Hell to Pay
Book Two of the Harvesters Series
Luke R. Mitchell
Copyright © 2017 by Luke R. Mitchell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Yocla Designs
Cover illustration by Hokunin
Editing by Lisa Poisso
Proofreading by Dj Hendrickson
Contents
Free Goodies
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgments
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That’s all.
Now let me tell you a story.
Prologue
Haldin Raish leaned forward, steepled his fingers in a decidedly masterly pose, and surveyed the two combatants before him. Elise arched a raven black eyebrow at him. He ignored it.
“Again.”
Elise dipped deep into her personal vat of sarcasm and threw him the salute she found there. He hid his decidedly unmasterly smile behind the steeple of his fingers. Elise turned, all grace and deadly beauty, to square off against her opponent, a slim man with suave features and dark hair peppered with gray.
Alton Parker looked to be in his early forties. He wasn’t.
“Begin,” Haldin said.
Elise rolled her shoulders, sank into a ready stance, and raised a hand to Alton in invitation. For several seconds, Alton only watched, unmoving. Then he sprang forward to throw a sweeping punch at Elise’s head. She sidestepped the blow then ducked the follow-up backhand, wasting nothing with her movements.
She really was a sight to behold, especially in the heat of combat.
Alton threw a series of jabs, and Elise handled those just as fluidly, turning each one aside with crisp precision—always redirecting, never outright blocking. Just like they’d practiced.
She stepped outside of the last punch, pushing the blow past her. She yanked the dark polymer practice knife from her belt and plunged it at Alton’s face.
Alton twisted and dropped his head out of harm’s way, then swept a kick at Elise’s thigh. It wasn’t a particularly well-aimed kick, but coming from Alton, it would still be plenty dangerous.
Elise turned through a tight aerial that took her over the kick and left her face to face with Alton.
He darted forward before her boots touched the deck. Elise only barely managed to throw herself aside in time to avoid his grab.
Too close. That was his cue.
Haldin plucked the clunky pistol from his lap.
Ahead, Elise pulled out of her evasive roll in a ready crouch, wary blue eyes fixed on Alton.
He pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger.
Elise’s hand was already flying up when the gun gave a sharp, cracking puff. There was a blur of motion, and then a squishy blue dart pulled to a halt a few inches from Elise’s open palm, hovering in midair.
Haldin almost laughed at the surprised expression on her face, but then Alton lunged for her with a low growl.
Elise’s other hand shot up like a striking viper. Alton’s charge slowed as if he’d suddenly been plopped into a chest-high pool of thick honey. His growl deepened, rumbling in his chest, and his pale eyes came alive with fiery red light, whites and irises both. He took another step forward against the resistance. Then another.
In front of him, Elise was down on one knee now, her fair, creamy skin a few shades paler and shining with perspiration. She began to shake from her exertions.
Haldin was opening his mouth to call them to a halt when the squishy blue dart hovering next to Elise’s hand reoriented itself and launched toward Alton seemingly by its own accord.
The dart struck Alton right between his glowing red eyes with a defiant little squeak. Elise looked up, clearly strained but grinning nonetheless.
Haldin couldn’t help it this time. He laughed. “Okay, good, good. Both of you.”
Alton relented his forward march, the fire draining from his eyes. Elise blew out a long breath and plopped down to the deck.
“Not bad,” Alton said, frowning down at the squishy blue dart by his foot. “You’re getting stronger.”
“Was that full power?” Elise asked between heavy breaths.
A satisfied smirk curled the corners of Alton’s mouth. “Hardly.”
“Wonderful.” Elise shook her head, clearly disheartened.
“It actually was,” Haldin said. He reached for the dart and it flew from the deck to his open hand before he’d thought twice about focusing his mind or channeling the requisite energy. By now, telekinesis required little more mental involvement than using his own hands, which wasn’t so surprising. Alpha knew they’d had enough time to practice over the past months.
Elise gave him one of her looks.
“It was,” he said. “You’re doing amazing, Lise.”
“Good news, everyone!” came a voice from the corridor outside. A moment later, Johnny walked into the room in all his flame-haired glory, holding up a single finger exactly as Haldin had known he would.
“You’ve been watching that show again.”
Johnny gave one of his full-body shrugs. “Gotta bone up on the references somehow. Don’t want people to think I’m a weirdo.”
“But Johnny,” Elise said from the deck, “who could ever think that about you?”
Johnny waggled his eyebrows at her and turned to Alton. “I think the jumper-thingies are all done with their space nap. Or whatever it is that they do.”
Alton nodded and strode past Johnny and out of the room.
“Space nap?” Haldin said.
“Yeah, man.”
“You’re such a space sap,” Elise said.
“Nice,” Johnny said, offering her a hand.
She took it and allowed herself to be hauled up. “Thanks.”
They both turned expectant looks on him.
“What?” He stood a
nd slid past them to follow Alton. “I don’t wanna space rap.”
“Ooo!” Johnny said.
