It was a miracle. But what other miracles had Brendol been withholding?
TIME IN THE PRISON BARRACKS DRAGGED on forever. No wonder the people of Arratu craved entertainment. The taste of raw skinwolf clung to her lips, and Siv wished for anything to happen. Vrod appeared in the doorway several times, pulling people out and shoving new people in. The new prisoners all seemed to be from Arratu, as they wore bright clothes and were more anxious than terrified, as if they harbored hope that they might please the crowd and earn the Arratu’s favor. Phasma was asleep, all that time, her back to the room as she curled on her side toward the wall, which was unusual. Phasma was generally alert and protective, popping awake at any possible threat; whatever Brendol had given her must’ve been strong medicine indeed.
Finally, Vrod appeared in the doorway and gestured to Phasma’s back.
“Wake your fighter, if she can see out of those black eyes. It’s time to entertain the Arratu.”
Siv had been dozing, and she went to wake Phasma, but Brendol was already there. He had her helmet in his hands, and she snatched it from him and put it on before she stood. She said nothing as she led her people to the doorway. Torben, at least, was back to his old self, fully recovered. Gosta’s limp was gone, although she wasn’t in full fighting form and would’ve been useless on the uneven ground of the Scyre. They followed along behind Phasma, Brendol, and the other two troopers, and Siv felt a strange thing: fear. Going into a fight, she generally felt more alive and relished a challenge, but now, when she thought about going back into that arena without any weapons, she went cold and numb.
The door slid open, and the crowd inside stomped in their seats, whistling and calling for blood. Those vicious cheers had stunned her the first time, but now it was just noise. The Arratu waited on his throne, flanked by his purple-robed company, covered in colorful birds, and rubbing his hands in glee. He stood, and the crowd went silent, so quiet that Siv could hear the sand crunching beneath her feet.
“What shall we have today?” the Arratu called through his booming machine.
Siv shivered as the chant went up.
“Wranderous. Wranderous. Wranderous!”
It was like living the same moment over again as the big man plowed his path through the crowd, clapping hands and pumping his fist. He leapt down to the sand and bowed to the Arratu, who raised his hands for silence.
“And what kind of toys should we give him this time?”
The noise of the crowd built to a mad gabble, and the Arratu giggled.
“Did someone say swords?”
The door through which Wranderous had exited the day before slid open, and someone threw three swords out onto the sand. They were different enough that Siv assumed they’d been taken from previous prisoners. One was clunky and made of droid chunks and saw bits, one was fine and slender, and one looked more like the twisted glass they’d pulled from the blaster-struck sand. The weapons had barely landed before Phasma and Siv were running for them, the two fastest Scyre warriors determined to claim the weapons they so desperately needed.
Wranderous was closer, and he picked up the two heavier swords and turned to face them, grinning, a blade in each huge hand. With silent understanding born of years fighting side by side, Phasma and Siv split up, each approaching from a different angle, both vying to get the third sword still sitting on the ground behind Wranderous. Of course, that was exactly what Wranderous was trying to prevent, and he struck out at Phasma first, thinking her to be the more dangerous target.
Siv had known he would do that, and she slid to the sand on one hip, skidding past him and wrapping her fingers around the third sword’s hilt as Wranderous sliced the air where Phasma had been standing. He was bigger, but he was slower, even with Phasma hindered by her armor. She rolled and came back up just out of reach, and his next swing seemed to slowly arc over her head as she stepped easily past it. While he recovered his balance, Siv focused on his left hand, holding the sword he hadn’t yet used. His off hand. One quick slice of her blade and that sword fell to the ground in a gush of blood, along with one of his fingers.
Wranderous spun on Siv as she danced out of reach and handed her sword to Phasma. It was beautiful, how Phasma’s posture changed the moment she had a weapon in hand. She rolled her shoulders back and got into fighting stance before darting forward to hack at Wranderous’s arm. He stepped back, narrowly avoiding Phasma’s sword, and Siv ducked and picked up the sword Wranderous had dropped. When he spun to slash at Siv, Phasma darted in and sliced the backs of his knees.
