The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  How dare he take back what was his? How dare he be his own man, follow his own compass? Who’d given him permission?

  Jarek had met more than a few freedom fighter types since the Catastrophe and remained woefully unimpressed. Most were just as afraid of upsetting the status quo as everyone else. And those who weren’t, in his experience, tended to be goddamn psychopaths.

  There was a reason he’d steered clear of organized tomfoolery like the Resistance since a catastrophic hiccup with one such psychopath in his teenage years had earned him the ridiculous nickname Soldier of Charity and nearly cost him his life to boot. And as good as saving the day at the ports had felt last night, there was an even better reason he couldn’t wait to get the hell away from all this.

  A couple dozen reasons, actually. And they were all still staring at him, muttering back and forth behind raised hands as if Fela’s sensors didn’t allow Jarek to hear every word they said.

  Commander Sloan’s disturbingly green-eyed glare was particularly ferocious as he whispered to Commander Nelken that they could not—repeat, could not—just let Jarek walk away from this fiasco without punishment.

  Jarek kind of wished they’d try to stop him.

  “Fine,” he called.

  The room snapped silent at the sound of his voice.

  “It’s unacceptable. Don’t accept it. Was there something else you fellas wanted?”

  Nelken’s perpetual frown darkened. Sloan looked like he was actively trying call bright green death rays from his eyes to smite Jarek down.

  Beside them, Commander Stacy Daniels gathered herself to speak, her expression mostly neutral, if maybe a bit stern. “I think it’s safe to say our time would be better spent calling it even and moving on to the matter of the nest device’s activation and what it might mean for us.”

  Jarek gave her a grateful micro nod. Compared to the rest of these jackals, Daniels didn’t seem so bad—even if what she’d just proposed was an exercise in futility.

  The truth was that they knew jack crap about the raknoth device that had blasted a holy Jesus beam into the sky last night, aside from the one cryptic tidbit the Red King had given them between his maniacal raknoth giggles.

  Retribution, he’d said. The nest had raised the call for retribution. Whatever the hell that meant.

  There was a decent chance it was nothing but pure, grade A bullshit—a fun little threat the defeated King had spun in the moment to keep them afraid and guessing. But something told him it wasn’t.

  Jarek clearly wasn’t a people person, but he did like to think he could read them fairly well, and the Red King’s little meltdown had felt sincere enough to make him wonder what the hell could frighten a raknoth like that.

  He’d been hoping to shake the red-eyed bastard until more answers fell out, but the Resistance had unsurprisingly taken quite strict custody of their raknoth prisoner the moment he’d entered HQ—never mind the fact that Jarek had been the one to capture him, thank you very much.

  From what little he’d heard, the King had been monk-like in his commitment to silence since they’d brought him in. Jarek wasn’t sure he could do much better, but that didn’t make him any less irritated at the territorial shutout.

  Either way, if they weren’t going to try to slap him in the ol’ irons, he wasn’t about to sit here and listen to the council try to extract a meaningful conclusion from a single itty-bitty clue.

  “I’ll leave you guys to it then,” Jarek said, turning for the door. “Wouldn’t want you to have to slow everything down for me.”

  Nelken’s voice was heavy with threatening authority. “Slater.”

  Jarek kept walking.

  Sloan must have been close to conjuring up those death rays after all, because Jarek swore he could feel the glares pelting into the back of his head as he pulled open the double doors and slipped out to the narrow hallway.

  “Masterfully handled, sir,” Al said. “Glad to see all those communication self-help books are paying off.”

  “It’s the strangest thing. I wiped with every single page, and I feel like I just didn’t absorb anything!”

  “Charming, sir. And you have company.”

  He’d already heard as much. Fela’s auditory sensors were a work of art, but even without them, he would have heard Commander Nelken’s approach easily enough. The man wasn’t exactly light of foot, and his normally heavy breathing was clearly elevated right now. Anyone’s guess why.

  “You arrogant son of a bitch.”

