Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (50 page)

The gladiators—Grimes estimated their number to be about two hundred—were given time to make their morning toilet before another trumpet call announced breakfast. Ablutions facilities were adequate, there being more than one minor cavern for this purpose. Breakfast was stew again—but this time of fish, not meat. It was savoury enough.

“What happens now?” Grimes asked O’Brien.

“We just wait.”

“Don’t we get any time to practice with our weapons?”

“The only practice we get is in the arena. But when there’s anybody new in a team—such as you—there are usually a few sort of breaking-in bouts against animals before you’re pitted against fellow humans. Too, usually just one death is enough to satisfy the audience—although that depends a great deal on the supply of new gladiators.” He laughed. “Most times it’s a new member of a team who gets himself killed.”

Cheerful bastard,
thought Grimes.

“We’ll look after you,” said Shirl (or Darleen).

Grimes wished that he had pipe and tobacco to soothe his nerves. He looked around the cave. Nobody was smoking—and certainly there must be others like himself, craving the solace of nicotine. Perhaps this was part of the technique—a gladiator deprived of pipe, cigarettes or whatever must be a bad-tempered one. He said as much.

O’Brien laughed. “You should know by this time that smoking shortens the wind and all sorts of other horrid things. A non-smoking gladiator is a
fit
gladiator.”

“Fit for what?” demanded Grimes.

“You want to survive, don’t you?”

“I’d want to even more if I knew that there was some chance of getting out of here.”

Again there was a deafening trumpet call, followed by a harsh voice. “Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory! Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory!”

Not far from O’Brien’s pad a huge man got to his feet, followed by another smaller and more agile, followed by four slight women. Their faces were expressionless. They divested themselves of what little they were wearing, left the rags scattered on their mattress.

“Denton’s a boxer,” volunteered O’Brien. “He wears a horrid spiked affair on his arm called a
cestus.
The other fellow, Mallory, plays around with a net and trident. Two of the girls use lariats, the other two throw javelins. A nasty combination. I hope that we never come up against them . . .” Denton, followed by his people, was walking slowly to the far end of the cave. His back was almost as hairy as the front of him. He slouched like some ungainly ape.

“And Smith?” asked Grimes, indicating the other team some distance away.

“Rapier, and his sidekick fancies himself with the sabre. The two medium range men use long spears and the two girls are archers. But not crossbows.”

“And how long will the fight take?”

“We shall know when the survivors come back—unless they’ve all been taken to hospital. That happens quite often. Then we just have to wait for the next announcement.”

“But why couldn’t you—
we—
just refuse to go out and kill or be killed?”

“That’s been tried,” said O’Brien. “But it’s not recommended. After just one warning the cave is flooded with a particularly nasty gas. It makes you vomit your guts up and feel as though you’re being flayed alive. Needless to say the sit-down strikers aren’t at all popular with the others . . .”

They sat on their big mattress and waited. All through the cave people were sitting on mattresses and waiting. Which team had drawn first blood? Was the crowd in a merciful mood? How many survivors would there be?

“I hope you’re good with the arbalest,” said O’Brien after a long silence.

“I’ve used one recently,” said Grimes.

“At one of those fancy hunting camps, I suppose. Did you hit anything?”

“It wasn’t at a hunting camp—but I did hit the target.”

“What was it?”

“A Shaara blimp.”

“A bloody big target,” commented O’Brien glumly. “Anybody could hit anything that big as long as it was within range . . .” Then, “A Shaara blimp! You must have been fighting them. There’ll be Shaara in the audience, you know. If any of us get injured it’ll be thumbs down for sure.”

“Do you want me to resign from your team?” asked Grimes.

“It’s too late now.
They
had you under full observation from the moment you entered the barracks.
They
know who was mug enough to take you under his wing.”

“And he’s an Australian,” put in either Darleen or Shirl.
“We
want him with us.”

“And shall I stand to attention while you all sing Waltzing Matilda?” asked O’Brien.

There was another long silence.

At last voices were heard from the far end of the cave. Grimes, with the others, turned to look. Denton had come back. He was limping badly. A deep slash on his face gleamed redly under the newly applied syntheskin. There was another gash on his right thigh. Two of his women followed him. They, too, had been wounded but not seriously enough to put them in hospital. And the other three team members?

