The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  “We can’t abandon Jarek now. And Pryce might not even be in danger right now if I’d just . . . Rache, I—”

  “—fucked up,” she finished for him. “I’ll say it for you, since you’re so scared of the big words.”

  He nodded, his face tight. “I did. I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “I know you are.”

  It was pretty much what she’d expected him to say, but it was still nice to hear him say it—a small confirmation that he was still her Michael, even if he’d scuffed his shiny surface.

  She stepped behind him to leave room for a man and woman to pass by in the other direction. “Let’s just get over there before Jarek does something crazy.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  She smiled despite herself. He had a point. She just hoped Pryce was still okay.

  A few minutes later, the three of them were climbing onto the narrow saddle of the skipper, which looked a bit like a motorcycle that had sprouted stubby wings. With its four little electric motors, it was more or less a tiny version of an airship—one that was much easier to fall off of, but that risk seemed well worth it right now in light of the added speed.

  They straddled the skipper, Michael at the controls in front and Lea sandwiched between him and her. It was a tight fit, and Rachel had to resort to tucking her staff to her side like a lance, but it worked.

  Michael brought the skipper jerkily off the ground, and she stifled a cry of dismay at the small taste of how hazardous this ride was going to be. She clutched at Lea, and Michael guided them out of the underground garage.

  As they tore off toward Newark through the dark night, she had all she could do to keep from disturbing their balance while desperately hoping they weren’t already too late.

  23

  “For the five-hundredth time,” Jarek said, shaking his head, “drop it, Al! You weren’t even here for all this shit. Unless you two finished merging . . .”

  “We—umm, I did, sir. I dare say it looks like I’ve missed quite the adventure. But I still don’t see why we couldn’t apologize to the Resistance once Pryce is safe.”

  He rubbed at his eyes. “Jesus, it never ends. Eye on the prize, buddy. Focus up!”

  They’d be to Pryce’s shop in a few minutes, and his plan hadn’t evolved beyond kicking the door in and beating everyone inside to bloody pulps (excluding Pryce, of course).

  What made it worse was that he was about ninety-eight percent sure he was walking straight into a trap. Why else would the Red King have kept Pryce in his shop instead of dragging him back to the Red Fortress?

  Sure, he probably would have preferred Jarek to have called back by the end of the allotted hour with the location of his goods, but the fact that he’d made no effort to conceal their location meant he was ready and willing to handle any half-cocked rescue attempts. Which was exactly what this was.

  At least Jarek would have no shortage of people to hit. Who said he wasn’t an optimist?

  But Al’s comments continued to nibble at him.

  “So explain this to me, Al. They powered you down and locked you up, and you still wanna help them?”

  “Sir, we both know that very few people think of me as anything other than software. It was an understandable action on their part. I don’t like how they treated you, but they are trying to clear the way for the world to get back on its feet. There’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

  Jarek barked a short laugh. “Yeah, we’ve never heard that one before, right? Remember the Iron Eagles? It’s not like the Resistance has a prayer of ever actually winning this war against the raknoth, anyway.”

  “Certainly not without you, sir.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Robot. And besides, I’m not sure beating the raknoth even matters at this point.”

  “Jesus,” Al said in a nearly perfect imitation of Jarek. “It never ends.”

  “I hate it when you do that.”

  He focused as they drew close enough to spot the dark outline of a medium-sized ship in the park beside Pryce’s place. “Game time, Al.”

  Al brought the ship to a stationary hover at the northern edge of the park. “I’m picking up thirteen life forms inside, sir.”

  “Christ, how’s that for lucky?”

  “Two more at the front entrance, and at least two more still on board the ship.”

  One of those seventeen was presumably Pryce, which left him at a square sixteen on one.

  Great.

  He’d fought against worse odds with Fela and won, but one of those blips Al saw was the Red King. He was pretty sure that tipped the odds away from his favor.