“Torben!” Phasma shouted.
She pointed with her sword, and the big man came running, planting himself where she’d indicated, directly in front of the Arratu, whose face was lit with bloodlust and excitement.
Wranderous turned on Siv now, his face racked with pain and fear as he sliced down right where she’d been standing, narrowly missing her. As soon as he turned away from Phasma, she jabbed the sword into his back, twice, fast, once on the right and once on the left, as if skewering meat. Which she had: his kidneys. When Wranderous turned back to deal with Phasma, Siv slashed at his ankles, bringing him to his knees, the sword still in his right hand as his left hand dripped blood.
The big man’s face was red with rage, but he was losing a lot of blood, and his balance as well. Phasma hacked at his right hand, forcing him to drop the blade and leaving him weaponless. Siv moved to her side, ready to do whatever Phasma commanded. Although the attitude in the Scyre was that death should be quick and a matter of business when necessary, they were all aware now that theatricality would get them fed, and that if Wranderous had to die, it might as well be in a way that would benefit them the most. Siv kicked him over, and Phasma put a foot on Wranderous’s spine.
They all looked up to the Arratu. His face was lit with excitement, as if he didn’t even mind losing such a fine fighter. Taking his three colorful scarves in hand, he held them up, and the crowd screamed and cheered along with his coterie of birds. At last, he chose the green scarf and threw it down.
“Wranderous is free!” he said.
Little good it would do the man, Siv thought. If they truly had no medicine here, as Vrod had told them, Wranderous would be dead within hours. But the crowd didn’t seem to care. Everyone stood in the bleachers, cheering and waving their flags. The door opened, and a hand within beckoned.
But Wranderous couldn’t stand, and Phasma did not run for the door. She switched the sword to her left hand and stepped off Wranderous, moving around to where his face lay in the sand. Her fingers clenched into fists, and she pulled up his head by his hair, reared back, and punched Wranderous in the face, splattering his broad nose with a crunch. Blood gushed down his chin, and he made a noise halfway between a shout and a blubber, scrabbling in the sand for his lost sword. Phasma stepped forward and kicked it far away, and Wranderous reached for her, his great clumsy paws closing on thin air as she danced back. The crowd exploded, half excited and half furious.
“Is this not what you really want?” Phasma shouted to the crowd, her sword raised. “Death by a thousand cuts, a hundred punches?”
The crowd was becoming a mob now, screaming and shouting and stomping. They were so loud that they drowned out whatever the Arratu was shouting into his amplification machine. Phasma held their attention completely.
“Would you like to see a real show?”
They begged for it, and even the Arratu stopped his shouting to watch.
Phasma looked around the arena, noting where all her people waited. Gosta with Brendol, behind the two stormtroopers. Siv by her side, sword in hand. Phasma jerked her chin at Torben, where he awaited her command.
“Torben, kneel,” she shouted. Then, quietly, “Siv, kill Wranderous. But do it in an entertaining fashion. And a little slow.”
Siv nodded and looked at Wranderous, considering for the first time how to kill someone slowly and for someone else’s sick amusement. Now that the big man had been bested, she felt no love for
the fight. He was on hands and knees, his multiple wounds gushing blood to mix with the sand, his head down and his nose a mess. She leapt onto his back, standing on him as if he were a rock, and the crowd went mad. Raising her sword, she yelled back at them, feeling their energy thrum through her. Still, no inspiration came, and her heart couldn’t turn to wanton murder. The moment faded away, her sword unused in her hand. Luckily, the crowd’s attention shifted, heads swiveling to follow Phasma. Siv hopped off the broken man’s back and stepped out of range to watch the real show.
Phasma was running for Torben at full speed.
The big man had knelt, his back to Phasma, per her orders. Siv realized what was happening a second before it occurred. Phasma ran at Torben, leapt onto his back, and used him as a springboard to catapult herself directly into the Arratu’s box, where she sliced her sword in a flawless arc that slashed the man’s head from his shoulders in one clean stroke.
