The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Most of the room’s occupants were merely passing through, but there were a fair amount scattered around the couches and chairs, taking a moment to catch up or plan next moves. Of those, it felt like at least half had turned to give him a smattering from the wonderful spectrum of stink eyes, and of those, the most prominent by far came from a stout man with a bulldog face—Rodgers, if memory served.

  “Yeah, I can feel the love already,” Jarek mumbled.

  Technically, he hadn’t really done anything to the stout guard himself, but Rodgers had been the one on armory duty the night Michael had slipped Jarek in to reclaim his stolen—or apprehended, as Nelken had since put it—exosuit from the Resistance’s temporarily greedy paws.

  Suffice it to say, Rodgers didn’t seem to have taken kindly to being made the guard who’d lost the Resistance’s only one-of-a-kind super weapon. And if the dirty looks his pals all shot Jarek were any indication, Rodgers wasn’t about to be super-fanning for Jarek’s reputation anytime soon.

  Never mind that they were staring at one another across the exact same space where Jarek had duked it out with the world’s most vicious raknoth to defend HQ not two weeks prior. No. The rubble had been cleared, and the petty little shit had piled back in to take its place with a rapidity that almost made Jarek laugh. Almost.

  He realized he was fingering the bottom of the claw trails Zar’Golga had left across his face in that fight. The mindless prodding was quickly becoming a habit.

  He dropped his hand, sighed, and turned to skirt through the busy room.

  “This is why we work alone,” Jarek said in a quiet sing-song tone as he went.

  “Give it time, sir.”

  “Not so sure we have much of that to give, buddy.”

  Not if Michael’s visions and their star-hopping calculations had any amount of reliability, at least.

  Their dark-skinned prophet was asleep when Jarek gave a soft knock and poked his head in. Rachel, on the other hand, was sitting on the cot she’d dragged into Michael’s room, back to wall and knees to chest, head bowed.

  She looked up at Jarek’s entrance, and the look in her eyes stopped the playful kiss he’d been about to blow her in its tracks.

  “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

  Rachel’s gaze flicked to Michael then drifted around the room as if searching in earnest for an accurate answer to the question.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said, equally quietly, after a few seconds too long.

  She looked lost, enough so that Jarek had half a crazy inkling to go give her a hug and tell her it was going to be okay. The non-robotic voice in his head told him that wasn’t the best idea. Rachel wasn’t one to be coddled, and things between them had been… not quite right since she’d given him the cold shoulder after the big HQ rumble.

  So he settled for cocking his head and shooting her his most disarming, Hey, you can tell me… It’s me! look.

  No dice. She gave him half of a forced smile and tilted her head in a clear sign he was good and welcome to move on and butt out.

  He hesitated for a long moment, then shrugged and quietly backed out and closed the door.

  Something was bothering her, that was for damn sure, but he wasn’t going to win any points trying to push in when she wanted space. He’d catch her later, hopefully alone for a change, and crank up the ol’ Slater charm until he got to the bottom of it.

  Michael’s most recent episode had probably just aggravated the wound she’d been sporting ever since the nest had burst and left him… whatever he was. Or, hell, it could have just been a case of the sombers on account of the Super Monsters coming to eat them. None of them had to look too far for reasons to be less than ecstatic right now.

  But a slippery little feeling in his gut told him something else was up. He hadn’t missed the fact that she’d disappeared with Alton for a bit last night, or that she’d looked a light breeze away from meltdown mode upon returning.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine what they might’ve discussed, and if Alton had broken hard news to her on that front…

  He’d find out soon—even if it meant pushing harder than advisable and getting his goose pleasantly cooked. But for now, he had another stubborn tree to go bark at.

  Yep. He was definitely looking at a twice-cooked-goose kind of day.

  Alaric answered Jarek’s knock looking every bit as surly and stern as he always did, and more than a little weary. His eyes traced down and up Jarek’s unarmored body, noting Fela’s absence without betraying any surprise.