  Too bad Rachel wasn’t here to help him do this without getting Pryce shot. But he couldn’t turn back now. Even if he could, he wasn’t entirely sure she’d still be with him now that he’d decked Michael and blown out of there.

  It was just him and Al, just as it had always been.

  He withdrew two flashbangs from his locker of goodies and tucked them into his gun belt. He eyed the Big Whacker, then decided against it. He had Fela’s “small” sword strapped on already, and speed was going to be key here.

  “All right. Let’s see what we can do about these numbers. Get me over the sentries at the front.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Al inched the ship forward, dropping the boarding ramp before Jarek had to ask. The two Reds posted at Pryce’s front door were already raising their weapons as Jarek leaped from the boarding ramp.

  He landed on the closer of the two and drove him to the ground with a disturbing combination of snaps and wet crunching sounds. A muffled cry of agony escaped from beneath the armored hand he’d clamped over the Red’s mouth. He punched the poor bastard in the side of the head and sprang forward to slap aside the second Red’s rifle.

  Without Fela, the blow would have bought him a moment to close the distance on the guy. With Fela’s added strength, the backhand broke bones, tore the rifle free of the Red’s grip, and nearly sent him tumbling to the ground.

  He grabbed the Red by his armored vest. Resisting the urge to throw him through the window of the building across the street, he yanked him closer instead. He brought a closed fist down on top of the man’s head, aiming for a level of force that would incapacitate without killing, though it was never really a sure thing.

  The Red crumpled to the curb, incapacitated to say the least.

  Jarek placed his hand on the doorknob to Pryce’s shop.

  “Front room appears empty, sir,” Al said. “Looks like a few of them are stirring in the shop.”

  He stepped into the front room, a pistol in his right hand and a flashbang in his left. He kept his voice low enough that it would be inaudible outside of his sealed helmet. “You ready to do our sharpshooter thing?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  He approached the door to the shop, pulled the pin from the flashbang, and prepared himself for the puppet act.

  Jarek was a decent shot—not the finest in the land by any means, but not bad. Al, on the other hand, was a stone-cold deadeye with unsurprisingly robotic precision. The catch was that Al wasn’t capable of voluntarily causing direct bodily harm to living humans. He could, however, point guns at them, and Jarek was more than capable of pulling triggers.

  Neither one of them were big fans of the loophole. The near conflict made Al uncomfortable, and Jarek usually preferred to stick to beatdowns that left his opponents breathing. When they had the choice, they usually found other ways. But sometimes they didn’t.

  He reached for the doorknob and prepared to chuck the flashbang into the room.

  “Wait,” Al said. “I think I’m seeing—”

  Jarek tuned in with Fela’s auditory sensors.

  Murmurs. Shifting weights and shuffling boots. Quick, padding footsteps . . . headed straight for the door.

  “Move!” Al cried. “Get out of the—”

  He was already darting to the right when the metal door to Pryce’s shop t
ore from its hinges with a groaning screech. Not fast enough. The door slammed straight into his left side and knocked him to the ground.

  He reflexively raised his gun but lowered it with a curse as the Red King stepped through, eyes awash with red raknoth fire.

  “Where is the nest?”

  “Where is the Pryce?”

  The raknoth scowled at him, the skin of his hands and face shifting a few shades greener. When he spoke, his voice was raspier than before. “It would appear you have no intention of holding to our bargain.”

  He swallowed the urge to tell him he had a bargain for his ass. “How’s this for a bargain? Give me Pryce and we walk—no fighting, no helping those rebel scum. This isn’t our fight. I just wanted my exo back, and I’ve got it.”

  The Red King looked at him as if he were a particularly offensive pile of garbage. “You are a man without honor, Jarek Slater. Your choices were clear: the nest for Pryce, or death for both of—”

  Jarek raised his gun and fired off four rounds in rapid succession. No reason to start acting honorably now, right? At least two or three shots must have hit, but it was hard to tell. The Red King sprang into motion, diving for him with no concern for the rounds pelting into the deepening green of his scaly hide.