It happened so quickly that the Arratu was still grinning when his head flew through the air to land on the sand of the arena. His birds took to the air, screaming, as his body fell, and the violet-robed elders leapt out of the box and into the stands, melting into the crowd. The Arratu’s four guards barely had their swords out of their sheaths before Phasma had dispatched them all.
What happened next was so strange that Siv thought she must be dreaming. The entire arena erupted in cheers. They weren’t screaming and panicking. They weren’t mustering to destroy their leader’s attacker.
They were whistling, screaming, shouting, stomping.
They loved it.
Phasma stood there by the Arratu’s throne, and Siv had to assume her leader was just as confused by the crowd’s response, although her helmet hid her emotions. Brendol and his stormtroopers marched across the sand to stand, looking up, beside Siv and what was left of Wranderous. The once great Arratu warrior had fallen to the ground, his breathing shallow. Killing him didn’t feel like a victory, so Siv left him lying there and hurried to help Gosta and join Torben. They watched as Brendol’s stormtroopers helped him clamber up into the stands beside Phasma. He was not an athletic man, and it was not a smooth enterprise.
Picking up the Arratu’s voice projector, Brendol raised Phasma’s arm and said, “Behold your new Arratu! Phasma!”
The crowd went insane, their chant coalescing into the word Arratu screamed with a near-religious fervor alongside Phasma’s name.
Phasma!
Phasma!
Phasma!
Torben leaned in toward Siv. “If they think Phasma is their Arratu, will they ever allow us to leave this cursed place?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Siv said. “But I hope Brendol Hux has a plan.”
—
Torben helped everyone up to join Phasma and Brendol in the Arratu’s box. The stormtroopers pulled the big Scyre warrior up last. The crowd went on cheering and chanting, but no one seemed to know what to do. A few of the colorful squeeps tried to land on Phasma’s shoulders, and she batted them away. Finally, Vrod of the White Hand appeared beside the throne. As if Brendol had been waiting just for him, he bowed his head the tiniest bit and said, “Ah. Vrod. Good. Please take the new Arratu to her tower.”
Vrod grinned and bowed back. “An interesting tack, to be sure, but that’s not how it works. The Arratu is chosen by—”
“No, she’s not.” Phasma stepped between them, the blood-slick sword still in her hand. “I have defeated your champion and your Arratu, and I claim the throne. Unless you wish to challenge me for this position, it is mine.”
“The people will never stand for it.”
Phasma chuckled. “Oh, they won’t?” Stepping forward, she raised both her arms and began shouting, “Arratu! Phasma! Arratu! Phasma!” into the amplifier.
The people nearest the box reached for her, their faces alive with joy and excitement as they took up the chant along with her.
“Is she your Arratu?” Brendol shouted through the machine.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the call.
Brendol turned back to Vrod, hands out, grinning. “Sounds like the people have spoken.”
Vrod let the chant go on, and Siv could see him silently calculating. Finally, he exhaled and gestured to a door behind the throne. “Fine. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. The crowd’s too excited to get anything done just now. You have no idea what it means to be the Arratu.”
“We know it means we’ll get to sleep off the floor and with full bellies,” Torben said. “For now, that’s good enough.”
“As you say.”
Vrod led them out into a different hall and into a turbolift just like the one that had delivered them into the mines at Terpsichore Station. This one went up, and when it stopped, the doors opened onto a hall that was painted a garish red and hung with layers of colorful fabrics. Strange images and objects decorated every wall and surface, pictures and statues of people and beasts that Vrod dismissively called “art.” Many of them were dressed in the same red drapery the Arratu had worn and appeared like gods, with halos and lightning and worshippers surrounding them.
“The Arratu is more than a leader,” Vrod explained. “The Arratu is an idea. The heart of the city, the voice, the tenor, the sacrificial lamb.”
“That part doesn’t sound good,” Siv said.