  “Looks like you woke up on the trusting side of bed this morning.”

  “Hey, gotta start somewhere right?” Jarek raised a fist. “Go team, and all that fun stuff.”

  Alaric considered Jarek for a stretch, then stepped back and opened the door in invitation.

  “Care for a cup of coffee?” Jarek asked as he strolled past Alaric and into the room.

  Alaric closed the door behind him. “Isn’t that my line?”

  Jarek shrugged, looking around the room. “You look like you need it worse than I do. Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

  Alaric’s frown deepened as he followed Jarek’s gaze around to the blank walls and hard, cold emptiness of the tiny living quarters. “Son, I’ve got a raknoth warlord playing hardball, a base full of jittery children, and about three hours of sleep to my name. I don’t need a coy wise-ass on that list.”

  “Yeah, that’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. The hardball thing, I mean. Not the coy wise-ass. He’s here to stay, for better or worse, till death do us part.”

  “Funny”—Alaric sank to his cot and waved Jarek to sit in the chair at his small desk—“I don’t remember agreeing to any vows.”

  “Well,” Jarek said, flipping the chair around so he could sit facing Alaric with his elbows on the chair’s back, “sounds like death might be trying to do us part sooner than later anyway, so…”

  Alaric waited quietly if not patiently while Jarek tried to parse out the best way to propose what he wanted to without getting shot. In hindsight, this probably hadn’t been the best day to make his Fela-free debut in Resistance HQ.

  “What is it, son?” Alaric finally asked. “Just spit it out so I can deal with it or try to get some sleep.”

  “Promise not to shoot me?”

  Alaric considered that then made a noncommittal nod toward the rack on the opposite wall that was currently home to his battered long coat and his fully loaded gun belt.

  Taking that to mean Alaric was either too tired to bother with shooting him or that he’d at least have fair warning, Jarek tilted his head in concession. “Right then. Out with it. I think we should use Seth to—”

  Jarek paused at Alaric’s swelling intake of breath and the full body clench that was evident across the room.

  “—to smooth relations between us and Krogoth,” Jarek forced himself to finish. “So yeah, Krogoth let Rachel and Lea tag along on his recruitment tour, but if he’s not letting us in on any particulars of his operation over there… Well, Seth is the closest thing we have to an inside man, and he’s not doing anyone any favors sitting over there in the brig.”

  Alaric looked like he was regretting not having his pistols in easy reach. “Seth isn’t a tool to be used,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Not anymore.”

  Jarek suppressed a flinch at Alaric’s tone.

  Calling Alaric’s relationship with his son, Seth Mosen, complicated was like calling a raknoth kind of strong. Understatement Central. Case in point, Alaric had kept the crazy bastard—his son—locked up since they’d captured him two weeks earlier and resolutely insisted on visiting him each and every day for another hefty helping of go to hells along with a side of I wish it’d been you—it should have been you.

  Alaric sure wasn’t the first father who’d ever had to deal with having let their kid down by not being there. He might’ve been the first, however, who’d had to deal with his son murdering his own mothe
r, Alaric’s wife, and blaming Alaric for not having had the courtesy to join her in the grave.

  It had taken Alaric five years, some less-than-gentle prodding from Jarek, and a small army of Reds to even get Alaric back to this side of the country, and Jarek didn’t blame him one bit for that. It didn’t matter that it had been the work of Zar’Golga’s extensive mental and physical reprogramming—and not Alaric’s perceived failings—that had driven Mosen into the deranged killing machine he was today. Not to Alaric, at least.

  To Alaric, all that mattered was that his son had gone off the deep end and that now, for the first time since it happened, he thought he had a chance at getting him back.

  Call him a pessimist, but Jarek wasn’t so sure that was going to work out if they continued on with keeping Mosen locked up like a good little psycho son. Of course, he couldn’t exactly phrase it like that to Alaric.

  “Look,” he started slowly, “I know sending Mosen—”

  “Seth.”