“Dead . . .” Grimes heard Denton growl in answer to a question. “But we did for Smith and his bastards. All of them.”

The trumpet brayed.

Then— “O’Brien’s team to the armory! O’Brien’s team to the armory!”

“So it’s only animals for us,” muttered O’Brien. “I hope that they’re nice, little, tame ones!”

“So do I,” said Grimes.

“But they won’t be,” O’Brien told him.

Chapter 18

O’BRIEN REMOVED HIS RAGS
of uniform, folding the clothing neatly before putting it down on the mattress.

“Get undressed,” he ordered Grimes.

“Why?”

“It’s the rule.”

“We’re issued with armour, I suppose?” asked Grimes as he shrugged out of his coveralls, assisted unnecessarily by Shirl and Darken.

“Armour?” O’Brien laughed harshly. “Not on your sweet Nelly. The customers pay to see naked flesh, to see it torn and bleeding. But come on, all of you. Let’s get the show on the road.”

Following the big man they walked through the cave. Heads turned to follow their progress. Some expressions were sympathetic. Most said, all too clearly,
Thank the Odd Gods that it’s not us. This time.

There was a small, metal door in the rock wall which opened when they were almost up to it, which closed after them. They walked along a short tunnel, came to a brightly lit recess which, fantastically, seemed to be a shop, although the shopkeeper behind the wide counter was dressed as a Roman soldier, the only anachronisms in his attire being the wrist companion and the holstered stungun.

He smiled greasily at the gladiators.

“And what can I do you for today, Mr. O’Brien? Your usual battleaxe, I suppose? And for the ladies? Spears and boomerangs and a
nulla nulla?”
Behind him an assistant was taking the lethal tools down from racks. Grimes stared. There was indeed a remarkably comprehensive collection of weaponry. He was pleased to see that there were crossbows very similar to the ones that he had already used. “And for the new gentleman? I assume that he’ll be wanting a long range weapon—unless you’re changing the make-up of your team.” He addressed Grimes directly. “We have a nice line in
shuriken,
sir. There’s been no demand for them since Mr. Komatsu and Miss Tanaka—er—left us.”

“An arbalest,” said Grimes. “And a dozen quarrels.” He added, “Please.” To antagonise this fat slob, who would be quite capable of issuing sub-standard weaponry, would be foolish.

“An arbalest we can do you, sir. But not a dozen quarrels. Two only is the rule. Of course, you can use them more than once—if you can get them back, just as Miss Shirley can do with her boomerangs . . .”

The assistant took an arbalest down from the rack, held it up for Grimes’ inspection.

“To your satisfaction, sir?” asked the pseudo-centurion. “Good. Then let us not keep the customers waiting—
your
customers, that is. Your props will be waiting for you in the arena. And the best of luck, Mr. O’Brien. We shall be watching on our trivi.”

“Thank you,” O’Brien said before moving on. Then, when the party was out of earshot beyond a bend in the tunnel, “That two-faced bastard! But we have to be polite to him . . . My dream is to have him out on the sand against me one day . . .”

They came to the last door. They stepped through it into hot air, into dazzling sunlight reflected from white, freshly raked sand. Trumpets blared martial music, accompanied by drums and cymbals. There was some applause but it was bored rather than enthusiastic.

Grimes, squinting against the harsh light, looked around him. There were the tiers of canopied seats ringing the huge arena. O’Brien’s team, he thought, would not be playing before a capacity house; nonetheless only about a third of the seating was unoccupied. Some members of the audience were dressed for the occasion in rather phoney looking togas and gowns. There was a royal box under a very elaborate canopy, the human occupants of which were clad in imperial purple. The non-human ones were (but of course) Shaara.

“Our weapons,” said O’Brien, walking towards where these had been set down on the sand.

There was the wicked-looking battleaxe, the two long spears, the steel arbalest with two short quarrels. There were a nobbly wooden club and two boomerangs, but these were cruciform and not of the familiar crescent shape.
An arbalest and boomerangs,
thought Grimes,
and that royal box within range . . .
But the air shimmered above the fence dividing the lower tier of seats from the arena. It must be, he decided, a forcefield.

The music ceased.

