Page 2 of Pyne

“There!” The male with the microphone points toward me and the newcomer is shoved in my direction. He takes his place next to me, a growl vibrating in his throat as he tosses his long dark hair which is mixed with white strands. I imagine it’s the only protest he can make without getting shot. His thick tail, which looks to be all muscle, thrashes so wildly that it whips against my calf.

“Apologies.” He spears me with a regretful look, then his lips thin and his eyes slit as he focuses on the male behind the lectern.

“Listen up!” The red, winged male announces, the spikes on his face quivering. “I’m the assistant producer, Brekkan Zhizh, here to introduce Arisha, though she needs no introduction. This beautiful female makes more money in a single day than most people could earn in five lifetimes. Everything she touches turns to gold, and she’s deigned to be the Mistress of Ceremonies and Executive Producer of the Cosmic Confections Competition.”

He straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin as though his status skyrocketed by the mere fact that he’s introducing her.

“She convinced the Cryosyne government to cancel the upcoming Winter Gladiatorial Games for something more exciting. And you all are lucky enough to be part of the project. I expect you all to listen closely and do as she says.” He lances a pointed look toward the male standing next to me—a clear warning.

Arisha, known by only one name because she’s so famous she needs no other signifiers, sashays into the room as though there’s an audience of thousands rather than the mere fifty of us in the room.

She ascends the stage, her lithe form draped in a shimmering gown that seems to be made of starlight itself. The fabric shifts and swirls around her lavender skin, a mesmerizing display of celestial blues and silvers that set off the iridescent sheen of her smooth, hairless skin. Her large, almond-shaped eyes are a striking violet, flecked with gold, and seem to hold the wisdom of the ages. When she speaks, her voice is a melodic lilt, at once soothing and commanding, captivating the audience with every word.

She takes her place at the lectern and announces, “Gladiatorial games are trending poorly in the court of public opinion. Income quarter over quarter is down eighteen percent.”

She frowns, then mumbles, “Why am I explaining economics to a bunch of bakers?” Regaining her bearings as she remembers to talk down to us, she discards her courteous affectation and continues, “The Cryosyne government has asked me to take their initial vision for the Winter Games in a different, more lucrative, direction.”

“Our research indicates that females in the sought-after twenty to forty-five demographic enjoy baking shows. But they also enjoy watching males. That’s why I’ve developed this competition with male/female pairs.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she visually inspects each team, her mouth pursed to indicate none of us measure up to her high expectations.

When her gaze circuits to me and the male next to me, she addresses us directly. “There were twenty teams chosen out of over two hundred applicants for this highly coveted competition. One of the teams canceled at the last minute. Luckily, you, gladiator, didn’t receive the comm that we’d canceled your match. Since you’re here on Cryosyne, you’ve been… repurposed.”

She gives him a bright smile that makes her beautiful face even more lovely. The way she wields it tells me it’s seldom failed her, but it yields only a scowl from the male on my right.

Arisha continues, undaunted, as her gaze spears me. “And you, human, happened to be in the right age and were working right here, under our very noses in the kitchens of this hotel. You… what’s your name?”

“Becca.” I learned shortly after my abduction that no one wanted to know my last name. I’m a slave. Our owners don’t give two shits about who we were before they slapped a slave collar on our necks.

“So you, Burka, and you…” She lifts an eyebrow at the male destined to be my partner, but he doesn’t answer her, so Brekkan Zhizh supplies her with the name. “And you, Pyne, are now partners in our baking competition.”

“I don’t want to participate!” Pyne says in a deadly serious tone. His perfect, symmetrical face is thunderous, his lips clamped together and his eyebrows slant in rage.

Two of the soldiers hurry to stand in front of him and are about to smash his face with the butt-ends of their rifles when Arisha yells, “Stop! He needs to look good for the cameras.” Her face is now as angry as Pyne’s; her expression incredulous that the soldiers would be stupid enough to disfigure a contestant.

Directing her words to Pyne, she says, “You came to perform on galactic TV. You were prepared to be beaten, possibly killed, in the arena. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be part of a bake-off.”

“Because I’m agladiator, not acook.” That last word was spoken with so much disdain, he might as well have said “excrement.” Then he turns to me and says, “No offense.”

“I doubt anyone enjoys being punched.” Arisha seems genuinely confused. “This sounds so much more enjoyable. But I tell you what, I’ll sweeten the deal and double the amount you agreed to. Besides…” She waves her arm at me. “Your new partner is a slave. If your team wins, she’ll be set free. Don’t you want to try torescueher?”

When he doesn’t jump at her offer, she adds, “A big, strong male like you doesn’t want to be a hero?”

He gives her one last furious look, folds his arms across his chest, and gives the smallest of nods.

With that, Arisha fills in details about the rules. “The winning team will receive one hundred thousand credits to split.” She spears Pyne with a contemptuous look and adds, “Except for you, gladiator. You will receive fifty thousand credits just for entering the competition and another fifty thousand if you win. And Beaker, if she wins, will receive nothing but her freedom.”

Although money sounds nice, my freedom will certainly be good enough.

She regains her imperious stature, focuses on the rest of the contestants, and adds offhandedly, “There will be immunity challenges as well as baking competitions. If you win the day’s immunity challenge, you cannot be removed from the contest that day, even if you fail the baking challenge.”

I wonder how dangerous the immunity challenges will be. This Bake Off was designed to take the place of gladiator fights, after all. I’ve been around alien species long enough to know nothing is as it appears up here in space.

The prospect of being freed sounds good, though. Not that I’d know where to go or how to support myself once my slave collar is removed. Well, I guess I can continue what I’ve already been doing—cooking and baking in commercial kitchens. Frankly, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I want to be freed.

As a slave, at least I don’t have to worry about having a roof over my head or enough food to eat. Then I remember that my owners own more than my time and my skills—they own my body. I guess that’s a good enough reason to want to win this competition.

Arisha continues her speech, explaining how each team is expected to work together throughout the competition. I barely register her words, too focused on the sinking feeling in my stomach. I’m a chef, not a reality TV star. Not only don’t I want to be a part of this ridiculous spectacle, but I imagine this is going to be a lot harder than Arisha is making it sound.

---