  Jarek tilted his head in peaceful acknowledgment. “I know sending Seth over to Camp Krogoth is probably just about the last thing you wanna do right now, but I think it’s a good move. Give him something to do, space to breathe.”

  If looks could kill…

  “Do you remember what he did last time he had space to breathe?” Alaric growled.

  Jarek knew only too well what Mosen was capable of. But, “Holding him here isn’t accomplishing anything, Alaric. We need better communication between our camps if we have any hope of actually fighting together, and, much as I don’t wanna piss you off, I have to point out that it might give you and Seth something to talk about aside from the usual—Hey!”

  Alaric had reached under his cot and yanked free a snub-nosed revolver he must’ve kept hidden there for emergencies.

  “Whoa!” Jarek cried, flinging his hands up. “Easy, man! I—”

  But then he caught it too.

  An odd, shimmering something had filled the room like softly glowing mist, so faint Jarek hadn’t even noticed it at first, occupied as he’d been with treading on eggshells.

  He waved his hand through the air, but the phantom light didn’t swirl or disperse as he’d half-expected. “What the shit is this?”

  Alaric shook his head, mouth agape as he flicked his gaze warily around the room. “I have no idea.”

  Outside, someone shouted in a distant hallway. A few seconds later, heavy boots thundered by the door.

  Jarek exchanged a concerned look with Alaric then rose and checked the pistols holstered at his thighs while Alaric belted on his own guns.

  “If we could go one damned day without some fresh hell…” Alaric mumbled, pulling on his coat.

  He was only one sleeve in when something thumped into the door. Hard.

  Silence. Then a low growl.

  Jarek drew a pistol and traded a speculative glance with Alaric.

  “Sir,” came Al’s voice in his earpiece, “there’s something seriously wrong out he—”

  Bam! Bam!

  The sharp cracks of an insistent fist on the door. Whoever it was followed with a maddened bark, and then the door flew in with a crash.

  A single man stood there, garbed in rag-tag Resistance armor and practically foaming at the mouth with anger.

  No, not just anger. Jarek had seen all shades of angry. This guy’s eyes were stark raving mad with mindless fury.

  “Davidson!” Alaric barked. “What the—”

  Davidson charged into the room with a strangled yell.

  Jarek’s insides shriveled at the frantic madness in his eyes, but instincts kicked in, and he caught Davidson’s wild swipe with a raised elbow.

  The guy wasn’t pulling his punches—or aiming them particularly well. His arm hit Jarek’s elbow hard enough that Jarek grunted in pain. The low crack told Jarek Davidson’s arm might have just broken, but that didn’t seem to bother the crazy bastard too much. Instead of reeling in agony, Davidson stepped in and made for Jarek’s face with his teeth.

  Jarek darted back a step and caught his raging pursuer hard across the head with a whip of his pistol butt.

  Davidson crashed into Alaric’s desk and toppled unceremoniously to the concrete floor.

  “Jesus, dude!” Jarek cried after him, adrenaline bouncing him on the balls of his feet. “What the shit?”

  He tried to take a deep breath, tried to center himself.

  But Davidson wasn’t done.

  The crazy bastard shook off the blow that absolutely should have left him stunned stupid on the floor and instead scrambled for Alaric.

  “Davidson, stop!” Alaric barked.

  Jarek started forward, sure the maddened soldier wasn’t about to miraculously start listening now.

  Alaric, apparently coming to the same conclusion, spat a curse and kicked Davidson in the head before Jarek could.

  This time, Davidson was at least too stunned to do much more than groan and roll around on the floor.

  “Al, zombies,” Jarek said quietly.

  “Understood, sir. On my way. May I ask—”

  “Fucking zombies, Al!” Jarek snapped with entirely more fire than he’d intended.

  So maybe he’d watched one too many zombie flicks. So maybe raving, teeth-gnashing madmen kind of scared the shit out of him. They could all sue him later, just as soon as they figured out what the hell was happening.

