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“Get up.” An Azzaro guard kicked the bars of her cell.
Arielle’s eyes popped open, blinking back sleep. She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the flashlight pointed at her. Despite her fears, the stillness and limited visibility had lulled her into a restless semi-consciousness.
The cell door squealed open. She rose from the cot, taking tentative steps forward.
“How is Dirk?” she asked, trying to make out the Azzaro guard through the bright light in her face.
“This way.” The guard headed back toward the front entrance.
She stumbled after him. Her vision swam after the light shining in her eyes, causing her to stumble and reach out to the wall for support. When they emerged back in the open pen area, K’inn’s sun had set. It was the point in the day when, according to their myths, K’inn demanded his sacrifice.
Funny how only the god demanded sacrifices. The goddess never asked for anything, not even the festival tribute.
They passed the pen that had held Dirk, but he was no longer inside. Her heart quivered. Had Rassa lied to her? Had he already sacrificed Dirk?
She squeezed her shaking hands into fists, but she could no more banish her fears than fix her present situation. Or save Dirk.
They exited the rear of the facility. The Azzaro guard led her between a series of nondescript buildings. They emerged onto a wide hill. Torches taller than the guard stood scattered across the hill, which sloped down to a stadium built into the ground. Thousands of figures clad in the orange or red twins costumes packed the stands. Their raucous shouts filled the air.
She followed the guard into a torchlit tunnel beneath the stands where he retrieved a jersey from a crate along one wall and tossed it at her. She caught the dark green jersey.
“Put that on,” he ordered.
The jersey was a little large, but she slipped it on over her regular shirt. Then she followed him out onto an enormous, grassy field. They stood inside a stadium.
Murals depicting a violent sporting event covered walls surrounding the field. Many of the figures punched, kicked, or knocked their opponents down while advancing a ball up the field. Along the walls’ base, markers at regular intervals denoted one hundred meters from end to end and forty across.
From center field, the number of fans present up in the stands was overwhelming. It surprised her how many Azzaros took part in this barbaric tradition.
At the top of the high wall closest to her stood an Azzaro male chained to a pillar. Tall and strong, he gazed out at the crowd, his chest puffed out despite the chain. Was he daring them to sacrifice him, or proud that they might?
Beneath him, about halfway up the wall, a metal bar was mounted perpendicular to the wall’s surface. From the bar hung a rusty metallic ring whose inner diameter looked to be half a meter.
In a panic, Arielle turned to face the far end of the field where Dirk, head bowed and shoulders slumped, stood chained atop the wall. She ran across the field, conscious of all the eyes on her, but not caring.
“Dirk, are you all right?”
His head shot up at her words, his eyes widening. He bore no visible signs of abuse. “Arielle? What are you doing here?”
“Getting you out of this,” she replied, fighting back tears she didn’t want to show.
“No!” His eyes pleaded with her. “Don’t risk yourself. Get out of here.”
“I...” Her voice choked with emotion. “... don’t think I have a choice.”
Another ring hung suspended from the wall beneath him. She wanted to grab it, climb the wall, unchain him and check for injuries, then escape.
But if Rassa had told the truth, the only way to protect Dirk was to compete here on the field. Yet, if she somehow won, she condemned the Azzaro at the opposite end of the field to death. It was a lose-lose proposition. But despite the guilt that filled her at the thought, she would ensure Dirk wasn’t the sacrifice tonight. Somehow.
“I’m going to save you,” she said, hoping her fear, guilt, and self-doubt didn’t show in her voice or on her face.
“Forget about me. Protect yourself,” he said.
Four Azzaros approached her on the field, staring at her with mouths agape. They all wore the same dark green jerseys.
“You’re on our team?” one female asked. She was shorter than Arielle and almost sickly thin, with a maze haircut. She didn’t seem the type to compete in a physical competition.
Arielle blinked once, activating her eye contacts’ name recall function. The name Bayru appeared on the Azzaro’s chest in glowing neon letters as Arielle had customized it. The names of her other teammates also appeared on their chests. Thanks to the treaty with the Azzaros, the Space City database could identify all citizens.
Besides Bayru, Arielle had one other female Azzaro teammate, who was the tallest of the group. Her left arm ended just short of her wrist.
Arielle also had two male teammates—one thin-as-a-rubberband with the name Zume and the second a large, lumbering Azzaro named Gavie. None of them looked athletic. If she had to guess, all four were competing for the first time in such an event. They all wore pads on their wrists, elbows, knees, and shoulders, but their gear didn’t fit.
“I am,” Arielle replied. “Dirk is my....” Her words trailed off.
Velly pointed at Dirk and asked in a sympathetic tone. “He’s yours?”
“Yes,” Arielle stammered, again blinking back tears. “Please. We have to save him.”
None of them responded, their eyes shifting in other directions.
She just stopped herself from lashing out at them in frustration. “Don’t give up on him. Don’t consign Dirk to death.”
Bayru handed her forearm and shin pads for a response.
The crowd roared as the opposing Azzaro team entered the field. Three males and two females wore bright yellow jerseys. All five Yellows were strong and fit, like their chained counterpart. They also wore pads, though theirs fit as if custom made for them. Rassa had stacked the deck against her.
This wasn’t fair. No wonder the chosen Azzaro didn’t mind his chains. What did he have to fear? His team wasn’t likely to lose.
An Azzaro official in an orange mask and robe stepped out onto the middle of the field. He carried a large red ball in one hand. The Yellows jogged toward him.
His voice amplified, the official said, “It’s time to get this Lusus started!”
The crowd cheered.