Page 14 of Survivor
I don’t bother to hide the desperation in my voice. “Please, wait. Give me one more chance. The ship tracked the shuttle’s general trajectory before they shielded. With the systems back online, we’ve run calculations. There’s only one place they could have gone.”
Conrad’s eyes narrow. “I’m listening …”
“Corona Nexus, the spaceport. It’s the perfect place for them to refuel or switch craft.”
“But it’s been two weeks. What makes you think they’re still there?”
It’s a gut feeling. A knowledge burning in the back of my brain. Or maybe it’s just desperate hope. But these reasons won’t pacify Conrad.
I stand taller. “They would have needed to scrap the shuttle and buy a ship. Even if they have completed their transactions, there will be a trail, and I will find it. All I need is a ship ID code. I can trace them.”
“It sounds like a long shot to me.”
Shit. I need this. I need to finish this. To make her pay for everything she’s done to me. “I’m not the only one looking for them. We picked up chatter from the Athion ship. The Athions with her were tasked to bring her in, and they’ve abandoned their mission. The Athion government has issued warrants on the snitches and also on Rogue.”
He rubs his chin in thought. “You intend to shadow them to get to your target?” He sounds almost impressed.
“Yes, sir. We had them,” I remind him. “If not for the arrival of the Athion ship, we would have Rogue right now. I will not fail you again.”
I see the moment that he makes his decision. It’s a shift in his expression, a relaxing of the muscles in his face, and my shoulders almost slump in relief, but I hold firm, waiting for the words.
“One more chance, Marick,” he said. “If you fail, you die.”
7
The suits fit like a second skin, and believe me, that didn’t leave much to the imagination. To give Vartin credit, he didn’t even bat an eyelid at seeing me without my camo gear. Either he didn’t have eyelids, or he had no clue what I was. That I was rare.
The pits were sublevel. A huge cavern that dropped three floors down the center with balconies housing food stops and bars cluttered with creatures enjoying what was on offer.
The actual pits were on the lowest floor, allowing the patrons to look down into them to view the fights. They were lined up and separated by railed-off walkways. Long-limbed, pale-skinned alternate species stood on these walkways wearing earpieces and carrying holotabs. They were monitoring the fights. Digital boards hung high above the pits, showcasing numbers. The fighters’ stats, no doubt.
Holoscreens hung in the air, broadcasting the fights from different angles. Blood sprayed and bones crunched in high definition. The crowd roared, and bookies wove through the excited viewers collecting bets and handing out slips.
It was a tight setup. How much money did this Braker make? The bars and food halls themselves must rake it in, not to mention the bets. The bookies probably worked for him. In light of that, the fat 50,000 credits seemed paltry, and a ship, heck, he could have stolen that being a pirate and all.
“Where’s Braker?” Tide asked Vartin.
Vartin jerked his head upward to an amber rectangle in the wall. Silhouetted against the light was the broad figure of a man. A man standing in a room above it all, watching the show.
“Braker don’t come down here,” Vartin said. “But if you win, if you picked, you get to meet him.” He led us along a walkway left clear for people navigating the levels above the pit, and up a flight of steps to the back wall where a long booth was set up. “Check in here.”
We approached a tiny man standing on a chair; his hands were swiping the holoscreen like crazy. He looked up briefly as we came to stand in front of him and then shoved two silver discs at us. He touched the side of his throat.
They were translator chips, similar to the one Vartin had. I took one of the discs and held it to my skin. There was a pinch, and then it held. Tide did the same.
“Numbers?” the tiny man barked.
“148 and 149,” Tide said.
He inputted the data. “148, pit five. 149, pit four. Ten minutes to start.”
This was it.
Vartin ushered us away toward a platform hovering above the pits. “You take this down. You fight.”
We stepped onto the platform, and it immediately began to drop. I grabbed hold of the rail, my stomach sinking as the levels rushed by. We hit the ground floor and the coppery scent of blood, mixed with the stench of body odor and the growl and grunt of exertion, filled the air.
The lift was on the other side of the line of pits and bordered by high chain link fencing. It cut us off from the patrons eager to look down into the inescapable holes in the ground. A lift, like the one we’d taken, hovered high above each pit, probably only lowered to drop the fighters in and pull them out.
