Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1)

by Connor Brixton

  Logan then sighed, pushing the plate in. Still brimming with waffles and bacon. Even with so much food, eating it by himself gave Logan a pit of loneliness in his stomach.

  “I’m finished, thank you.”

  The robot slid the heaping pile of food into a recycling tube as Logan stood up from the hatch and headed out of his champion quarters.

  He waited until the monitor showed the corridor below was empty before stepping out of the secret entrance, heading towards the mess hall.

  As he walked into the large room, everyone went just a little bit quiet. They were pretending not to, but he could tell people were looking at him, whispering to one another. Carrying on their conversations while glancing over at the new champion of the arena.

  Logan made his way to the serving hatch, business as usual. Marge had a serving utensil in each tentacle, pouring out various meats, eggs, and breakfast vegetables to anyone who approached with a tray.

  Loading up with rubbery eggs, soggy hash browns, and greasy thin sausages, Logan made his way to one of the tables, taking a seat opposite James Love.

  “How you doing, champion?” he asked, tipping his hat slightly.

  “Urgh, don’t call me that,” Logan said.

  “All right, Mr. Won-me-three-whole-gold-yesterday-when-he-killed-that-bastard-Yateley.”

  “Better.”

  Logan tucked into his breakfast, severely lacking in salt, pepper, or any other kind of flavor.

  He ate until his belly was full.

  As he finished his breakfast and James talked his ear off, the other conversations soon returned to normal. It felt like any other day in the Arena of Doom.

  Except there was no Yateley.

  After breakfast, Logan returned up to his room. He could have gone back downstairs for training, but he felt like he’d deserved a whole day off. Just one day to himself. To collect his thoughts, figure out what to do next.

  Logan was beyond surprised when the door to his room opened by itself and Lord Zemka came strolling in. He’d been foolish enough to expect him to knock or announce before his arrival. But instead he’d walked into Logan’s private space like he owned it.

  “Ah, there he is, my champion!” There were two servants flanking either side of him. Without even looking, Lord Zemka held out his hand, a fruity cocktail sliding into his grasp. “That fight was fucking outstanding! Usually I’d be a bit more upset at you finding that chainsaw. But by God that clip has been streamed and shared so many times. Cutting through the whole armor — stroke of genius. We’ve already designed the action figures.”

  The other servant held out the tray. Logan looked at the toys on display. Even his toy had a scar over the left eye. But now he had a chainsaw in his hands. Logan reached out, pressing a button on the back of the toy Yateley. He split in half, holographic blood spurting out as he landed on either side.

  He had no idea Lord Zemka was making money off merchandising. Again, Logan felt cheated. He was selling a toy of him, and Logan didn’t even get a say. Or any money. He was the toy being sold.

  But he wasn’t the owner of his likeness anymore. He was the product. Lord Zemka’s product.

  Lord Zemka took a big gulp of his cocktail, a few drips of condensation landing on his bare chest. He adjusted his jacket, looking Logan over.

  “So, what do you want as your reward? Name it! Your own land-racer? There are a few fields nearby that are great for flying around in.”

  Logan frowned slightly. That didn’t sound fun at all.

  “Or forget all these perks, we can even grant your freedom!”

  Logan blinked hard a couple times, looking Lord Zemka up and down. “You’re serious?”

  “It’s what the ancient Romans did, right?” Lord Zemka nodded. “We’ve done it a couple of times before. Given the gladiator their winnings, sent them on their way. By next morning we have another clone grown of them anyway.”

  That gave Logan the sinking feeling in his stomach again. If he took Lord Zemka up on his offer, there’d just be another clone in his place. That somehow made him feel worse, the idea that he’d be out in the Cluster while another copy of him was left to toil in the Arena of Doom.

  Logan stood up straight, taking a couple steps towards Lord Zemka.

  “I do have a favor to ask,” Logan said. “Information. As a private citizen, sending an info request to Topaz and back would cost a fortune, and I probably wouldn’t be able to get the right clearance.”