An amplified voice announced, “And now, for our second event, Battler O’Brien and his team versus the sand rays of Sere! May the best beings win!”

O’Brien had picked up and was hefting the long-handled axe, the women had their own weapons in hand. Grimes loaded the arbalest. He wished that he had a pouch of some kind for the spare quarrel.

“Sand rays,” muttered O’Brien. “Do you know them, Grimes? They skim over the surface, not quite flying. All teeth and leathery wings. There’ll be six of the bastards. Aim for the single eye. Your crossbow will be better against ’em than Shirl’s boomerangs . . .”

Would it be? Grimes wondered. Far too little effort had been required to cock the arbalest. It would not have anything like the range of the weapons that he had acquired at Camp Diana.

Again the trumpets brayed!

At the far end of the arena gates opened. In the darkness beyond them Grimes saw something stirring, a shadowy undulation. The gladiators waited tensely. “Try not to move,” whispered O’Brien. “Movement attracts them.” The audience waited impatiently. “Send Battler O’Brien in to chase them out!” screamed a woman. “He’s just standing there doing nothing—and we’re paying for it!”

“I’d like to send
you
in, you fat bitch!” O’Brien muttered. The trumpets brayed again.

“You, O’Brien!” roared a voice from the speakers. “Jump up and down! Dance!”

“Get stuffed,” O’Brien said. Probably he was heard; directional microphones must be trained on the team.

“O’Brien! Hear this! Unless you
do
something it’s you and your people for the Snuff Palace—for one performance only!” O’Brien brandished his battleaxe; the sunlight was reflected dazzlingly from the broad, polished blade. It was enough. The sandrays came out of the pen in line ahead, moving fast, the tips of their wings skimming the sand, throwing up a white, glittering spray. They were fearsome beasts, their huge, open mouths rimmed with long, sharp yellow teeth. In the centres of their domed heads balefully gleamed their single golden eyes. Clear of the pen their formation opened up. Grimes selected his target, took aim. The range, he thought, was still too great but it was closing rapidly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shirl throw her first boomerang but did not see what result she achieved. At least she had not aimed at the sand ray that he regarded as his . . .

“Shoot!” O’Brien, was yelling. “Shoot, damn you!”

Grimes, before he pulled the trigger, elevated the arbalest slightly. As he had suspected this was a relatively weak weapon; the trajectory of the quarrel was far from flat. But instinctively—or luckily—he had corrected accordingly. He saw the bolt hit, stooped to fumble for the remaining one in the sand. And then he had to reload.

By this time the sand rays—four of them—were among the gladiators. A huge wing knocked Grimes sprawling. He heard one of the girls scream, O’Brien roaring. He got to his feet, still clutching the arbalest. Miala pushed him over as she danced by, brandishing her long spear. Again he tried to get up but Darleen was standing over him, legs astride. Her heavy club smashed into the open mouth of a sand ray coming in for the kill, splintering sword-like teeth but snatched from her hand by those remaining. The huge, fast-moving body swept her away from Grimes, passed over him in a wave of evil smelling darkness. The long, barbed tail flicked his chest, tearing the skin, drawing blood.

He got once again to his feet.

He ignored the melee over to his right; he got the impression that O’Brien, Miala and Leeuni were well able to take care of themselves. He ran towards where the ray had the struggling Darleen on the ground, worrying her like a terrier with a rat. She was still alive, her long legs, all that could be seen of her, were kicking frantically. Shirl was sprawled on the back of the beast, her arms around the domed head, the fingers of both eyes clawing at the single eye. The tail was arching up, up, over and forward, its spiked tip stabbing viciously down. Blood was running from the girl’s back and buttocks.

Grimes ran around to the front of the fight. He raised his crossbow. At this range he could not miss. Shirl saw him, withdrew her hands. He fired. The steel bolt drove through the tough, glassy membrane protecting the eye, into the brain beneath. The wings flailed in a brief flurry of sand and then were still. Shirl joined Grimes to pull Darleen from under the ray’s head. Her body was a mass of blood, her own and the green ichor from the animal’s wounds.

But she could still grin up at them.

“I knocked most of the bastard’s teeth out,” she whispered, “but he could still give me a nasty suck . . .”