Rylee gasped. Her body tensed as she awoke with a jerk. Wescomti reached down and placed a hand on her arm. She stared up at him.

            “Feeling better?” the commander asked.

            She sat up as she took inventory of her body. More importantly, her mind. She lifted a hand to her temple, and a smile lifted her lips. “Thank you, Freeberb.”

            “Who’s Freeberb?” one of the other men asked.

            She took a deep breath. “They’re close by.”

            “Who’s close by?” Wescomti pressed.

            She tilted her head. It was then it hit her that she was still alive. That they all were. And they were no longer in the arena. It was quiet outside. Too quiet. The commander noticed her listening.

            “What?”

            “Where’s the yelling and all?”

            “We’re between shows,” the man informed her. “Now, tell us. Who is close by?”

“My crew. Or some of my crew.” Her heart thudded in her chest. She’d seen Beck’s face. No, not his face. The image of his face. It was as though the Tol Hoso had known his presence would calm her. That letting her know the man was still alive would help in her healing. “I wish I knew what had happened to the others. Are they still alive? If they are, where are they being held?”
            “How do you know some of your men are nearby?” the commander persisted.

            She shivered. “I have a Tol Hoso in my crew. It must have sensed me.” Rylee touched her forehead. “It took my migraine away. I can think again.” Drawing a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “I can think again, thank the stars. So what happened? Why are we still alive?” She looked at Wescomti. “Commander, how many crewmen were on your ship?”

            “Eighty-four. And I can think of at least a couple dozen men and women I can’t account for.” The man bowed his head as sorrow shadowed his features. “I know there’s more, but I can’t think of them at the moment.”

            Rylee laid a hand on his arm. She understood. A short distance away from the commander, she spotted the sword she’d selected lying on the ground. The weapons the others had been holding were piled next to it.

            The female ensign noticed where she was looking. “If you’re wondering why they allowed us to take you out of the arena, it’s a trick… No, it’s more like a delaying tactic we learned from the people who were here before us. They were told by the prisoners who were here before them. We don’t know why it’s allowed, but we were told that if the Purej see you overwhelming a prisoner, like mobbing them, and if the Purej are convinced you’re attacking the prisoner and you drag him off into a cave, they probably think you’re beating him to a pulp and maybe feasting off of him later.”

            Rylee stared at them in disbelief. “Why would they think that? Wouldn’t the Purej realize the person they mobbed was still alive and certainly not eaten when they went to get the survivors to take them back into the arena?”

            A couple of Wescomti’s people shrugged. “You would think so,” one of the other men replied. "Especially if that person they supposedly beat to a pulp reappeared along with them."

            "Personally, I think the Purej don’t care one way or another so long as the mobbers put on a show,” the third crewmember said and pointed outside. “Did you notice how worked up those fuckers got?”

            Rylee nodded. “Yeah. It’s like we’ve landed in an alien version of some kind of ancient Roman colosseum. Those spaceships, they’re the audience, and we prisoners are the gladiators.”

            “I know what you’re talking about,” Wescomti mentioned. “Only, the gladiators weren’t killed at every fight. Yes, sometimes they fought to the death, but most of the time they were expected to put on a show, and the emperor got to decide on whether the combatants lived or died, depending on how well they performed.”

            “There’s another thing,” she commented, addressing the commander directly. “I saw a H’Ar grounder out there. And what I believe is a Tu Com De shuttle.”

            Wescomti stared at her. “A Tu Com De?”

            Rylee nodded. “Yeah. Last time I checked, those two were enemies of the Galactic Forces, not counting the Purej.”

            “Same here,” the man acknowledged. “Damn. Why didn’t I notice it before?”

            One of the lieutenants grimaced. “No wonder they’re attacking us and having us randomly killed for show. What do you want to bet all those species out there are our enemies?”

            Screams suddenly came from outside the cave entrance, along with the blaring cacophony rising from the spacecrafts sitting in attendance. One of the lieutenants helped her to her feet as they all rushed to the opening just as the horn she’d heard before signaled the start of the next bout.

            Keeping a good distance away from the doorway, they peered out into the arena as several figures chose their weapons from the pile dropped into the center of the ring. Rylee cried out when she recognized their clothing.

            “No! No! Not my crew!”

            Hands held her back to keep her from trying to rush outside and getting obliterated by the door barrier.

            “You can’t help them!” one officer said.

            “But, my crew!”

            Wescomti threw an arm around her neck and across one shoulder. “You can’t help them!”

            Rylee blinked away the rapidly rising tears filling her eyes. Despair and sorrow stole her breath as she watched the nearly two dozen alien creatures emerge from a cave on the other side of the arena and advance en masse on the group.