Galactic Arena Box Set

by Dan Davis

  She saw, on the internal camera, the cargo compartment filled with clouds of debris, smoke and dying sparks that the fire suppression system had put out.

  She saw Mehdi’s body slumped in the harness, half of his torso, one shoulder and arm destroyed. Just gone. There was no blood. Probably it had all fallen straight out. For a moment, she hoped that there would be some way to restore him. The doctors on the Victory were the best trauma surgeons, with the best equipment. It was a long way but if she could get him home in time, perhaps they could preserve his brain like they had done with the Orb combat subjects. Regrow his tissue and bring him back to himself.

  But his head rolled and she saw the damage to the cranial section of his helmet. The darkness beneath.

  “Close the ramp, Sheila,” she said, her voice slow and flat.

  “Closing.” It seemed to take a long time. Kat climbed into a perfectly clear blue sky. A few klicks to the east, a cirrus layer hung like a tattered shroud. “Cargo compartment closed.”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Cargo compartment interior requires replacement but integrity intact. Limited damage to Ion Thruster 1. Additional ablative panel damage to fuselage.”

  “How are the passengers?”

  “Alive, though their biometrics show high degrees of distress. However, Flight Officer Moreau—”

  “I know.” Kat snapped. “I know how Mehdi is.”

  Below, she watched the wheelhunter attack continuing on the outpost.

  “Plot the most efficient course to orbit and from here to the Victory. It’s up to the people on the ground, now. We’ve done all we can.”

  5.

  Ram stepped out of the south wing airlock and followed the Marines indoors into a reception room beyond. It was a small, bare space, functioning as little more than a junction between other sections of the outpost. Metal doors on either side led deeper into the corridors and rooms of the outpost. Ahead, an open door led into the center of the outpost, the area roofed over with the transparent bubble dome, the sunlight bright enough to overwhelm the artificial lighting on the ceiling.

  The outpost was a large square, the four sides made from repurposed cargo containers, internal and external sections cut from the Victory, dropped to the surface by landers and welded together. They formed floor, walls and ceiling, a flattened oblong in cross section with internal divisions inside forming the rooms, the laboratories and dorms, the mess hall, power plant, storage.

  Forming them into a square left the center a protected space where, in time, they would start to grow food for the outpost. A step necessary for eventually turning an outpost into a colony. For now, though, it was bare but for the black rock underfoot and stacks of equipment and tools leftover from the construction.

  The transparent material was tough but light. The bubble dome had been rolled out from a single sheet, stretched between the internal walls and a specific current run through it to stretch it up into a low-profile dome, before another charge turned it solid and airtight. Looking through the door from the junction room out at the turquoise sky above was like peering through a window into a peaceful alternate universe.

  He stepped into a scene of muted chaos.

  Sounds of battle came from the attacked side. Assault rifles, three or four, firing bursts and the resounding bangs of explosives and physical strikes to the outpost superstructure. A few civilians hurried away from the fighting, huddled together and fearful. A couple of others rushed the other way across the center, carrying a box of ammunition between them. Everyone wore full EVA suits, helmets and all.

  Going with the flow of his group, Ram walked out to the center and took a step or two after Sergeant Stirling. Heading toward the sound of battle.

  Someone stopped him.

  “All civilians are to take shelter in the western section of the outpost, sir,” a limping Marine shouted up at Ram, indicating the direction he was supposed to take with outstretched arm. “As far from the wheeler attack as possible.”

  “Good,” Ram said. “Get them out of the way.”

  Ram started to walk around the wounded Marine. The man’s armor was dirty and dented, frayed and melted at the edges like plastic that had been burned.

  “Sir,” the Marine said, scurrying to intercept him, dragging a leg. “Please join the other civilians.”

  “I’m going to help,” Ram said, patting the sword in its tactical scabbard on his hip.

