Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1)

by Connor Brixton

  Logan rushed forward, raising his morning star up high. One hard strike and he’d crush half the bones in that hand, leave Yateley struggling to even use the hand.

  Two feet away, Logan stopped, the morning star above his head.

  Yateley was cruel, was a vicious brute.

  But he wasn’t a moron.

  Logan edged forward as Yateley jabbed his great sword up into the space above. Logan leapt back, the blade slicing into where he’d been standing a few seconds ago.

  Yateley took the opportunity to roll up onto the platform, already standing up as Logan rushed forward, swinging his morning star.

  The great sword swung through the air with frightening speed. Logan darted back once more, the tip of the blade clanging against the thick metal pole of the morning star.

  Lifting the faceplate of his helmet, Yateley was covered in sweat, an animalistic grin on his face.

  “You know I’m going to make this last,” he said. “I’m going to make you squeal like a pig.”

  “Big talk, tin can!” Logan twirled his morning star. No sweat, maximum energy in his arm. “But thanks for covering up your ugly face. Doing us all a favor.”

  Yateley sneered, grabbing the bottom of his helmet, beginning to pull it off with one hand.

  Logan silently thanked the man for his arrogance as he darted forward, swinging the morning star up.

  Yateley lifted up his plated arm, the thick metal pole below the spiked ball slamming into his forearm.

  He tore his helmet off, swinging the hunk of metal down to Logan’s neck.

  Logan kicked him in the sternum, the helmet glancing off Logan’s chest plate. He took a couple of steps back, looking Yateley up and down.

  He was surprisingly fast given his size and the heavy armor strapped across all of his body. But Logan was used to fighting robots linked up to a hive mind. Machines that could calculate faster than Logan could think.

  He hadn’t survived a war against machines with just luck.

  Well… he technically hadn’t survived, but that wasn’t the point.

  Yateley stomped forward, the platform they were on beginning to sink below the ground.

  As expected, three floating camera balls swooped in as the shadows grew deeper. Yateley’s armor began bouncing out what little sunlight was coming in, lighting up the metal walls around them.

  Yateley swung out with his great sword; Logan ducked down to avoid the blow, Yateley kicking out with his plated boot.

  Logan held the morning star with both hands—one on the leather handle, one just below the thick spiky ball. Yateley’s ankle swung into the thick metal pole, the plated armor protecting his shin.

  Letting go underneath the ball, Logan pulled with all his might, the spiky ball catching on the foot, making Yateley stumble back. Still crouched down, Logan grabbed the morning star with both hands, using all his might to bring it crashing down on Yateley’s other foot.

  The spike left a dent on the end, Yateley snarling, sweat dripping down the hairless scar on his chin.

  He brought his knee towards Logan’s face. Logan blocked the blow, wincing as the plated metal slammed in his arm. The flesh was definitely bruised, pain bursting across his arm. The bone seemed unbroken, but still stung like a bitch.

  Logan rolled back, Yateley taking another swing. Darting backwards, Logan’s back slammed into the metal wall, the platform they were on slowly rising back up.

  Yateley barreled forward, clumsily slamming his plated body into Logan’s.

  Gasping for air, Yateley wrapped one of his plated hands around the bottom of the morning star, yanking it out of Logan’s grasp. He tossed the weapon behind him, the morning star flying through the air, landing who-knew-where somewhere in the arena.

  Yateley then wrapped his plated hand around Logan’s neck, squeezing tight.

  Logan knew this game well. Which was why he lifted his ankle up, slid out one of his knives, and jammed it towards Yateley’s eye.

  Yateley let go of Logan’s throat, wrapping his plated hand around the blade, stopping it from entering his eye.

  Which was when Logan slid his other hand into his pocket, putting on the knuckleduster.

  As his fingers slid into the holes, the wall behind him slid away, the platform they were on rising back up above everything else again.

  Logan took the extra space to swing his fist back, and then slam it into the bottom of Yateley’s mouth.

