The Gladiators - 1. Chapter 1

The Gladiators

Prologue

Nertrom checked the coordinates once again, and then sounded the alarm. The crew took their seats and buckled up. This was a precaution that they always observed, although there was little danger. He pressed the button that shut down the StarDrive and suddenly the grey light was replaced by the great panoply of stars in normal space. Almost a hundred light-years in just a few weeks, thanks to that great invention. It was just as well that Iffengalt hadn’t believed that nonsense about not being able to travel faster than light!

He started the ion drive and set a course for the small sun which was their target. The communications officer was gesticulating excitedly, and he saw that there was a huge amount of radio transmission coming from the third planet. Of course, it was the weak signal they’d received which had led to this expedition, and to their presence here, but they hadn’t banked on finding the civilisation still in existence; on too many worlds, there had been nothing left but a planet ravaged by nuclear war, or wrecked by runaway warming.

They didn’t know how to decode the signals, of course, so he had Olanbat start the analysis program on the main computer, with little expectation that they would have a solution before they landed. Some warning of what they might expect would have been useful.

The analysis of the radiation coming from the beautiful blue-and-white planet confirmed what they’d feared: they had nuclear power, and therefore, almost certainly, thermo-nuclear weapons. That they hadn’t used them was to their credit. He wondered whether they’d developed the more powerful preon-fusion lasers which they carried; he sincerely hoped not. In any case, he ordered the invisibility shield to be switched on. No point in running any unnecessary risk.

They decided to land in a quiet spot in the northern half of a long, isolated landmass. The touchdown was soft and they ran checks on the atmosphere: it was breathable! He and Olanbat walked down the ramp onto virgin (for them) territory. He said the immortal words:

‘One small step for a Blang: one giant leap for Blangdom!’

He got a funny look from Olanbat.

‘Let’s just get on with it, Nertrom.’

They heard a noise and a land transportation vehicle came towards them and stopped. Someone got out and approached - they were just like them! Two arms and two legs, and a head on top! He was carrying a stick of some kind. The stranger spoke to them.

‘&ççç »_’è’-(‘

Whoops, he’d forgotten to turn on the UniversalTranslater.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing on my land?’

He was pointing the stick at them now, and appeared aggressive, or at least, unfriendly. Nertrom noticed that he only had one tooth in his mouth, and perhaps there was some inbreeding visible there?

‘We come in peace. Take me to your leader.’ OK, a bit corny, but that’s what the manual says.

‘You just get the hell outa here, boy, afore I blow yore balls off!’

Discretion seeming the best course of action, they got back in the ship.

Nertrom decided that they should do some research before venturing out again, and fortunately Olenbat had managed to unscramble some of the transmissions. One of them included a map which identified the area they were in as ‘Tennessee’, part of the USofA, whatever that stood for. He wondered whether this was a more primitive, backward area, or whether all the inhabitants were similarly aggressive.

They surfed the various channels; there were images of storms, starving people and what looked like wars. He shuddered; he’d hoped that they had come across a proper civilisation, but it was obvious that these people were barbarians. Then, he noticed something strange; there seemed to be two different types of people! There were tall ones like the individual who had threatened them, and a smaller, misshapen type, with wide hips and something stuck on their chest! Could there be two different species, happily cohabiting? That would be very unusual, indeed unique in the galaxy.

Then they switched channels and found a scene where the two species had undressed and seemed to be copulating! That’s when the firty dropped: the fat, misshapen one was not a different species, it was a female!

Well, they were quite revolted of course. This really must be a backward civilisation, to still procreate in such a disgusting fashion; and no doubt they still ate animal bodies, too!

Nertrom thought back to their own beautiful planet, much like this one. Their civilisation was millions of generations old, and had long ago phased out the females and replaced them with breeding modules, using eggs created in the laboratory, and genetically modified to give long, healthy lives. By controlling the breeding of the species, they had husbanded the resources, and had vast amounts of sex too! It was a win-win situation!

He thought that this species deserved a helping hand, so they got to work in the laboratory, preparing the equipment they would need. Haltenmelt went and kidnapped one of them, in order to get their DNA map, and soon they had the formula that they needed. Introducing this into the water supply would increase the likelihood of gay offspring, replacing all that aggression with a passion for fashion and interior décor. It would take a few generations, but in time all the males would be gay, and the females would be kept exclusively for breeding - well, maybe cooking and cleaning too, you’d have to be pragmatic about it - until they developed the same technology, and phased them out altogether!

Nertrom felt really good about the contribution they’d made to the wellbeing of this race. Now, all they had to do was avoid blowing themselves up, and Nirvana would be theirs!

