Inti’s Satellite, Medical and Edification Area
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“Please state your name and age, then arrange yourselves on the chairs from oldest to youngest,” the voice ordered.
Sophie glanced around. In this room, the voice came from the far wall instead of the ceiling. There were four chairs with arms and padded seats, all in a row under a long black table covered in sand.
“Marie LeFleur, fifty-six,” Marie said, and took a seat at the end.
“Peter Lopez, twenty-three,” the cowboy said, glancing at the other man.
He bowed slightly. “Miyamoto Razan, twenty-five.”
“Sophie Cadbury, nineteen,” Sophie said, sliding into the chair furthest from Marie as Peter sat next to her.
“Thank you,” the voice said. “From oldest to youngest, please state what language you are hearing.”
Marie frowned. “French.”
“Japanese,” Miyamoto said, nodding.
“Uhm, English,” Peter said.
Sophie absently touched her scalp, where it had been itching earlier. “English.”
“Thank you,” the voice repeated. “While you were asleep, a translation device was put into your ears. It automatically translates words you hear to whatever language you speak best.” The table hummed, and the sand arranged itself into a world map. “Please point to where you are from.”
Sophie pointed to England as Marie motioned to the Caribbean as a whole. Miyamoto touched the southern end of Japan, and Peter drew a sloppy X over where the US/Mexico border would be.
“Thank you,” the voice once again said. “You are here because you almost died in an interesting manner. You would have died if not for our intervention.”
Sophie frowned, hands clutching her purse. Her social life would have died, true, but she doubted the fall would have killed her.
“Because of the manner in which you almost died, we believe you would make a good group of contestants in our games,” the voice continued. “We are from a planet far away, orbiting the star you know as Vega. On occasion we take humans who are about to die and use them for our entertainment. This is a transaction: we do not expect you to be grateful. If you wish to be returned to Earth, please say so at the end of the presentation.”
There was a pause. Sophie didn’t know what to do. Could she be returned home, just like that? And then act like this hadn’t happened? Would they do something to make her forget?
More importantly, did she want to go home? Go back to being a Proper Lady? She’d felt trapped in that life since turning fourteen, that’s why she’d become a pickpocket and thief. Her mother would make sure she found a respectable husband by next year, which could only end badly.
…She would miss her brother.
But nothing else.
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“What sort of entertainment?” Marie asked.
She didn’t have any reason to go back, and had several reasons to want to avoid it, but that word raised alarm bells in her mind.
She’d seen too many people die as “entertainment”.
“Contests,” the voice said. “Mazes. Battles, not to the death. Races. Tests of endurance. You will work in a group of four, against other groups of four. Most of the contests will be on Earth, but occasionally there are contests elsewhere. They are held every Friday; you are allowed to decline up to three in a row.”
That seemed… like there was a catch. It sounded very good, which meant there was something bad coming.
“Will the contests be fair?” Miyamoto asked.
Marie nodded at him; it was a good question.
“No, because some groups excel in areas others are completely lost in,” the voice explained. “For example, if you four joined a contest where you individually had to race sailboats, one of you could be said to have an unfair advantage. We will not give any group special equipment not available to everyone else, and will not put one group closer to a goal than the others. But a group with someone from Scandinavia in it will have an advantage over this group in snow survival contests.”
“Where will we live?” Peter asked. “How will we get food?”
The table hummed again, and the sand moved to form a blueprint. “You will live in a set of rooms similar to this one, with access to a Common Area where you will be able to interact with the other groups. You will also find shopping, eating, and training areas there. You can purchase individual ingredients and cook in your Group Area. Simple meals will be available for purchase, and the items you found this morning will always be available for free.”
“Free?” Marie asked, her eyebrows going up.
“Always?” Peter asked, staring.
“Yes,” the voice answered.
“You mean, no matter what, even if we’re completely broke and useless, you’ll still give us bread and eggs every day?”
“There is a limit of two eggs per person per day, but yes.”
Marie watched the lanky cowboy as he tightened shaking fingers around his armrests. That was a man who’d faced starvation. More than once. She’d seen him eat breakfast; it had reminded her of when her crew had reached port after being on rations for a few days. Not dying but willing to eat until he was sick. Worried the food would be ripped away if it wasn’t eaten fast enough.
She knew he was staying, no matter what the catch was.
“How will we pay for things?” Sophie asked. “I presume we’ll get some sort of reward from the contests…”
“The monetary system used here is credits. For context, a simple meal is one credit. When you enter a contest, your group will receive twenty-eight credits. Depending on the number of contestants, the complexity of the contest, and several other factors, the winning group can get anywhere from two hundred to eight hundred credits. If you place in the top half, winnings will be seventy credits or up per group. Below that you will get fifty-six credits, twenty-eight credits, or nothing.” There was a brief pause. “If you have anything of value, you may sell it. If you are entertaining enough, there are options for writing letters to fans or for having fans watch you in your day-to-day life. Both those things pay a small amount, but usually only become options after a number of years. Also, upon agreeing to become contestants, you will each receive one hundred credits.”
