Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1)

by Connor Brixton

  Arena of Doom

  Clone Squad #1

  Connor Brixton

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Also by Connor Brixton

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Every single time Adolf Hitler was eaten by the T-Rex, the crowd went wild. Lord Zemka thought after the third Hitler in a row was torn apart by the prehistoric beast, the crowd might have grown bored. But as the fifth Hitler screamed for mercy, the T-Rex chopping down on the torso, the crowd cheered in delight, fifty thousand voices bellowing in glee, stamping their feet, throwing their fists up into the air.

  The head and shoulders of the dictator poked out one side of the jaw, blood gushing from between the massive teeth. The T-Rex shook its prey for good measure, blood and chunks of flesh raining down onto the sandy pit below.

  Lord Zemka might change the environment parameters after the next few Hitler deaths. At the moment the Arena of Doom was set to classic mode; a sandy flat arena like in the times of the Romans. With a press of the button Lord Zemka could change the terrain into a lush jungle, give the clones a chance to hide. Or have small pits of molten lava pop out, make the terrain more dangerous for everyone involved.

  But for now the audience was content, the T-Rex shaking the food in its mouth. The head and shoulders of the once powerful dictator came loose from the toothy maw of the beast, flying through the air. Even hurling up above the protective energy field, the remains landing with a splat between two sets of families in the stands.

  A hearty chuckle burst from Lord Zemka’s lips as the people covered in blood and viscera groaned. A teenage girl smeared her hand in a puddle of blood, wiping it on her younger brother’s face to make sure he was just as filthy as she was. Everyone around chuckled and giggled. It was wholesome family fun, after all.

  The Arena of Doom would of course provide dry cleaning. One burst of nanobots would cost a fair silver, but it was a tiny price to pay for the numbers drawn in tonight. Not only physically in the arena, but the livestream throughout the Shennong system.

  The cleanup crew arrived within seconds, gingerly taking the spasming remains of the Hitler clone away as one of them let out a burst of misty spray.

  Within seconds the blood and viscera had been cleaned away, like it had never existed. The nanobots in the spray were programmed to clean up any traces of DNA from any of the trademark clones Lord Zemka owned. As quickly as his esteemed guests had been covered in blood and guts, they’d been cleaned to a sparkle.

  It also guaranteed none of Lord Zemka’s intellectual property would leave his establishment. Even though DNA from a clone always acted peculiar, to say the least.

  As a servant offered him a plate of freshly constructed fruit, Lord Zemka waved them away, sitting forward in his chair. He could feel the excitement in the crowd waning as another Hitler was prodded out into the sandy arena.

  Apart from the comfortable chairs, Lord Zemka had done his best to recreate the arena of Roman gladiators. The white stonework, the sandy terrain. The metal gates that were lifted by a chain (the chain attached to a motor, for convenience).

  He could reconstruct the terrain at a whim. But as the Hitler clone (dressed in full green uniform, of course) dashed under the legs of the dinosaur, trying his best to hide underneath the beast, Lord Zemka knew what would get the crowd going once more.

  Pressing the button on his remote, sirens wailed all across the arena as all five doors opened up.

  Out of each of them, one of his servants jabbed their Hitler clone until the chancellors stumbled out onto the field.

  “Multi Hitler mode engaged!” the happy voice of the computer rang out as all six Hitlers ran in different directions.

  Out of the thousands of people watching, at least half of them stood to their feet, cheering as the T-Rex swung its massive head around, unsure which clone of Hitler to attack first.

  Lord Zemka sat back in his seat, plucking one of the grapes off the freshly constructed stalk. It was a waste of protein reconstruction, no doubt about it. If he’d programmed a bunch of grapes into the food processor at his family home, his mother would have made him sleep in the barn for a week for wasting resources like that.

  Now he had enough protein resources to eat grapes every meal, every week. And all it took was a little bloodshed.

  Cloning had been illegal, even before the technology had even been fully developed. Before humans had even left Earth and colonized the ten systems. Thankfully, Shennong was one of only two systems where there was no governing body. No restrictions.

  No laws against cloning Hitler ten times a week, feeding him over and over again to the clone of the Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  No laws about buying DNA samples of dozens of people from across human history. It had taken a lot of scrounging to find intact samples of a cowboy, a knight, a samurai, a pirate, a Viking.

  Even getting more recent samples had proven tricky. But Lord Zemka was about to score big.

  “Err…. excuse me, Mr. Zemka?”

  He turned his attention away from the arena, towards the young man who had just entered into the VIP viewing booth. The lad was trying desperately hard to grow a mustache, a thin sprinkle of hair barely visible above his slightly trembling lip. Lord Zemka almost felt bad, would have perhaps offered him some growth follicles. It was how they got all the Hitlers’ mustaches to the perfect thickness in time.

  He would have, if the young man hadn’t gotten his title wrong.

