The Galactic Arena Prequels (Books 1 & 2): Inhuman Contact & Onca's Duty

by Dan Davis

  “I would not accept anyone taking my place. I fought to get here. It falls to me alone. Anyway, I should have died years ago, in that Abora Biopharma complex. I did die there. All this since, everything I did, all I learned. Everyone I cared for. This has all been borrowed time. Now I must repay my debt.”

  Her eyes were hard. She nodded.

  “I’d better hurry,” he said, feeling close to naked without his armor, without his weapons.

  He stepped up.

  “Is there anything you want to say, Onca?” Megan called out.

  Onca looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

  What’s the point?

  She called out again, her voice urging him to listen. “Anything we can tell them? This will be declassified one day.”

  Onca sighed and was going to ignore her but he stopped. No, it did not matter what anyone thought of him or what they wrote about him in the histories, if they ever did. It made no difference to Onca, who would be dead soon, he knew.

  But he thought of his daughter. Lena. The girl, a woman grown now, back in Brazil, who would one day discover that he was her father. All Lena needed to do was to get her genome sequenced and tested and compared to a member of her father’s family.

  What could he say that would explain why he had abandoned her so thoroughly? How would it be possible to say what drove him across the solar system and why he committed to a fight when he knew for certain that he could not win it.

  Ultimately, perhaps, it was simple. He turned and spoke in his mother tongue.

  “Tell them I did my duty.”

  He marched right into the arena. The impenetrable screen closed behind him in an instant.

  The 400-meter width of the arena was surely the largest internal space any human had ever been in. The top of the dome above was higher even than the Mirante do Vale, the giant slab of a skyscraper back in Sao Paulo. And the arena floor was twice as wide as the space was high.

  On that distant point opposite, he saw it. Movement in dirty yellow.

  The alien.

  It grew as it rolled toward him, just as he himself advanced to the center. The alien rolled over and over, cartwheeling steadily, relentlessly.

  Like a monster from legend, there was no doubt about it. A horrifically inhuman creature with no eyes, no ears, no mouth. A beast with no mercy, no compassion, no reason that could be detected. Now that he wore no gear at all and considering the slightly reduced gravity, Onca could run the entire width of the arena floor in under a minute, though he would be depleted after.

  But why rush? The alien was coming for him, as sure as the certainty of death.

  The air stank of sulfur. A foul stink filling his nose and choking the back of his throat that only served to deepen his revulsion.

  Estimated at a weight of at least half a ton, it rolled onward, cartwheeling over and over, the endless chain of footpads drumming slowly on the floor, over and over. The knobbled, long arms with their three-fingered, clawed hands rolled and twisted while they flexed, as if it was imagining tearing the puny human apart.

  How could he harm a monster such as this? Without so much as a bladed weapon, what in the hell could he possibly do, other than try to die like a man?

  If he could target the joints where they met the central hub, perhaps it would be vulnerable. Failing that, he could try to break one of the long bones, the upper section of the arm had the narrowest diameter. If he could pin what counted as its elbow to the floor he might be able to stamp the center of it into snapping, both his feet at once, perhaps. A minor injury by itself would not do much harm but if he could slow the thing down, even by a little, he could cause another injury and then another, crippling it. Whittle away at the monster until it was disabled enough for him to work it over.

  When the gap between them closed to around thirty meters, the Wheelhunter lurched into a crazed, spinning acceleration. It covered the distance in under three seconds.

  Without time to think and the Wheelhunter towering over him, Onca feinted to the right then leaped to the left, rolling smoothly over his shoulder and jumping up into a fighting stance and moving in to attack.

  The alien tilted slightly away from him, deceived by the feint. It recovered instantly, swerved toward the human and lashed out with its wicked, long arms.

  One of those arms, two meters in length and ball-joints at every junction, whipped out at him, the three claws on the end of the three fingers flashing across faster than the machine had ever moved. Even when they had programmed it to faster speeds than had been observed in the previous mission, the machine had not moved so quickly. It delivered that force across Onca’s chest, neck and the top of his head, almost instantaneously.

  The force tossed Onca sideways in a tumble. It felt like being hit by the wheel machine, the time it almost killed him, only worse. Much worse.

  Along with the terror, the pain and anguish, he knew he was dead.

  As his body tumbled, the top of his skull spun away. His destroyed throat sprayed his bright blood in a mist of pink through the air, though he clutched uselessly at it. He crashed uncontrollably into the floor and slid along it some way, rolling and sliding on the blood that gushed out of him, leaving a red stain on the black surface.

  Onca was not done.

  I will not die on my knees.

  He struggled to his elbows and knees, blood welling from his chest, neck and head and spattering onto the floor beneath him. The stink of blood engulfed him.

  “This is not the end,” Onca muttered, holding his throat as he struggled to his feet, blood flowing hot over his fingers. “My brothers and sisters. Of Earth. Will return. Will finish you.”

  The great monster cartwheeled back and whipped its arm down.

  His last thought was one of pride.

  He had done his duty.

