The guard swings a bladed whip down on the prisoner’s back with all the force he can muster. His eyes widen as he lets out a wrenching gasp. Still, he doesn’t try to avoid the whip’s strikes. Around us, the audience boos in disappointment at his lethargic reactions.
Adena scowls and throws her hands up. “This isn’t worth the wait. Let’s leave early. We can make it back to the mess hall before everyone else.”
Jeran gives her a disapproving glance. “Adena. Please be a little respectful.”
“Of who? Him?” Adena shoots back.
“Of the process. We may see a man die today.”
I’ve witnessed plenty of executions. There have been dozens of other Federation prisoners who have died in this same spot. But somehow, when I watch this prisoner, I find myself looking away. If Corian were here, he’d say there is no satisfaction in punishing someone so unresponsive. They are never going to get him to talk at this rate, not if he has no interest in living.
The snap of the whip echoes throughout the arena every time it hits true, and with each lash, he takes longer to get up. His hands clench and unclench. His boots shift against the ground as if in a fighter’s stance. But he doesn’t do anything else. He waits until they hit him again, and he goes down in another shower of blood and dust.
Something isn’t right.
The thought swells in me until I can’t ignore it. Something isn’t right about this execution—or this young man. There’s a difference in his gaze, his stance, the way he bears his punishment without a sound. Who was he in the Federation? Why the brand? No man can endure this kind of torture for this long. How can he bear it? Everything about this moment feels like a mistake, and the sharpness of this instinct rises in me like a tide.
“We should be reaching the end now,” Jeran says quietly beside me. “I’m shocked he’s still alive.”
“A shame,” Adena says through clenched teeth. She folds her arms across her chest in satisfaction at the sight. “Those serrated whips could be more efficient, you know, if they’d just place the blades closer together.”
“Why did he desert?” Jeran asks.
“Who cares?” Adena says. “They said he refused to cooperate when interrogated. Won’t say anything about where he came from or what he does for the Federation. Won’t even say his name.”
The whip strikes the prisoner one more time. He collapses in the dirt to an arena full of cheers. It takes him long minutes to rise again. Jeran is right—we’re reaching the end. It won’t be long before the guards drag his body away and send in Striker apprentices to clear the blood-soaked dirt.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe it’s because I’m Basean, and I know what it’s like to be alone. Maybe it’s because of how I woke this morning, struggling to find the will to live. Maybe it’s because I’m about to be stripped of my Striker uniform, so none of it matters anyway.
Or maybe it’s because this all reminds me too much of the day Corian had died, and the sight of blood staining the ground fills me with memories of him.
Corian. Perhaps that is what feels so familiar about this. As the prisoner lies against the ground, he makes a small, sweeping motion repeatedly against the dirt, as if to comfort himself. It’s an uncanny reminder of the way Corian would wave his hand beside fallen Ghosts. May you find rest.
If he were here, Corian would get up from his seat and walk down into the center of the arena. He would take advantage of his good standing with the Firstblade and speak for this prisoner, not caring about any punishment the Firstblade would give him. And later, he would sit beside me at the mess hall, his head propped casually against his hand, smiling cheekily at me as I scolded him for his reckless behavior.
I picture Corian and rise from my seat. Jeran shoots me an alarmed look and signs for me to sit back down. Adena just blinks at me in confusion.
“Talin,” she hisses at me, then switches to signing, “Talin, what are you doing? Sit down—the Firstblade’s staring at you.”
Still, I don’t stop. My long coat drapes behind me as I take the steps down toward the center of the arena. Now other Strikers around me are murmuring. One of them shouts, “Down, little rat.” Laughter.