  Teeth went flying in all directions, a few clanking off Logan’s polycarbon chest piece. Yateley stumbled back, both of them letting go of the knife as Yateley clutched his jaw. There was a thick cut just next to the hairless scar. Logan was almost certain he could see the white of bone, the knuckledusters bursting through that much flesh.

  Yateley snarled, blood seeping out from the gaps in his teeth. He spat some out, swinging his great sword once more. Logan rolled out of the way, pulling the axe off his back. He swung the blunted end into the back of the knee, Yateley stumbling down. He then twirled the axe, aiming with the blade at the only vulnerable flesh.

  The neck.

  Yateley lifted his plated arm up once more, the axe actually cutting into the metal half an inch.

  His weapon jammed for the moment, Yateley pulled up his great sword as the platform stopped rising. And Logan kicked him in the chest.

  The axe still embedded in his arm, Yateley tumbled off the edge of the platform, the metal clanking as he landed sprawled on the platform below.

  Logan looked at the knuckleduster still on his fist. He had another one of those, and one knife left.

  He could jump down, try and finish Yateley off with just those.

  But it seemed risky. Yateley wouldn’t let him get close enough.

  He could try to get the axe back out of Yateley, but that would involve getting in striking distance as well.

  So instead, Logan looked around, trying to spot his morning star.

  He could see two glimmers in the sun. He headed towards the nearest one, climbing up and down the platforms slowly rising in different directions, eventually scrambling to the glint.

  But it definitely wasn’t his morning star.

  It was a chainsaw.

  The one Oog had dropped when Yrsa held her hand out of the arena. It had been left behind.

  And Oog hadn’t even turned it on once.

  Logan grabbed the weapon, reaching for the cord to start it up.

  He paused, his hand holding the dangling cord.

  The chainsaw would make a lot of noise. Let Yateley know what to expect.

  Logan needed to maximize his surprise.

  Which was why he left the chainsaw off, climbing up to the top of the nearest rising platform.

  Yateley was nowhere to be seen. Logan spun around a few times, looking for any glint of armor. All he could see was his discarded morning star, lying in the sun around forty feet away, slowly rising up and down with its platform.

  Wherever Yateley was, he was being slow, patient. Not rushing in with his armor clanking like crazy.

  But it was impossible to move silently wrapped up in that much metal.

  Logan closed his eyes, listening. The sounds of the crowd was loud, but not overwhelming. He sifted through the sounds, hearing the soft grinding of metal as the platforms rose up and down. He could hear his breath, his heart beating in his chest.

  There.

  Clanking metal.

  To the right.

  Logan opened his eyes, glancing around.

  His platform was at the top of its ascent, the platform to his right at the lowest. Even then, Logan could see the spots of light on the walls below, the sunlight bouncing off Yateley’s armor.

  With no time to lose, Logan ran to the edge of the platform, hurling himself off the edge.

  As he fell silently through the air, Yateley glanced up as Logan hoisted the chainsaw above his head. Yateley swung his sword up, grabbing just below the tip with his plated hand, bracing to block the blow.

&nb
sp; Hurling through the air, Logan pulled the cord on the chainsaw, the blade spinning as he came crashing down.

  Sparks flew as the chainsaw slammed into the great sword, slicing into the metal half an inch.

  Logan landed as Yateley pulled his sword back, swinging. Logan pulled his chainsaw back as well. His instinct was to use it to block the blow, but the great sword would cause a lot of damage to his weapon.

  It was a machine tool after all, not made for four feet of metal to smash into.

  Which was why Logan darted out of the way, crouched down, leaned back; did everything he could to avoid the blows from the great sword.

  The platform slowly beginning to rise, Logan darted to the edge, Yateley swinging the sword high above him. He brought the blade crashing down, slicing it into the edge of the other platform, catching on the top. Logan stood underneath, the sword stopping just a few inches above his head.

  Which gave Logan the chance to slam the chainsaw into Yateley’s scalp.

  Strands of Yateley’s shoulder-length hair caught in the spinning blade. Followed by the blood. Logan pushed down, the chainsaw slicing down, flecks of skull beginning to spurt out of the wound.

