Arena Book 7

by Logan Jacobs

  I waited a beat to listen for shots, and then I followed.

  The room in front of me was filled with cubicles. Every one of the cubicle walls were made of transparent glass that was tinted a very faint blue. The first row of cubicles was transparent enough so that you could see everything inside it, including the gleaming white desk that supported the gleaming white computer and the gleaming white ergonomic chair that looked more like a horribly deformed balloon animal than something you could actually sit on to work. Each row of cubicles faded to a deep blue at the center point like the navel of an ocean. It was a little dizzying to look at and seemed like it would be a nightmare to sit inside for eight hours a day. The wall to my left was paneled in the blondest of blonde wood possible. I scanned the room and didn’t see any people or movements through the glass walls, and it was easy enough to see anything or anyone moving.

  “Looks okay, except for the terrifying office design,” I finally said.

  Nova and Tempest nodded in silent agreement. I stuck my hand back through the door and gestured for the rest of my team to come in.

  Olivia came in with her walkie-raygun out, followed by a glowingly satiated Aurora, then a backward-facing PoLarr with her pistols blazing.

  Thomas brought up the rear and slammed the door shut. He jumped back as a metal screen dropped down in front of the closed door. “Well, I guess that makes it harder for them to follow us,” he remarked.

  Cross-hatched shadows fell over the cubicles at strange angles as metal screens slid over the windows. The walkie-talkie in my hand crackled to life. “What in the blue blazes was that for?” the Midwestern voice demanded from everyone’s walkie-talkie. “Now my boys are going to have a hell of a time getting anywhere, let alone the stairs. And I’m trapped in this stupid room without my lunch.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time for lunch later,” the British voice answered. “I had to keep that panic in the staircase from contagion. It seems someone got overly excited and started a firefight that dispatched far too many of our warm bodies and quite a few of the cold ones. Your shoddy training is costing us resources left and right, and we still haven’t had any confirmed kills of anyone on this little guerilla team.”

  “Whaddya want me to do about it now?” the Midwestern voice asked. “I can tell ‘em to look harder, but if there’s nothing to find, there’s nothing to find. Personally, I think they’re dead already.”

  “Then cancel the kitchen scraps for lepers and orphans, no more merciful beheadings, and call off Christmas,” the British voice huffed. “Surely you must know how to discipline your own men.”

  My jaw dropped. “That’s the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  “You recognize his voice?” Nova asked.

  “No, the quote,” I whispered, and held my finger up to my lips.

  “I’ll have my boys keep an eye out for any unfamiliars, but half of these guys can’t even recognize their own teammates still,” the Midwestern voice said. “I told you we should have handed out the faces last week, so they’d have time to get used to it. How’s the package doing?”

  “She is uncomfortable, as am I,” the British voice replied. “But we both shall survive without the creature comforts of carpet or climate control. She’ll survive until she makes it down the elevator shaft, at least.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for all your troubles.” The Midwestern voice did not sound sorry at all. “It looks like we’re both going without today.”

  I waited for more, but it seemed that the conversation was over.

  “So the elevator’s out,” Aurora said, “the stairs are out, the windows are out, we can’t take the elevator shaft because it’s likely to explode. We can’t possibly be trapped here.”

  “I don’t know how your fortresses are built on Earth, but our family’s home had hidden passages connecting the rooms, so that those who knew its secrets could move around even if the compound were occupied by an enemy,” Nova suggested. “We could look for false panels.”

  “You want secret passages connecting rooms?” I grinned and pointed at the closest vent in the ceiling. “I’ll give you secret passages connecting rooms. We’re crawling through the vents, baby!”

  I was surprised to see PoLarr shake her head. “What?” I asked. “I know that you know that this building was partially designed as a shooting location, so the ventilation shafts are definitely wide enough for dudes who are way more swole than any of us.”

  “Traps, Marc,” PoLarr reminded me. “John McClane crawls around in the ventilation, so they knew you’d give it a try.”

  “Plenty of action movies have people crawling through ventilation ducts,” I grumbled.