  Jarek swept his pistol butt at the King’s head, but the raknoth lunged in and drove him flat on his back. Even with Fela’s protection, the impact drove the air out of Jarek’s lungs, and he immediately realized he’d underestimated the Red King’s strength. He twisted out of the way of a punch that obliterated the ground where his head had been, and he slammed the butt of his gun into the Red King’s head once, twice, three times.

  The blows only succeeded at making the raknoth angrier. The King caught Jarek’s wrist in a steel grip and drove it to the ground with one hand while he raised the other, which had sprouted short but nasty claws, to strike.

  Jarek reached up to grab the raknoth’s arm and dropped the flashbang just behind his head—the flashbang whose lever he’d let fly the moment the raknoth had come down on top of him.

  “Say cheese, asshole.”

  The grenade detonated with a sonorous pop and a flash of blinding light. Thanks to Fela’s lightning-fast sensory filters, the light wasn’t blinding to Jarek and the sound not nearly so intense.

  On top of him, the Red King roared, shaking his head in disorientation. Jarek took advantage of the opening to plant a doublehanded shove into the King’s chest. The raknoth was heavy—absurdly so—but Fela was strong. The shove launched the King back into the wall with a thud and a crack.

  Jarek kipped to his feet and wasted no time in closing on the thrashing raknoth. He caught the King by an arm and planted a few more pistol whips on his head. Each one of those blows would have killed a normal man twice over, but this felt more like bashing a rock instead of a skull.

  Shouts came from the shop as the Reds scrambled to rally and come to their master’s aid. He needed to get Pryce and get out of there.

  He pivoted with a violent jerk and threw the raknoth back into the shop.

  “Get ready, Al.”

  He chucked the second flashbang into the room beside the Red King and drew his second pistol as the raknoth leaped up to kick at the flashbang with his—not feet. Appendages. Clawed, scaly green appendages.

  But the King was a hair too late. The flashbang detonated.

  Jarek was already charging. He cut the Red King’s roar short with a hefty chest kick that sent the raknoth sailing across the room. Then he raised his weapons and relaxed as best he could.

  “Take it, Al.”

  Fela tracked left, taking Jarek’s arms with her as Al sighted in on their first target and said, “Pull.”

  Jarek squeezed the triggers. Two Reds fell dead.

  Al was already taking aim at the next pair.

  “Pull,” Al said. “Pull. Pull, pull.”

  Each time, Jarek squeezed the triggers, doing his best not to disturb Al’s aim. Between his own movements and the staggering of the Reds, the system wasn’t perfect, but in the space of four seconds, they dropped six of ten targets to the floor.

  Those four seconds were all they had.

  The Red King, already recovered from a kick that would have killed an elephant, barreled toward them, eyes blazing red. Al had the insight to aim a shot at one ruby eye, but the raknoth lowered his head when he saw it coming.

  Jarek capitalized on the momentary break in line of sight to leap high and right. He flew over the charging raknoth and landed on a heavy wooden worktable with a deep thud. He paused long enough to snap off a shot at the one Red who hadn’t managed to scramble to cover, holstered one pistol, and leaped again, this time for the tightly winding spiral staircase in the corner.

  He vaulted over the metal railing, which groaned and bent beneath his grip, and landed about a third of the way up the staircase.

  Below, the Red King strode toward him, no longer in any great rush by the looks of it. A second later, Jarek realized why.

  He heard shuffling from above and the sound of a gun hammer being cocked. A moment later, a pair of feet came into view, followed by another. They descended the stairs until Jarek could see that the first set belonged to Pryce. Behind him came Mosen, holding a large pistol to Pryce’s back.

  “Hey, Slater,” he said, his cold eyes gleaming. “Was hoping we’d catch you soon.”

  24

  Jarek looked between Pryce and Mosen, glad for the cover of Fela’s faceplate as he gnashed his teeth in apprehensive indecision.

  “You have broken our bargain, Jarek Slater,” the Red King called from below. “Give us the location of the nest, or Jay Pryce’s life is forfeit.”