With breakfast provided, that was enough to survive fourteen full weeks. Marie still suspected there was a catch, but fourteen weeks of free food was never something she could turn down.
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Razan suspected the “simple meals” would consist largely of sweet potato.
The other three were silently considering money, so he asked a question he thought was important.
“What do you look like?”
The table hummed, moving the sand to be a drawing of… a hibagon. It was wearing a skirt and boots, with some sort of headdress, but it was recognizably a hibagon. Razan frowned, not sure if this was good or bad.
“Are there other peoples that will be watching us?” he asked.
“Yes. We are rostari, from a planet we’ve named Tarsha.” The table hummed, changing the drawing to one of something like a dragon. “This is an aire, from their planet Sala.” Another hum, and the sand moved to show a fox-like creature with long fingers next to a smaller and more cat-like creature. “These are the luwa and chunula, both from Admau.” A brief pause, and the table hummed again, changing the drawing to something quite like an octopus. “This is a popi, from Lapo, a planet almost entirely covered in liquid. They have the ability to watch the contests, but almost none are interested in doing so.”
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“Why not?” Sophie asked.
“They believe they would instantly win any contest they entered, and find watching other species struggle a waste of their time,” the voice said. For the first time, there was a hint of emotion in it. “Most of them are completely insufferable.”
Razan sat back, slowly realizing he hadn’t been rescued by some Divine Being for a Great Purpose. He’d been rescued by creatures from far away purely for their own amusement.
That… was both a disappointment and a relief. He wouldn’t have to be on his best, most holy behavior for the rest of his life, which was good. But being kidnapped by a hibagon and asked to fight in a group of…
He smiled, a soft laugh escaping him. He’d been kidnapped a moment before death by a hibagon and asked to fight alongside a geriatric black woman, a teenaged white girl, and a cowboy. Absolutely no one would ever believe him. He barely believed it himself.
The other three looked at him as he laughed harder.
“Will any of the contests involve sweet potatoes?” he asked, grinning madly.
There was a pause of several seconds before the voice answered. “…No.”
Razan thumped his fist on the table. “I would be happy to join.” He broke down, laughing near-hysterically.
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Peter watched Miyamoto laugh, wondering what sweet potatoes had to do with anything. He caught Marie’s eye; she just raised her eyebrows and blinked.
On his other side, Sophie gigged.
“Will any contests involve broccoli?” she asked.
“There are no food-based contests,” the voice said, sounding a bit exasperated.
“Are there any alcohol-based contests?” Peter asked, smiling.
“No.”
“Shame,” Marie said. “Those I know I could win.”
“Moving on,” the voice announced. “You will be watched by devices we call hawks.” A large, bird-shaped metal thing rose up from the other side of the table and hovered. “They will record everything you do in the contests, and transmit it to our planets.”
“How?” Sophie asked.
“Magic,” the voice said.
Peter sat up. “Magic?”
“No,” the voice said. “Humans do not have the words to explain how it is done yet. The simplest way to explain it without the base words is: combining light, magnets, and magic. Most of us do not know and cannot explain the process beyond light and magnets, so saying it is magic is technically correct enough while being completely wrong.”
“I understand,” Miyamoto said, still grinning but no longer laughing.
“You do?” Marie asked skeptically.
“Yes,” he said. “The less sense things make at the beginning, the quicker we’ll get used to ignoring logic. Thus our expectations will be low, and any insane thing they tell us to do in the contests we’ll do without question. After being told we’ve been saved by bigfoots and are being watched through fake birds by dragons and kitsune but not by self-righteous octopuses, being asked to fight other groups of humans is almost calmingly mundane.”
Peter stared at him, then stared at the floating “hawk”.
“That is not the purpose,” the voice said. “It is, admittedly, a nice side effect, but it is not the purpose. We are simply explaining the truth as quickly and concisely as possible.”
There was another pause.
Sophie raised a hand. “Why didn’t kissooneh translate?”
“What?” the voice asked. “Oh, that. There’s no direct translation. Usually the program reverts to words that are close enough, but if there isn’t anything close it gives the original word.”
Peter twitched. “Is there a way to turn it off? If, maybe, I spoke French, I wouldn’t need the translator for Miss Marie.”
“Yes, I understand English and Spanish perfectly fine, not just French,” Marie said, looking at him. “I only need a translator for Miyamoto.”
Again, Peter got the sense she saw right through him.
“If you prefer, you can ask that the translator not work for certain languages,” the voice told them. “You can also have it adjusted to let you know when someone is speaking a language that is being translated.”
Peter made a mental note to do that at soon as possible.
“What else can it do?” Sophie asked.
“Nothing, but there are versions available that can aid with mathematics or memory, and a number of other things.”