  “I think you’re on the right track, but forget the ventilation,” Thomas said. “That’s just an extra layer in between us and the goal.”

  “You’re saying we just bust through the ceiling?” Tempest asked. Her eyes gleamed. “I think I like it.”

  Nova holstered her gun and squared her shoulders. “I’ll pass you all through. I think I can lift everyone safely enough to the next level.”

  PoLarr stepped up first. “All right,” she said. “Hoist me. If anyone’s too short, I’ll be able to help pull them up.”

  I had been expecting Nova to put PoLarr around her shoulders piggyback style or something like that, but Nova actually bent down and put her hands around PoLarr’s shapely, muscular calves. PoLarr flailed a little and bent her knees as Nova lifted her, but Nova’s hands were steady, and she moved slowly enough that PoLarr was stable.

  Thomas whistled in awe. “You could take that act to the circus. The strong lady and the acrobat.”

  I took a moment to enjoy the mental image of Nova and PoLarr in the middle of a circus ring. Nova could wear an old-fashioned stripey bathing suit, or maybe a leopard skin bikini that let us all see her gorgeously muscled six-pack abs. PoLarr would have to be in a tutu. No, the tutu would look silly on my hot, runway model teammate, I decided as she stretched her arms towards the ceiling. PoLarr would be in a form-fitting leotard, spangled where it would show off her chiseled curves, and Aurora would be the one flying overhead with the greatest of ease in her fluffy lavender tutu. I couldn’t imagine Tempest as anything but one of the trick motorcycle riders roaring around inside the Globe of Death.

  PoLarr’s fingertips finally touched the beige tile of the ceiling, and the world exploded in my face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The world rang in my ears. My back ached with impact. Dust clouded my vision. I gasped for breath and sucked in dust, coughed it out, and sucked in another lungful of dust before I rolled over onto my stomach and managed to get a whiff of air.

  The carpet under my fingers was scratchy with minuscule shards of glass. My fingers brushed against a now-familiar piece of plastic, the smooth surface of the walkie-raygun. My hands shook, but I managed to grab it anyway.

  I knew I had to stand up and look for my teammates, but my lungs felt like they were lined with red-hot coals, and I started to feel unpleasant tingling sensations in the tips of my fingers and toes. Whatever had been in the dust I’d inhaled was giving my regenerative mods a hell of a run for their money.

  I managed to haul myself up onto my knees and elbows and I gripped the walkie-raygun tight. If I could crawl around and draw a weapon, I still had a fighting chance. And if I still had a fighting chance, then so did everyone else. We’d all been standing equally near when the blast hit.

  “You can do this, Marc,” I told myself. “You’ve been in a hell of a lot worse this year.”

  “That’s the spirit, Marc,” the British voice said from the walkie-raygun. “Never give up. Never surrender.” I nearly dropped it and had to fumble to recover the device.

  “Galaxy Quest,” I croaked. My mind raced along with my heart rate. Had I been holding the button with my thumb without realizing it, or had Tempest just been wrong about how the gadgets worked?

  “How seldom it is one meets a fellow spirit.” The British voice sounded
way too pleased and smug for this to have been an accident.

  “I don’t think we have much in common,” I told him. It had to have been a trap, all the way through. I wondered how much of the intel had been completely fake.

  “No?” the voice asked. “We both clearly appreciate the dramatic work of Alan Rickman.”

  “I’m more of a Bruce Willis fan, myself,” I said. It had been enough time that the dust from the explosion should have started to settle, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t see past my face. I tried to move forward a few inches on my hands and knees anyway.

  “What a shame.” The British voice made a tsk noise. “I was looking forward to you catching more of my references, but I suppose you’re not one for period dramas or quirky little independent pieces about wine with no explosions in them.”

  “Throw some Snape lines at me and see if they stick,” I suggested. My hands hit a pile of broken glass that were far too chunky and sharp to crawl over, so I retreated and turned ninety degrees to try again.

  “I don’t watch films made for children,” the British voice said snottily.