He consulted the list. Where next? Oh, yes, another small planet a few parsecs away. There’s always someone who needs a helping alien hand!

He entered the new coordinates and set the autopilot.

‘Come on guys, we’ve got two weeks of uninterrupted shagging before we save the next planet!’

A long time later

1

The manservant finished buckling the last piece of steel plate and handed him the helmet.

‘There, you’re all good to go, my lord.’

‘Thank you Jenkins. Bring the nag around.’

As he approached the horse it looked at him and seemed to sag at the knees. Quite apart from having to carry him, it had its own armour plate too, and the combined weight would be massive. They attached the chain and he was hauled up into the saddle, which promptly sank six inches. Jenkins handed him the lance, he kicked the poor thing into life and they trotted off to the jousting area.

This stuff was actually quite dangerous, charging at each other at full gallop - well, as full as the poor animals could manage - and trying to knock the other guy off his horse. People had died, in fact.

Anyway, they were just about to set off when a gigantic hole opened up in the sky above him, and a dazzling blue beam engulfed him, pulling him off his horse and up, up through the hole, and away.

The people watching were quite convinced that the Devil himself had taken their lord, and were actually quite pleased, since he was universally regarded as a pain in the arse, unlike the next in line, who was as near a human being as the aristocracy ever achieved. The horse was quite happy too, as a matter of fact.

Jack looked at the large man standing in the reception chamber and breathed a sigh of relief; the bloody thing had worked this time. True, they’d been a hundred years out, but twelfth century England was no doubt much like the thirteenth, and no one would be able to tell the difference.

He still didn’t know where the first one had gone; they’d got hold of him OK, but the return sequence hadn’t worked and he hadn’t materialised. God knew where he was, ancient Egypt, or even the Jurassic - the thing was so unreliable, it was embarrassing. Much more of this and there’d be even more tales of alien visitations.

There was a bang and a puff of smoke from one of the servers, and he groaned; they were already over budget and that sounded like another piece of junk ready for the skip. Still, on the bright side, they were getting there. Let’s see: medieval knight, tick; Spartan warrior, tick; Roman gladiator, tick. Not too bad. Who was next? Japanese Suzuki - no, wait, that was a motorbikey - Samurai, that was it. Sighing, he wrote out the requisition for a new server and headed for the stores.

2

Sir Geffrey de Bedeford quite liked this place. For one thing, he didn’t have to clamber about in that wretchedly heavy armour, and risk life and limb in the jousting tournament. And for another, the food was excellent, once he’d won the argument about being served meat - real meat, not that awful substitute stuff - cooked properly, rare and rare. He found it amusing seeing the people go pale as he tucked into a nice thick steak, dripping bloody juices. No wonder everyone was so pale and wan.

It was strange that they’d kept the women locked away, though; every time he’d asked about the wenches, they’d just laughed and changed the subject. He’d been kept company though, by a steady stream of slim and attractive boys who were all too willing to pleasure him in whatever ways he chose, which were many and varied. He’d selected nice, pretty, passive ones, girl substitutes of course, and very satisfying they were.

He didn’t have any problem screwing boys instead of girls; he’d tried it out many times before, and very acceptable it had been. After all, one pretty thing was much like another, and an orifice was an opening just waiting to be filled, and it really didn’t matter to whom it was attached. It was kind of a habit to rape the hairy arses of the vanquished after a battle, too.

He got on well with the other prisoners - he had to use that word, even though it was a very civilised prison. They were a pleasant pair, and they’d spent many a happy hour discussing battles, rape and pillage, and similar such civilised subjects. The technology hadn’t changed much, either: swords and shields mostly, of various shapes and sizes.

It had been a puzzle how they understood each other, of course, until the serf had explained that the little medallion they each wore was in fact a translation machine which rendered the others’ languages intelligible. They certainly had some neat tricks here. He switched the TV on; he wanted to watch Ben Hur again.

3

‘…this is simply not good enough, Jack, not good enough at all. We took a fixed-price contract for this job, and just look where we are: two weeks behind schedule and way over budget! At this rate, we’ll be losing money on the business!’

Well, not actually losing money, just making less of a fat profit than he’d figured. Let’s face it, they were the only outfit that could make this stuff function, so he’d priced it accordingly. And since his boyfriend was on the board of the Antiquarian Narrative of Arts and Life, which was sponsoring the project, the proposal had sailed through with barely a murmur. Public money was the best money.

‘Listen, Rob, you know very well that we’re still in beta test with the software! We should be transporting mice or foxes or something, and getting the bugs out of it, instead of dumping people in the middle of who-knows-where. That poor guy from the thirteenth century, who knows where he ended up? He might be fighting dinosaurs for all we know.’