  “Lord. Lord Zemka.” It wasn’t just some fancy title. Zemka had earned his name the old-fashioned way: buying C-267 out from under the settlers, forcibly evicting the residents. He’d paid the fee to rename the moon from C-267 to Crimson’s Lament. He’d sacrificed dozens of clones to construct the arena he sat in. He’d worked too hard in his life to ever be called something as lowly as ‘mister.’

  “Right, yeah, lord, of course.” The kid was in his late teens, maybe his early twenties. Scrawny. The suit he was wearing was definitely a size or two too big. It had been washed, but Lord Zemka could see the frays at the edges. It no doubt belonged to the boy’s father, maybe his uncle, passed down at some point. Maybe even stolen.

  “Come, sit down,” Lord Zemka gestured to the empty seat next to his. It wasn’t as well cushioned. Or heated like his own. And was a foot or two lower than his. But the boy sat down all the same.

  “I have it here.” He held up the briefcase. The edges were frayed, just like his suit.

  The crowd let out a collective groan, all of them wincing in unison. Lord Zemka glanced back into the arena as one of the Hitlers was crushed beneath the massive foot of the T-Rex. The head popped off li
ke a cannonball, flying low into the invisible energy field surrounding the arena. It hit with such speed it burst like a water balloon, blood smearing across the field, sizzling and dripping down.

  The young man opened the briefcase, his hands shaking.

  “Come now,” Lord Zemka said, “there’s no need to be nervous. We’re all friends here!”

  He clapped his hands, the servant approaching with a tray of drinks.

  “We have soda, beer, wine, vodka, crisp clean water, plasma bile; take your pick.”

  The young man picked up a cup of red wine, taking a sip. Lord Zemka saw the grimace on his face. If he had to guess, it was the first drink of alcohol the young man had ever had.

  “Traveled far?” Lord Zemka asked.

  “From Topaz.”

  Lord Zemka winced. “That’s a month on a haul, isn’t it?”

  Traveling between local planets was easy enough. But between the ten systems?

  They were clustered ‘close’ together, relatively to the vast emptiness of space. But it still took weeks of hurtling at light speed to get between them.

  “Three and a half weeks, yes, sir- yes, my lord.” He went to take another sip from the red wine before moving it away.

  “Servant!” Lord Zemka couldn’t be bothered to learn the names of the clones that served him anymore. Whatever her name was, she approached with the professional practiced speed Lord Zemka had grown accustomed to. “Bring our guest… a refreshing glass of lemonade.”

  She nodded, rushing off to the drinks bars, appearing moments later with the crisp drink.

  The young man took the glass, gulping down a few mouthfuls.

  He hands still shook as he held the briefcase in his hands.

  Another cheer from the crowd. No doubt one of the Hitlers had just been torn apart by the T-Rex. “Now,” Lord Zemka ate one of the grapes, the juicy fruit bursting across his tongue before he swallowed. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”

  The young man turned the briefcase around to show Lord Zemka inside.

  One fingernail. In a jar of preservative liquid.

  “This was all they could find,” the young man stammered, “of my great-granduncle. Or uncle once removed. Never could get the extended family tree right.”

  “Logan Rexington.” Lord Zemka wasn’t the best student of history. His servants took care of the clones throughout history. But even he knew all about Logan Rexington. The hero of the Chaucer system.

  “It was DNA verified,” the young man said, “by the army, before they delivered it as remains to the family. It’s been sitting on my great aunt’s mantle my whole life. Or she might be my grandma’s cousin. Anyways.” A sheepish grin spread across the boy’s face. “Crazy to think. When I was seven I almost cracked the glass when I kicked my shoes for a visit.”

  Lord Zemka winced. “Lucky for us, that wasn’t the case.” He picked out the certificate inside the case, glancing over the iridescent seal.

  Without even saying a word, Agent Glass appeared from the shadows, his own briefcase in hand.

  A CIA operative from the early twenty-first century, he was no good in an arena, but he excelled at subterfuge, interrogation, doing the dirty work Lord Zemka was now too rich to bother with. He could have hired his own right-hand man from anywhere, but having his own that he could replace with an exact copy whenever he wanted had its benefits.

  Agent Glass scanned the certificate, giving one single nod before handing over his own briefcase to the young man.

  He almost dropped his lemonade as he opened up the much less frayed briefcase, the bars of gold and platinum glimmering as he looked them over.

  “You can stay for the match,” Lord Zemka offered. “Watching a medieval knight fight a samurai is delightful. Although if you’d rather count your gold and celebrate in private, I won’t take offense.”

  The young man had already gulped down half of his lemonade, standing up from his chair as he closed his briefcase of money. “If it’s all the same to you, Lord Zemka, there’s a moon in the Fibonacci system. If I hurry back to the transport depot, I can get there within the month. What do you think of Barrelcrest as a name?”