  “I can pull a couple of strings,” Lord Zemka nodded. “I don’t give free tickets to half the mayors and presidents in Shennong without getting something in return.”

  Politicians came to the Arena of Doom? How corrupt was the Shennong system? How depraved?

  “What info do you need?” Lord Zemka asked.

  “Records,” Logan said, “on Trent Rexington. Or he might be going by Trent Abernathy.”

  “Your son, I assume?” Lord Zemka took another large gulp from his cocktail. “That can easily be arranged.”

  Logan breathed a sigh of relief, rolling his shoulders back a couple of times.

  That was that.

  As simple as that.

  He’d finally find out what had happened to Trent.

  He’d finally find out what had happened to his son.

  “Anything else?” Lord Zemka asked. “I like to keep my champion happy.”

  “I don’t think that — yes!” Logan looked over at the hatch in the wall, towards the cooking bot. “I want the robot chef moved down to the kitchens, to help out Marge.”

  “You… what?” Lord Zemka spluttered into his cocktail. “But it’s meant to make you the finest meals, not help improve the slop downstairs.”

  “You asked what I wanted.” Logan shrugged.

  Lord Zemka clenched his jaw tight before looking at the two servants who had flanked him. “Well, you heard the man, get the robot down to the kitchens.”

  With that, Lord Zemka spun on his heels, storming out of Logan’s private quarters.

  Logan slumped on his bed, the silk sheets rubbing against his bare arms as the two servants began to uninstall the robot chef from the wall, then carry it down to the kitchens.

  If Logan could make the place just a little bit better for everyone, it would help.

  And help the time pass just a little bit faster. He was just a little bit closer to finding out what happened to Trent. And he couldn’t wait.

  Chapter 27

  Logan clenched his fists as he caught sight of the bastard Yateley. He froze where he stood, Grimsaw the barbarian accidentally bashing into his shoulder as he walked into the mess hall.

  Yateley was sitting as casual as could be, shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth, grease dripping down the hairless scar on his otherwise stubble-covered chin.

  Logan’s heart was beating so hard he was surprised it didn’t smash through his ribcage.

  He’d killed him. Sliced the chainsaw through his skull, through his sternum, out through the base of the armor.

  But that didn’t stop Yateley from enjoying his bacon and eggs.

  Yateley paused, glancing up at Logan, looking him up and down. He sneered, turning back to his breakfast meal.

  But there had been no recognition in the eyes. No connection. Yateley had looked at Logan like he was a stranger staring at him during breakfast.

  Logan grabbed a tray, lining up to grab breakfast, clutching the metal so tight his knuckles turned white.

  Of course they would just clone another Yateley up. Logan had spent days down in the origin tubes, cleaning every single last clone DNA sample. Including Yateley’s.

  So long as Yateley’s jaw fragment sat down in the origin tubes, they could always make another one.

  Logan slid his tray up to Marge, a utensil in each tentacle as usual.

  “You’re the one that sent the robot down here, right?” she asked.

  Logan nodded. Before he knew it, three tentacles had wrapped around his head and neck, and a wet and
salty mouth smacked onto his lips. Marge slithered away after the kiss, loading up his tray with heaps of bacon hash, poached eggs, French toast, breakfast beans, fried mushrooms, and even what looked like a slice of black pudding.

  “I’m not usually one for humans, but you are a beautiful man,” she said, one of her inky black eyes snapping open and closed. It looked like she was trying to wink at him.

  Struggling to balance his tray, Logan sat down at an empty table, taking in a couple of deep breaths.

  How many times had Yateley been cloned? He’d asked around, and Yateley had been there longer than pretty much any other clone.

  How many times had they all been cloned?

  Logan sliced open his poached egg, the runny yolk seeping into most of his other food as he chowed down. He imagined for most people, seeing his gladiator nemesis back from the dead would have been enough to put him off his food.