‘Well, he had a very large sword so I suppose the sauropods will come off worst. I tell you what, though, it would confuse the archaeologists if they found a broadsword buried in the neck of T. Rex, wouldn’t it?’ He found that very funny, for no good reason that Jack could think of.

‘OK, I know you’re doing your best. You’ll get the new software release soon, that should solve the problems. Who’s next for the trip to nirvana?’

‘A Japanese Samurai warrior. He should fit right in actually; they shagged each other when they weren’t busy slitting people’s throats.’

‘I suppose the volunteers aren’t complaining?’

‘Are you joking? They’re loving it, getting screwed by these big hairy guys. There’s a long waiting list as a matter of fact.’

‘Maybe we should have charged for it. Oh, wait, I remember we discussed that and decided it was illegal. Damn stupid law. Who’s next after the Samurai?‘

Jack looked at his notes.

‘It’s a Hun, whatever that is. Says here that he’s from Germany, fourth century, responsible for the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.’

‘Didn’t someone write a book about that? Anyway, the Romans were nuts so probably not a great loss. Maybe they did a service to the world.’

‘And then there’s the most contentious choice.’ He paused, rather embarrassed.

‘Go on, go on.’

In a small voice he said, ‘It’s got to be someone from the WWE.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It was a bunch of thick stupid thugs who pretend-wrestled each other. Think over-muscled idiots with miniscule brains. Back in the twentieth century.’

‘Well, now, that doesn’t sound so bad actually.’ Rob was that way inclined, and had little chance to indulge it in this rather anaemic world.

‘Who can we get?’

Jack read off the names.

‘The Undertaker - that’s not a bad name - Hulk Hogan, or the Ultimate Warrior. Hogan seems to be the most popular. We’d have to get him before he reaches pension age though.’ He crossed his fingers and hoped the equipment was up to it.

‘OK, Hogan it is. I suppose we’ll have to teach him how to swing a sword. How difficult can it be, anyway?’

Too difficult for you, thought Jack; you’d probably have trouble picking the thing up.

‘No problem, no problem at all.’

4

Orestes got a good grip on the hard muscular body and tensed for a throw, shifted his weight and heaved. Nothing. This was one tough guy. He tried again, with the same result; at this rate he’d end up underneath. Not that he minded too much since he swung both ways, but this was a contest and he liked winning as much as the next Spartan. A moment later he was on his back with the handsome Roman kneeling astride him.

Gaius looked down at him.

‘Got you that time, bro. You just telegraph every move, you know, you wouldn’t last five minutes in the stadium.’

He yanked Orestes’ loin cloth off and his member - his very large member - leapt out, ready for action. He freed himself too, raised the Spartan’s legs, and prepared to impale him.

‘Wait, I need some lube!’

‘When did Spartans ever need lube? I thought you were a tough lot.’

He looked a little shamefaced.

‘Yeah, well, it’s this soft living, it’s getting to me. Now pass me the tube and we’ll be away.’

And so they were, enjoying each other’s hard muscular bodies and harder weapons, oblivious to the cameras recording their every thrust and moan.

Jack watched the show while he was waiting for the system to reboot, since it had crashed yet again. Their rutting was impressive; they went deeper, harder, faster and longer than anyone he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a lot. The size of their equipment was mightily impressive too, and his anus twitched in sympathy as the Roman penetrated the Spartan’s holy land.

There was no doubt that people - for people read men - had become smaller and less aggressive over the last century or so, he thought. The effects of civilisation had been one factor in reducing the desire to smack someone in the mouth at every turn, and so had the changes in DNA which had occurred shortly after the rumoured, but never verified, visit by the aliens. There had been a sudden resurgence in popularity of Judy Garland and Liza Minelli; interior décor was suddenly on the agenda; and scrummaging was much less popular, apart from the nude variety which appeared on the porn channels.

There was no longer any need to compete for women, since they were locked away securely in their breeding chambers, fertilised by the brainy and the good, and kept happy with chocolate and gossip. Too, everyone could have as much sex as they could physically endure without first beating the crap out of each other, and the way it was structured, there were as many bottoms as tops, and therefore the probability of perfect matches.

Wars had become a thing of the past, since everyone was so shagged out they didn’t have time for fighting, and with the population stabilised at a mere three billion - there were relatively few females needed, since they had a long breeding life - there was no pressure on land or resources, so no reason to invade the people next door. In fact, defence budgets had been cut to almost nothing, which was a relief because nobody liked those nasty bangy things anymore.