  Jarek turned to watch Nelken close in at a spry power walk and didn’t try overly hard to hide his amused grin. “Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Like I’d take great pleasure in ordering my agents to rip you out of that suit and hog tie you in the brig if I didn’t think the fight would wreck half the base.”

  “That”—Jarek cocked his head and nodded—“is actually fair enough. You know, wild injustices aside and whatnot.”

  Whatever else Jarek could say about Nelken, it took some stones for the commander to march straight up to Jarek and prod him in the armored chest. “All you had to do in there was half-ass an apology. Order could have been restored, and we could have gone back to peacefully disliking each other. Was that too much for your pride to swallow?”

  Jarek wrinkled his nose at the strong waft of aftershave and what he could only assume was pure, distilled anger. “I dunno.” He glanced toward the council chamber. “I think I really nailed the half-ass bit.”

  “Dammit, Slater,” Nelken growled. “This is an unstable time for us. For all of us. These people need to know we’re steady and afloat here.”

  By what looked to be a considerable force of will, Nelken took a step back and let out a sigh. “Look, I know it was… uncouth of us to try to keep your suit, especially once you helped Carver escape from the Fortress, but we’re not the villains here. I don’t need to tell you how uneven this fight is for us. I’m not asking you to sign the dotted line and give me a ‘Sir, yes sir,’ but I can’t have you around here if you can’t at least act like you give half a damn about Resistance authority.”

  “That’s the thing, Nelken. I don’t give a damn about you or your Resistance. I came here to get my exo back and I stayed to help my friends. That should’ve been the end of it. But now that crazy raknoth bastard in there”—he pointed toward the holding cells—“the one I captured, by the way, tells us some kind of retribution is about to rain down on our heads, and I kinda wanna know what the hell he’s talking about before I go gallivanting on my way. So you can give me back my prisoner, or you can suck it up and let me at him. I don’t really care. Just don’t go thinking I’ve joined your fight. I’m not your soldier—not to command, and sure as hell not to reprimand.”

  They held locked glares for a good ten seconds, Nelken’s eyes stern and unyielding. Finally, the commander’s expression relaxed by a hair’s breadth. “I did say act like you give a damn.”

  The crack in Nelken’s domineering exterior took Jarek by genuine enough surprise that a huff of a chuckle escaped him. His surprise doubled when Nelken returned a thin smile of his own.

  Guy was probably going to pull a muscle if he wasn’t careful.

  “Fine. Maybe I can steer clear of blatant disrespect for a day or two, assuming no one tries to steal my suit in the middle of the night.”

  Nelken tilted his head. “All right then.”

  Jarek gestured toward the holding cells. “He really hasn’t said anything yet?”

  “Not a word. And he doesn’t seem to particularly care about any physical discomfort.” Nelken hesitated before adding, “If he keeps this up, we might have to ask Rachel to take a crack at, you know.” He tapped at the side of his square, buzzed head.

  “I don’t know much about telepathy, but as far as I understand, that kind of thing is dangerous to toy with, and Rachel isn’t exactly clear of mind right now, what with Michael having been touched by a Jesus beam and everything.”
<
br />   Nelken nodded. “I’m aware. But we need to figure this thing out soon. The King is healing disturbingly fast.”

  “Huh. Creepy.”

  Nelken looked exasperated. “There are reasons beyond pride that we were upset about you bringing a raknoth here. I don’t see how he could break out of his restraints, but I’m not interested in taking chances.”

  “Well, as a rule, I stay away from the real sadistic shit, but if we need to trim him down a few limbs”—Jarek patted the hilt of the enormous sword strapped to Fela’s back, the one he’d dubbed the Big Whacker—“all we need is a good chopping block.”

  Nelken’s brows crept upward. “And that doesn’t fall into the category of ‘real sadistic shit’?”

  “I’ve seen some stuff, man. And some things.”

