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Aun’shi

Braden Campbell

It was not the sound of the door opening that roused him from his meditative trance. Nor was it the muffled cheers from the stadium below, or the sharp clacking of Cerraine’s stiletto boot heels as she approached his hexcage. It was the rumbling of his stomach. He chastised himself and kept his eyes closed, his back perfectly straight. His hands rested on his knees, palms turned upwards. She had food with her. He could smell it. A stew of some kind. Rich broth. Soft vegetables. A delicious spice he could not place. Greater Good, he was hungry.

‘I brought you something special today. Not the usual fare.’ Even through the translator device, her voice was the essence of cordiality.

No! He would not break down. Not now. He remained perfectly still and focused on his breathing. With each exhalation, he knew, rescue was one second closer. Someone would come for him soon. Then he could eat.

After some moments, she started tapping her foot. ‘Don’t you think this has gone on quite long enough? I mean, starving yourself in protest – it’s ridiculous.’ She laughed a little.

He gave no reply, made no movement. At his unresponsiveness, the friendliness in her voice bled away. ‘What does this prove? Who gains? You think this somehow impresses me?’

Inwardly, he smiled at her frustration. Her true self was showing. His passive resistance was finally having an effect. His hope grew.

‘Well, it doesn’t. Hunger pains are quite out of fashion, not fit even for the groundlings. Now eat, Aun’shi.’ He could hear a clattering as she passed the bowl through the bars of the hexcage. ‘You have a matinée performance shortly. You’ll need your strength.’

At last, he opened his eyes. Certain other species in the galaxy would have described her as coldly beautiful, he supposed. Like all Var Sin’da, she was tall and lithe. Her skin was like alabaster, with high cheek bones, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her ears were delicate and pointed. She was elaborately costumed in multiple layers of glossy, bladed armour and silken robes. A belt made of entwined barbed wire hugged her slim hips. Her blonde hair fanned out behind her like the plumage of some fantastic bird and her translator was fashioned as a golden brooch engraved with lascivious silhouettes. Beneath her heavy makeup, her lips were tight. Her eyes burned with anger. All pretences of concern had been dropped. At last, he thought, we have come to a place where we can deal plainly with one another. Demands can be tabled. Negotiations can begin.

‘I will no longer kill for the pleasure of your patrons,’ he said. His voice was low and rough from dehydration.

Cerraine’s painted eyebrows arched. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is so.’

‘Then what will you do?’ she gave a slight smirk. ‘Bait the clawed fiends? Dance like a Solitaire?’

He refused to be goaded or insulted. ‘I will do nothing,’ he croaked. ‘You will open the door to this cage, and you will release me. You have no other choice.’

Cerraine looked down and shook her head. It seemed a sympathetic gesture, but he knew better. Sympathy was not to be found in the Var Sin’da.

‘Aun’shi,’ she lamented, ‘how little you know me.’

He gathered saliva and cleared his throat. His voice regained some of its strength. ‘I know you very well,’ he said. ‘I know that before you acquired me, you had no independence: you were in the servitude and shadow of others. I know that you have since become wealthy because of me, and that I am quite popular with your audiences.’

Cerraine’s jaw tightened. He took it as a sign of agreement.

‘I also know,’ he continued, ‘that you dare not kill me, for it would upset said audience members, and in turn, cost you not only your fortunes, but quite possibly your life.’

A conflux of emotions raged inside of her: anger at his insolence, frustration at her inability to find a hole in his logic, fear at the possibility of losing her celebrity status. ‘I’ll have my beastmasters force-feed you,’ she said with practiced haughtiness.

Aun’shi shook his head. ‘Such a thing is incompatible with my physiology. I would choke and die.’

The corners of her ruby-stained lips twitched. ‘Then I’ll hang you from a gibbet, and charge the people to watch you starve.’

‘You have already admitted that even the most lowly patrons would consider that to be poor entertainment. ‘Better a good day in Shaa-dom than a bad review in Commorragh’’.

She bristled upon hearing the old theatrical axiom. Mostly because it was true.

‘Therefore, since I refuse to participate in your shows any longer, and to murder me would bring about your downfall, you have no choice. You must set me free.’ His argument concluded, and he settled himself once more to wait for her reply.

Behind them, the door opened slightly and the pale, heavily-scarred face of Skelban, Cerraine’s stagemaster, peered in. ‘M-M-Mistress,’ he stammered, ‘this is the five m-m-minute call.’

Cerraine’s eyes never left the tau. ‘We may have to hold,’ she answered over her shoulder. ‘It seems there’s a slight problem with the talent.’

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