Of course, the downside was that the population had become, what would you say, a tad less masculine; less muscular and hirsute, with a trend towards boyish good looks, courtesy of the proliferation of cosmetics and beauty products, and also surgery for those who didn’t succeed with the first two options. Rather worryingly, the equipment on offer had shrunk a little too. He wondered whether the aliens - if indeed they had ever existed - had tweaked the DNA just a tad too much….

He turned back to the screen. Good, the thing seemed to be running properly, at least for the moment. He went to the specification page and selected « Japan », then « 16th Century », then « Samurai », crossed his fingers, and hit return. This was going to take a while, so he poured a glass of wine - an excellent Burgundy, in fact - and turned back to the show. Goody, it was Orestes’ turn to be on top this time.

5

Takamoto was hard at it, pounding away, his boyfriend’s strong legs wrapped around his waist, urging him on, sweating and panting, the tension building, on the short strokes, building, building, almost ready, just about to burst, and then, and then, a blue light flooded the room, and huge hands gripped him and ripped him from the bowels of his beloved, and dumped him naked in a cold wet bog.

He was not a good tempered man at the best of times, and this was clearly not going to improve his mood. He got up and looked around. Soft wet rain, a flat landscape; no sign of civilisation. There was a slight glim from a building a short distance away, so he headed for it.

Patrick O’Donnell was contemplating his wife, his wife of many years. She had borne him many children, mostly feral to be honest, but children nonetheless, and very grateful he was; but she was not, and never had been, pretty. In fact she was hideous, fat and hideous, and only to be mated with in the dark, and preferably while drunk. It wasn’t one-sided: he could make little claim to beauty, like most of his countrymen. It was a cursed island to be born in, and then they sent the English to rule over them.

The door burst open, and a strange mad naked man burst in, and yelled in a foreign tongue. He grabbed his shillelagh and swung straight at the creature’s head, and almost landed a shrewd blow, but then a strange blue light flooded the room and the vision disappeared. Jesus Sweet Mary Mother of God, what in Hell was that Devil’s spawn? He grabbed the bottle and took a long swig; he was for the church on Sunday.

Takamoto landed with a thump on the bed and looked around. Better than the last place, at least. Nice soft mattress, dim lighting, pleasant décor; this wasn’t the worst place in the world. He wondered if there was any food to be had; some raw fish and a flask of sake would go down well just now.

Then the door opened and a fat naked woman walked in, all wobbling arse and soggy boobs, rubbing her body in a suggestive way. He nearly threw up; this was the closest he’d been to female body parts since he’d exited his mother’s womb. He screamed and was just about to attack the horrible thing when the blue light appeared again.

Billie-Joe was sat on the stoop a-chewing his gum and a-cleaning his gun, or was it the other way around, he kinda forgot this stuff sometimes, on account of how complicated it was, when there was a blue flash and a strange naked figure appeared right in front of him. He recognised it straight away as the Devil itself, mad and frothing and full of incarnate fury, and he jacked a round into the chamber and pointed that there gun of his right at that little fiend and was just about to pull the damn trigger when that light just appeared again and the thing was gone. Hot damn, that was one close run thing, he coulda been cursed right there.

Jack collapsed back in his hair and tried to calm down. That had been a really close shave, but at least the Japanese was safe and sound in the reception chamber. He looked mad as hell though; maybe he should have waited until he’d finished his business. He looked at the man critically: smaller than the others, and less well-endowed too. He wasn’t going to be as popular, that was for sure.

He was tired after all that excitement, so he decided to leave the German until tomorrow. He shut the system down and went off in search of his boyfriend.

6

De Bedeford being de Bedeford, he’d already worked out what the scam was. They were recruiting warriors from various periods of history, weren’t they, and there was no sensible use for them, on account of there being no wars anymore - which was a crying shame, due to the lack of fighting, rape and pillage - so they obviously meant to recreate the Roman games, where gladiators like Gaius fought each other for the enjoyment of the masses. This didn’t fill him with a great deal of pleasure, since it would undoubtedly be dangerous; he had just been celebrating the end of the jousting tournament, and now he was looking at something even more hazardous.

The second point, and one he didn’t really want to dwell on, was the issue of age. He was a little older - well, quite a lot older, actually, if he was honest - than the others, and he wasn’t quite sure that he fancied his chances, having seen the Roman and the Greek wrestle. He was less worried about the latest arrival, who was a smaller man, though he didn’t know what tricks he may have. He supposed they would all be given similar weapons too, which made him even more nervous; he would have fancied his broadsword against that piddling little Roman thing.

