakers scattered throughout the arena.  “Those of you who survive this challenge will be one step closer to your freedom!”   He made a grandiose gesture towards the seated figure in the armor.  “You have the word of my P’Trohg, the Wor-osh of Oublaat, that those who conquer their rivals will be rewarded!  But only the strong shall survive, and you must first prove your strength!  This battle shall continue until six of you have fallen.  Commence!”

A throaty roar erupted on the far side of the arena from somewhere behind the free-standing barriers. It was immediately followed with a scream of pain, and a chorus of other screams ranging from battle-cry to fear.

Brackett took off towards the sounds of the fight.  He rounded the partitions and found a group of insectoids being attacked by a humanoid creature that stood seven feet tall with elongated facial features, thick fangs that protruded from his lower jaw, and a single squat horn that sprouted from the top of his head.  In its hand, it grasped a length of pipe, an insectoid cowering on the floor below it, one leg sporting an extra, unnatural joint where the exoskeleton had shattered.

“Galactic Patrol!” Brackett barked out of habit, “Stop this, now!”

The brawny humanoid growled at Brackett as he raised his bludgeon high. “Quiet down, runt!  I’m gettin’ off this moon alive!”

The alien brute towered over Brackett, his length of pipe pulled back.  A blue-and-white blur came out of nowhere and latched on to the arm with the weapon. 

For a fraction of a moment, Brackett gaped, then, as the event registered in his mind, he sprang into action.  He launched himself at the alien, tackling its legs, and dumping all three of them to the floor.  They writhed and wrestled until Brackett managed to seize the length of pipe, wrenching it away, but he had no time to celebrate the achievement before a meaty fist struck him with enough force to send him sliding across the floor.

Brackett scrambled to his feet and charged. 

With a savage thrust of the brute’s boot, the other Patrol officer was knocked away and without missing a beat, the alien swung a fist, knocking the pipe from Brackett’s hand.  His antagonist grabbed him and threw him aside like a rag doll.

Brackett flew through the air to collide with his fellow officer, sprawling them both across the floor. 

“Nice shot, Brad!” Ginsberg huffed.

“Sorry,” Brackett returned as he climbed back to his feet. “This guy’s tough!”

“Yeah,” Ginsberg agreed. “He’s a Marquadian. They’re all tough!  But he’ll be easy enough to take down if we can get him in a choke-hold.”

Brackett looked across the arena at the alien through narrowed eyes. “All right, divide and conquer.”

They turned back to the brutish alien and separated, walking around him in a wide circle until the Marquadian stood between them.  Without warning, Brackett started forward.  The alien swung a thick fist, and he ducked beneath it. 

Ginsberg charged in as soon as the thug’s back was turned, but the Marquadian was too quick. He spun around and lashed out, knocking the patrolman sprawling once again. 

It was all the time Brackett needed.  Even as Ginsberg took the hit, Brackett jumped onto the alien’s back and wrapped one arm around its neck.  The Marquadian flailed about in a panic, gasping desperately for air.  Brackett held on tightly as it began to turn blue and fell to its knees.

As the Marquadian fell to all fours, Brackett released it and landed on his feet. The brute frowned up at the patrolman with a furious gaze, sputtering and choking as the color returned to his features. “You nearly killed me!”  He croaked, then gasped a few more times before asking, “Why didn’t you?”

Brackett frowned back incredulously.  “I don’t want to kill you!” He turned to the group of other prisoners that had gathered around to watch them fight.  “We are citizens of the Allied Worlds. We don’t play by Nilboggi rules!”  He looked over the throng of prisoners, almost daring them to disagree. 

A murmur of consent swept through the prisoners.  One insectoid alien looked down at the length of pipe which he had picked up.  Slowly, he dropped it onto the floor and backed away.

Brackett nodded with satisfaction, then turned towards balcony of the Nilbog chief.  In a loud, clear voice he called up to them:  “We will not fight one another for your entertainment, do you hear?  We will not fight!”