  EPILOGUE

  In her office in the United Nations Headquarters in New York City, Megan looked out over the East River and across to the boroughs that made up the western end of Long Island. It was windy and fine rain fell in sheets of gray water gusting over the river like smoke.

  Her days were spent in the building but it was during her early morning runs when she saw the big, glass oblong of the structure from along the river that she thought of Onca. It was a tenuous enough link, she supposed, the fact that the architect of the UN HQ building was the same Brazilian man that had designed the planned city of Brasilia back in the mid-twentieth century.

  Brasilia was where Onca’s funeral had been. It was where a discrete, anonymous monument was erected to honor the man’s sacrifice.

  “One day,” she had promised him as they lowered an empty coffin into the grave. “One day, we will make it mean something. One day, people will know of your sacrifice.”

  It had been December, the height of Brasilia’s rainy season, and the rain had soaked her uniform so thoroughly that it was as if she stood under a lukewarm shower in her somber clothes. The raindrops fell large and heavy, each one splashing like a shell casing into the neat grass of the military cemetery.

  December rain in New York was a different matter. On her morning run that day, it had fallen thin and bitter, stinging her face with a million icy needles.

  Had the man behind her known it was the anniversary of Onca’s funeral? Had he known that her thoughts would be running that way, that dropping Onca’s name would be most effective on this day more than any other?

  Of course he had.

  “Well,” she said, without turning around, “you somehow managed to worm your way all the way up to this floor and all the way into my office. You’d better get on with telling me why.”

  “Yes, thank you, General Richter, I will do so,” the young man said, his Chinese accent quite strong. “I have a recommendation for the future of UNOP. For the next mission to Orb Station Zero.”

  She turned about and looked at the slight man sitting with his knees together in front of her desk. He looked like a little boy trying to be good for his teach
er. Or his mother.

  More like grandmother, old girl.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  If he was offended by her question, he did not show it.

  “I am nineteen years old.”

  She laughed. “You look younger. But I am amazed that you have a position in the biology department at such a young age. Did you say you were a doctor?”

  He shrugged, as if none of this was of the slightest importance. “I was a child prodigy. I had an early start. I have almost received my doctorate, yes.”

  “Alright, fine. So, what can I do for you, Mister Fo?”

  A thin smile appeared on his lips. “I have a few ideas about what we need for the next mission. I have sent many messages to my superiors and yet they do not trust in my opinions.”

  “And why on Earth would you come to me?”

  “I thought that you would listen.”

  She pursed her lips and eased herself into her chair. Unfortunately, no matter how much she ran, she was gradually growing fat in her old age, despite the gerontological treatments that UNOP pumped into her every month.

  “Do not let my job title and this rather fine office up here fool you into thinking that I have any authority to make your ideas happen, even if I liked them. Since the failure of the last mission, ever since I returned to Earth, I am afraid I have fallen out of favor as far as UNOP is concerned.”

  I’m like a mascot. Meet the General who has been on the Orb. Come, shake her hand and move on. Do not let her failure infect you.

  “I understand your current worth to UNOP,” young Fo said. “And I understand your history with the second mission. All of this is why I fought to see you, specifically.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Speaking frankly, no one else in the project was willing to see me. No one high up enough.”

  “I am no longer one who is high up.”

  He spread his hands and leaned back in his chair. “But you have access to those who are. And, again I hope you do not take this poorly, but you are someone who I suspect is willing to listen to an out of the box concept.”

  “Someone desperate.”

  He had the good grace not to respond.

  “Alright,” she said, sitting back. “Tell me.”

  “Rafael Santos, the man known as Onca, was the greatest physical specimen we could find, with the greatest training and the greatest performance of anyone on Earth.”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know.”

  “His genetic potential is truly remarkable but he simply lacked the mass to compete with the size of the alien.”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  The young man named Fo sat up straighter, like a pencil rammed quivering into an apple. “I have developed a gene editing method to take the best pieces of Onca and turn them into a range of cloned soldiers.”

  “You’re in the clone project already. You’re suggesting using a clone of Onca? But why would clones of him do any better with the next mission to the Orb? He already failed once.”

  “Ah, yes, but I am not talking about making copies. His genes are quite marvelous. The man was from Brazil, his genetic diversity is astonishing. DNA of West African, Native Amerindian, Portuguese, Northern European origins, primarily. Even Chinese, I am delighted to say.” He hesitated. “The magnificent Major had no known family. Testing of Brazilian citizens has discovered no close relatives. But I wonder if you know of anyone related to the man? A child, perhaps.”

  How did you find out about her? A prodigy, indeed.

  Megan hesitated before making a decision. “He had a child. A daughter. She is a police officer. Highly decorated, in fact, and someone I had considered recruiting to UNOP. Perhaps you were aware of the fact, young man?”

  “Might I suggest you follow through on that intention, General? It might prove rather useful in my work.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you are proposing, Mr. Fo.”

  “What I shall do is design varieties of APs with the specific traits that I desire. As well as that, I shall grow these specimens to be gigantic men and women. Over two meters tall, certainly and with muscle mass and aggression enough to take on a Wheelhunter, unarmed, unarmored, and win.”