  Nelken studied him for a long moment. “I don’t doubt that. Now would you be willing to talk to Rachel? With Carver’s current condition… Well, you know her better than anyone else who’s currently conscious. I can see to it you’re updated if anything happens with the prisoner. Otherwise, it’s probably better for everyone if you stay on your ship.”

  “Yeah, well, I was gonna do all that anyway, so…” Jarek turned back down the hall and threw the most sarcastic two-fingered salute he could manage over his shoulder.

  “So glad we cleared that up,” Nelken muttered behind him. Then, more loudly, “Slater.”

  Jarek paused and turned his head just enough to show he was listening.

  “Don’t go thinking this little talk means you’re off the hook. I might be a commander, but if you give my people reason to come calling for your head again, I won’t stop them.”

  Jarek grinned.

  Maybe Nelken wasn’t the worst jackal on the planet. Jarek wouldn’t pick the guy as a drinking buddy or anything, but at least the stern bastard seemed to be playing things straight with him now.

  “Understood,” he said. “You know, assuming any of us still have the luxury to worry about whose is bigger at that point.”

  Nelken frowned. “You really think something’s coming?”

  “Eh.” Jarek shrugged. “Above my pay grade.”

  “No one’s paying you.”

  “Exactly.”

  With that, he continued down the bland hallway, enjoying Nelken’s silence behind him. His grin faded soon enough, though.

  In truth, he had no idea what to think. He hadn’t been lying to Nelken. If it weren’t for the nest exploding and the King’s cryptic warning of impending doom, he probably would have made for the hills that morning—dropped Alaric back in Deadwood and taken several hot showers to wash the traces of the Resistance’s mangy mitts from himself and Fela.

  Hell, maybe he would have even offered Rachel a ride home and seen where that went. As a rule, he pretty much avoided anything outside of casual, fleeting engagements, but after the string of mishaps they’d muscled through together over the past couple days…

  It didn’t matter. And not just because she would’ve said no (okay, probably hell no). It didn’t matter because the nest had exploded, and the King had warned them that retribution was coming for them. The best laid plans of Jarek, as they so often did, had gone and gotten royally cocked up, and now here he was, tied up in what was almost certainly someone else’s problem.

  “This is why we don’t get involved,” he mumbled.

  “You’re right, sir,” Al said. “I’m sure this will all resolve marvelously if we fly away now and pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep it up, Mr. Robot. We’ll see who’s laughing when I hand you over to Pryce for parts.”

  Al didn’t deign to respond with any more than an indignant sniff, an utterly unnecessary affectation for a bodiless construct.

  Jarek reached the end of the dull hallway, started to turn toward medical, and paused. As far as he knew, Rachel hadn’t left Michael’s side since they’d arrived last night. She’d be hungry. Peace offerings never hurt.

  He turned for the mess hall, tromping from one dull hallway to another. From what he’d seen, every room and hallway of HQ was nearly identical: gray cinder block walls, smooth, slightly-darker-gray concrete floors, yellow lighting that had a sort of plastic feel to it.

  Before the Catastrophe, it would’ve been the kind of place people made Soviet prison jokes about. Now, though, those same people would look at the place and see safety, security.

  Jarek just felt cramped.

  No matter where he was, he seemed to be hunkering down to avoid smashing his head into the ceiling. The hallways were narrow enough that everyone felt the impulse to go chest-to-chest passing by one another, even if it wasn’t strictly required.

  And that was just the physical stuff. It had been a long while since he’d spent much time in such a densely populated space, especially one where everyone wasn’t actively trying to kill him.

  It made him antsy.

  The sooner he figured out what the hell that giant beam-shooting egg had actually done, the sooner he could confirm whether it was safe to leave this circus behind and go back to the good life. And if it wasn’t, and the Red King wasn’t just blowing fear-mongering smoke in their eyes…

  Honestly, if the sky was about to fall, he wasn’t entirely sure what the hell he was going to do about it, but it was pointless to speculate before they knew more. Answers first.

  But before they got to that, he had a pair of sandwiches to find.