Jol’bur trembled with rage as he jumped to his feet.  “If you will not fight against one another,” he shouted, “then you will fight against my gladiators!” He turned to a nearby underling and bellowed, “Send in the Sen’oggi!”

At Jol’bur’s command, a pair of doors beneath the platform creaked ominously open.  Brackett and the rest of the prisoners waited with baited breath as the sound of footsteps grew louder from the yawning portal. 

As six Nilbogs, each one carrying a metal staff and naked from the waist up except for a heavy pair of gauntlets and a metal collar around their necks, marched into the arena with military precision, the prisoners backed away from them. The Sen’oggi stopped as one, and turned on their heels.  They looked up to the Nilboggi officials, and raised their hands in salute.  Gom’jol, the Wor-osh, raised one armored hand in acknowledgement.

Jol’bur sneered down into the arena. “Now you will fight for us, or you will die!  Sen’oggi!  Slay!”

The six Sen’oggi tapped their rods against the floor. Each staff belched forth energy in the shape of an axe-blade.  The warriors each turned in a different direction, and began their ominous advance on the prisoners.

“Brad, it was a beautiful speech,” Ginsberg muttered under his breath, “but suddenly, I think it was a bad idea to give it!”

Brackett clapped his partner on the shoulder.  “Come on, Ginsberg!  You, me, and Sorenson are the only Patrol officers here!  It’s up to us to protect these citizens!  They’re unarmed!”

Ginsberg frowned back at him.  “So are we!”

Ignoring Ginsberg, Brackett charged. 

The Nilbog gladiator paused then swung his laser axe, and Brackett ducked beneath it. He tackled the Sen’oggi warrior, and they both rolled across the floor. When they came to a stop, Brackett found himself lying atop the Sen’oggi.  He swung his fist, slamming the alien’s head against the rough metal of the floor and knocked the gladiator unconscious. 

“Brad, look out!” Ginsberg called.

Brackett jumped to his feet with the laser axe in his ready hands and faced a pair of charging gladiators. 

The Nilboggi advanced with their weapons trained on the patrolman as he backed up a few cautious steps.

“Aw come on, guys,” Brackett said, “I don’t want to die here today, and you don’t either, do ya?”

“It is an honor and a privilege to die for the Wor-osh,” one Sen’ogg snapped as he thrust his axe towards Brackett’s chest.

Brackett jumped back and swung his own axe wildly. As he knocked the invading weapon aside, he spied a third Nilbog gladiator coming towards him and backed further away, deftly dodging the laser axes.  He stopped moving when he backed against one of the wall partitions that littered the arena. 

Three Nilboggi laser axes pointed at him. 

The patrolman gulped.  “So that’s the Nilbog way, huh?  I guess none of you could handle a fair fight.  Not you, or you, or you,” he said as he gestured to each one in turn.  “Not even your precious Wor-osh.  After all, you guys are only down here risking your lives because he’s too cowardly to do his own dirty work, right?”

The three Sen’oggi gasped.  One rasped, “What was that?”

“I said if your Wor-osh wasn’t such a coward, he’d come down here and fight himself!” Brackett shouted. A murmur rippled through the audience of Nilbogs above.

Jol’bur glared down at the cornered patrolman.  “You filthy you-man!” he cried.  “You dare to speak so about…”  He was silenced when the Wor-osh beside him grabbed him by the shoulder.

Gom’jol stood, his synthesized voice booming throughout the vast chamber.  “That sounded like a challenge to me. And I accept!”

To Be Continued...

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Arena of the Blood Moon Part Two

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

First published online in Abandoned Towers Ezine October 9-September 14, 2009

Part Two

The cargo transport rolled through the wide service corridors without hesitation, although to Brackett they all looked the same.  After a time, the vehicle slowed to a stop by a wide, opaque window.  One of the guards hopped off the car and rapped on the glass.  It slid open almost immediately.  The guard exchanged incomprehensible words with another Nilbog inside the window, who quickly handed over a pair of collars.