  “You want to put Artificial Persons in the Orb Arena?” Megan said, shaking her head. “Your predecessors experimented with that. APs will never be capable of the necessary mental performance. They’re too slow, too hesitant. They have no creativity. And that’s fundamental to their design, there’s no way around it.”

  He did not blink. “I have an answer for that. A way of achieving what is required. It would be a massive program and it would cost a fortune.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I see. And how much would this venture of yours set UNOP back?”

  His smile was so wide that it distorted his narrow face. “At least five billion in the first year, by my calculations. And the costs would soar from there.”

  She laughed. “It’s no wonder your superiors rebuffed you. I’m surprised they didn’t throw you out of UNOP just for suggesting it.”

  Fo leaned his skinny body forward, gesturing with his long, pale fingers. He had an absurd grin on his face. “There’s more to it than that, General Richter. Much more. And if we do it my way, we will undoubtedly be victorious in the next mission.” He shrugged, the grin widening. “Or the one after. What is thirty years, or sixty, for that matter, when the survival of the human race is at stake? But when it is successful, it will be you that they have to thank for it.” The young man’s smile faded into seriousness. “More importantly, it will establish the genetic legacy of the great Major Onca for all time.”

  “Alright,” Megan said, sighing. “I’m listening.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Galactic Arena Series as a whole features tons of action, space battles and infantry combat. Multiple alien civilizations fight for dominance of the galaxy through the processes imposed by the mysterious Orb Builders. Humanity can only hope to compete by utilizing genetic manipulation, advanced weapons tech and the men and women of Earth and her colonies with the greatest gifts for violence.

  ***

  If you enjoyed these stories, please leave a review! Even a couple of lines would help me enormously by making this book more visible to new readers.

  I hope you enjoy the rest of this series.

  The main series begins with Orb Station Zero, Book 1 in the Galactic Arena series. The main series tells the story of humanities future amongst the stars through the somewhat cynical eyes of Rama Seti, who starts out as an unlikely military hero and becomes much more.

  In the Galactic Arena series, Earth is in for a pretty rough ride over the next few centuries, fighting for survival in a galaxy that only ever gets more dangerous. Alien enemies become allies against larger threats. Allies turn on us. Extrasolar colonies and interspecies trade leads to huge technological and social changes. New AI and bioengineered lifeforms fight for their own places in the galactic community.

  Orb Station Zero is the story of a professional VR gamer, Rama Seti and the fourth mission to the Orb, which takes place forty-five years after the events of Onca’s Duty.

  The Galactic Arena series as a whole features tons of action, space battles, and infantry combat. Multiple alien civilizations fight for dominance of the galaxy through the processes imposed by the mysterious Orb Builders. Humanity can only hope to compete by utilizing genetic manipulation, advanced weapons tech and the men and women of Earth and her colonies with the greatest gifts for violence. Our heroes explore new planets and inner space, trying to find their humanity inside the dense cluster of manipulated genes, biotech enhancements, artificial intelligence, and hybridized sentient lifeforms during an endless war.

  Rama Seti has a very long military career ahead of him. It begins in Orb Station Zero.

  Excerpt below.

  ORB STATION ZERO EXCERPT

  Please enjoy the following excerpt from Orb Station Zero
(Galactic Arena Book 1):

  And grab it right now on Amazon:

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  Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B01KSJTPYO

  CHAPTER ONE – RAMA SETI’S HEAD

  The first time the UNOP operatives cut off Rama Seti's head, it was for a good cause. Perhaps, the most important cause in human history. The second time, three years later, it was in order to save his life.

  The Tactical Surgeon knew that his target, Rama Seti, was not expecting to be beheaded in the middle of the night. The target’s apartment was on the 37th floor of 6 Constitution Plaza, Delhi and Mr. Seti had the kind of security system that made high net worth individuals sleep soundly. Entry to the building itself was controlled and patrolled, funded by the residents’ monthly fees. Even so, from the personality profile in his file, the Tac Surgeon knew the target was not a man to trust other people to keep him safe.

  The target had invested in an automated body scanner, fingerprint and retinal scans combined with a password combination lock with a timer that didn’t allow the door to be opened outside of 1400 to 1700, when the target took his deliveries. The apartment door was high carbon steel reinforced with six locking rods that bolted through the door and into the frame.

  Yet the best civilian security on Earth would not stop United Nations Orb Project (UNOP) Tactical/Surgical Team 8 from breaking through.

  It was 0300, local time. Suitable bribes had turned the heads and cameras of building security and the UNOP T/S Team 8 electronic specialist rendered the alarm system inert, gave a nod and the lock breaker stepped up and started work. While he drilled into the door by the main lock, the rest of the UNOP Marines covered him. The non-surgical team members carried assault rifles, armed with non-lethal electroshock rounds to take out unarmed civilians but also a selection of AP and hollow point magazines for local law enforcement and enthusiastic security guards if it came to it.