Planet of Dread

Surrounded by its many suns, Lysor scorned Federation rule and plotted the destruction of our galaxy. So Craig Nesom came in a starship to this—
Face slack, eyes glazed with terror, the Baemae wench came forward through the gate into the walled ring.
An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd. As one, the assembled Kukzubas barons and their ladies pressed closer about the pit-rail, tense and eager with anticipation.
High on his dais, Lord Zenaor chuckled. A pretty thing, is she not, Vydys? he queried of the woman who sat beside him, dark vision of sinister beauty.
Hot with strange passion, the woman's eyes clung to the cringing figure in the pit. The pink tip of her tongue flicked at her lips. If you can see your way to calling any Baemae woman pretty. For my part, I prefer her in her proper role, as prey here in the games.
So—? Lord Zenaor raised a mocking coal-black eyebrow. No wonder they call you 'Vydys the Cruel' behind your back, my dear! If you had your way, there'd soon be no Baemae left alive to serve us.
Visibly, Vydys stiffened. Her head came round—dark eyes flashing, jet hair ashimmer; and when she spoke her words were edged with fury. Have a care, Zenaor! I've no taste for taunts, even from the chief of barons.
The truth is no taunt. Zenaor gave not a fraction. Because pain is your passion, you drive our serfs to rebellion.
Rebellion—! The woman's eyes glinted like crater diamonds. How many of the Baemae have flown south with their cursed discs already, off to the djevoda ranges? There lies your rebellion—and only torture will stop it! Her laugh rang gall-bitter. Or perhaps, like that Narla, you believe we should free them?
Keep your tongue off my daughter! It was a command that brooked no discussion. As for the free range, the discs, cross them off. They'll soon be no menace.
Oh? Vydys' lips twisted, mocking. No, doubt you have a plan, my lord Zenaor—
I have a plan indeed. Zenaor's tone was icy. One word too many, and you'll die as its first step.