The guard handed them up to his cronies, who snapped them around the necks of their prisoners, then slid a compartment on each collar open to reveal a semi-sphere attached by a thin cable.  The guard placed the semi-sphere onto the prisoner's ear.

The Nilbog guard looked them over appraisingly.  "You understand my words now?"

Brackett shared a look of surprise with Ginsberg.  "Yes!"

"Many tongues get spoken here," the guard told them, "makes the translation devices necessary."

Brackett narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly.  "Yeah, now I can tell you that I'm Captain Bradley Brackett of the Galactic Patrol Force.  As a peace officer of the Allied Worlds, I demand to know what's going on here!"

The Nilbog guards chuckled with cruelty.  "We take you to the Wor-osh," the guard replied.  "He will give you what answers he thinks you need.  He has no fear of you, or you’re Allied Worlds, nor even the Skro!  He rules this moon still, despite the cowardice of others who abandoned this sector to you and your Allied Worlds!" He struck Brackett with his rifle, turned to the driver and barked, "Drive on!"

###

The cargo transport rolled along seemingly endless, disorientingly similar, corridors.  At long last, it slowed to a stop at a doorway.  One guard jumped down from the vehicle and pressed a button on a small keypad in the wall beside the door.  Before long, the door opened to reveal a husky young Nilbog with sharp features.  "What is it?" he demanded.

"We have come to see the Wor-osh," the guardsman declared.  "We have two more warriors for his games, but they managed to kill one of my men, and one of them was wounded."

The Nilbog in the doorway narrowed his eyes and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a touch of the keypad.  "My P'Trohg is not to be disturbed at present," he said in a gravelly voice, "I will deal with this in his stead.  Show me."  The guard waved towards the cargo transport and the official sneered.  "Oh.  You-mans!"

"Not just humans," Brackett spat back, "Galactic Patrol officers!  I don't know who you are, but you're in it deep, mister!"

The official grinned a predatory grin.  "I will tell you who I am, you-man," he gloated, "and what our plans are for you both…"

The Nilbog sub-chief clenched his fists and stared at the prisoners.  “I am Jol’bur, sired by Gom’jol.  His bravery and cunning has made him the Wor-osh of this moon, and he continues to rule here despite the insurrection of the Allied Worlds!” he declared with a contemptuous sneer.  “When your feeble forces are eventually driven away by Nilboggi fighters, it is my sire who shall rule this sector, for he bravely remained when others did flee!  Then all will know his greatness!”

As one, the five Nilbog guards and the driver of the small cargo transport each pounded one fist to their chests and bowed their head in solemn salute. 

Brackett frowned at the surrounding aliens with uncertainty.  “So what are you going to do with us?” he asked, as he nodded down at Ginsberg, who still clutched at his wounded shoulder.

Jol’bur’s sneer transformed into a predatory grin.  “You will amuse the Wor-osh while he awaits his greatness.”  Then he turned to the guards and barked, “Take them to whichever pit has room for them.  There they may wait to face the challenges.”

“My Lord,” one guard replied as he gestured toward Ginsberg with his rifle, “what of this one?  He took a Nilbog life in battle and was shot during the capture.”

Jol’bur stepped toward the vehicle and looked down on the man with a critical eye.  “Take him to dome three.”  The guard, tight-lipped, stared coldly in response until Jol’bur exclaimed, “You have your orders!  Be off!”

With a reluctant acknowledgement, the guard climbed aboard the cargo transport and it continued down the corridor.  Brackett guessed they were sticking to the service corridors since what few people they passed appeared to be technicians of some sort.  Brackett noticed that he and Ginsberg were only a minor interest to the Nilboggi they passed, which gave him an uneasy feeling. 

Before long, the transport came to another stop by a wide door.  Three of the guards climbed down and pulled Brackett from the vehicle.  One Nilbog pressed a button and the door slid open to reveal an empty shaft.  Brackett jumped away from the pit, but was quickly seized by a pair of guards. He stomped on one guard’s foot, then slammed his elbow into the other’s stomach.  They both released him, and he turned and sprinted down the corridor.