  “Right you are, sir. I’ll just pretend these people aren’t beating each other senseless out here.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir.”

  “Shit.” Jarek turned to Alaric, who was watching him like he was half-expecting Jarek to pull a Davidson. “This is happening out there too.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Alaric muttered.

  Beside them Davidson was starting to try to pull himself shakily back to his feet, eyes completely unfocused, a low growl rumbling from his throat.

  “Come on,” Alaric said, striding past Jarek to the door. “We need to… Shit, I don’t know. Find restraints, for starters.”

  Jarek gave Davidson one last glance and hurried after Alaric without complaint.

  In the hallway, Jarek pulled the door shut behind them. Shouts and screams seemed to be coming from every direction of the base.

  “I need to get to Rachel,” Jarek said.

  As if in reply, Davidson slammed into the door behind them and began pounding on it.

  Jarek clutched the doorknob, ready to fight his pull, but apparently doorknobs were beyond Davidson’s current state of mind. He simply kept beating at the door with a mindless cry.

  “You two!” Alaric shouted down the hall to a man and woman who’d rounded into the hallway, weapons at the ready and frantic confusion in their eyes. “You know what’s happening?”

  “No, sir,” the woman called as they jogged over, looking relieved to find someone who wasn’t currently bat shit insane.

  Jarek couldn’t say he blamed them.

  “Come with me,” Alaric told them. “We’re gonna rally everyone we can and get to the commons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Jarek said, starting in the other direction for Michael’s room.

  Alaric looked for a second as if he might argue, maybe even pull the Commander card and order Jarek to stick with the group, but then he turned to his new recruits. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t get bit,” Jarek called after them.

  Alaric spared him an incredulous glance, then he waved his soldiers on and they disappeared around the corner.

  “Just sayin’,” Jarek mumbled to himself, prowling toward the opposite end of the hallway, gun at the ready.

  He still wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, though he had a sinking feeling there was something telepathic in play, possibly of the funky psycho harvester broadcast variety. Whatever it was, if nearly a decade of binging movies to kill his unfortunate abundance of spare time had taught him anything, it was that when p
erfectly sane people all of a sudden started biting, you sure as hell didn’t want to be one of the ones who got bit.

  He’d just reached the end of the hallway and was pausing to listen when he damn near ate his own words.

  It was hard to tease out one thing from another with all the activity and shouts coming from all over the base—hard enough that Jarek only caught the shuffling footsteps and quiet groaning growl a second before the woman stepped into view and caught sight of him. She was tall with dark hair. And complete madness in her eyes.

  Jarek didn’t have time to finish his shout of, “Don’t do it!” before she sprang at him with a shrill scream.

  He caught her by one wrist, spun, and slammed her to the wall, pinning her there with an elbow to the throat. She paid the—what had to be considerate—discomfort no mind and continued bucking against him with surprising strength.

  “Dammit, lady, I don’t wanna—Shit!”

  He turned at a movement to his left, dropping his grip on her wrist to reach for his other pistol. Then he processed the two men standing there with lucid eyes and raised stun guns.

  “There’s two more of ‘em,” the right one growled.

  Jarek abandoned the pistol grab to raise his free hand in surrender. “Wait! Don’t shoot! I’m not a crazy person. Yet.”

  The two exchanged a glance, then the one who’d spoken took aim and fired.

  Jarek threw himself away from his new berserker friend with a yelp and came away blessedly free of any stunner leads. The same couldn’t be said for the dark haired woman, who lunged after him but didn’t make it more than a step before she began convulsing and went to the ground in a disturbing display of growling, shrieking twitches.

  “Jesus, cowboy,” Jarek said. “Maybe an ounce of warning next time?”

  The shooter calmly held his gaze as he loaded another stun cartridge by feel. “I thought the Soldier of Charity knew how to take care of himself.”

  And with that, he gestured to his partner and they set off the way Jarek had come.

  “Thanks,” Jarek called after them. “Dick!”