Stumbling up, one eye sealed shut, breathing hard, his body on fire, Logan looked the last Nazi up and down.
“You really think,” Logan spluttered, spit and blood dripping down his chin, “…I just took out your six buddies, you think you’re the one to win?”
The Nazi looked unsure, eyeing Logan up and down.
As he stood unsure, Logan lunged forward, wrapping his hands around his neck. Pressing his thumbs in tight, the Nazi flailed his arms, clearly panicking.
There were a dozen things he could have down to try and stop Logan. But all he did was cling at his arms, trying to pull Logan off, panicked.
Yateley tilted his head, like a curious dog, as Logan carried on crushing his windpipe, pushing his thumbs against the windpipe as hard as he could. A few more moments of desperate struggle, and the Nazi’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Gasping for air, Logan rested on his knees. The low rumble of the ship stopped, only darkness visible through the small holes in the windows. The Seacole had made it to outer space.
Yateley softly chuckled, still standing in the same spot. Twenty, maybe thirty meters away.
“You want to tell me you’re not good at this?” Yateley asked. “I hear you killed me one time in the arena. And I felled you once before that. We could spend eternity living our lives to their full potential.”
“I’m…” Logan pushed himself up into a standing position. His insides squirmed from all the damage, like he needed to vomit for a week. Now every breath made his ribs burn. He tried to open his left eye, the flesh too tender to do anything but stay shut. “…I’m a soldier. Not a killer. I know when to fight, when to retreat… when to open the airlock.”
“What’s an airlock?” Yateley tilted his head once more.
It was Logan’s turn to grin before he spun around on his heels and ran across the hangar. Following the dusted footsteps, Logan heard the pounding of feet, Yateley dashing to catch up to him.
With only one good eye left, Logan spotted it. The blinking control panel.
He dashed forward, accessing the display.
Open all hangar doors?
Logan slammed yes.
Warning. This will depressurize the main hangar, do you want to proceed?
Logan went to slam yes again when a beefy arm wrapped around his neck, choking him, pulling him back a couple of feet. Logan reached out with his hands, his fingertips brushing against the edge of the control panel.
“I’m bigger than you, stronger than you. I’m a better fighter than you’ll ever be!” Yateley snarled into his ear.
The wall was just too far away for his hands.
But not his feet.
Logan kicked out, slamming his boots into the wall, pushing Yateley flat on his back. Logan then elbowed him in the ribs, scrambling up, slamming the button on the control panel.
Dozens of lights descended from the ceiling, the floor, all flashing red. A loud alarm began to screech as Logan pressed another button on the control panel.
The wall next to him flipped open, a large bar bolted to the wall. Logan grabbed on as straps of fabric shot out from the wall, wrapping around his arm, holding him tight in place.
“Battles aren’t won by being stronger,” Logan said, “they’re won by soldiers.”
A piercing hiss tore through the large hangar as the entire back wall began to sink down. The air around Logan’s ears roared, his ears bursting in pain at the pressure change. Yateley stumbled back a few feet, the dust hurtling through the air.
The inner wall was beginning to descend, panels slowly folding downwards. The outer wall began sliding open from the middle, the largest set of sliding doors Logan had ever seen. The ten-foot panel in the middle opened out first, all the dust hurtling towards the ever-growing gap.
Into the vast nothingness of space.
The bodies of the Nazis began to slide across the dusty floor, moving towards the opening. One of them flew off the floor, hurtling towards the gap in the hangar doors. The panel not all the way down yet, his knees cracked backwards as his body hit the edges, flying out into the cold empty vastness of space.
Yateley took a few steps forward, leaning his body away from the pull of the air sucking out of the hangar.
But it was no use.
The doors sliding open even more, Yateley’s body flew off the floor, hurtling through the air. He screamed, his eyes filled with terror as he looked over at Logan.
