Before heading to bed, Logan ducked into the nearest toilet. Better to squeeze anything left out now then risk stumbling down three sets of ladders at four in the morning. The facilities attached to the sleeping quarters were big, filled with cubicles. Most military ships had a similar setup, more efficient for spacing if the toilets were unisex.
Just like on a dropship, the ceramic tiled room was filled with cubicles. Ten in total lining one wall, about eight sinks and a large mirror on the other side. A WWII soldier and a samurai were brushing their teeth, a Celtic woman flossing her bleeding gums as Logan ducked into one of the empty cubicles.
His first pee in his new body.
When he finished, he took a brief moment in the cubicle to inspect himself. He let out a shaky breath, thankful that the cloning process had brought all of him back to one hundred percent the same. Everything down there was the same size as before, and where it was supposed to be.
Leaving the cubicle, Logan found himself alone for the moment. He washed his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. For the first time in many years, he stopped and inspected his reflection.
His scar was a little bit different. No one else would probably notice, but the original scar had curved to the left a tiny bit just below the eye. It also had a bit of a bump just above the eyebrow, a lump of dermigel that had stayed on too long.
It was now smooth as could be. A near perfect straight line. Too perfect and handmade to be organic.
Cut in by a tyrant. A maniac who’d thrown Logan into a coliseum to fight for his life. No warning. No prep. Not even a fully grown set of muscles.
He supposed anyone who ran a death ring would have to be a tyrant of some sort. Did he even think of the clones as human?
Would that make it better or worse? He was either a cruel man who sent people to die, or a monster who didn’t view clones as human. For Logan that was six of one, half a dozen of the other.
But was a clone even a human?
Logan looked away from the mirror, drying his hands under the laser emitter in the corner. It was set a bit too high, burning away the hair on his fingers as well as any water or dirt left on his palms.
He could philosophize later. For now he needed rest. More intel. A lay of the land.
He went back out into the bunk beds, straining his neck to look up at his climb. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but had seen the damage that could happen if someone fell from that height. Logan checked the bottom bunk, happy to see it was bolted into the floor.
He put one foot on the bottom of the ladder, when something caught his attention.
“And what are we reading tonight?”
Logan glanced down a couple of beds. James Love, the cowboy who’d joined him for dinner, was lying on the bottom bunk. He was wearing a red set of pajamas, the kind that had a flap that buttoned up at the ass. Turned out even the pajamas had to be costume themed.
Standing next to the bed was a mountain of a man. Even taller than the Viking Logan had seen, his silky hair flopping down to just above his neck. Three days-worth of stubble across his face. All except for a scar on the bottom of the chin, the hair refusing to grow on the line of damaged tissue.
He was wearing older leathers and clothes. It reminded Logan of movies he’d seen about medieval times.
Except he wasn’t holding a scroll. Or a lance.
He was holding a crumbled old paperback, the plastic on the front cover beginning to curl off.
“More books about dinosaurs?” The man sneered as James slid out of his bunk, standing in front of him. He snatched out his hand, the man holding the book high above his head.
“Give it back, Yateley.”
Logan took his foot off the ladder, casually walking towards the two men.
Avoiding eye contact, he walked past them.
“No whore to keep your bed warm tonight?” Yateley asked, still holding the book up high above his head.
“There ain’t no whores here, only ladies.” James jumped up, Yateley still holding the book out of reach.
Which was why Logan began to silently climb up the bunk ladder behind him.
Yateley chuckled, waving the book above his head.
“Bullshit. Have you seen yourself? You’d have to pay money to get a woman to lie with you. You filthy ugly—”
Logan snatched the book out of Yateley’s hand before jumping down off the ladder.
Yateley spun around as Logan landed, craning his neck to look up at him.
“Hi. I’m Logan. Not pleased to meet you.”
Yateley snarled, looking Logan up and down, clearly sizing him up.
“Listen, big boy, we can all get along if we—”
Faster than Logan expected, Yateley raised up his leg, stomping on his chest. Logan went flying back, pain rippling out of his sternum as he landed on his shoulders. Even though his body was fresh, the muscle memory somehow kicked in, Logan rolling and landing on his knees.
There were a few gasps and murmurs, Logan shaking his head to regain his senses.
He looked up, Yateley already stomping towards him.
Logan groaned. He’d already had a hell of a day. But apparently he wasn’t done yet.
Glancing at the bunk next to him, the ninja raised an eyebrow. Only her eyes visible in her black garb, she looked as surprised as Logan felt.
“Hold on to this for me, would ya?” Logan handed her the paperback with the peeling cover, standing back up as Yateley swung a meaty fist at him.
Logan blocked the blow, the arm swinging with such force it slammed his body into the side of the large bunks next to them.
Yateley swung out with his arm once more, Logan dashing backwards. He almost tripped on the huddle of Nazis playing a card game around one of the bottom bunks. “Don’t mind me, fellas.”
“Stupid future man!” one of them yelled, clenching his fist and jaw with equal fury.