  Yateley snarled, blood dripping from his mouth, pouring out of the missing teeth holes, as Logan grunted, pushing the chainsaw down further.

  The great sword dropped from Yateley’s grasp, clanking on the ground below as Logan pushed down further, the bladed chain slicing through down to the forehead.

  Cutting down to the middle of the head, the blood began to spurt out in all directions, flicking off the chainsaw as Logan sliced down towards the nose. Yateley’s arms flailed as his body lost control, but somehow he was still standing.

  Blood began to violently spurt out of the mouth, along with chunks of brain, as Logan sliced down into the jaw. He roared, keeping on the pressure as he pushed down to the neck.

  The head split open like a burst coconut, chunks of brain falling onto the ground below as the platform slowly raised up. The chunks of blood turned to sparks as the chainsaw began to cut into the armor.

  Great for stopping a sword, it was no match for the chainsaw. Logan spun up the engine, twisting the knob to the highest setting as he carried on down. The crunching of bone was almost as loud as the chainsaw, the blade cutting through the sternum in the ribcage. Blood began to seep out of the cut in the metal armor, no other direction it could flow. A river out both ends, pouring down, surrounding Logan’s feet.

  He kept on pushing, the platform rising above ground level as he cut past the sternum, the sparks flying as he cut into the belly, through the pelvis. The blood poured, splashing onto the chainsaw. Smoke rose out of the engine, threatening to break the weapon as Logan sliced through the last pieces of metal.

  With that, both halves of Yateley fell to either side. One half fell off the platform, the flesh inside bursting out of the metal casing.

  Logan wiped his eyes. There was blood everywhere, even pouring off the raised platform like a scarlet waterfall, chunks of flesh clumping in the red rivers of blood. He was uncomfortably warm as he turned off the chainsaw, dropping the weapon at his feet.

  The sound of the chainsaw died down, the blood pumping in his ears slowly beginning to fade as well. A new sound filled up his ears. A sound from the crowd.

  “LOGAN! LOGAN! LOGAN! LOGAN!”

  There were chanting his name, screaming for him, stomping their feet like he was a god.

  Logan raised up both his arms in triumph, the crowd screaming in delight.

  He’d done it.

  He’d won.

  He was the champion of the arena.

  Chapter 26

  Space on a ship was always tight. Every kilo of weight cost extra fuel, and storage space could literally be the difference between life and death. Which meant that even for sergeants in the military, they went to the communal shower area. No private bathrooms. On some ships, not even separate shower stalls. It definitely fostered respect between all ranks, seeing each other butt naked in the morning.

  On Crimson’s Lament, space wasn’t as much of an issue. But the clones all still shared one communal shower area. If Logan woke up early enough, he got himself one of the few private stalls. Although watching Victor with a shower cap and a loofah was a sight to behold.

  Logan hadn’t showered alone in months. Maybe even years. Bouncing between one ship and another, Logan literally couldn’t remember the last time he showered completely alone. But the private chambers for the champion gladiator had just that. His own private bathroom, along with a shower unit. Heated tiled floors. A smart display on the mirror that told him the time, the weather, and other useful pieces of info.

  He dried himself on a towel, stepping out into his room. All sleek steel and glass. More heated tiles to keep his bare feet warm as he walked over to his wardrobe. Half the bunk beds in the barracks could probably fit in the room. The bed was massive, so large Logan could lie down flat at any angle and not have his feet dangling off the end. There was a desk, a few chairs. The display screen was almost as big as the bed, taking up one whole wall. Antireflective glass covered it as well, giving a crystal-clear image even with the large windows in the room.

  So large they practically made up an entire wall, a view out in the arena below. Logan looked out into the Arena of Doom. It was early morning, so there were no matches in progress. Not even anyone in the audience. If Logan squinted, he could just see the occasional cleaning bot in the stands, working its way through the audience seats.