What to do, what to do. Hmm, maybe he had the germ of an idea, just the first inkling.

Rob finished up the meeting in high spirits. This was going to work very well. They’d set up the schedule for the eliminators, followed by the finals, set the ticket prices and agreed the bids from the broadcasters, and as soon as that idle villain Jack picked up the last two thugs, they would be ready to go. Of course, they still had to get the agreement of the contestants, but that shouldn’t be too difficult: a lifetime - a long lifetime, based on twenty-second century medicine - beckoned, with every luxury that a man could want, including an endless supply of attractive young men, willing to satisfy every need. And when you thought about it, the alternative was unattractive.

The next version of the software had just been released, and he was keen to see if it was any more reliable, so he wandered down the stairs and went into the lab. Jack had taken some of the panels off the main system console, and was poking about inside with a screwdriver. His heart sank; more technical problems.

‘What’s the trouble now?’

‘I don’t know. I typed in « Germany » and « Fourth Century » and the thing just locked up. I thought it might be the beam control circuits again.’

‘You idiot. Germany didn’t exist until the nineteenth century! Use Europe instead, that should work.’ You had to do everyone’s thinking for them.

Jack plugged everything back in and rebooted the system. For once, it came back up at the first time of trying. He cautiously typed in the parameters, and was rewarded with an individual called Rugila. He’d do. He clicked on the little ‘grab’ icon, and sat back in his chair, fingers crossed. The new software worked flawlessly, and a large hairy man materialised. Goodness, he looked like a barbarian, probably because he was a barbarian. It was a wonder he wasn’t called Conan. Five down, one to go.

Now for a little fun. He opened the bag and took out the manikin. Small, green, large eyes and a bald head, the twentieth-century epitome of an alien. Where was he going to drop it this time? Let’s see, there was this place called Roswell…

7

‘Listen Rob, I’ve tried to get Hogan but it just won’t work! The guy’s too famous, apparently he was even in the movies. The safety parameters filter out anyone who’s well known, in case it changes history too much. I mean, your average Joe doesn’t make any difference, but once they get some notoriety, you can’t touch them.’

‘Blast. He would have been perfect, but you’re right, we can’t mess up the past. Who can we get instead? Someone large and muscular? Please?’

‘Well, there’s this guy here, he’s called Devil Incarnate. Six-four and three-sixty pounds. Do you think he’ll do?’

Rob stroked his crutch.

‘Mmm, I should think so. Go for it, my friend.’

Jack didn’t think Rob was his friend, but he just nodded and clicked, and a short time later a very large man materialised. Job done.

Ron nearly came in his trousers, on account of the size, not just of the man himself, but the large, the very large, bulge in his leotard. Hmm, that was not just one, but several lunches right there. He purred at the thought. He did look rather stupid though. He wondered what his real name was.

Shirley - for that was indeed his real name - was pretty much totally confused by this new situation. One minute he’d been just about to execute a perfect clothesline, and the next he was standing in this chamber, looking out at two guys and a mountain of equipment. The door opened and he walked out.

‘What the *!@*^! do you think you’re doing, you @!ç*?’

Oh dear, thought Rob, he was a bit, erm, basic wasn’t he. Just as the leviathan was about to attack him, he pulled the stunner from his belt and gave him a jolt. Nothing. He doubled the charge and tried again. Success this time. He called for reinforcements and had him taken to his room.

8

‘Now, pick up the sword. Not the sharp end, you fool, the end with the handle attached!’

Gaius was getting extremely frustrated. Shirley was so stupid that it was embarrassing; it was a wonder he could find the toilet and wipe his own arse. Come to think of it…

‘Right, now, hold the shield in your other hand, and swing the sword at me, good, now, hold the shield up to protect yourself, good, now, try do both things at the same time - yes, you can do two things at the same time, and don’t interrupt! - not like that, you fool!’

De Bedeford tuned out. The man was a complete imbecile, incapable of thought itself. He turned to Rugila.

‘Who do you think is the best, then, apart from you, of course?’ The guy was a bit vain.

‘It’s between Gaius and the Japanese guy; the Roman is trained for this, and Takamoto is fast and deadly. But of course, I will kill them both.’

Don’t bank on it, thought de Bedeford. The German was even older than him, and fat as well. Too many sausages and too much beer. Still, he got on well with him.

‘Listen, Hunney…OK, OK, I promise not to call you that again…I’m not sure I fancy these games. Not because I don’t think I can win,’ he added quickly, crossing his fingers, ‘but because we’re being used and abused. We only agreed to this tournament under duress. After all, who wants to be returned to our home eras when we can live here for another two hundred years in luxury, and with an inexhaustible supply of pretty lads?’ And in perfect health too, he thought, contemplating upon how they’d rid him of that embarrassing dose of the pox.