  “…I think that sounds delightful.” Lord Zemka smiled, nodding in appreciation. As the young man went to leave the private booth, he whispered something to Agent Glass. “One moment, young man.”

  He paused, his foot shaking in his ill-fitting suit, as Agent Glass left through another exit in the VIP room.

  He returned moments later, carrying a small gel in a vial.

  Agent Glass handed it over to the young man before returning to stand behind Lord Zemka’s seat.

  “Hair growth follicles,” Lord Zemka said. “Rub that on your lip twice a day for a few days; you’ll have a mustache every gender will be jealous of.”

  “Th-thank you, Lord Zemka.” The young man awkwardly bowed before scurrying out of the VIP room.

  Lord Zemka had hardly turned back to look at the arena when Agent Glass leaned in close to him. “I can have a team retrieve the money and dispose of the body in ten minutes.”

  “Hmm…” It was good business practice. Why pay for something when you could get it for free?

  But the young man in question reminded Lord Zemka a lot of himself at his age. Ambitious, if inexperienced. Young Zemka would have probably acted like a mewling lamb talking to the owner of a clone deathmatch business, back when he was his age.

  “Let him be,” he said. “He’s got the entrepreneurial spirit. I’m excited to see what he comes up with. Add Barrelcrest to the feed alert, would you?”

  As the T-Rex picked the last Hitler clone up by the legs, shaking him like a puppy with a chew toy, Lord Zemka looked at the sole fingernail suspended in the vacuum-sealed jar.

  Sergeant Logan Rexington. Thousands of soldiers had contributed to the defeat of the Necrotrons, but Logan had been the pinnacle. Leading the assault team to take down the mainframe, Logan had been gravely wounded, staying behind to set off the bomb and take down the central processing unit of the enemy.

  The Necrotrons had kept on fighting for a good few months. But without one computer to coordinate, without the hivemind to link them, they were easy pickings.

  All thanks to one man. Lord Zemka had grown up watching the films, the documentaries. It wasn’t just the one sacrifice. It was the battles beforehand, Logan’s willingness to push himself further than any other soldier, inspire those under his command.

  Logan Rexington was one of the greatest soldiers that had ever lived. And Lord Zemka had the last piece of his DNA in existence. Better still; DNA from the moment of his death. Full, complete memories would be far easier to extrapolate, and machine learning would take care of the rest without incident.

  As the T-Rex was airlifted back to its cage and the arena was cleaned of all remains of the dozen or so Hitlers that had been killed that night, Lord Zemka couldn’t help but chuckle.

  He had clones of warriors from across almost all of human history. But no one as recent as Logan Rexington. He was about to make enough money to buy every unclaimed moon in the Shennong system.

  “Nice to meet you, Logan Rexington.”

  Chapter 2

  Logan Rexington thought the velociraptor with the monocle looked particularly strange. He supposed any dinosaur in eyewear would look odd. But this velociraptor was looking Logan up and down like he was inspecting him. Examining him.

  “Oh what joy, you’re finally waking up.”

  The dinosaur with a monocle could talk.

  Logan blinked hard, trying to sit up in the bed he was lying down in.

  This wasn’t right. Logan hadn’t been in a bed.

  Where had he been?

  New Belarus. A small farming moon on the orbit of Lakshmi. One of a dozen moons orbiting one of a dozen planets in the Chaucer system.

  Why was he now in a bed?

  He opened his mouth to speak, a strange gooey liquid instead seeping out. He rolled to the side, coughing out the mys
tery clear liquid.

  “Take care,” the dinosaur said, “your lungs are still adjusting to breathing on their own.”

  He coughed a few times, his throat gasping for air. Like when he’d accidentally drunk juice too fast as a child, a throaty cough as his body pleaded for oxygen. He lifted his hand up to his mouth, covering his cough as he tried pushing himself up into a sitting position.

  “No, no!” A clawed hand slammed onto his naked chest, pushing him back down. “Rest is essential.”

  The dinosaur with the monocle was bossing him around now.

  Sergeant Logan Rexington had thousands of soldiers under his command. Only medical staff could tell him what to do. Even then, they had to be human.

  Not a velociraptor.

  How had he ended up here? Where was here?

  Logan tried taking in his surroundings. He was inside, that was for sure. In a spaceship? Still on planet?

  New Belarus. That was where he had been. Leading the assault against the Necrotrons.

  Command didn’t like it, but Logan always personally led the first charge. There was nothing better for morale. And, even though the robot enemy wasn’t programmed to feel fear, Logan was all but certain five hundred space marines screaming at the top of their lungs was enough to intimidate even a heartless machine.

  They’d broken into the building holding the mainframe. That was when he’d been shot, the laser tearing through his stomach, blood and stomach bile mixing with all the other internal fluids.