Ginsberg shouted, “Brad, watch out!” 

But it was too late. The stun beam hit him square in the back.  His entire body went numb and he crumpled to the floor in a heap.  The guards seized him once again, dragged him back to the opening.

With his rifle, one guard picked up Brackett’s chin so he could look into the human’s face.  “I think you will make for good amusement,” he chuckled without humor. The two guards dragged Brackett to the lip of the empty shaft and unceremoniously dropped him in. 

Brackett fell, slammed against one wall, then another before landing on something surprisingly soft.  Desperately, he tried to move enough to look at his new surroundings from the place where he’d landed.

Above him, a female voice said, “Greetings, Captain.  Welcome to the pits.”

Brackett, still suffering from the affects of the stun-ray, could not look up to see the woman who had addressed him. He did feel her hand, though, as she grabbed him by the arm and rolled him over.

She was human, with short dark hair in a regulation cut and a stern expression on her thin face. He’d never seen her before, but easily recognized her Galactic Patrol uniform and sergeant’s insignia. She was also wearing a translation collar.

She pulled him to a sitting position by the wall. “Please forgive my not saluting right away,” she said as she curtly raised her hand to her temple. “I’m Sergeant Velma Sorenson, assigned to the Lancelot under Captain Beex.”

Brackett’s eyes flashed and he tried to ask a thousand questions. Only a dull moan escaped his lips.

“Don’t try to talk,” Sorenson told him as she hastily examined him for injuries. “They must have got you with a stun ray. You could be paralyzed for up to an hour, depending on how high they had it set.”

Brackett let loose a groan of exasperation.

Sorenson chuckled without humor. “Don’t worry. Aside from that, you seem to be all right.” She sat beside him and looked him over. “Actually, I’m rather pleased to see you. Captain Beex and I had been sent to Daruuk to taxi Professor Tholgrum back to DSO-25. On our return, we picked up a broken distress signal. Turned out to be a Nilbog trap.” Sorenson glanced up at Brackett, then quickly looked away as though embarrassed. “I suppose you know what I’m talking about; the other prisoners I’ve spoken with have similar stories.”

Brackett managed to wobble his head a little, and forced out a meager, “Uh-huh.”

With a deep breath, she collected herself and turned her attention back to him. “The Nilbog leader is supposed to be an accomplished veteran named Gom-jol. I’ve never heard of him before, but his subjects and underlings all kowtow to him as though he were something great. At his order, the Nilboggi kidnap passersby and dump us here, where they make us fight in an arena for their own perverse amusement. They claim that any prisoner who survives enough ‘challenges’ will be set free, but I haven’t seen anyone get out without being carried out.” A bitter sneer, which she directed at the floor, marred her features.

Though he couldn’t turn his head yet, Brackett’s eyes swiveled in their sockets as he took stock of the poorly-lit cell. It was set up dormitory style with twenty-six berths set in the walls, each large enough to accommodate someone of human-size. Scattered throughout the cell were a dozen other ragged, grungy prisoners of various foreign races, most of whom were unfamiliar to Brackett. He spotted Professor Tholgrum sitting in one corner, his long pod-like head hanging low, but there were no other humans, and worse still, no other Galactic Patrol uniforms.

With a herculean effort, Brackett turned to face Sergeant Sorenson. With titanic stubbornness and determination, he forced out the words, “Wuh…wuh… where…Buh…Beex?”

Sorenson cast her eyes downward and gave a heavy sigh before responding. “Sir, I’m sorry to report that Captain Beex fell in the arena two days ago while protecting the Professor. He never even had a chance to try his plan.”

Brackett raised one eyebrow. “Wuh…what…p-plan?”

The numbness slowly waned from Brackett’s body.  He stretched his muscles experimentally, driving away the affects of the stun ray as the Sergeant answered his question.