Vrod inclined his head to her. “You just watched it happen. When the Arratu is failing us or deemed unworthy, things tend to take care of themselves.”
“How did the previous Arratu die?”
Vrod held open a door, motioning them into the room beyond. “The crowd tore him limb from limb.”
The chamber they entered was designed for royalty and had every imaginable comfort. The bed was big enough to fit their entire group, tables were laden with fruits and bottles of colorful liquids, and soft rugs covered the floor. Several people dressed in matching purple outfits knelt around the edges of the room, their heads and eyes down. Across the back wall, words spelled out something that looked quite fancy, but of course Siv couldn’t read. Later on, Brendol told her what it said: ARRATU STATION: CON STAR FABRIC DIVISION.
“You’re dismissed,” Vrod said to the servants, and they hurried out without looking up.
“Now that you’re the Arratu, for better or for worse, there are some things you should know,” Vrod said, availing himself of the dainty selection of fruits. “As I already mentioned, half the city is starving to death. Our machines can turn sand into any kind of fabric, but we can’t make food. There are too many people and not enough land, plants, or beasts, and we’ve nowhere to go.”
But Phasma ignored him and walked away to look out a wide window.
“So that’s why loss of life doesn’t matter to you,” Brendol said. “How interesting.”
Vrod nodded. “Sadly, yes. Anyone who dies means that much more food for those who remain. We’ve become quite selfish, I’m afraid, and far less picky. There are restrictions on childbearing, and those too old or sick to contribute must be euthanized. Perhaps you begin to see why entertainment is so crucial. It’s the only thing that can take the people’s minds off their empty bellies and dying friends.”
“Has it always been this way?” Brendol asked. “Has there never been proper government?”
Vrod pointed to the words painted on the wall. “When Con Star came, this was a fertile valley surrounded by crops and trees and filled with plants and animals. And then—well, you know what happened everywhere. The weather changed. The sand crept in. Only the walls and our last remaining spring keep the desert from claiming us all. The spring has begun to slow, though, and it’s clear our prosperity will never return. We’ve grown desperate. What happens in the arena…those are the death throes of our people.”
“Very poetic,” Brendol said, sneering, “but what does it mean to us?”
“Well, since you’ve gone to the trouble of getting rid of one perfectly good Arratu and replacing him with an outsider who doesn’t know our ways, it’s up to you to figure
out how to keep the people from rioting in the streets. The problem with being the visible leader of a failing regime is that they tend to go for your head first.”
“Is there a governing council? Elected officials? Religious leaders?”
“There is only the Arratu, his guards and court, and the Sentries, led by me. Every time we tried to have another kind of government, they all just stabbed one another in the back. It was easier this way. One fool in charge of a bunch of fools.”
“And what do your Sentries do, besides attack travelers in the desert?”
At that, Vrod threw back his head and laughed. “That’s one part of it. If you’re hungry, it’s easier to eat strangers than people you know. Meat’s meat when everyone is starving. There’s also the hope that we’ll find some loot in their packs that might help us out of this mess. Seeds, technology. So many people are carrying artifacts around that one of them might eventually help us. Every Con Star station had a specialty, see? That means that somewhere out there is a facility like ours that can make food. We’ve sent out scouts, but no one has ever returned. Now we never go farther than the pit that trapped you. Fuel is running scarce, too.” He swatted at a bright-yellow drapery. “But we have plenty of useless, pretty fabric. We’ll be the best-dressed corpses on the planet, one day soon.”
“You’re optimistic,” Torben said, stuffing a fruit into his mouth.
“So how can we help?” Siv asked, looking to Phasma, who continued to ignore the conversation and instead moved around the room, looking out every window with a pair of quadnocs she’d found somewhere among the Arratu’s piled things.
“We don’t need to help.” Brendol poured himself a drink, sniffed it, and sipped. “It’s not our business. We can’t fix what’s broken here.”
“But people are dying.”
“Then their leaders made grave mistakes, again and again. This place could’ve been a paradise.”