‘True, dB, but what’s the alternative? At least this way, one of us will survive, whereas if we go on strike, we’ll all be heading home.’

‘Well, I’ve got an idea….’ He put his lips close to the hairy ear and whispered.

9

Everyone bought into the idea. They timed it for a Sunday when Jack would be on duty by himself. Takamoto crept into the control room and held the razor-sharp knife against his throat, and the others poured in. De Bedeford looked at him.

‘Now, little Jacky, we’re going to do what we’re told, aren’t we? Or we’re going to be extremely dead, aren‘t we? Now, dial back to my era and pick up a dozen of my loyal followers. No, no, not them, the ones carrying swords, you idiot. That’s it. Hunney - OK, sorry, sorry - fetch them out of there. Now, you lot, secure the building.

‘Jack, now we’re going to go back and grab a dozen soldiers from each of the other eras, apart from the WWE, of course, since they are incurably stupid - be quiet, Shirley - and you’d better hope that the system holds up, otherwise my Japanese friend here will separate your head from the rest of you. Not yet, Tacky, we need him a bit longer. Good, good.’

Soon they had a sizeable army of Spartans, Romans, Huns and Samurai to add to his heavily armed soldiers. Hmm, he really, really wouldn’t like to mess with this lot, and neither would the little pussies from the twenty-second century.

The meeting with Rob went extremely well. He agreed to all the demands, on account of wanting to live a little bit longer, and he was also pleased that the games would still go ahead, though not quite as planned. He was philosophical though; he still expected to turn a profit, based on the novelty value.

There was a great deal of work to be done. Everyone had to be trained properly, weapons had to be sourced, and medical facilities organised. But soon it was all done, and tomorrow the games would begin!

10

It was time for the Games to start. The trumpets blared, the band played, and the cheerleaders jumped up and down in their little panties, getting all sweaty, and the contestants trotted into the arena clad in their loincloths, and very cute the lads looked too. The swords were a bit smaller than real life, so they could swing them properly, and made out of plastic so no real harm would come - they had delicate skin, after all, and they didn’t want to break their nails - but all in all the whole thing looked quite realistic.

They thrust and parried, and attacked and dodged, and sometimes actually managed to hit one other, but not too hard, and collapsed theatrically clutching themselves, just like soccer players, and the crowd cheered and booed and had a great time. Overall, it was a great success, and sold out every day.

The winners received a little trophy of course, and a cash prize, but also got to choose which of the Antiquarians they wanted to spend the night with, which was a huge incentive, and ensured that a continual stream of contestants was available.

De Bedeford and the others had of course negotiated a substantial percentage of the gross revenues, not just the box office, but the broadcasting rights too, and looked on with great satisfaction as the stadium was filled day after day. Life could not be better, and all because of the Games!

11

Orestes put the razor down and rubbed his hand over his cheeks. Mmm, nice and smooth. He applied the moisturiser, smoothed gel into his hair and tried to decide which tunic to wear. Blue or pale green? The light blue with the darker trim, that would be nice, and matching underwear. Gaius would approve.

Last night’s date was still in bed, snoring his head off. He pulled the sheet down and looked at the boy’s svelte figure. Very nice indeed. He felt a stirring and thought about a quickie, but then looked at his watch - which gave the time in sixteen different zones, as well as the weather forecast, and performed at least forty-seven other functions - and decided he was going to be late as it was. He pulled the sheet back up, kissed the soft cheek, and left for the office.

He had to admit that Beddy was a pretty smart guy. As well as masterminding the takeover of the Games franchise, he’d diversified into several other areas, in which they’d all invested, and as a result they were extremely rich. Of course, not all of these endeavours were entirely legal, but given the muscle available they had few difficulties with the authorities, who were keen to prolong their lives.

He took the monorail and was whisked to the facility in no time. He was the last, as usual, and put up with the usual banter.

‘Hey, Orestes, couldn’t leave your little boyfriend this morning, eh? I bet the poor lad’s a bit sore!’

That was the trouble with the Huns, they were just so coarse. He ignored him, kissed Gaius, copped a quick feel, and took his seat at the boardroom table.

De Bedeford looked at the other four - they’d sent Shirley back to where he belonged, on account of his stupidity - and declared the meeting open.

‘Tacky, how’s the business going?’

‘Very well, Betty - sorry, Beddy. Revenues are up, no trouble from the heat, everything’s on budget.’

‘Great. Rugey?’

‘No problems….’

The meeting went smoothly, and they agreed a couple of new enterprises.