  2

  Rachel laid her brother’s still hand across his torso and leaned back in her chair. She blew out a long breath and stretched, arching her back and neck until she could see the wall behind her. It stared right back, bland and depressing and utterly uncaring about the suffering going on just a dozen feet from its cool surface.

  She’d always rolled her eyes at the people in stories who’d sit at the bedside of a comatose loved one and just wait, accomplishing nothing when they could be doing anything. If they wanted to help so much, why not at least get up and go take care of that person’s affairs? Why not scour the country for a second opinion? Or a fourth or a fifth? Why not find other options? Hell, why not go find someone else they could help and hope the universe was paying attention?

  Why the hell would someone just sit there?

  She hadn’t understood.

  And now here she was—sitting, waiting, accomplishing nothing when she could be doing anything.

  She could have left. Could have started trying to find out what the hell that damn egg had done to Michael when it went off. She needed to eat, to sleep, to shower. And she could have done all those things.

  But what if he woke up and she wasn’t here?

  What if he went the other way, and she missed her last chance to see him drawing breath?

  She couldn’t risk it—couldn’t even think it without wanting to scream. So she’d sat here all night. And now all day, according to her comm.

  “Trying to see things from the other side?”

  Rachel whipped upright in her chair to find Jay Pryce watching her from the doorway. The sight of the paper plate and sandwich in his hand elicited an immediate and violent rumble from her stomach.

  “What?”

  He looked at the ceiling and turned his head sideways. “You never just…? Never mind—forget I said it. How are you holding up?”

  She shrugged and looked at Michael’s dark, silent form as if that should say everything. Pryce acted like it did. He came to offer her the plate. She took it gratefully and began savaging what turned out to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Pryce occupied himself with checking the few monitors they’d hooked Michael up to.

  HQ’s medical facility consisted of two rooms and sported a grand total of three permanent beds. It wasn’t exactly up to the gold standard of pre-Catastrophe times, but it was a hell of a sight better than nothing. The Resistance even had a pair of doctors and a couple of nurses living on base, though no one had been able to divine anything about Michael’s condition beyond the fact
that he was indeed comatose—for all the good that did them.

  “No changes,” Pryce said. He took a little penlight out of his pocket and proceeded to open each of Michael’s eyes with thumb and forefinger and shine the light in them. Apparently satisfied, he pocketed the light, cupped Michael’s head, and gently tilted it left and then right. Lastly, he took Michael’s left wrist in one hand, laid his other hand over Michael’s biceps, and worked the arm through a short range of motion.

  Despite everything, she felt the ghost of a smile hovering near the surface as she watched Pryce at work. There didn’t seem to be any limit to the disciplines the guy dabbled in. From mechanic to chemist to engineer to medic, he just kept getting more eccentric.

  She swallowed a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Pryce?”

  He set Michael’s arm down, looking abashed. “Sorry, I’m not helping. I just get curious.”

  “I don’t think Michael minds.”

  Pryce tilted his head as if to politely say, No, probably not.

  She shifted her sandwich, readying the next bite. “Any interesting tidings from the world beyond?”

  “Not really.” Pryce started fidgeting with his hands. “Although Al and I did talk Jarek into appearing before the council, so…”

  “Be ready for gunfire and explosions?”

  “Would that I could joke about it. I just hope Al keeps him centered in there.” He frowned down at his restless hands and jammed them into his pockets.

  The poor guy was clearly itching for a project—probably to cope with the stress of the past couple days. Too bad he couldn’t return to the workshop that was his pride and joy. Not right now, at least. The Red King’s men would almost certainly be watching it, waiting for anyone who might know something about their missing boss to come along.

  She felt partially responsible. Sure, Jarek had been the one to lead them to Pryce’s shop after their escape from the Red Fortress, and it wasn’t really her fault the Reds—or rather, the Red King—had tracked them. But that didn’t make her feel any less bad that good, kind, brilliant Pryce had gotten dragged into this mess because of them.