“Someone tried to organize a rebellion twenty-five years ago.” Victor grimaced, his scaly lips pulling back slightly. “Lord Zemka made five clones of the ringleader. One he hung upside in the cafeteria, let every clone watch for weeks as he starved to death. One was slowly lowered in a pool of acid. One had his skin peeled off, but I was forced to administer chemicals to keep him awake, as—”
“I get the picture.” Logan held up his hand, the bare spark of an idea extinguished in a second.
No escape. No outside forces looking in. No rebellion.
No information on Trent.
Logan had been in more dire, intense situations.
But he hadn’t felt so desperately helpless in a long time.
As the servants began to load packs of protein, spices, medipacks onto trolleys, someone else came out of the elevator.
A brown-skinned woman, holding a spacesuit in one hand. She was wearing older brown leathers, a tri-pointed hat, a dirty and worn dark blue longcoat.
One glance and he could tell she was a pirate.
“Do we all have to wear our costumes, all the time?”
“For the show.” Victor nodded grimly. “Everything here is for the show.”
The pirate walked across the courtyard, slowing as she spotted them. “We have a newcomer.” She looked Logan up and down, clearly sizing him up. “Let me guess… the twenty-four hundreds.”
“Twenty-five,” Victor corrected.
“Logan,” he said with a nod.
“Crickett.” She held out her hand. It was calloused, rough against his smooth unused palms. “Been here a couple of years.” She pulled him in a little closer. “Look out for yourself. No one else will.”
She let go, patting him on the shoulder.
“You looking for something off the books, I have no idea who you would talk to about that. I’m just the girl who does the supply runs unsupervised twice a month.”
She nodded at him, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she walked away.
Logan made a note of that. He needed a better lay of the land. But he already knew the medical staff, the fixer, and who was in charge.
“Are all the clones from different time periods?” Logan asked as Victor led him into a corridor.
Logan almost stumbled to a halt. Inside, the corridor had grated floors, metal walls. It was completely different to the rustic retro courtyard outside.
Instead of flame torches hanging in sconces, there were cheap fluorescent lights. His eyes stung once more as he caught up with Victor.
“More or less,” Victor said. “Either different time periods or at least vast cultures. That’s the appeal of this place to customers. What would happen if a cowboy fought a dinosaur? A pirate against a ninja? Although most of the matches are clones against fodder.”
“Fodder?” They approached a T-junction, Victor turning right. Logan made another mental note. His recon was higher than average, even for military personnel. Victor couldn’t give him a map, but Logan could build one in his mind all the same.
“The Nazis. Dinosaurs. Giant spiders.”
As they made a left, Logan’s nostrils flared. He could smell food. Too many flavors to pick any one out. But they were definitely getting closer to the mess hall.
He heard the clanging of metal, turning around as something rushed up on all fours.
It took Logan a second to recognize she was human, her brow thicker than anyone he’d ever seen in life. Covered in animal skins, she walked partially on her knuckles as she rushed past Logan, darting around Victor’s tail.
“That’s Oog, our resident cavewoman.”
Oog rounded the corner, an excited shriek bursting from her lips before she lunged forward.
They trailed behind, Logan’s jaw slacking open as he caught sight of the mess hall.
It was like something out of a children’s book. There had to have been fifty, sixty people in the room. Twenty or so looked like servants, each one of them wearing a frilly shirt, black trousers. The other forty each looked different from the last, Logan having trouble keeping up.
A table in the corner was filled with black leather, the recognizable swastika of the Nazi emblem sewn onto all their clothes. There was a cowboy, tipping his hat to the geisha in line in front of him, the woman covering her mouth with a fan as she giggled. The large Viking lady had two food trays in front of her, a fork in each hand shoveling down food from each of the trays, dried blood still caked on her face.
There was a samurai, what looked like a ninja, a soldier from World War II (who kept on staring daggers at the table of bona fide Nazis in the corner). A lady in a posh dress, like something out of Pride and Prejudice times. An Egyptian ancient pharaoh. A Roman soldier.
Logan could feel his head spinning. All these people, from across all different time periods.
All clones.
Logan somehow felt less alone, and more lonely than he’d ever felt in his entire life.
All thirty-three years, or thirty-three hours, of it.
Chapter 12
James Love enjoyed slavery a lot more the second time around. He’d been born into it, the owners of the plantation cruel and endlessly inventive in their punishments. Hardly fed, worked half to death, abused at every turn.
After dying, he’d ended up a slave again. But this time he was more of a prized possession than a piece of trash. Still owned all the same, but better care was taken.
James missed the middle portion of his life. The time in between his enslavements. After fighting in the Civil War, James had gone back to his home state Texas. Collecting bounties, living free on the land. There’d been a fair few ‘colored’ cowboys like him in the area. Sure, over half had been white boys (and the occasional girl), but there had been a lot of former slaves like James. Indians, Mexicans, even cowboys from further away lands. Colored cowboys as far as the eye could see.
He’d had coworkers. A small cabin he called home. He slept under the stars, drank whiskey by the barrel, and brought in bounties both dead and alive.