His grip firmly attached to the bar, Logan raised the middle finger on his other hand as Yateley’s screams soon turned to silence, no air for the sound to travel outside of the ship.
The bodies of the Nazis, the dust, it all went hurtling out of the door. Logan was pulled off his feet, his arms screaming in pain.
He glanced out at the hangar doors. One hundred and fifty meters across, wide open into nothingness. The moon below looked yellow, despite the name Crimson’s Lament. The sun of the Shennong system shone bright, illuminating the bodies floating away from the ship, the dust glistening like snow in floodlights.
Logan grinned, hoisting his other arm up, pressing the cancel button on the control panel. Holding his breath as the wall slowly rose back up, it sealed shut as Logan’s feet fell back to the floor, breathing in deep.
The straps on the safety wall slid off automatically, Logan falling onto his back. He coughed in pain, his ribs burning as he landed. He was beaten to shit, covered in dust, blood, and sweat. He needed to sleep for a week. He needed medical help.
He’d get all of that, and more, as a free man.
Outside of the Arena of Doom.
Chapter 38
Victor Cunningham the Second ran the sonic compressor over Logan’s ribs. The soundwaves were calculated with mind-boggling precision, somehow able to meld the bones back together, knit the jagged shards back into one smooth piece. A process that should take weeks, maybe even months, now finished in mere moments, healed back better than any surgery could ever hope to achieve.
The sonic compressor was one of Victor’s most used medical implements. He’d gone through at least seventeen devices over the years, Lord Zemka always throwing a minor temper tantrum at splurging on the expense.
In all those sixty years, with all the sonic compressors, Victor had never treated a patient while humming to himself. He hadn’t even been sure he could hum; he’d never tried before.
“You seem chipper.” Logan grinned up at him, his eye swollen shut.
“This is my first time in sixty years treating someone as a liberated physician,” Victor said. “This is the last time I’ll be healing someone because of what that bastard Yateley did.”
They were in the medical bay, the same one Victor had been using for the past six decades. But the room felt completely different. Fresh. The space didn’t feel occupied anymore; this time Victor felt like he owned it. His own little personal domain.
Even though the air was slightly stale, the air filters still adjusting to use after years on the surface. Even though the gravity was adjusted differently to Crimson’s Lament. Victor didn’t know if it was a bit too high, or a bit too low, but it was definitely off. Like the air was thicker somehow, or maybe thinner, his limbs moving differently through them.
The entire ship rumbled, a bottle of antiseptic falling off the tray, smashing as it hit the floor.
Victor sighed, putting the sonic compressor on the tray as he scraped up the shards of glass, throwing them in the recycling tube. This was his domain now, dammit; he was going to take care of it.
He paused, looking at his claws. He’d scrubbed them of blood before he began treating his patients, the cleansing light cleaning his hands down to the microscopic level.
Leaving his scaly skin perfectly clean.
He’d eaten his one solid lead on getting back into a human body. Logan seemed a lot more optimistic about finding a way to turn him back. But he wasn’t the one trapped in the body of a dinosaur.
Well, not this Logan, anyway.
Crickett walked into the medical bay, a pad of paper in hand. Following close behind was a raptor, blue paint over his left eye. He had a keypad tied to his arm, his eyes narrowing as he looked around him.
“One of the surgical bays,” Victor said, “converted into the main medical hall for our time in the arena.”
“Got a ship manifest for you, Captain.” Crickett handed the pad of paper over to human Logan.
She’d been busy since they’d picked her up from the atmospire. Logan had stumbled right up to the bridge after his fight, despite Victor’s protest. As soon as they’d collected Crickett, Yrsa, and the two Logan raptors, they were off as fast as the ship could fly. Off in any direction, away from Crimson’s Lament. Thanks to the other ships leaving orbit, the customers fleeing a rebellious arena, they had been lost in the masses. Even though those ships were hundreds of miles away, in the giant nothingness of space, they were still lost in the crowd.