  But food was energy, and Logan had learned the hard way that at any moment, it could be taken away from him. A soldier always ate when they could. Even though the Arena of Doom had provided three square meals a day (even in a prison cell), that could all change in an instant.

  Logan had seen how life could shift in a second. Perfectly fine planets, where people had lived day-to-day in safety for decades, suddenly set upon by Necrotrons.

  It was devastating, it was horrific, but it oddly gave Logan some hope. All it took was a little chaos, one big event, and life could change in an instant. People who had worked 9-5 office jobs for twenty years suddenly picking up rifles to fight for their homes.

  Things could always drastically get worse. But one support platoon, one protein synthesizer, one piece of intel, and the battlefield could change for the better.

  There was always hope.

  Always.

  Swallowing down what he could, Logan left the black pudding and some potatoes behind, sliding his tray into the recycling rack and heading back up to his room. Making sure the corridor was clear once more, he swiped his card, heading up the secret staircase.

  Opening the door to his chambers, Logan had planned on pacing for a bit, maybe clearing his head.

  The file sitting on his perfectly made bed caused him to stop. He walked over, snatching up the pieces of fiber paper.

  Trent Rexington.

  He tore it open, flipping through to find the pertinent details.

  BORN: 14th March, 2537

  DEATH: 11th October, 2642

  The file shook in his hands, Logan blinking hard to read the information. He choked out a sob, sliding down the side of the bed, sitting on the floor.

  That was that then.

  His son was dead.

  Logan wiped his face, flipping through the file for more information.

  He’d died at over a hundred years old. At one hundred and five years old. Logan began to skim through the files.

  Trent had joined the army as well. Fought in something called the Leviathan War. Obviously survived. Turned to teaching drama at a high school. He’d had kids.

  Logan paused, sniffling in his tears.

  He was a grandfather.

  No.

  A great-grandfather.

  Three grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren. Almost all in the Topaz system. Their information wasn’t as dense as Trent’s, but Logan absorbed in the intel all the same.

  Two great-grandchildren were in college. One in the army. There was a baker, a surgeon, and two farmers.

  Logan had a whole squad of offspring out in the Cluster.

  He smiled, one of his tears from earlier dripping down onto his lip, hanging for a few moments before dropping off.

  Flicking back to Trent’s main file, he quickly skimmed through for the cause of death.

  A stroke. In his sleep.

  Logan nodded, although that did make him shed a couple of more tears. A stroke was quick, it would have been over in minutes. It wasn’t anything long or protracted. One minute Trent had been there, the next he was gone.

  He spent the next few minutes reading every word of the file in detail. Trent had had a good life, it seemed. Gotten married, divorced. Never remarried, but had done a lot of good in the community. There were several years the students at his school had voted him their favorite teacher, and he’d stayed working there well beyond his recommended retirement.

  Logan looked over the holo-pictures attached to the files. Pictures of Trent at a bar with friends, of him at music concerts. Him at children’s birthday parties, on dates, in the hospital as great-grandchildren were born.

  It was beyond bizarre, looking at adult pictures of his son. He’d had nearly two months to get used to the idea of his son grown up, but in Logan’s mind he was still fourteen years old.

  He could see the similarities. The subtle shapes in the face, the twinkle in the eyes.

  Logan clutched the file tight, crinkling the paper so much the little holo-pictures flickered out of existence.

  His son had been okay. It looked like he’d had his ups and downs, but he’d lived a full life.

  He’d lived well past Logan. He couldn’t help but blink hard a couple of times. He was thirty-three years old, and his son had lived three times that long.

  If they had somehow met before his death, Trent could have probably told Logan a thing or two about life.

  It was a strange feeling. Logan could feel the muscles in his forehead straining as he tried to understand the fact his son was older than him by a generation or two.

  Logan stood up, walking up and down his room a couple of times. Even though the room was vast, there was still only so much he could walk.

  He lay down on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to process his thoughts.

  Happy. He was happy Trent had lived a good life.