Of course, all it ever took was one bullet. One shootout gone wrong, and James had been left cooking in the desert sun, sweat and blood running down his body as his breath slowed and his body suddenly grew colder than winter.
The future was a lot different, that was for sure. James had been born again. But this time inside a machine, instead of his mother’s womb. For the most part, people didn’t seem to care as much about race (but outside of the arena, James often heard talk about what planet or system people were born on, not the color of their skin). Medicine might as well have been magic, cuts and bruises healed in seconds, broken bones in minutes.
He was still trapped in the arena. This time around he often had to fight for his life.
But he had more freedoms in his downtime. Less hard labor.
And less scrutiny for fraternizing.
“Evening, little lady.” James tipped his hat at the geisha in front of him. “How does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” She blinked her large eyelashes, frowning at him slightly, her makeup so stark white and shiny James half expected to see his reflection on her face.
“Being the tastiest thing in this mess hall?”
The geisha giggled, hiding her mouth behind her decorated artisanal fan. She pulled back her fan a few moments later to say, “No thank you, Mr. Cowboy.”
“You can call me Mr. Love.” James tipped his hat once more. “Don’t y’all be afraid to come find me if you change your mind.”
James let the geisha be, turning to look at the new arrivals in the mess hall. He recognized the good doctor, of course. It was hard not to. Like a giant lizard mixed with a man. Once James had learned to read, he tried his best to keep up with dime novels, keep improving the skill. A chapter a night was a great way to go to sleep, especially next to a roaring fire.
In the future, he had access to every book that had ever been written. He always had something on the go, alternating between ficti
on and nonfiction. Learning about the dinosaurs, a whole world before the time of humans, had rocked James to his core. Even more than learning he was eight hundred years in the future. That was a drop in the bucket compared to the time of the dinosaurs, millions of years away. He’d spent the next week reading nonstop, almost dropping from fatigue in his Nazi roundup that week.
He probably knew more about dinosaurs than the good doctor did. But he knew nothing about the man standing next to him.
Tall. Well built. A distinct scar on his left eye. Skin white, if a little pale. He had to be a new arrival. Freshly grown in a machine. His clothes looked processed, definitely from the future. Well, James’ future, today’s past.
James turned to the hatch in the mess hall as many of the clones glanced over at the new arrival. James never went to school, but he’d read a fair few books about the old institution known as ‘high school.’ Whenever a new kid showed up, it was often a big deal. A change in the social pond, the ripples affecting everyone in one way or another.
The good doctor joined the line behind James as he slid his tray in to the chef behind the counter.
The octopus had a ladle or spoon in six of her tentacles, quickly filling up James’ tray with the variety of food. Mushy peas, stale cornbread, a slab of something that pretended to be meat, smothered in a sauce pretending to be tasty.
Canned food had been a staple of James’ cowboy diet, but the vacuum mulch they were fed everyday was on another level. He missed warm bread. He missed freshly caught fish. He missed vegetables that were pickled instead of frozen for months on end.
He was almost jealous as Victor approached the octopus.
“Good haul today?” he asked in his posh English accent.
The octopus put down all the various ladles, tongs, and spoons, slithering and crawling across the kitchen. She returned with a bucket, slamming it onto Victor’s tray.
At least the rats were relatively fresh. Organic, even.
As James filled up his cup of water (filtered, not risked from a river), he couldn’t help but overhear what the newcomer said next.
“So, another glitch? A chef got mixed with an octopus?” he asked as the octopus picked up all her ladles and spoons once more.
“You can ask me if you want,” the octopus said.
The newcomer balked, James snorting to himself as he looked out into the mess hall for a table.
“Name’s Marge. Same crazy scientist that makes the giant spiders also made me. I like long walks on the beach, binging TV shows, and when people talk at me instead of about me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
The newcomer grimaced as James picked the corner of an empty table. He ate fast, a fictional book about dinosaurs called Jurassic Park waiting for him back in his bunk. If he wasn’t going to stimulate his body tonight, he was sure as heck going to stimulate his mind.
Victor and the newcomer took the other end of the table. James couldn’t help but glance over as the good doctor picked up one of the dead rats from the bucket, opening his jaw and swallowing it whole.
The newcomer cringed.
“Don’t like human food?”
“Doesn’t sit well with me.” The doctor slid another rat down his throat as the newcomer poked at his stodgy food.
James cut open his synthesized protein, a billow of steam rising out. “Marge tries her best,” he said, addressing the newcomer, “but trust me, it’s a whole lot better eating it hot than cold.”
“…thanks.” The newcomer slid some of the sauce off his protein, mixing it with his vegetables.
“I’m James. But the ladies, the lucky ones anyways, call me Mr. Love.”
“Logan.” The newcomer took a bite of saucy mushy peas, raising an eyebrow. “Better than field rations.”
“You a soldier?”
Despite his desire to get back to his bunk, James couldn’t help but slide his tray down closer to Logan and Victor. He’d always been a talkative fella, even when he’d been bound in chains working a field. His mom said he could talk the ears off a whole house of whores.
“I fought in the Civil War myself. I’m guessing from your gear you’re from a later time period.”
