Ar'Tok - Alana Khan Page 0,38
if we just found a winning lottery ticket. “Chop-chop. Get your asses moving.”
We climb into a chartered hover-bus and are on our way within minutes.
“What about all the new gladiators? Where are they?” Grace asks, holding her mate, Tyree’s hand.
“They’re all lodged on Fornication Island,” Zar informs us levelly.
“What?” I ask. I know they all must think I’m so unsophisticated, but really!
“There are many names for it,” he explains, “but that was the most tasteful.”
“Most tasteful?” Okay, I’ll admit, I’m scandalized.
“Yeah,” Dax informs us. “Other names for it are the bang district, bone voyage, pump province, the sex sector. Some of the lodgings are the Come Cathedral, the Hot Hotel, the Intercourse Inn, the—”
“I think we get the drift,” Zar interrupts. “The gladiators were recently released from brutal enslavement and want to have fun. They’ll meet back with us at the appointed time.”
I was told that Beast recently went back to his owner’s gladiator training center and rescued fourteen fellow gladiators. They’re all trying to adjust to their newfound freedom. Some want to return to their home planets, others are going to stay with us.
Us. That’s an interesting term. I’m not really a part of this happy bunch of escaped slaves. I belong on the Misfit as soon as the oxygenator is fixed. After sneaking a peek at Ar’Tok, I look back at my sunshine and happy skies nails and feel a pang of sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
I’d known I was lonely on the satellite. After dad died, I cried for weeks. Then I threw myself into my work, not only completing every job that came my way, but actively searching for more. It kept me from noticing how quiet and empty the Misfit was. But now, after all these people, and the laughter, and joking, and the sweet male at my side, the quiet echoes of my home will feel desolate.
We pull up to a warehouse that looks a lot like the place I met with Ergonn.
“The camera person has been secretly paid off to blur our faces before the episode airs,” Zar announces. “Don’t worry about the Federation.”
Maddie’s smiling and laughing as she leads us off the bus. We’re all given identification lanyards that allow us into the VIP section.
Staff escort us into the cavernous room, which is tall with open rafters up above and hundreds of bleachers mounted in stepped fashion rising to the far reaches of the building. The vid set is up front, with a well-equipped kitchen located under glaring lights. There’s a rectangular wooden table, maybe twenty feet long and five feet deep, that separates the kitchen from the bleachers. Our contingent is escorted to this table.
“The tasting table,” Maddie whispers as if we’re in a cathedral. Her eyes are sparkling, and she can barely contain her wide grin.
There’s not enough room for all of us to sit comfortably and watch, so most of the females sit on their male’s lap. This is going to be fun in more ways than one.
“Females and males,” a male humanoid with opalescent skin and a thick black Mohawk announces in a deep whisper, “we’ll be starting our show in a few minimas. Jorgan, the Peripatetic Epicure, will do his best to cook for you in an entertaining way. You have a job, too.”
He waits to get everyone’s attention. “Your job is to laugh at his jokes. Not just a little smile. No, if Jorgan says something funny, I want the people all the way to Perseus IV to hear you. Let’s hear it now.”
Silence.
“Are you waiting for me to tell a joke? That’s not what they pay me for. I just want to hear you laugh.”
We all try to laugh on cue, which isn’t easy. He scolds us and makes us try three more times until he says, “I doubt they can hear you on Perseus IV, but this will have to do.”
He strides to the tasting table and says, “And for all of you at this table, your job is to let the audience know how delicious, how spectacular, how extraordinary, how out of this world Jorgan’s cooking is. Of all the people in the galaxy, you lucky folks are the only ones who will actually be able to taste the dishes Jorgan cooks today. The people at home want to hear yums and oohs and aahs. They want to see your eyes practically roll back into your head in culinary ecstasy. They want to see your utensils scraping your empty