De Bedeford was satisfied with the new organisation. Rob was still nominally on the board, but was obsessed with one of the Spartans and consequently took no further interest in the business, due to obsessive pillow-biting. He’d promoted Jack, and given him some stock options, so he was on-side, along with the other technical staff. What could possibly go wrong?

12

Quite a lot, actually. It started off quietly, with reports of unusual aerial activity in the area known as China, now thinly inhabited due to the pollution levels: a wasteland in fact. Then strange circular ships were spotted approaching Japan, and all hell broke loose. The Aliens were here!

De Bedeford watched the news broadcasts, slightly distracted by his newest acquisition, who was sitting on his lap and wouldn’t keep still. He thought about threatening him with a good spanking and dismissed the idea; he enjoyed that sort of thing. He settled for rubbing the crutch of the tight little shorts, which calmed him quite a lot, at least for the moment.

Aliens had landed: according to legend, it had happened before, but whether these were the same aliens was open to question. If one lot could get here, so could others, he supposed. In any case, he was aware that when two civilisations collided, the more advanced one prevailed - he’d watched the History channel a lot, aware of his deficiency in that area. He had to assume that the aliens had the better technology.

He supposed there were two issues: how dangerous was the situation, and was there any money to be made out of it? He decided to chat to Jack about the situation.

He strolled into the lab. He’d given him a smart new office, but he seemed happier here, surrounded by humming boxes and red lights.

‘How’s it going, Jack? What do you think about the alien sightings?’

‘Difficult to know what to think. We’ve been ready for this situation for a century or more. Hopefully they are peaceful, although it’s strange that they haven’t made contact yet if that’s the case. We have a whole range of nullification shields deployed - they’re the area weapons which suppress all energy-based systems, like lasers, and prevent those old twentieth century firearms from working - so we should be safe if they decide to attack us. I guess it’s wait and see.’

‘Why don’t we just zap them out of the air?’ De Bedeford was one for direct action.

Jack looked a little embarrassed. ‘Er, we decided to get rid of the zap-type weapons, on account of being all peaceful and stuff. The defensive shields are it.’

What a bunch of useless little peaceniks, thought de Bedeford. They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes back in his era. Anyway, there was nothing to be done at the moment, until they found out what the bug-eyed ones wanted.

13

Destrum was frustrated, very frustrated. He’d just found out that none of their weapons worked, and they couldn’t find out why. All the systems checked out perfectly, all the lights were green, but pressing the button yielded precisely nothing. He’d contacted the rest of the flotilla, cruising safely on the distant side of the large moon, but they couldn’t find the problem either.

The survey had been going very well until then. The modifications that the first reconnaissance had made to the inhabitants’ DNA had been pretty close to perfect; they were nice and docile, and had got rid of their weapons of mass destruction, thus preserving their planet it case it should be needed, which it was. Out of all the hundreds of planets they’d surveyed, only a handful were inhabitable for Blangs, and this was the best of the bunch. With their own sun about to end its life, and theirs, in a fiery death, they needed this beautiful world for their own.

They had banked on technological superiority, but it appeared that the Earthlings had caught up, or even surpassed them in some areas. He had no idea how they had disabled their range of fearsome weapons, but it left them without the means to take over the planet. On the other hand, the Earthlings hadn’t tried to attack them, so maybe they lacked offensive weapons. That would be in line with their pacifist nature. It was a standoff. What were they to do?

Iffenbit came in.

‘Hey Desty, we’ve picked up all the video and audio data we think we need. What next?’

‘Let’s talk to the Earthlings and see if we can come to an agreement.’

‘Negotiate with an inferior race? Are you sure?’

‘No, but do you have any other suggestions?’

14

The meeting was finally arranged, after many weeks of manoeuvring, and both sides arrived at the temporary conference centre on the large desolate island in the southern hemisphere, long since bereft of intelligent life, if indeed it had ever held any.

The Earthlings were represented by the President, Ed Blackett, who was supported by dozens of advisors, and the Blangs by their Commodore, Iskoffenit. The two sides glared at each other suspiciously.

‘What do you lot think you’re doing here? Piss off back to your own place.’

‘Our place, as you put it, is going to blow up soon, so we need somewhere else to live. Here would be just fine.’

‘Well, I’m all cut up about that.’ He’d always wanted to use that phrase. ‘Get lost. We’re already full up.’

‘No you’re not. There’s plenty of room, since you took the sensible option and reduced your population, just like us. In fact, you should thank us for saving your planet in the first place.’

‘How’s that?’