“Died one hundred years ago,” Logan said, tearing off a chunk of stale cornbread to dip into the strange protein sauce.
James paused, holding out his fingers to do some math. “From the twenty-five hundreds. I think that makes you our youngest clone.”
“Do I get a gold star?”
“You only get gold for kill of the week,” James said, “otherwise you’ll only get silvers and coppers.”
“We get paid?” Logan held his forkful of mystery protein still in his hand as Victor slithered another dead rat down his throat. The tail caught in his jagged teeth, tearing slightly. He held up a napkin like a proper gentleman before slurping down the rat tail like it was a rogue string of spaghetti.
“Only a few coppers a week,” James said, “when a ticket costs fifty gold a match, and you begin adding up how many shows there are a week. That’s when you realize how much we’re all being royally screwed.”
James couldn’t help but smirk as Logan began to frown, clearly doing some quick mental math in his head.
As he calculated, James glanced as Crickett walked into the cafeteria. She adjusted her pirate hat, holding something behind her back.
James had been excited to meet another black person when he’d woken up. Crickett was mixed race, grew up in a more racist time than some of the other clones. It was nice to have someone else who truly understood what James had been through. And who could get him actual bona fide chocolate.
Crickett was exceptionally talented at getting in contraband, at bluffing her way through an interrogation, at handling herself in zero gravity (James had tried it once and barfed up half his processed lunch).
But there was one thing James could do infinitely better than Crickett.
And that was talk to women.
“Oh, this is gonna be good.”
James ate more of his food (the protein starting to grow cold), pretending not to look as Crickett approached Yrsa. The hulking Viking ate with two forks, tearing into her food like a wild cougar tore into its kill.
“Hey there,” Crickett said, trying her best to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Crickett.” Yrsa nodded at her, continuing to shovel down food with both her hands.
“Wow, you’re good with both hands,” Crickett said, smiling a little too hard.
“You never know when your main hand’ll get hurt, need to use an axe with the other.” Yrsa stabbed one of her cornbreads whole with a fork, holding it up, eating half the slice in one mouthful.
“Hahahaha!” Crickett laughed, just a little bit too loud, a couple people looking up from their trays for a moment.
“What?” Yrsa shrugged, continuing to shovel cornbread into her mouth.
“Oh, that wasn’t a joke? I, erm, oh…”
She glanced around the room, locking eyes with James. She’d traded him a bottle of whiskey for flirting lessons, and James had been giving her advice all week.
James nodded at her, rubbing underneath one of his eyes.
With that, Crickett turned back to Yrsa, who had already returned to eating.
“I think your eyes are pretty!” Crickett blurted out.
Yrsa frowned, looking up at Crickett. “Er… thanks.”
“And I figured since your eyes are pretty and flowers are pretty you should have some flowers but if you don’t like them that’s cool okay bye!”
Crickett pulled out the small bouquet of purple and white flowers, dropping them on the table in front of Yrsa before spinning around, bolting out of the mess hall.
James sighed, resting his head in both of his hands.
Yrsa tilted her head in confusion before putting down one of her forks, lifting up the flowers. She sniffed them, frowning, and then dropped them on the table before she carried on eating.
It looked lik
e James would be trading a lot of whiskey in the near future.
He shook his head, eating more of his food before it grew cold.
“The evenings ain’t too bad here,” he said, turning to look at Logan again. “We’re mostly left to our own devices. Be warned though, it’s a six o’clock wake-up call for training.”
“Training?” Logan raised an eyebrow before wincing, rubbing the scar above and below his left eye.
“The longer we survive, the less money Lord Zemka has to pay out to grow us again.”
James had been fortunate enough to hardly run afoul of their owner and proprietor. He kept his head down, performed well in the arena. But not well enough to gain too many fans. Not well enough to rise up the ranks, to make the crowd thirsty to see him spill blood in the arena. Or worse yet, face off against another genuine clone.
“So, what war did you fight in?” James asked, changing the subject.
“I fought against the Necrotrons.”
James frowned, trying his best to remember both his past and future history. “Who were they again?”
“Robots that used nanites to bring the dead back to life.”
“Robot zombies?!” James leaned forward in his seat. “Well now, you positively have to tell me everything you can about that.”
James and Logan ate their food, Victor his bucket of rats, as Logan explained about the war he’d fought in. It sounded tough, but James couldn’t help but think it sounded a lot nicer than slavery.
Both times around.
Chapter 13
Logan’s bunk was so high up, he was more afraid of falling to his death than getting killed in the arena.
He was used to bunks stacked two high. Maybe even three in a low-G environment. But in the Arena of Doom, with full Earth gravity, the bunks had been stacked all the way up to the ceiling. Four in total. Rows of bunks, dividing the room into three or so lines. Logan double-checked the digital map on the wall, then craned his neck to look all the way up to his bunk.
The Viking moved past him, climbing up another ladder to her top bunk. Logan couldn’t help but gulp as he saw her throw her body onto the bed, the entire structure swaying slightly. It looked sturdy enough, but Logan didn’t have too much confidence.
Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1) Page 7
