Chapter 23
Dr. Victor Cunningham the Second had found a lot of strange things in the medical wing over the last sixty years.
One time the cloning process had gone drastically wrong on a Nazi, a literal ball of legs rolling around the building, trying to escape before Agent Glass put a bullet in its central brain.
Of course, there was the dreadful week that a guest had somehow spread their emerald fever to the gladiators, all the clones vomiting up scorpion eggs that instantly hatched. Victor had been on medical duty and pest control all week, and was sickened by how much he enjoyed swallowing the scorpions whole, feeling their legs squirm as they slid down his throat.
He was still surprised he could even be surprised after seeing so many strange things. Nevertheless, he found himself gasping as Logan Rexington burst from the ceiling, the old air vent collapsing as the soldier slammed into the floor.
Logan groaned, Victor tilting his head in confusion. He glanced up into the vent, caked with dust on the inside, smudge marks from where Logan had clearly been crawling through. He looked back down at Logan, who froze still as Victor caught sight of him.
“Hey, Doc,” Logan eventually said, brushing off dust and loose wires as he slowly pushed himself up.
“It’s one in the morning,” Victor curtly informed him. “What are you doing in my air vent? What would you be doing in my air vent at any hour of the day?”
Logan stood up, coughing, brushing dirt from his hair. He paused, looking Victor up and down. “What are you wearing?”
“My pajamas.” The fuzzy ball on the end of Victor’s sleeping cap dangled by his shoulder, his blue and white striped pajamas covering his torso. His slippers had been specially sewn, a favor he’d traded with one of the geishas, just big enough to cover his clawed feet.
Logan, on the other hand, was in his usual black combat gear. Except without the armor plates, presumably to make himself lighter in the air vents.
A plan which had utterly failed.
Victor wished he had an eyebrow to raise, so instead he narrowed his reptilian eyes, looking Logan up and down.
“Again I ask the question.” He took a sip from his cup of tea. It was supposed to sooth him before he went to sleep in his bundle of hay for the night. But Logan had raised his hackles above their usual level.
“Oh, I was…” Logan paused. He was clearly deciding what lie to come up with. “…trying to get further into the ship to access a comms panel. Send out an info request on my son.”
Victor blinked hard a couple of times. As a physician he was used to patients lying about their symptoms, or how they’d come across a particular ailment or injury.
He wasn’t used to such blunt honesty.
Logan shrugged.
“You asked. And you’re too smart to lie to. Or I’m too dumb to lie.”
“So you realized this is a ship?” Victor himself hadn’t known that for the first thirty-five years.
“Does it still work?” Logan asked.
“I honestly have no idea.” Victor took a sip from his tea, hoping it would help mask his lie better.
He’d slowly learned almost everything about the Mary Seacole over the past sixty years. He knew what systems were working, what needed repair, what needed replacing.
But he couldn’t tell Logan that. Not without giving him ideas. “The Seacole,” he said, finishing his sip of tea. “That’s her name, by the way.”
“Seacole.” Logan nodded.
“Mary Seacole.” Victor tapped his claw on the side of his china mug. “You know the punishment for sneaking out after curfew?”
Logan shook his head.
“Ten lashings in the courtyard. I’m only allowed to heal them after a week.”
Many gladiators had fallen that way. Not from the lashings themselves, but from the pain and damage it had caused catching up to them in the arena.
Logan grimly nodded, brushing a cluster of metal and wires off his shoulder.
“You gonna tell anyone?”
Victor stopped tapping his mug of tea.
In theory, he could be sipping his mug of tea with human hands. No longer eating raw dead rats, he could enjoy a proper steak (or what passed as a proper steak in the arena).
Agent Glass hadn’t brought up the mind transfer again, but Victor had been thinking about it most days.
“Tell anyone what?” Victor blew on his tea before taking another sip. “That a raccoon burst out of the air vent, so I had a midnight snack?”
Logan breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Doc.”
He patted Victor on the shoulder, heading back out of the Mary Seacole.
As he walked past, Victor turned around, his long green tail brushing against the edges of the corridor.
“An info request is a medium favor to ask,” he said, Logan stopping to turn and look at him. “I dug up all I could, but Lord Zemka could probably find out more.”
“He doesn’t seem like the kind of man you just go up and ask a favor for,” Logan said.
“He is if you’re doing well in the arena.”
Logan nodded, clearly thinking a few things through.
“He is if you win the Truncheon match, one of the most viewed and streamed fights of the year.”
Logan frowned, adjusting his standing position. “I was trying to get info before the fight, find out what had happened.”
“Well maybe you win, and maybe you find out,” Victor said. “Next time you try and sneak in I’ll have to inform them. You’re not the only one in the arena trying to survive.”
Logan somberly nodded before spinning on his heels, checking the corridor was empty, and then sneaking down.
Victor carried on sipping his tea. He would clean up the mess in the corridor in the morning. Although he’d been on the Seacole for sixty years, he’d hardly ever gone beyond the locked off sections. They’d been welded shut, impossible to get through without notice.
Even if Victor did somehow get through, did somehow figure out how to take off, he’d be depriving Crimson’s Lament of its medical supplies. The clones left behind would suffer beyond reason.