  “Ram,” Milena said from a few meters away across the square. She was helping to direct the civilians who carried the injured engineer toward an open door in the next section, the west wing. “Come this way. Please.”

  Even at such a short distance away, the wheelhunter interference gave her voice a digitized quality, hard edged and jittery. His integrated AugHud flickered and the icons flickered and smeared across his visions. He blinked and shook his head, as if that would do anything.

  “Sir,” the Marine urged, pushing Ram on the forearm.

  “Get your hands off me, Private,” Ram snapped at him. The Marine’s arm jerked away and the man took a step back. He was half Ram’s height and weight and Ram knew he could toss the guy halfway across the courtyard if he wanted to. In fact, he had half a mind to do just that. Do that and then run to the rifle fire coming from the east wing.

  “Mr. Seti, sir!” A voice roared in his ear. Sergeant Stirling was right behind him and he marched over, rifle gripped across his chest. “Do as the man says.”

  “I’m supposed to be attached to F Team,” Ram said. “Cassidy said as much.”

  “Yeah, but only because we’re a non-combat team,” Stirling said, clearing his throat. “But now we’ve been ordered to cover the east wing. And the orders were to leave you with the civilians.”

  Behind the Sergeant, the tall, thin officer loped up. “Quite right, Sergeant. Seti, you will join the civilians in the designated area. Now, if you please.”

  “What the hell is the point of that?” Ram said, his voice growing louder. “I’m here. The enemy is there.”

  The sergeant looked at the officer. But Ensign Tseng studiously ignored the man’s gaze. “You might be dressed like a Marine and you might think you are a Marine but you are bloody-well not one. You’re not a member of F Team. You’re a damned civilian and you’re under our protection and under our command which means you do exactly as we tell you to do, at all times. Now, get back there with the civilians and stay there.”

  Without waiting for a response, the Ensign strolled on, heading for the fighting and taking his men with him.

  The ground underfoot thrummed with the vibration from a chain of detonations.

  “This is bullshit,” Ram said to their backs. “I’m designed to fight these—”

  “They say you’re a liability, sir,” Sergeant Stirling said. “The orders were clear. You’re a civilian, so act like one, please.”

  His contemptuous dismissal dissolved into digital noise as the distance between them increased, thanks to the interference the wheelers were flooding them with. The enemy were at the gates.

  Ram’s instinct told him to go forward and join the fight anyway but he hesitated. He held out his arms, towering over everyone in the area. “What am I for, then? Why am I even here if not to fight?”

  Sergeant Stirling pulled his rifle tight to his shoulder but kept it pointed down. “Sir. I know. Personally, I want you out front and fighting. But you can’t argue with UNOP.” Ram hesitated and Stirling continued. “If the wheelers break through our defenses, then you’ll be fighting for your life anyway, sir.” He gestured at the civilians across the square. “And for them.”

  Ram was hit by conflicting urges. If the aliens got by the Marines, then Ram fighting alone would likely be doomed to defeat. The best place for him was taking the fight to the enemy, to be a force multiplier rather than a last line of defense.

  But everything was strange. There were things happening that he did not understand, people around him behaving in ways that made no
sense. Why was he being told he was a liability? What had the mission leaders brought him to the surface for?

  On the other hand, if the wheelers did break through into the civilian area, perhaps he would be the best person to protect them.

  “Alright,” Ram said. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  He went after Milena into the structure, as the surly asshole of a sergeant had suggested. Ram had to bend double and enter the door sideways, like an arthritic crab, but he got inside the building. The huge sword hanging at his hip in its tactical sheath whacked the frame. Inside, the lights flickered as the walls rang with distant explosions. He followed the tight, low corridor deeper into the facility. He passed a group of three people, huddled in the doorway to some sort of lab beyond. All wearing their EVA suits, even though they were indoors. A sensible precaution.

  “It’s him,” one of them muttered, nudging another beside her.

  “Hi, how you doing?” Ram said, grinning.

