Neutral Planet: Escape

by Red_Harvey

It was Callia's fifth fight of the day. And the fifth win.

She backed up, sweat running into her eyes. The latest opponent lay at her feet, head bent at an impossible angle. Callia's sword dripped with a viscous purple fluid, a constant of the alien's blood.

You're the alien, she reminded herself.

A week had passed since she had landed on what Captain Joseline had promised would be an easy assignment, aka a neutral planet. Only, there wasn't anything neutral about it.

Even the plants were carnivorous, from what she had seen of them. Tree branches were drawn to the scent of anything passing by, stretching lazily until it could wrap around its prey, dragging it back to be consumed among the fibrous roots. Yeah, Callia made it a point to avoid even the flowers. Her days were consumed by the arena anyway.

One more down, a million more to go, she thought, watching as the carcass was dragged out of the arena.

"Any more?" she called out, but the coordinator didn't understand her. They had taken her translator away, along with everything else.

The coordinator's smooth face never changed expression, even when dropping a new opponent into the arena cage with Callia.

A smattering of attendees trickled in every day, but they never cheered. In fact, they never made any noise at all. They merely stood and stared as Callia clashed swords with other slaves. The silence had been unnerving at first. Each cry, bout of heavy breath, or crunch of gravel had been deafening, more so because her plasticine opponents were just as mute as the spectators.

Which was odd, because the first native she had met had been quite friendly, but then again, he'd sold her into slavery.

Callia had watched plenty of ancient films, and in all of them, gladiator-types fought until they could bargain for their freedom. She was confident her gladiator-story would work out in similar fashion.

If only they'd say something, anything, she thought, dragging her sword behind her. Her muscles were ready to snap as she trudged to the cot in the corner of the cage.

Her ship, which she knew to be close by, had never felt farther away. She pictured the life stretching before her, fight after fight, until she was too old and tired, and finally, cut down.

In all the sparring simulations with the bot back on the ship, she never couldn've imagined using her training like this. Though now, she was grateful for all the hours spent learning defensive and offensive tactics. Without them, she would've been dead already.

Callia had lost count of how many creatures she had killed. She hated to dwell on it. As long as she kept thinking about them as creatures, or aliens, she could almost sleep at night.

It's me or them.

In the muted echo of the cold cage, that seemed more and more like an excuse.

She huddled under a non-existent blanket, her knee throbbing. She rubbed it, but these days, the pain was constant. Usually by Match Three of the day, it took every ounce of control to avoid a complete collapse. With all the gladiator matches, she had zero time to heal. Yet, Callia's other planetary debacle, which had resulted in a wicked knee injury, paled in comparison to her latest fuck-up.

Sniffling, she straightened her leg, grimaced, bent it, and grimaced again.

"We gonna have to carry you on a stretcher, or can you walk?"

Callia hadn't heard a human voice in a week, and was sure the whisper was a figment of her under-wrought imagination. She sat up, dimly aware of her throbbing leg.

"Psst. Earth to Callia. Over."

This time, the whisper was more like a quiet plea, enough for her to recognize it.

"Pim?" she whispered, unsure of what direction her friend and crew mate might be hiding in.

"And Diane," came another stage whisper, the origin as yet unknown.

Callia smiled, a sigh wrenching from her. "I can hear you, but I can't see you."

"That's 'cause we're cloaked," Pim's baritone vibrated as he spoke into her ear.

Callia gasped, settling quickly after receiving a questioning stare from the coordinator.

"This alien tech is pretty handy," Diane said, her disembodied voice floating over the air.

Glancing around, Callia stood, trying her best to appear natural. "I think whispering's best, Diane."

"Sorry, you know I've always been loud," Diane apologized, her high-pitched tone dropping again to a whisper.

"Yes, I know," Callia said, grinning.

Vibrations tickled her arm, and she realized someone was fastening a device to her, though she couldn't see what it was. Moments later, her hands and feet faded from view. Callia ran her hands over the rest of her body, pleased at her overall transparent status.

She was further pleased when a second unknown something was pressed against her leg, a calming warmth radiating around her knee. In seconds, the pain had subsided to a numbing sensation, then dissipating completely.

"What was that?" Callia murmured, rubbing her leg and marveling at how brand-spanking new it felt.

"Something called an Ecrivain Special, native to this quadrant. Now, let's go find the ship," Pim said.

She held up her hand in a hang-on-a-second gesture, realized no one could see it, shook her head at her own stupidity, realized no one could see that either, and finally said,

"Hang on."

All this time, she had survived by using her training, and it might come in handy later. She needed her weapon. Callia reached for her sword, but as she hefted it, it appeared to fly through the air, handled by an other-worldly spirit. The coordinator, trained to spot odd behavior, focused on the ghostly sword and sounded an alarm.

Blaring yellow lights and a squawking beacon threw Callia off.

Over the rising alarm, she yelled, "What now?"

Diane's high-pitched voice urged, "We run!"