Victor couldn’t do that.
But he could save a recording of the internal sensor logs. Just in case it would prove useful to Agent Glass.
Just in case.
Chapter 24
Logan Rexington looked at all the weapons on the rack in front of him. There were swords of all sizes. Axes. Maces. Flails. Even a lance.
Nothing long-range. Nothing even the slightest bit of advanced technology. He’d been foolish enough to hope for a plasma cutter, but that would be too much of an advantage.
Even though his opponent would be encased head to toe in plated metal armor, somehow, that didn’t count as an advantage. Logan had his own armor, he supposed. A polycarbon chest piece, along with plates strapped to his legs and arms. But there was still lots of exposed flesh. Nothing like being wrapped in a cocoon of metal.
The Truncheon. Logan had been doing his best to prepare for it all week. It was the fight everyone had voted to see. Logan vs. Yateley. It was his only hope for survival. His only hope to ever find out what had happened to his son.
He knew logically he should just let it go. For Trent, Logan had been dead for one hundred years. Logan couldn’t change what had happened, and coming back from the dead wouldn’t make anything better for anyone.
But he still had to know, dammit. It was a constant itch in the back of his mind, and he wouldn’t be right until he’d scratched it. He had to know at least something about what happened to his son.
For now, he needed to pick a weapon.
Yateley had been practicing with his great sword ever since he was a teenager. Logan had been practicing with a different weapon every day for the past month.
Logan took a deep breath. The weapon racks would only stay up for another few minutes. Then they’d slink back down into the depth below, into one of the rooms near the origin tubes.
He had
to choose.
A blade would be pointless, next to impossible to cut through all that armor. Blunt force could work well. Even wrapped up in all that armor, the force of the blow would still make its way through, the kinetic energy transferring well through the metal. If Logan struck true, there was a good chance he could break a limb. If he hit with enough force on the helmet, he could smash Yateley’s brains from the inside out, the brain crashing inside the skull like jelly in a jar.
He picked up the morning star. A solid stick of metal, a thicker ball on the end, spikes pointing out in every direction. The spikes would help focus all the kinetic energy from the swing. Make his blows more potent.
But Logan wasn’t done yet.
Grabbing the polished leather holsters, he strapped a knife to each ankle. He probably wouldn’t get the chance to use them against Yateley, but they could prove handy against an environmental obstacle. And he’d rather have a knife on him than nothing at all.
The axe had a bladed end, but also a flat nib for counter-weight. Logan strapped that to his back. It shouldn’t cause any trouble if he landed on it, and a backup weapon was always a smart choice.
Last, he grabbed the knuckledusters, sliding them into his pockets. He guessed people had been using knuckledusters a lot longer than Logan had first thought, double-checking his fingers could slide into the holes.
With that, the sirens began to sound, the racks of weapons sliding back into the floor beneath his feet. Logan lifted the morning star up and down a couple of times, testing the weight. It was heavier than the plasma cutter, the leather wraps at the bottom chaffing slightly on his palms.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Not in the Arena of Doom.
With that, Logan walked into the corridor leading into the arena, the metal floor slowly shifting to a sandy ground. He looked through the gate, out into the penultimate match.
That evening it was all ladies. ‘Femme Fatality’ — at least that was what the display at the top of the arena said.
Logan watched as Yrsa swung her battle axe into the nearest zombie, cleaving him in two.
Crickett reloaded her pistol, firing a shot into the head of the slow-moving zombie, blasting it apart like a dropped watermelon.
It took Logan a few moments to recognize the zombies were made mostly out of the bodies of Nazis killed in the arena. Their outfits had been changed to standard dark blue boiler suits, but he recognized a couple of faces. The blond hair, the blue eyes.
The terrain was different as well. Not the usual flat sandy land, several weak wooden barricades had been set up, ramps, a few ropes leading up to higher platforms. It looked almost like an obstacle course, something like an adult playground.
There had to be at least fifty zombies slowly clambering their way across the fancy playground.
Oog still hadn’t figured out how to turn on her chainsaw, instead just swinging the bladed section into the skull of the nearest zombie slowly stumbling up the ramp towards her.
The ninja darted out of the shadows, slicing her katana once. She disappeared back into darkness as the severed heads of the zombies fell onto the ground, bouncing into their fellow undead.
There were a few other ladies on the field, but Logan hadn’t been going out of his way to make too many friends. He’d been doing his best to train, to prepare.
To survive.
Logan gripped his morning star tight. It had been a hundred years, and this was a whole business built on cloning. He hoped someone had figured out a way to make zombies safely. Without using Necrotron technology. Those robotic bastards had filled his fallen soldiers with nanites, using their bodies to fight against their former allies. Any battle with the Necrotrons, the number of the dead would always increase, the enemy swelling in numbers as Logan’s went down.
But these zombies were different. Slower, unable to use tools. Definitely no coordination, each zombie separately stumbling towards whichever gladiator was nearest.
Good. Logan couldn’t bear to think about a future with any hint of Necrotron technology. If his sacrifice had been for nothing, he felt like it could break him.