  The arena looked bizarre when it wasn’t packed to the brim. Vast, empty. Unnatural. It reminded Logan of the few times as a kid he went to high school on the weekend, either for a hobby class, or more than once for detention. Devoid.

  Logan turned away from the large open window, the ever-warm towel drying him off quickly. He walked over to his closet, pausing for a moment to appreciate he actually had a closet. Not a small locker attached to the end of his bed, or a locker in a spaceship changing room.

  He had his own bona fide closet. Although when he opened it up, his enthusiasm faded somewhat. It was packed with clothes. All exactly the same. Perfect copies of his one outfit. Black t-shirt, black combat trousers, polycarbon combat pieces. Logan put on the trousers and t-shirt, leaving the pieces of armor off for now.

  After his win against Yateley, everything had been a blur. He remembered the people cheering, other gladiators happy to see the knight felled. He remembered multiple people congratulating him. Even Yrsa had slapped him on the shoulder, nodding at him for once. Coming from her, it was more than a heartfelt apology.

  Then Agent Glass had led him up a set of stairs. Logan hadn’t known there was a second floor, Agent Glass using his keycard to open it up to Logan. A hidden door to a hidden floor.

  But there it was. The room for the champion gladiator. It seemed there were other rooms, most likely where Lord Zemka slept and worked, probably a way to the VIP area. But Logan didn’t have access to those. Just the panel that opened up to the staircase, and his own room.

  It struck him as odd how many times he’d seen Yateley just before curfew. Talking to people in the barracks, making trouble. If Yateley had been the longest fighting gladiator, he must have once used the very room Logan had slept the night in.

  Yateley had literally went out of his way to harass other gladiators before bedtime.

  Logan couldn’t help but be thankful he was dead.

  As Logan slid on his black combat boots, there was a beeping from one of the walls. A moment later, a panel flipped out, making a sort of table for Logan to sit at. The torso of a robot jostled inside the hole in the wall, his silver metal casing glinting in the morning sun.

  “Greetings,” the robot voice said. “I am your… personal… chef. What would you like for… breakfast?”

  Logan frowned, taking a couple of steps forward. “What’s on the menu?”

  “What would you like for breakfast?” the robot repeated in its monotone synthetic vo
ice.

  “Waffles. With bacon. Maple syrup.”

  The robot slid back a couple of inches, a whirring sound coming from the wall. If Logan had to guess, protein was being synthesized into ingredients, those ingredients mixed together to make the food. A moment later three small hatches opened up besides the robot-torso. The waffles, crispy bacon, and a jug of maple syrup all came sliding out.

  The robot grabbed the plates, his chest opening up to reveal hot frying pans, mini deep friers, tongs, other utensils.

  The food all got one last flash cooking as the human-shaped robot arms reached into an open hatch, pulling out small shakers.

  “Are those fresh herbs and spices?” Logan asked, peering in slightly.

  “For safety, the customer must keep back from the window,” the monotone voice of the robot said, crushing some fresh salt on top of the bacon.

  Logan grabbed a seat from his desk, dragging it up to the window. Moments later, the robot laid down a plate brimming with food, pouring half the jug of maple syrup on top.

  He grabbed a piece of bacon, biting into it. Perfectly crunchy, it had been cooked in a bit of maple syrup, the sickly sweet taste a wonderful contrast to the fried pork.

  He cut into the waffle, still dry and fluffy in the middle, dripping maple syrup on the outside. He cut up some bacon, eating the two together. The crunchy bacon mixed perfectly with the fluffy waffles, pockets of pooled maple syrup bursting in his mouth.

  “God damn!” Logan slammed the bottom of his cutlery onto the hatch table. “This has got to be the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life! And that includes before I was a clone.”

  The robot carried on blankly staring into space. It clearly wasn’t programmed for talking, only to receive and execute simple commands.

  Logan frowned, taking a couple more bites in silence, his knife and fork occasionally scraping against his plate.

  It was just so damned quiet. He could hear the sound of his jaw chewing. The occasional scrape as he adjusted his chair on the tiled floor. The low hum coming from the robot chef.