Human Logan raised his eyebrow. As he did, he winced, his eye not healed yet. The internal injuries took precedent over the eye.
He sat up in bed, Victor returning and running the sonic compressor over his ribs.
“Captain?” Logan asked, hissing in pain as he adjusted where he sat.
“Who else we gonna pick?” Crickett asked. “Ship needs a captain. You’re the only one with experience in space. I would ask Oog, but she’s too busy playing with the adjustable wrench I gave to distract her.”
It was at that moment Victor heard a series of loud clangs, followed by some happy yelps from Oog.
A hearty chuckle came from the bed behind Victor. He glanced over his shoulder. Grimsaw’s arm was in the metal ring, his replacement arm slowly printing out. It started with the bone first, the stick of white jutting out from the muscle, the skin growing last.
“I shall join the cavewoman soon.”
“No,” Logan said, “don’t go messing up the ship.”
“What a captainy thing to say,” Crickett said.
Logan paused, grimacing slightly. “Fine, I’ll be the captain. But that means you all have to shape up. We need to organize people to look around the ship, then—”
“Where do you think the manifest came from?” Crickett waved the pad in her hand before practically shoving it into Logan’s hand. “James is already drawing up a map. If we can’t find a machine to make copies, we’ll just draw our own to hang up around the ship.”
Logan nodded before frowning at Crickett.
Victor checked the display on his sonic compressor. The ribs inside were fully healed, as well as the internal organs. He grabbed the nanite balm, handing it to Logan.
“I would usually rub this in myself,” he said, “but my claws aren’t as delicate as human fingers.”
Logan rubbed a tiny amount of the green gunk on his eye, the swelling instantly deflating like a cut haggis.
He winced as the painful nanites began to reconstruct his face.
“We also need an inventory,” Logan said, “precise numbers of everything we have.”
“The Roman husbands are already on it,” Crickett said. “Well, first they’re making an abacus, then they’re—”
“You wanna be my first mate?” Logan blurted out.
Crickett tilted her head. “I’m not one for responsibility.”
“Says the one organizing everything,” Logan said. “You know how to get stuff done, know the clones… the crew better than I do.”
“I’m better at subterfuge, at pissing off the captain and the first mate,” Crickett said. “I’m not leadership material.”
“Says every good leader ever.” Logan sat up in the bed, now fully healed from his fight against Yateley and the Nazis. “I excel at being a good little soldier. Shennong is lawless, dangerous. I need someone with good instincts to look out for us, who knows how the devious think.”
“Devious?” Crickett squinted at Logan. “I was trusted to do the supply run twice a week; I’m nothing but a sweet angel.”
She pursed her lips, clearly thinking for a moment.
“I won’t be your first mate, but I will be your quartermaster.”
“The what?” Logan asked. Victor guessed in the future, the way ships had organized had changed.
“Organize the day-to-day,” Crickett said. “The details, deals with the supplies, organizing. Third in command.”
“Outstanding.” Logan slapped her on the shoulder, then glanced over at Grimsaw. “Heal up well, big man. See you at seventeen hundred for a ship meeting.”
“Seventeen hundred?” Grimsaw held out the fingers on his remaining hand, counting. He then turned to his stump, still under reconstruction, grunting in frustration.
“Victor will let you know.”
With that, Logan and Crickett left the medical bay. As they walked away, the remaining Logan raptor began typing on his keyboard.
Victor put away his sonic compressor, turning to face the other dinosaur.
“We’ll begin with the vowels,” he said, “after the ship meeting. There are three of you left, if my math is correct?”
The Logan raptor pressed down on backspace, erasing his unsaid message before he nodded in agreement.
“It took me months to form basic words,” Victor said, “years to perfect my elocution. But hopefully, with a guide such as me, it will be much easier for you.”
Victor tried his best to smile, his scaly lips curling back, revealing his jagged teeth.
The Logan raptor did the same, his grin manic like a wild dog.