“Yes, Captain Beex had a plan, but it will be of little use to us,” Sorenson told him.  “You see, Beex was an amphibious Salentian, a race that evolved from some froglike creature.  He had the natural ability to climb up sheer surfaces, and his plan involved scaling the walls of the arena and forcing his way into the air ducts, then finding his way to a control room to release all of the prisoners so as to revolt against the Nilbogs.”  She slumped against the wall beside him.  “It wasn’t much of a plan, and inspired only a small hope.  But it is entirely useless to us, now that he’s dead.”

Brackett looked over at the opening in the ceiling.  “What about the pit that the Nilbogs threw us down?”

Sorenson glanced up.  “He tried that first,” she admitted, “but couldn’t get the doors to open.”

Brackett nodded with understanding and looked around the cell once more.  He spied a pair of thick metal doors at the far end.  “Where do those doors go?”

“Out to the arena,” Sorenson answered glumly. 

Brackett pondered for a fast moment.  “How about when they feed us, maybe we can break out then?”

The Sergeant shook her head.  “They lower trays of food down the pit on a platform.  Any extra weight causes it to fold, dropping everything back down here.” 

With a grunt, Brackett forced himself to his feet.  He stood there a moment, clutching a nearby bunk for support, until the numbness completely abandoned him.  With the convenient excuse of stretching his legs, Brackett circled the cell.  His sharp eyes scrutinized the thick walls that closed him in.  More than once, he tested the strength of a metal panel, pushing and pulling with all the might he muster, but to no avail.

“It’s really no use, you know, my boy,” the shrill voice said to him.  

To Be Continued...

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Arena of the Blood Moon Part One

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

First published online in Abandoned Towers Ezine October 9-September 14, 2009

Part One

The Triddian Sector extended as far as a scanner could see, and farther.  Stretching out to infinity, it was an unending roll of blackest velvet, diamond-bright stars, and a wide array of pastel-colored planetoids of varying mass.  Recently liberated from the Nilbog Empire thanks to the blood and sweat of Space Marines and about two hundred warships from the Galactic Navy, it now looked like any other Sector that belonged to the Allied Worlds.

Two silver, needle-shaped ships shot through the cosmos, shining brilliantly in the light of countless stars.  They bypassed planets and moons in wide arcs, speeding past them with purpose and determination.

Brackett punched a button. A screen on the console lit up with a display of what few details the mission was based on:

Professor Tholgrum boarded the GPF Patrol Cruiser, Lancelot, in the care of two officers and departed Daruuk.  The Lancelot charted the most direct route to Deep Space Outpost Twenty-Five, where the professor was scheduled to continue on to other worlds at the Core of Allied Space, where he would share his insights and experiences of the Triddian Sector and Nilbog rule.

The Lancelot is now two days late, and fails to respond to communications.

Your orders are to track down the Lancelot, and learn the fates of the missing GPF officers and Professor Tholgrum.  Return them to DSO-25 if able, otherwise report back.

Cmdr. Kraxull

With a grunt, Brackett switched off the screen.  He and Ginsberg left from DSO-25 and were now three days into the newly-conquered Triddian Sector.  His ship's sensors were constantly scanning for signature particles, but it had yet to find proof that a GPF ship had passed here recently.  He sighed and hit the comm though he was sure he knew the answer he’d get. "Ginsberg?  You picking up anything?  Over."

"Not a thing, Brad." Ginsberg's voice sounded tinny through the headset.  "Can't see that anyone's flown through here since the big fight a month ago.  Over."

Brackett was bored.  "We're… what?  Two more days to Daruuk, right?  Over."

"Two-point-six-five," Ginsberg replied, "But who's counting?  Ove…wait.  Brad, I'm picking up something on the edge of my scanning range.  Check your two o'clock.  What is that?  Over."

Brackett flipped a switch.  "I'm not sure.  Whatever it is, it's fabricated. Synthetic.  Maybe it's part of the Lancelot.  We'd better investigate.  Over."

"Right behind you. Over."