  Pryce visibly swallowed, watching to see what he would do.

  “Okay.” He consciously let go of the railing, holstered his pistol, and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” He gave Pryce and Mosen a little wave and added, “Hi, by the way.”

  Mosen gave him a predatory grin and waved his gun demonstratively.

  Jarek swallowed. God, his mouth was dry. “Why don’t you hand me the old man, and I’ll tell you guys everything I know.”

  He wasn’t going to tell them anything (not that he even had much to tell), but it was worth a shot. He was a man without honor, after all.

  “I find that unlikely, given the circumstances,” the Red King said.

  “Oh, come on. What did you expect me to do? For the record, calling someone to say you’re gonna kill their friends if they don’t do what you want isn’t making a freaking bargain. That’s called ransom.”

  “I believe ransom implies a monetary payment,” Pryce said. His eyes widened as he realized he’d spoken out loud.

  Mosen frowned at the back of Pryce’s head.

  Jarek turned his palms upward. “Either way, I think we can all agree it’s kind of a dick move.”

  A low growl rumbled from the Red King.

  “Look, if you kill Pryce, you can bet your scaly ass you’re not getting a peep out of me. I’ll blow this suit and kill us all if I have to.”

  At that, the three Reds watching from below exchanged uneasy glances.

  “You’re so full of shit, Slater.” Mosen raised his gun to the back of Pryce’s head. “You have no idea where the nest is. You have nothing.” He looked to the Red King, asking for permission.

  The Red King held up a hand. Those glowing red eyes looked directionless without irises or pupils, but Jarek noticed slight movements of the raknoth’s head from himself to Pryce and back.

  “No,” the King said. “If I must end Jarek Slater for breaking our bargain—”

  Jarek cleared his throat.

  The Red King showed him teeth that would now be more accurately described as fangs. “—then let Jay Pryce witness his foolish friend being torn to pieces. He can spread the word about what happens to even the mightiest of humans who think to stand against the raknoth.”

  Jarek managed to keep his voice level. “You calling me mighty
?”

  “The mightiest of ants is still but an insect,” the King said.

  “Oh, boy,” he mumbled so quietly only Al could hear. “We have a philosopher on our hands.”

  “What did you say?” the Red King said.

  Christ on a cracker, had he heard that?

  “Careful, sir,” Al said, his volume dialed down in Jarek’s ear. “Our conversation might not be private with him around.”

  The raknoth didn’t seem to hear that, at least. Jarek gave Al a deliberate blink of acknowledgment, glad again for the coverage of Fela’s faceplate.

  He glanced at Pryce one more time, vaulted the railing, and dropped to the floor below with a solid thud. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew the large, straight blade strapped to his back and spun it through a few tight revolutions. “I said—”

  He heard the clanking footsteps on the stairs just before Al cried, “Behind you!”

  He hopped to the right, avoiding Mosen by less than a second. Before he could reorient himself, the Red King was on him, catching him in a tackle that carried him straight into the brick wall several yards behind.

  Armor or no, slamming halfway through a brick wall was more than a little jarring. He managed to score a few hard blows to the side of the King’s head with the pommel of his sword while he waited for his senses to straighten out. Just when things seemed to be settling, the world spun again, and the accelerometer of his stomach informed him he’d just been thrown across the room.

  The wall he slammed into a moment later confirmed the fact.

  All things considered—advanced armor to disperse the impact force, adaptable smart membrane to absorb some of that force and lengthen the deceleration phase, and years of pain threshold training—it still wasn’t a fun ride. In fact, it hurt like shit, and the shower of hand tools that rained down on him only added insult to the cheap shot.

  “Okay.” He pulled himself to wobbly feet and readied the sword he’d only held on to thanks to Fela’s tremendous grip. He swept aside a slew of fallen tools with one foot. “Now Pryce is gonna kill you guys if I don’t. You have no idea how meticulous he is about this place.”