Logan regained his footing, Yateley storming forward once more.
Yateley raised up his fists. His blows were strong, but lacked finesse. He was relying on power, putting all his weight forward as he swung.
“Is it too late to point out we don’t have to do this?” Logan asked.
“Fuck you!” Yateley lurched forward, Logan shrugging as he darted forward.
As Yateley swung all his weight onto his front leg, Logan stomped out into his knee. Yateley stumbled back, grunting in pain as Logan punched him twice in the gut.
He might as well have been punching into a tree trunk. Yateley’s stomach muscles tense, he grabbed Logan by the neck, squeezing tight.
Panic began to set in, the meaty fingers digging into Logan’s skin, crushing his windpipe. He flailed his arms, his body screaming for oxygen.
Until he put his arms down, a mantra from his training overtaking his instincts.
‘Panicked people die. Calm people live.’
He could survive a couple minutes without air. A few seconds with pressure on his windpipe.
So Logan grabbed onto the meaty wrists with each hand, swinging his legs up in between Yateley’s arms. Resting his left foot on his shoulder, Logan began to kick his right heel over and over again into Yateley’s throat.
After four jabs, Yateley let go, coughing for air.
Logan fell flat on his back, gulping down air. His throat burned with every breath as he blinked hard to regain his sense.
Everyone was watching them. Leaning out of bunk beds, peeking their heads in from the bathroom. The Nazis had even paused their card game, one of them writing on a piece of paper and taking bets.
Logan flipped back up, Yateley gasping for air as well.
“We…” Logan choked out, still sucking in air between every word. “Call… it… a… draw?”
Yateley charged forward, his eyes wide with fury as he hurled himself towards Logan.
‘When all else fails, the environment can be your ally.’
Logan darted towards the nearest empty bunk, scrambling through to the other side.
Two meaty hands grabbed onto the edge of the bed, hauling the hulking body through next.
Logan dropped down, both his heels slamming into Yateley’s shoulder blades. He roared in pain, Logan still wheezing with every breath as he stumbled down, his legs wrapping around Yateley’s head.
Squeezing tight, Logan began to punch the back of his skull.
One mighty swing.
But Yateley stayed conscious.
One more swing.
Another.
Did he have a steel plate?! Logan kept on punching, but Yateley somehow stayed conscious.
At least, conscious enough to grab Logan’s foot and twist it until the ankle broke.
Logan howled in pain, the nerves in his leg searing in agony as he rolled off Yateley, landing on his back. He looked at his leg, his foot somehow facing the exact opposite direction of what it should have been. Yateley had twisted so hard the skin had broken, blood beginning to seep out of his shoe, his toes pointing the opposite direction of his other foot.
He scrambled back, Yateley rubbing the back of his head as he coughed, sucking in more air. He grimaced, Logan happy to see yellow and purple bruising already forming around the kicks to the throat.
He was less happy to see Yateley marching towards him, raising both fists up.
Until two metal darts stuck into his chest, Yateley’s entire body shaking as an electrical current wracked through his body.
Logan frowned, tilting his head back to look behind him. The view was upside down, but he saw the man in the sleek suit with ease, a stun gun in hand, the wires sparking with blue electricity occasionally.
“Your… timing is… great, man.” Logan wheezed out, looking down as his broken foot. “Any chance… you could… help me… limp to sickbay?”
But instead the man in the suit was reloading his stun gun, pointing the two metal darts at Logan’s chest.
“Hey man… I’m down! I’m not going—” The metal darts stabbed into Logan’s chest, every muscle in his body tensing up, his arms and legs shaking as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
And then. Silence.
Chapter 14
Logan was disappointed there was no dinosaur with a monocle when he woke up. He was cold, the muscle in his biceps almost painful as he sat up.
He was in a cell. Stone walls. Dirt everywhere. A dripping pipe in the ceiling leaking (what he hoped was) clean water. Hardly any light.
His throat felt fine. Logan breathed in deep without any issue, running his tongue across his teeth.
It was too dark to see his ankle, but as he rolled it around in a circle, he knew he’d been healed back up like it was brand-new.
Victor was good at his job. No doubt about that.
Had Yateley been healed just the same? Who the hell even was that guy? From the medieval clothes, Logan assumed a knight.
What was his problem anyhow? Harassing James, kicking someone for stealing a book that he’d stolen in the first place?
There was always one asshole in the platoon, but this Yateley guy was a cut above the rest.
Logan sat up, noticing a box of gloomy light on one of the walls. He glanced behind him, a few bars on the window, moonlight pouring in.
It was probably still the same night. Healing a broken ankle would barely take half an hour, even out in the field.
Logan stood up, looking out through the barred windows.
He could see the ocean. Not only that, but a planet above in the sky, the lights of cities twinkling in the night.
Crimson’s Lament was a moon, and Logan could see the planet they were orbiting. It hung large in the sky, taking up almost a third of the view.
Did the planet have the same laws as Crimson’s Lament? The Shennong system was lawless, without a governing body.