  “Oh, so you’re a movie snob.” I inspected my palms and fingers. They didn’t look or feel like they’d sustained anything much worse than deep paper cuts. Annoying and a little distracting, but I could live with it. My lungs had started to burn less, too. “You know guys like you ruin it for everyone else, right? You take a look at all these worlds and stories and instead of just appreciating them for what they are, you have to say that one type is just automatically better than the other and you’re a better person for liking them. Why can’t you just let people watch their movies in peace?”

  “This sounds like it’s not really about the movies, Marc. Is there something on your mind?” The British voice’s syrupy fake sympathy was nauseating.

  “Yeah, there is,” I said. “I heard you say you were British earlier. Why are you helping out the Skalle Furia? They’re terrorists from another galaxy.”

  “Some men are born in the wrong century,” the Brit said. “I think I was born on the wrong planet.”

  “Quigley Down Under,” I said. “Nice. So now you’re not a fan of the whole Earth?”

  “I adore it, of course,” the Brit said. “But it’s a big universe out there, Marc, full of amazing places and people and technology. Did you know there are planets where it rains diamonds?”

  “Diamonds, huh?” I asked. “Are you planning a weather heist or something?”

  “I was just giving an example,” the Brit said. “The Skalle Furia and I are frankly not impressed with the Crucible of Carnage, if you really want to know. It’s all in good fun to watch some muscle bound lunks shoot their way out of one crisis after another when the only thing at stake is a personal wager or two, but it’s hardly fair to base an entire planet’s access to that technology on how that musclebound lunk does in an obstacle course.”

  “Speaking as one of those muscle bound lunks, I sort of like it,” I told him. I’d heard that argument before, but I’d quickly given up trying to argue with anyone who bothered to voice it. It’s not like there wasn’t a good point in there, especially if you were a denizen of one of the planets who got a subpar or unlucky Champion, but it did what it was supposed to and prevented interstellar war on a massive scale.

  “You’re not convincing anyone, you know,” I added. “All you’re doing is killing civilians and getting people pissed off at you.”

  “Never tell a soldier that he does not know the cost of war,” the British voice said. “Our strategy is complex and multi-faceted. You do not know the half of it.”

  “Do you really think kidnapping the President’s daughter is going to suddenly make everyone change their minds and dismantle the Crucible?” I asked. “‘Cause I don’t think it’s going to impress many people off of Earth. The only thing you’re accomplishing here is you got me mad and you made me come after you, not good choices.”

  “No, I doubt they’ll care much about the death of one little Earth girl,” the Brit said. “But the President will care very much. You know, it’s quite amusing that you’re suddenly so interested in our demands.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of all of his policies,” I said. “Cool motive, still murder. Look, surrender DOTUS, and we’ll have a talk with the President, okay? He’s my buddy. He’ll listen to me.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that you’re quite famous friends,” the Brit said. “Whatever his insane scheme is, it will surely be incomplete without you.”

  I blinked dust out of my eyes. “Wait, what scheme are you talking about? The dude just wants his daughter back.”

  “Are you truly that naïve, or do you not pay any attention to what’s happening on your own planet anymore?” His voice sounded angrier now and less in control. “He takes credit for each of your victories, you know. Claims he ‘struck a deal’ for you to enter the tournament, and that he picked you single handedly.”

  I’d heard the President say that before, but I hadn’t minded it. I’d always assumed it was part of a politician’s job to take credit for stuff you didn’t really do anyway, and he wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “You think that bothers me?” I asked. “I know who’s really winning the battles out there. It’s not only me, it’s my whole team. I just happen to be the prettiest face.”

  That was a standard answer I’d worked out to give to reporters if I started to notice that they were directing all the questions about strategy at me and just taking pictures of the girls. I definitely didn’t care that I wasn’t the prettiest face in the group by my own standards, since I got to look at the girls a lot more, but if I slipped a bit of a self-deprecating tone into that statement I usually found that the photographers got the message and backed off on trying to get close-ups of my teammates’ cleavage.