He hated to admit it, but watching the gladiators fight was fun. He could see the appeal. He gasped when a zombie got close, found himself grinning when Yrsa slammed her axe into a zombie’s skull, or when Crickett grabbed a rope and swung out across the horde, firing a shot from her ancient pistol, blasting a rotting skull apart.
But they were fighting zombies. Not other people. There was a difference.
Soon enough, the last few zombies were defeated, Yrsa slicing the last one in half from the groin to the skull, the crowd cheering as the final results were tallied up.
As expected, Yrsa came out on top, twice the numbers of the ninja in second place.
A siren blared a low tone, the gladiators all picking up their weapons, heading to the gate.
Logan took a step back, the metal rising up as the ninja, Crickett, and a few other ladies walked by. He glanced out into the field, Oog looking around confused.
“There’s a pool going,” Crickett said, pausing for a second next to Logan. “Odds of you winning are seven to one.”
“Well, some gladiators are about to get very rich,” Logan said, twirling his morning star.
As he swung it behind him, one of the spikes caught on the wall, denting inwards an inch or so.
Crickett raised one eyebrow before walking down the corridor, away from Logan. He glanced back out into the arena, oddly comforted to see Yrsa hold her hand out for the cavewoman. Oog dropped the chainsaw, clutching Yrsa’s hand as she led her towards the gate.
Logan felt his muscles tense as Yrsa approached. The two had been avoiding each other since their fight in the arena. Logan got the distinct impression she was mad at him for not killing her. But the only way to clear things up would be to explain everything. And Logan had no idea how Yrsa would react if she found out she wasn’t actually in Hel. Would she even believe him? Would the concept of cloning cause her to have a nervous breakdown?
He wasn’t willing to take that chance. Not just yet.
Yrsa walked past him, Oog still holding her hand a few feet into the corridor. The cavewoman soon let go, grunting as she skittered on all fours down the corridor, no doubt to get some food.
Logan had spent some coin to get some energy bars from Crickett a few days ago. He’d already scoffed one down, hoping it would be enough to keep him going.
He watched as holes opened up in the ground of the arena, the bodies of the zombies falling down below. Logan couldn’t help but wonder where. Probably to the main recycling processing unit. It would be a waste of bodily resources otherwise.
The adult playground slid under the sand as well, the environment returning back to its base setting.
But there was a glint in the sand, something there that shouldn’t be. Logan squinted, trying to spot whatever was lying on the ground over a hundred feet away.
What was that?
“AND NOW! THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!!!”
The crowd roared as the voice of the announcer rang out. The sand beneath Logan’s feet began to shake as people above stomped their feet.
“PLEASE WELCOME OUR FIRST GLADIATOR! SIR YATELEY!”
The roar turned into screams as one of the gates on the other end of the arena opened up. Yateley’s armor glinted in the sun, covered head to toe. He lifted the faceplate on his helmet, snarling as he looked at the crowd around him. He then pulled out his great sword, at least four foot long, swinging it a couple of times.
He then slammed the flat side of the blade into his chest a couple of times, the clanging sound ringing throughout the arena.
Logan gripped his morning star in his hand tight.
And then grinned to himself.
Anybody else (besides Hitler or a Nazi, of course), he’d probably be having a minor moral crisis. But he had no problem trying to kill Yateley. He was equal parts brute and a bastard, and probably
the only clone that really deserved to die (again, besides Hitler and the Nazis).
The voice of the announcer rang out, and Logan stepped into the Arena of Doom.
He was ready.
They wanted Logan to be a gladiator? He’d show them a gladiator.
Chapter 25
Logan gripped his morning star tight, looking out over to Yateley. At least one hundred and fifty feet away, his armor glinted in the sun.
As did something else in the arena. Something lying on the ground. Logan looked over for a second, still trying to figure out what that was.
But before he could make out the strange glinting image, the ground beneath him shook, the arena reconstructing its digital environment.
A perfectly straight line ran beneath Logan’s feet. He instinctively stood to one side as the crack formed and the ground to his right began to slowly rise up.
He looked back out into the arena. The entire ground had been carved into a grid. Around fifteen feet on each side. Some blocks were slowly rising up, others sliding down.
A series of ever-shifting platforms. The entire arena was undulating like a digital sea.
Logan grabbed onto the rising platform with his free hand, hoisting himself up while there was still time. The higher ground would let him see his surroundings, give himself at least a bit of warning.
The platform stopped around ten feet above the ground. A platform behind Logan was lowered the same distance, a nasty fall if he was to somehow get knocked off his own platform.
The glinting armor was easy to spot, the clanking of metal making it even easier to home in on Yateley. He was charging across his platform, leaping up and down, heading towards Logan.
Good. He could tire himself out on the terrain. He was carrying heavy armor, a giant fuck-off sword, and was making all the effort to come to Logan.
Gripping the morning star tight, Logan took another second to look for the other glint on the field. Was it something that could give him the advantage?
He’d have to find out later, as his platform began to slowly slide back down. When it was five feet off the ground, Yateley slammed one of his plated gloves onto the platform, starting to climb up.
Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1) Page 13