  Frustrated. Yateley was back from the dead. Even though he didn’t remember Logan, Logan sure as fuck remembered him.

  Trapped.

  Logan sat up in bed, looking around his room. Sure, there was a bed, a private shower, heated floors. But his room was still a prison cell. He could leave at any time, but he was still locked away.

  Maybe he should have taken Lord Zemka up on his offer of freedom. If he had enough money, he could catch a transport to the Topaz system. Visiting Trent might have inflicted vast psychological trauma on the poor man. But his grandkids? His great-grandkids?

  How would Logan have felt if a young version of his grandpa showed up back from the dead? At least a little bit curious.

  Walking over to the wall of windows, Logan looked down into the arena.

  It was still completely empty. Devoid.

  He couldn’t help but think of his last time in there, slicing Yateley in half with a chainsaw. He’d felt so accomplished. But Yateley was already back.

  How many more times would they fight in the arena? How many more times would Logan kill Yateley? Or would Yateley get the upper hand eventually?

  It would be endless. The fighting. The killing. Even if Logan eventually grew cold to it, he would eventually die, another clone whipped up and ready to fight in a day or two.

  Even if Logan was set free, it wouldn’t end. It would still be here, carrying on forever.

  Well, maybe not forever, but this was a business. Lord Zemka would keep it going for as long as humanly possible. Which, thanks to the life extensions he’d taken, would be for a damned long time. He still looked like he was in his thirties, and Victor had said he’d been there sixty years. Lord Zemka had to be at least eighty, probably pushing ninety.

  He would probably live a lot longer than Trent had. Running his death business, reaping rewards and living longer than any man should.

  But what could Logan do? Lord Zemka always had servants and Agent Glass near him. Weapons were restricted to training areas and the arena. He’d only seen the guard droids a couple of times, but those chain guns were no joke.

  Would killing Lord Zemka even do anything? Or was there another Lord Zemka clone waiting in the wings somewhere? Logan ha
dn’t seen his DNA sample down in the origin tubes, but he was convinced he’d have one hidden away somewhere. Why wouldn’t he?

  Logan grunted in frustration, lying down on his bed. The room was bigger, but somehow still felt just the same as the prison cell down below. He just couldn’t touch the walls this time.

  A beep brought Logan out of his stupor, and he sat up in bed, looking over at the display screen.

  The lineup for the week.

  Logan darted over, quickly picking out his name.

  LOGAN vs. HITLER ON A T-REX

  He’d fought big beasts before. Although he would have to make sure Hitler died in an inventive way. Hopefully he could somehow trick the T-Rex into eating his own rider somehow.

  LOGAN vs. GRIMSAW

  Poor barbarian had only just been cloned back up.

  LOGAN vs. JAMES LOVE vs. CRICKETT

  His stomach ran ice-cold as he looked over the matchup. Space Marine vs. Cowboy vs. Pirate.

  Logan took a couple of steps back, slumping onto the bed.

  In five days, they wanted Logan to kill his closest friends in the arena.

  Chapter 28

  Once a week James Love regretted that he’d ever learned to read. Six days of the week he’d dive into dime novels, experience worlds he couldn’t dream of in a thousand years. Learn about science and history a cowboy would never have access to.

  But once a week it meant every illiterate gladiator would crowd around him, pester him for the fight coming up. A few months ago James had helped Grimsaw read the matchup, and from there it had grown. Now half the arena relied on James to find out when and who they’d be fighting.

  “All right, all right.” He sat on one of the higher bunks, the one just above his own. A gaggle of gladiators below were all talking at once. Asking James questions, talking to one another, squinting at the list like it would make a difference.

  The scientists who’d cloned them had programmed them all with the same language. James often wondered why they hadn’t added reading into the mix while they were in there.

  “LOOK!” James yelled, holding out his arms to help silence the crowd. “We do this every week! I read out the lineups, in order. So don’t be calling out your name. Don’t yell out. I won’t be jumping ahead.”