“Eh,” Elise said. “I’ve heard better.”
Haldin paused for a three count then spun and made a grab for Elise. She was already moving, not that his extended senses hadn’t already told him that. He could have grabbed her as she whirled past, but then he would’ve missed the chance to see her darting off down the hallway with one of her adorable little giggles.
When you’re stuck in space for months on end trying not to lose it, it’s all about the little things.
They arrived in the large cockpit to find Alton at the main console, eyes closed in concentration. Ahead of him, the round walls of the front half of the room were in their transparent viewing mode, granting an open view of the star-dotted void their last jump had landed them in.
It was a truly breathtaking view. Or had been, at least, the first hundred or so times he’d seen it.
The others trickled in slowly: Phineas and James, Therese and Franco, all gathering to watch the daily ritual unfold.
Alton stirred from his trance and glanced over at the assembled audience.
“How many more?” Haldin asked.
Alton shook his head, just like he did every other day.
Haldin let out a sigh, and they all gathered in front of the enormous view port.
“Everyone ready?” Alton said.
“You know it, Red,” Johnny said, just like he did every other day. He must have enjoyed the irony.
“Five seconds,” Alton said.
Elise took hold of Haldin’s hand, and they all held their collective breath, just like every other day. The customary hum ran through the hull, and the usual tingling sensation crawled over his body. The ship shuddered, and for a second, the world outside went dark. Not outer space dark, with stars and everything, just … dark.
A few silent seconds crept by, just like they always did, and then, just like every other day, the darkness of normal space snapped back into sight, and—
Haldin’s mouth fell open, shock smacking him like a tall wave.
“Holy space crap,” Johnny muttered.
“Sweet Alpha,” Elise whispered.
A giant blue planet filled the view port, covered with swaths of green-brown land masses and swirls of wispy white cloud formations. Haldin stared at it in a stupor until the pressure of Elise’s grip on his hand tugged him back to reality.
After all this time, they’d made it.
One
Jarek Slater stood tall and unflinching before the scrutiny of the three Resistance commanders, wishing they’d get on with it. For the moment being, though, they appeared perfectly content to sit back and wait for god knew what. Certainly not for the rest of the council to arrive. Not a single soul had been late to this particular gathering. They’d piled through the doors in force, jockeying for position to secure good seats for what was sure to be the event of the year: the chastising of the Soldier of Charity.
And now their stares bored into him from all sides like a hundred prodding fingers goading him to lose his shit.
Entitled pricks.
They were going to have a long wait if they wanted to see him squirm. Especially since he was wearing Fela. If this dragged on much longer he could close the exosuit’s faceplate and take a damn nap standing up.
He never should have let Al and Pryce talk him into this olive branch bullshit. Hell, the way things were going, he was starting to wonder if he shouldn’t have just stayed at Pryce’s shop and enjoyed a nice whiskey instead of flying off to the port and duking it out with the Red King’s army to save the day for the Resistance. Which he totally had, by the way.
Apparently someone had forgotten to tell that part to the two dozen glaring a-holes in the council chamber.
Finally, by some imperceptible cue that Jarek could only assume involved divine right, Commander Nelken deigned it the appropriate time to begin and leaned his paunchy bulk forward on the commanders’ head table.
“Mr. Slater.” His voice was heavy. Solemn. Freaking theatrical. “You know why we’re here. Twice in the same day you endangered the lives of our men and women. First when you raided our armory and committed what would reasonably be construed as an act of war against us. Then again when you knowingly brought an enemy combatant—and a raknoth, no less—into this base only hours later. It’s unacceptable.”
Nelken was right. It was unacceptable. And he could take that unacceptable pile of bullshit and shove it—
“Easy, sir.” Al’s smooth English accent was crisp and soothing in his helmet earpieces. “Control.”
Al was right. That would drive the bastards crazy.
He spread his hands wide and put on his best carefree grin. “Okay, you got me. I’m trouble. A real loose cannon. Maybe even a terrorist. But let’s not stop there. I think we missed a few parts. Like where I stopped said raknoth from killing everyone and saved actual shiploads of your people.”
At the head table, Commander Sloan’s creepy slender form straightened and he opened his mouth to speak.
Jarek silenced him with an armored finger. “Plus, on a scale from no-no to act of war, I’d put the business here somewhere around stealing from the cookie jar. You know, aside from the part where it wasn’t actually stealing on account of this suit belonging to me and everything.”
Murmurs. Murmurs everywhere.
If they were going to try to take him into custody or make him pay for his “crimes,” he wished they’d whip ’em out and get to it. But they wouldn’t. Of course they wouldn’t. Because this was how it went with outfits like the Resistance, wasn’t it?
They putzed around, babbling about their cause and fighting the good fight until someone came along and actually got shit done, and then they all lost their heads over the audacity of the thing.
Who the hell did he think he was to swoop in and right their sinking ship?
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 to 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.
Hell to Pay: Book Two of the Harvesters Series Page 1