One hundred years. Logan had studied history tactics more than anything, but he tried to think back to one hundred years before his time.
Half of planet Earth had been irradiated, World War IV taking its toll. The great migration to the Cluster was halfway done, millions of people sleeping for three years as ships hurtled at lightspeed to their new homes.
People still used kinetic bullets, relying on sparks and explosions instead of plasma. Protein synthetization was in its infancy, a luxury only the elite could afford. And people thought there were only seven systems in the Cluster, not ten.
All that had changed before his time. What had changed for Logan since then?
One hundred years.
Every soldier he’d served with would be either dead or retired. Living to one hundred wasn’t uncommon, but money helped the odds. There were even people living up to two hundred years, last Logan checked. Only the elite rich, but had that changed again in a hundred years.
Was Trent a senile old man, or middle-aged thanks to medical science?
Whenever he thought of his son, the image of the fourteen-year-old with uneven chopped hair popped into his head. That and the five-year-old who’d once spent an entire day clinging to Logan’s leg to try and stop him from going back to the army after shore leave.
Logan had grown up with his dad, but his mom had been absent. He knew what it was like. Trent wouldn’t be expecting Logan to come back.
Trent thought his father was dead. Would coming back from the dead as a middle-aged man cause more harm than good? Logan had missed out on his son’s life. It wasn’t fair, but that was the cards he’d been dealt. Trent didn’t owe him anything. A relationship, answers, not even a Christmas card.
Logan just wanted to know what had happened. Was he safe? Was he alive? That was it.
Well, that and a thousand other questions.
Was Lieutenant Huang still kicking about? Had she made it out of the mainframe building before Logan blew it up? Victor had said the building was clear, but what did she do after?
He had no way of contacting the military to follow up on her. Or anyone under his command.
His pension. His life insurance money. That would have gone to Trent. Maybe Gale, his ex-wife. She’d look after any money until Trent was responsible enough. Lord Zemka had also mentioned films, documentaries. Surely Trent would get money for that, right?
The thought of Lord Zemka making money off Logan’s memory, and not his son, made him grip the bars of his cell even tighter. So instead of looking out into the ocean, he went back to the cold floor. There was a blanket for him to sleep on, nothing more.
He supposed that would be a punishment for most, but Logan had learned to catch rest no matter where he was. Even with a battle raging on outside, during a siege Logan could always find a spot to curl up, fall asleep for a few hours.
He rolled up the blanket, using it as a pillow. The cold stone straightened his back, nice to rest on as he closed his eyes. He’d been warned of training tomorrow. A six a.m. wake up call. He needed all the sleep he could get.
Clone.
Clone.
Clone.
The word rattled around in his head so much the word lost all meaning. Was he a copy, or was he still somehow intrinsically ‘Logan’?
Eating, talking, checking his equipment in the bathroom, fighting Yateley. He hadn’t been left alone with his thoughts. Left to ponder. Left to worry.
Victor was convinced he was alive. But that wasn’t the problem. He was living and breathing, but who was he really?
Logan looked down at his body. It had the same amount of chest hair, the same muscles as before. He’d doubled checked in the bathroom for the same proportions. But he didn’t have the same scars. Same tattoos. Even his trademark eye scar was different than before. It still pinched when he pulled his face at odd angles.
He was in a stranger’s body. Made
to look like his own.
Or was this his body, and he had the mind of a stranger?
He was surprised Lord Zemka didn’t have a psychologist on hand. He could easily imagine someone going insane from all the thoughts rattling around in their head. Or would that be too expensive? From what everyone had said, it seemed Lord Zemka was a penny-pinching bastard when it came to his clones.
Or was that copper-pinching? Had the Shennong system always used physical coins, or was that something recent in the last one hundred years? Money hacks were impossible in Logan’s time, but maybe something had changed between his death and cloning. One hundred years to catch up on after all.
Clone.
Clone.
Clone.
Was Trent safe?
Did Trent hate his father for not being there?
Logan rolled to his side, his back to the wall. Instead of thinking about being a clone, he instead focused on his breathing. The military had come a long way since James had fought in the Civil War. A healthy mind was as important as a healthy body, meditation as vital as push-ups in Logan’s time.
Logan pictured the windmill, slowly turning next to the river. Visualized his thoughts as leaves on a river.
Am I a new person, or still Logan Rexington?
The leaf was plucked from the river.
What does it mean to be a clone?
Plucked.
Will that poor lesbian pirate ever learn to flirt?
Plucked.
Who was that guy in the suit with the stun gun?
Plucked.
When will I have to fight Yateley again?
Plucked.
Is Trent safe? Is he happy?
Plucked.
The waters of the river began to calm, the leaves plucked away until it was clear. With that, Logan let the river run, slowly falling into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 15
Victor missed office hours more than he missed his own human hands. Woken up from his pile of hay, he’d rushed to the medical bay, taking care of both Logan and Yateley’s wounds. Bruising, broken limbs, lacerations, damaged windpipes, fractures.
Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1) Page 8