  “Regardless of how you feel about the situation,” the British voice said, “he uses each victory and the bits of technology they grudgingly offer to justify every disastrous decision. He claims that your presence in the Crucible will solve all of our problems as a planet and uses that as justification to do whatever he likes.”

  “Sure, but that stuff is actually working, isn’t it?” I asked. “I know about the greenhouse emissions, the cure for cancer, the meat plants...” I wasn’t exactly sure how bio-growing meat worked, but I had imagined fields of ham bushes, chicken wings ripening inside seed pods, and orchards of beef trees strung with bacon vines.

  The Brit snorted. “Mere bandages on the planet’s true wounds,” he informed me.

  “I know, I know,” I said, “technology can’t heal our social divides, I’ve heard that before...but that takes time and it happens no matter who’s in office.”

  “It’s not merely a matter of sectarian squabbles,” the British voice said. “All of this brilliant technology is doled out to us like dog treats with no regard for the timelines or nature of our problems. We cannot depend upon the wisdom and benevolence of the Aetherons to solve everything for us. Flying cars and magical ice cream do not stop the world from turning and turning on her widening gyre into utter disaster.”

  “So what do you want to do about it?” I asked. “Have Earth leave the games and lose access to any more of that technology that actually could solve more of our problems? That’ll get you sold into space slavery. Also, I’m having way too much fun to quit.”

  “Space slavery shouldn’t even be an option in a truly enlightened society!” the Brit exclaimed. “The Skalle Furia agree with me, and they are prepared to stop at nothing to liberate every civilized world in the universe from the tyranny of the games. Only when we stop accepting the scraps of our masters, will we truly be able to seek our destiny among the stars.”

  “That’s kind of rich coming from a Brit,” I informed him. “You know, the country that took over most of the world for its spices and then decided not to ever use any of them in food? You just sound like you’re all pissy that the sun doesn’t rise and set on you anymore.”

 
“I see you know your history,” the voice said. “You are not incorrect. I don’t have baggage, I have haulage.” It was silent for a few seconds, and I thought the conversation might have been over. Then the walkie-talkie came to life again. “No, Marc, my ambitions run far greater than a few cinnamon sticks.”

  This sounded like it was going to be the part where he revealed his big plan. “Are you more of a cardamom guy?” I quipped, hoping it was the right move to get him really talking.

  That earned a chuckle from the Brit. “I’ll just tell you something that Alexander the Great said.”

  “What did he say?” Despite myself, I grinned, knowing what was coming next.

  “I shall tell you what he said.” The Brit cleared his throat. “He said, ‘Is it not worthy of tears that when the number of worlds is infinite, we have not yet become lords of a single one?’”

  “No!” I screamed. “No, you fuck, that’s the wrong quote!”

  “I assure you that I know my Plutarch, sir,” the Brit said.

  “You kidnap the President’s daughter, you kill civilians, you blow up my team, you booby-trap my favorite skyscraper for non-movie reasons and fuck with my head, and you won’t even give me one goddamn Hans Gruber line!” I yelled.

  I stood up. My legs no longer shook, and my toes no longer tingled with the onset of oxygen deprivation. Adrenaline sparked in my chest and ran through my veins. The dregs of stale panic were no longer what buoyed me. Now I ran on pure full-spectrum anger, the kind that runs from moral disgust at mass slaughter on one end right down to some asshole getting your favorite movie wrong on purpose just to piss you off.

  “You people.” The Brit sounded even calmer after my rant. “If there isn’t a movie about it, it’s not worth knowing, is it?”

  “I’m coming after you, pal,” I snarled, “and I’m gonna get you even if I have to do it all by myself. Because I never give up, and I never surrender. Sure, I may be just another American who saw too many movies as a child, but I’m the fly in your ointment, a monkey in your wrench, a big fat pain in your sellout ass. And yes, I am going to hit you with that fish, because you’re not good enough to deserve to quote the Metatron.” I dropped the mic like Kanye. “So yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.” I stomped on the traitorous walkie-raygun. It splintered with a satisfying crunch.