‘It was our ancestors who came here and modified your species to prevent wars, hunger and genocide, and preserve your lovely planet.’ For us, of course, but never mind that.

This put Blackett on the defensive. They owed the Blangs one.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Less than five million. We’ve known about the problem with our sun’s instability for a long time, so we stopped breeding entirely. We just about have enough ships to move everyone before the thing goes pop.’

Blackett thought about it. Five million wasn’t that many. As a matter of fact, they could share this dump with the jumping arachnids. They probably deserved each other.

‘OK, we’ll take you in, but you have to keep your numbers stable. No more breeding.’

They shook hands on it, and the Republic of Blang was established.

15

The Blangs turned out to be pretty decent people, not quite as peace-loving as the Earthlings, but not overly-aggressive either. They soon turned the arid island into somewhere half-decent to live, although they still felt a little aggrieved that they hadn’t been given something better. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was better than the alternative.

The Earthlings were a very hospitable lot, and went out of their way to accommodate the newcomers, but there was one thing that rankled: the Blangs had been admitted to the Games, which were now a worldwide competition, and the most popular sport/show/scam (select one) on the planet, and they nearly always won. This was because they were stronger and more skilful, or because they cheated, depending on your perspective. The Earthlings were really quite annoyed about this; they felt that the Blangs should know their place.

It was more acute because the World Championships were to be held soon, and the Blangs had to be invited to compete alongside Asia, East and West, Europe, India and both the Americas. A Blang victory would be unthinkable, but who could stop them? De Bedeford had an idea…

The great day dawned. There was a wonderful opening ceremony, with the flags paraded by lots of smooth pretty lads (Earthlings) and muscular young men (Blangs), with several bands, and anthems, and bad renditions of twentieth century glam-rock, and plenty of other entertainment. The stadium was packed, every eye was glued to the TV screens, and the contests began.

It should be said that although real weapons were used at this level, it was not quite like the games held in Ancient Rome. No-one died - that would have been unthinkable - and the contests were settled by the first taste of blood, or a knock-down, whichever came first. And with the standard of medical care, the wounds, such as they were, could be speedily fixed.

Europe had the advantage of being trained by the Antiquarians, notably Gaius and his mates, who used to do it for a living, or more precisely, in order to stay alive, so they progressed quite smoothly, knocking out the Indians - always dodgy - and South America. But the Blangs breezed past West Asia and annihilated the Yankees. So it would be those two who contested the grand final, and all the money - except for de Bedeford’s money - was on the Blangs.

On the morning of the final, the Europeans issued their team list, which met with uproar from their opponents. Commodore Iskoffenit himself phoned President Blackett.

‘What is this, Blackett?!? The Europeans are fielding a full team of Antiquarians! This is strictly forbidden by the rules! They must be banned immediately!’

‘Don’t fancy the competition then, mate? Well, that’s tough, because it’s entirely legal. That clause was changed before the contracts were signed, pity you didn’t read the final version, isn’t it?’

He hung up, and said a little prayer for de Bedeford, who had been in charge of the negotiations….

The first Blang strolled out into the arena, and came face to face with Gaius, and went white as a sheet. It didn’t last long: Gaius smacked him on the head, he collapsed, and that was that. It continued that way, too, and Europe took a convincing lead, watched by a complacent de Bedeford, who in addition to placing a substantial sum at ten to one, had decided that he had no need to compete himself. In any case, his armour no longer fitted him, and he had politely refused the kind offer to make him a new set.

The Spartans, Huns and English all contributed to the Blang’s humiliations, and Europe won the tournament without losing a match. The crowd celebrated wildly, the Blangs slunk home with their tails between their legs, and de Bedeford pocketed a tidy sum. The correct order of things had been restored

16

Orestes and Gaius lay in each other’s sweaty embrace, happy and exhausted, and, it had to be said, slightly sore in their tender places. The celebrations had been fantastic, and then they’d escaped to their nest, and made love for hours. They were a matching pair all right; soul mates, one per lifetime.

Orestes propped himself up on one arm.

‘You know, this is a great place, but you do feel that the current generation are a bit, what can I say...’

‘Poofy?’

‘…not quite as masculine as they should be. It’s just as well we’ve taken remedial action.’

‘You know, Beddy surprises me on many levels. He’s one smart dude.’

‘Yeah, he is that. Arranging it so that Antiquarian sperm is substituted for the modern stuff was a master stroke. Soon there will be lots of little Spartans and Romans and English and Huns and Japanese appearing - all boys of course. The place will never be the same.’

‘That’s right. There’ll be lots of fighting, wars, rape and pillage again.’

‘Can’t wait. Give us a kiss.’

The End