  From inside the lab, someone shouted at them to get back to work and they hurried to obey, shutting the door. He passed a few more units and a handful of people that squeezed by him, heading the other way. Heading toward the fighting. One man tripped over his own rifle, falling into a sprawling mess on the floor and cursing while his friend helped him to his feet.

  At the southwest corner of the outpost, an open airlock door was guarded by a pair of civilians brandishing sidearms.

  “Get inside, Rama Seti,” one of them said, a woman, waving him through. “Milena’s just ahead of you, through there.”

  “Thank you,” he said, squeezing through, careful to mind his sheathed sword. I guess everyone knows that Milena used to be my driver.

  “What the fuck’s he doing in here?” one of the armed civilians muttered behind him.

  Good point.

  Ram ignored the remark and straightened up into a long room, full of tight groups of people. What little illumination there was came from flashlights and lamps, throwing shadows across the low ceiling.

  “Ram, there you are,” Milena called from nearby and dragged him to one side. “I thought you were going to run off to battle.”

  “I almost did,” he admitted. People were looking at him. He knew what they were thinking. He was thinking it himself. “What’s going on? Some of these civilians are armed. How come they have firearms but I don’t? I saw one guy just now trip over his rifle. Why am I back here when I could be useful? I should be out there.”

  “Me too,” Milena said.

  “You?” Ram

  “What?” she asked, helmet tilted to one side, arms crossing awkwardly in her EVA suit. “I’m not a driver any more, you know. I qualified as an Emergency Medical Technician. My place is on the front line. Well, just behind it, anyway.”

  “Alright, then,” Ram said, putting a hand to the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Let’s go back the way we came in.”

  “No,” Milena said, “we’ll go through here and head up the far side. There’s supposed to be a designated flow of people and supplies, as much as possible. We’ll go through the north wing.”

  “Smart.”

  He followed her through the throng, picking up fragments of worried conversation. More than a few people commented on the fact of Ram’s presence among them. Specifically, why in the name of Hell was Earth’s savior, the only victor of the Orb Arena, hiding back with the civilians?

  “What is this place?” Ram asked Milena as they edged forward through the large room.

  “Canteen, communal area and designated bunker,” she said. “It’s reinforced, with its own isolated power and air filtration.”

  “Right. The stationary lifeboat.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How come I know so much about this outpost?” Ram said. “Someone told me they uploaded military knowledge when they put my brains in this body, I think. Did they include structural information about this outpost?”

  She did not look up at him. “Sure. Same process.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. When they were almost at the other side of the room, Milena slowed to a stop. She stretched up, looking over the helmeted heads and peered across the room. He had a fine view but wasn’t sure what she was looking for. “Listen, Ram. There’s something you should know. Do you remember another subject called Sifa Kiyenge?”

  Sifa. Did he remember her? He remembered her being the first subject to welcome him when he was thrust into the ludus, up on the Victory. He remembered her huge grin and her vibrancy, her energy. A truly magnificent fighter, incredibly fast and skillful, and endlessly creative. He remembered that she displayed the same attributes when having sex with him in their rooms, in the barracks after lights out. He remembered her being shot multiple times in the crossfire between Alina and the Marines when the Russian subject had killed Mael. He remembered trying to reach her after she fell. Her blood pooling on the floor under the mess benches.

  “Yeah, I remember her.”

  In the corner, by the doorway there, an incredibly tall person stood up. Clad in an oversized civilian style EVA suit, she was almost as tall as Ram was and she stared back at him.

  “That’s not Sifa.”

  “She had a clone backup, too,” Milena said. “Do you remember that? At first, they didn’t think her consciousness could be recovered. Dr. Fo and his team persevered. But…”

  “But?”

  Milena looked up at him. “It was not a complete success. And her memories date from before you were brought into the ludus. And only then.”

  “She doesn’t remember me?”

  Milena patted him on the armored forearm.