Both ships banked to starboard, speeding towards a bright blue planet circled by a small red moon.  The starcharts identified it as Oublaat, a world dominated by oceans of water that were poisonous to eighty-eight percent of the known civilized races. 

According to their instruments, something small and metal was orbiting the moon.  They approached at a steady gait and soon its features were visible even with the naked eye.  It was little more than a box, with four spindly legs, two solar panels sprouting from opposite sides like wings, and a long antenna on top.  It was a dark and grungy thing that oscillated its way along its slow, fixed orbit with a winking red light that seemed to watch the two approaching ships like a baleful eye.

"Some kind of satellite…" Ginsberg remarked.  The voice on the comm. paused, then hastily added, "Over."

The satellite stabilized, stopped its own rotation.  A panel opened, and a conical object extended from the body on a pole.  Lights flashed from somewhere inside the machine.

"What's it do…" was all that came over the comm.

Brackett turned; saw through the steelglass canopy that Ginsberg's ship was still there.  "Ginsberg?  Ginsberg, do you copy?  Over." 

There was no response.

Brackett's hands scrambled over the console, working the controls in a complicated sequence.  The readings on one computer screen confirmed his suspicions:  the satellite was jamming his radio.  With a frown, he grunted.  "So, what's it all about? Some Nilbog device, abandoned when they left?" 

He didn't have any time to ponder an answer.  No sooner had he finished asking his question aloud, than both of their ships shuddered, caught in energy beams that originated from Oublaat's small red moon.

Brackett struggled with the controls, but his ship refused to respond.  Disgusted, he powered down the engines, and waited for an opportune moment. As his ship was pulled gently forward, his first thought was that he'd been caught in the small red moon's gravitational pull, but he soon realized the truth:  He was caught up in a tractor beam.

He looked out through the steelglass canopy and saw that Ginsberg was also being pulled down toward the moon.  Brackett checked his communicator, but found it was still being jammed.  With a sigh of resignation, he removed his ZAP gun from the holster and readied himself for a fight when he landed.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he scanned the approaching moon.  Thirty hour rotation.  Forty day revolution.  No native water supply.  No breathable atmosphere.

That was all he had to know.  He opened a compartment and grabbed his helmet.  He pulled it over his head, locked it in place, and hoped Ginsberg was doing the same. 

Soon, the moon of Oublaat was close enough that Brackett could easily distinguish the various craters, crags, and ravines that made up its surface.  He saw the tractor cannons that ensnared him and his partner standing stoically on one side of a cluster of landing pads and squat control towers.  Not too far away, he could see opaque domes around some lunar outpost.

With renewed hope and inspiration he seized the controls and set his sites on the tractor cannons.  He smirked, then squeezed the trigger.  Nothing happened.  With a brief but sudden panic, he consulted his computers.

The weapons were locked down. 

Brackett pounded the console in frustration. 

The silver patrol ships softly touched down on a landing pad.  Brackett clearly saw six armed figures approach, their laser rifles trained at the two cockpits.  A movement out of the corner of his eye caused Brackett to turn.  Two humanoids in ground crew suits were opening a panel in Ginsberg's ship.  He spun around and saw two more doing the same to his own.

Too late, he tried to reignite his engines.  They wouldn't even attempt to run.  And before he could try a second time, the entire control console lost power.  A single comm screen clung to life, a bright light on the portside wall.  The words swiftly scrolled onto it:

Throw down your weapons.  Surrender yourself peacefully and you will not be harmed at this time.

By then, he could see the three armed aliens who took up a triangulated position around the ship's stem, waiting for him to quit his dead fighter.  They were all clad in armored spacesuits, their faces hidden by emotionless air-masks.  He couldn't even tell what species they were, only that they all had squat, humanoid shapes.

With forced calm, he pushed up the canopy, then brought up the ZAP gun and fired.  All three of the aliens fired back, and he sunk as deeply into the cockpit as he could.  Their laser bolts exploded against the inside of the canopy.  He popped up again, pointed his pistol at the alien on his starboard side, but before he could fire, the steelglass dome slammed down onto his arm, and he dropped the ZAP gun. 