“That is all manner of unsettling,” Grimsaw said as the metal ring around his arm began to plait the muscles on top of his protruding forearm bone.
“Okay,” Victor nodded. “The medical bay is now open to minor injuries. Anyone with cuts, bruises, even pulled muscles are free to come and get treated.”
The raptor Logan pressed a few buttons on his keypad.
“The medical bay is now open to minor injuries. Anyone with cuts, bruises, even pulled muscles are free to come and get treated.”
Hearing his voice come back through on a recording was strange to say the least. Not as strange as a raptor who practiced medicine, but still.
As the Logan Raptor left, Victor reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the remaining forearm of Agent Glass and tore off a chunk of the flesh.
Not as nice now it was lukewarm, but tasty all the same.
Chapter 39
Logan looked at the star chart on his data pad.
Ten systems. All within slingshot distance of one another.
The Cluster.
The Seacole was in the Shennong system, one of only two without a governing body. Within that system was one sun, twelve planets, sixty-three moons. Thousands of continents on those terraformed worlds. Millions of settlements, towns, and cities. Billions of people. Maybe hundreds of billions.
It was almost too big to comprehend.
Almost.
Logan had spent his entire life in the Chaucer system, learning the ins and outs. The quirks of the planets, the politics between the governing bodies. He had a whole new system to learn now.
Crimson’s Lament. That was one of the sixty-three moons he knew all about. Lord Zemka owned the entire body of the moon. But what good would that do him now? His main source of income was gone, flying away on a stolen ship.
The Seacole. It was old, covered in dust. It would take weeks of work to get her up and running. Each clone would need a job to help with the upkeep. Not only that, but training. Logan was the only one adjusting to falling back twenty years in technology. Everyone else was a good few hundred years behind him.
Logan breathed in deep, looking at his surroundings. He was in the sleeping quarters. There were enough beds for a crew of thirty, which left half the clones without anywhere to sleep. About a third of the crew had crashed asleep, everyone else too pumped on adrenaline to even go near a bed. It was the same for Logan’s soldiers after a battle. People responded differently to trauma, to surviving th
rough a battle.
They had a pirate, a ninja, a space soldier, a dinosaur doctor. What they needed was a therapist. Every military ship in the Chaucer system had at least one, someone to help the crew with their mental health issues. Logan would give his left arm for even a psych student (which meant a lot less since Victor could regrow limbs, but still). Everyone on board was displaced in time, survivors of deathmatches at the hands of a maniac. Even the staff crew, the servants, the geishas who worked the arenas, would have trouble adjusting.
How powerless and small would someone feel, following Lord Zemka around all day, handing him fresh cocktails at a moment’s notice? How much CBT, or even EMDR, or electro-stimulus recombination would someone need after that?
Regardless, they’d need to set up another sleeping chamber. Hopefully there were enough medical beds to make it happen. There should be, on a ship made to treat hundreds of wounded soldiers at once.
Logan put down the data pad, looking at the map James had drawn. One of the words in the corner was smudged. Logan looking up to ask James a question.
He saw the man walking out of the sleeping area, a geisha on his arm. He whispered something in her ear, the woman laughing before playfully slapping him on the arm, leading him out to a more private area.
Logan chuckled. Looked like James wouldn’t be getting sleep anytime soon either. He looked back on the map, at the scaled layout of the ship, different levels drawn on different pieces of paper.
They were basically flying a giant hospital. The ship was huge. Logan hadn’t gotten a good look from the outside, but the map seemed simple enough. The clones had basically rushed in through one of the few back entrances. Everything else linked up to the main hangar. Like a spiderweb in the corner. Seven levels of the Seacole, filled with surgical units, screening devices, storage bays, sleeping quarters. The three bottom levels were mostly taken up by the main hangar.
Logan frowned, flicking the page over to another floor. Did they have shuttle ambulances? Those would definitely by useful for hopping down to land on the ground.
Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1) Page 21