  A series of distant thuds rocked the floor and vibrated through the walls. People around them stirred, afraid. Ram did not blame them. They were only scientists, administrators, engineers.

  “Come on,” Milena said. “Let’s just get by her and you can try to make friends with her after the attack.”

  When they reached the door, Sifa blocked the way through.

  “You’re him.” Her voice sounded the same. She was not smiling. Sifa had always been smiling, even when she was fighting. Especially then. “Rama Seti.”

  “The one and only,” Ram said, grinning. “World famous, right?” She looked confused, irritated maybe. “Sorry, I’m just kidding. You’re Sifa. We were friends. Before. Back on the Victory. I’m glad you’re, you know. Here.”

  “I have no memory of your time. But they showed me video of you and I fighting. Training. Conversing. They said you were dangerous. To stay away from you.”

  “Sure,” Ram said, glancing at Milena. “Listen, Sifa. We need to get through that door. Me and Milena. We have to go help, okay?”

  “I have orders,” he said. “No civilians to come through this door. Captain Cassidy’s orders. Sergeant Gruger told me so. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re a Marine?” Ram said, brightly, even while she shook her head in response. “Me too. Come on, Sifa, let me through. It makes no sense that I’m stuck in here. You hear those explosions? Come on, Sifa, that’s our people out there, taking fire. In fact, why are you here? You should come with us.”

  “I’m not a Marine.” Sifa hesitated. “And I’m not allowed in combat,” she said.

  “What?” Ram said. “Why? That’s crazy. You’re one of the best fighters who ever lived. You should be out there. Why not fight?”

  “I’m just not allowed, that is all.”

  Ram’s patience was wearing thin and irritation at the giant woman’s demeanor began bubbling up. Milena’s stance indicated that her reserves of calm were similarly dwindling. And in fact, he could tell, somehow, that Milena was irritated at him. At Ram. Irritated because he was failing to resolve the situation swiftly.

  Ram leaned down a little and peered into Sifa’s visor. “Will they not let you fight because you’re no good at it anymore?”

  She glared at him, a touch of her old fire behind the whites of her eyes. “Do
not threaten me.”

  Ram did not back down. “Move aside, please, Sifa. I don’t want to have to move you.”

  She held up a hand and stepped away. “Alright, you can go through but not her. She is a civilian.”

  “She’s coming too,” Ram said. “She’s a medic. People are probably hurt.”

  Sifa shrugged, sidestepped and dropped her ass onto a crate beside the door, waving them through,

  On the other side, smoke drifted down the corridor. It was far worse in this wing, the north wing, than it had been in the opposite side of the outpost. Emergency lighting glowed along the edges of the route ahead.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Ram said to Milena as she came through beside him. “She’s not the same woman, is she.”

  The sound of a battle rifle, firing on full auto, echoed from up ahead.

  “Maybe you should wait here after all,” Ram said to Milena.

  “Just hurry up,” she said and he set off toward the explosions and rifle sounds. Ram had come through the south wing of the outpost, where there were storage areas, the power station and science labs. Here, in the north wing, they walked by the communications room which he knew had a cluster of antennae and dishes on the roof. Then an administration area, a workshop, sleeping quarters. All empty. Up ahead, figures moved in the darkness. Beyond them, obscured by smoke, he was sure he saw glints of sunlight. Or maybe it was fire.

  A Marine lay against the wall of the corridor, with another crouched over him. Milena pushed by Ram and knelt by the injured man.

  “What happened?” Milena asked, flipping open the cover on the man’s wrist screen and checking his stats. “His suit seems intact?”

  “One of those fucking wheelers tossed him against the wall,” the other Marine answered. “Like he was a sack of meat. Mashed his guts, maybe.”

  “Definitely broken bones,” Milena said, checking the screen. “Internal bleeding, looks like.”

  “That’s what I said,” the second Marine said.

  Shouting came from further up. A burst of rifle fire.