One of the aliens gestured with his rifle.  Brackett nodded, pushed the canopy open again, then climbed down the ladder a few feet before jumping.  He landed on the metal flooring with a thud, stood, raising his hands.

The nearest of the guards approached, nudged him with the laser rifle.  A laser bolt screamed down from Ginsberg's cockpit like an Altrusian leechbird.  The air-masks of his captors all snapped warily toward the other ship.  The landing pad erupted with shouts and laser fire.

Laser bolts crisscrossed above the landing pad with lethal speed and fearsome—but unheard—shrieks.  Brackett dove for his ZAP gun and rolled for the dubious cover offered by the nearest landing strut.

He raised the pistol, pointing it at his attackers. It spat energy bolts that streaked through the emptiness and bounced harmlessly off of the guardsman's armor.  He didn't have time to swear before he had to duck their return fire. 

His eyes darted around the landing area, searching desperately for inspiration.  A squat control tower stood beside the landing pad, pipes and cables running up its side.  Brackett couldn't read the identifying alien symbols on them, but he blasted at them anyway.

A restraining strap blew free, dropping the pipelines and cables onto the landing pad between Brackett and the alien guards.  A pipe belched out breathable air which kicked up clouds of dust as cables spat electrical sparks.

Members of the ground crew rushed for the tower and began fiddling with control valves and access panels.  Surprised but undaunted, the guards fired their weapons wildly through the thickening clouds of air and dust.  Brackett returned fire, just as wildly, aiming for the center of the cloud.

While the moon bore no atmosphere, the space surrounding it was alive with laser bolts that rocketed soundlessly through the battle.  Stray shots erupted from the clouds, ramming the silver rocketships or missing altogether, but one lucky stray shot burned into Ginsberg's shoulder.  He dropped his ZAP gun to clutch the wound, and fell from the cockpit of his ship. 

Brackett called out to him out of habit, forgetting that he could not be heard.  He fired twice more at the concealing cloud before kneeling beside his fallen comrade.  Ginsberg waved his free hand in a calming gesture and nodded.  More laser bolts raced by and Brackett turned back to his meager hiding place.

There he found a member of the ground crew. The creature swung a heavy wrench at him and sent the ZAP gun flying from his hand, then reached up to Brackett's own ship and pulled a lever.  The access door fell open and slammed into Brackett, knocking him to the ground. 

The guards advanced through the dying cloud with their rifles trained on the two felled pilots.  Behind them, the ground crew technicians managed to switch off all the severed cables.

One guard looked over the prisoners, then looked up at the ground crew tech.  In response, the tech just shrugged, then turned and went back to his business.  The guard shook his head in what seemed to be exasperation, then turned towards the domed outpost and signaled a small cargo transport with a wave of his arm.  One of the guards checked on their felled comrade, looked up at the others and shook his head solemnly.  One guard motioned toward the ground crew and gestured at their fallen man.

The small vehicle rolled over on oversized tires and waited as the guards put restraining cuffs on the prisoners and loaded them onto the cargo platform.  The guards climbed aboard also.  One guard tapped the driver and pointed towards the domes.  With a nod of his helmet, the driver seized the controls, and the small conveyance rolled steadily and ominously forward until it was swallowed up by an airlock that led into the domed outpost.

Once safely inside the airlocks, the guards removed Brackett's and Ginsberg's helmets and their own breathing masks.  Brackett set his jaw and glared with unbridled hatred at the broad, warty green faces.

"Nilboggi!" he rasped.

Beside him, Ginsberg grunted with dark humor as he clutched his wounded shoulder.  "It looks like the marines missed a spot when they were driving them out."

"We'll have to figure out what this place is and report back to the Commander," Brackett said as he sat up and looked around with a critical eye.  A nearby guard babbled Nilboggi gibberish in a commanding tone and nudged him with the rifle.

To Be Continued...

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