Peter wondered if there was one that reduced the amount of water a person needed.
“There are also special clothes, weapons, and gadgets that can help with everything from temperature regulation to aim to long-distance communication. Most aren’t universally useful, but they are available for purchase.”
Something deep in Peter’s soul moved, telling him he needed all of them.
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“You are currently in a ship orbiting Earth,” the voice continued. “We have a device that can instantly move you from one place to another. For some challenges we will build things on your planet, for others we hide things in certain places. Some challenges will forbid hurting other contestants, others will encourage it. We have the ability to heal most wounds. Prosthetic limbs, hands and feet are available in case of serious injury.”
Sophie felt like she should be taking notes for a test.
“That should be enough information to let you decide if you wish to stay or not,” the voice said. “Does anyone have any additional questions?”
“Will we be able to contact our families?” Sophie asked.
“To a limited degree,” the voice said. “You may write one letter a week, which we will deliver, and you can apply to visit for short periods on special occasions.”
Sophie nodded. That sounded reasonable.
There was a pause as everyone thought the situation over.
“Will you agree to becoming a contestant?” the voice prompted.
“Yes,” Miyamoto said confidently.
Peter shrugged. “Yes.”
Sophie looked at them. “I’ll join, yes,” she decided.
“I am an old woman, who is very stubborn,” Marie said slowly. “You may regret asking me to join, but I will join.”
“Excellent,” the voice said. “As you will be made a group, please choose team name, colors, and leader.”
Peter looked at Marie, smiling. “Captain? Will you lead?”
“The oldest must lead, yes,” Miyamoto said, nodding at Marie.
Sophie nodded in agreement.
Marie smiled. “Again; you’ll regret this, but I accept.”
“Noted,” the voice said.
“How many colors?” Sophie asked.
“Two. A main one and an accent color, for use on clothes and flags and other things.”
“The main color should be blue,” Miyamoto said. “The blue of deep water on a cloudy day.”
Sophie wondered if he was a poet.
“A dark, greenish-blue?” Marie asked.
The sand changed, going from black to the color they described. Peter whistled, picking up a few grains to look at them closely. Sophie looked under the table and found several thick cords going from the floor to the tabletop.
“Yes, that looks good," Marie said. "And the other color?"
“The red of volcanic fire at night,” Miyamoto said, perfectly serious.
Sophie sat up just in time to see the sand change color again.
Peter caught Sophie’s eye, smiling. “Nah, I’d prefer the red of a desert sunset.”
The sand changed accordingly.
“I think it should be white,” Sophie said, smiling back. “The white of freshly fallen snow on a field of grass.”
The sand became white.
“I prefer the white of snow on a distant mountain,” Peter said.
The sand didn't change.
“If not white, then maybe the black of a forest at midnight?” Sophie tried.
The sand stayed white.
“Or the dark green of a pine tree at midnight.”
“Or we could be elegant and go with the gold of sand at dusk.”
“No, that wouldn’t work with the blue of deep water on a cloudy day, it’d have to be the gold of sand at noon.”
“Of course, how silly of me,” Sophie said, giggling. “I wasn’t thinking of the main color. In that case we need a more orange color, like fresh summer apricot fallen from a tree.”
“The red-orange of the center of a California poppy in spring would be better,” Peter said, grinning.
“I’ve never seen one of those in person; maybe the golden orange of amber?”
“Isn’t amber yellow?” he asked.
“Some is,” Sophie said, opening her purse. She rummaged through it, pulling out a silver ring with a massive amber stone on it. “I was thinking this color.”
Peter stared at the ring, then at her bracelet, then at her purse. Sophie realized he was about to ask why she had so much jewelry and panicked.
Marie cleared her throat before either of them could speak. “Are you two quite done?” she asked flatly.
“Yes, sorry,” Peter said, sitting back.
Sophie set the ring on the table and shoved her purse down. “That color. Yes.”
“It is a good color,” Miyamoto agreed, looking at the ring.
Finally the sand changed from white to match the color of the amber ring.
“Colors have been chosen,” the voice said. “What would you like your team name to be?”
Sophie was too busy thinking of excuses to think of a team name. Unless she should tell the truth? They knew she’d almost died in an “interesting manner”; maybe a good thief was an asset in the contests, and she should be proud. And obviously she’d succeeded in stealing. Her fall was the fault of old wood breaking, not because she’d made a mistake.
If they asked, she decided she would tell them.
“Leaves,” Miyamoto said.
They all looked at him.
“Grasshoppers leap, ignoring the will of the wind,” he said. “Butterflies flit, pushing against it. Leaves drift, taken where the wind wills. We are leaves.”
Sophie nodded to herself. He was a poet.
“No,” Marie said. “We’re not calling ourselves leaves.”
“Good sentiment, though,” Peter said. “Drifters?”
“That’s not bad,” Sophie agreed.
Marie frowned, then nodded curtly. “That works. Drifters.”