Soul of the Reaper: A military Scifi Epic (The Last Reaper Book 11)

by J. N. Chaney

  “Call me Hal,” I said.

  A long pause followed before the gate guard spoke. “That’s not a good name.”

  Why bother with a response?

  He stretched one arm across his chest, then the other, then popped his neck. “What good have you done for anyone? Standard question. Don’t over think it. If you’re all for yourself, you can be on your way. We don’t have nothing worth stealing, and you’ll have to share anything you scavenge. Bastion rules. Starting with that armor.”

  Bastion, I thought. That was what Maglan was meant to be. This was all that was left of the idea. Maybe it was pain and fatigue or the disorientation of being born again from clone pod goo and dumped into the shattered remains of a world that had been thriving, but I felt off my game. I removed my helmet, hoping he didn’t immediately confuse me with a Reaper clone.

  “This thing stinks anyway,” I mumbled.

  “I strongly advise against parting with any of your armor,” X said.

  “Catch,” I said, then flung the helmet upward. It wasn’t heavy, despite its durability and technological capabilities.

  The guard caught the helmet with one hand, examined it, then put it on a ledge I couldn’t see. “You haven’t answered the first question. What good have you done in Marsi? I don’t need your life story. What can we expect from you when times get tough?”

  “I helped some people who were stuck in a building collapse,” I said.

  “That is a stretch, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said.

  “Shut it, X.”

  “What was that?” the guard asked.

  “On the way to Marsi, I helped a family escape from raiders and cannibals.”

  The guard’s expression darkened. “We don’t eat the dead here.” He paused for a long time, clearly not convinced. “You look dangerous enough to take that helmet from an Obsidian. Don’t know if that’s good or bad for us. I’m gonna need a reference.”

  “You already took my helmet.”

  “And I thank you for that. But rules are rules.”

  “He is shaking you down, Reaper Cain. Please negotiate more efficiently.”

  “Have you seen a kid called Jacob? He’ll remember me,” I said.

  My LAI sounded a long tone that expressed his discomfort, though he wouldn’t call it that. To X-37, any situation he couldn’t process became meaningless noise, though he usually kept it to himself or simply beeped. “This is dangerous, Reaper Cain. If Jacob tells them you are a Reaper, there will be consequences.”

  “I’ll check the logs. If he came in, you can wait in the bailey until he comes to vouch for you,” the guard said.

  “I’m fine right here,” I said.

  He gripped his spear. I saw the increase of force on the shaft from a distance—knuckles cranking down and shoulder leaning into the weapon. “Not optional. You wait in the bailey, or you turn around and be on your way.”

  “That puts me at a disadvantage, friend,” I said.

  “That’s the idea. We’re not playing games here. You have serious armor and weapons—which you either stole, scavenged, or took by combat. None of those are good scenarios in Marsi, or on Maglan in general. Rule one to staying alive is not to attract JFT or Obsidian attention—and never get seen by the faceless man. You’re lucky I’m talking to you at all.”

  I spread my hands in submission.

  He stepped back from the wall. Two big men replaced him. One had a shotgun, the other a long rifle about five hundred years old from the look of it. I endured their scrutiny for ten minutes while the first guard looked for the kid from the collapse.

  The first guard reappeared. “Come into the bailey. Don’t give my guards any trouble. I sent a runner to find Jacob.”

  “Can you check for someone else?” I asked.

  “I can do that.”

  “Looking for Tom Singer and Bug.”

  “Bug?” He shook his head like I made him tired, or maybe the naming conventions of the latest generation gave him a headache. “Never heard of Bug, but I’ve heard of Tom Singer. Sad what happened to his wife. The man can fix anything, is what I hear. Maybe he’ll unlock this helmet for me so I can actually use it. Step into the bailey. We’ll shut the gate behind you, so no need to worry about dragon beasts.”

  I waited for the door to be raised like a cheap garage door, then drop behind me once I was inside. The bailey was a murder room, literally the inside of a metal storage container with a heavy door at both ends and slots in the ceiling where someone could shoot me or fill the space with burning oil—or whatever.

  Two hours passed. I took a nap, because why not. I hadn’t slept since being trapped in the collapse and that barely counted. Unconsciousness didn’t equal restful sleep, not even for a Reaper. When I woke up, absolutely nothing had changed about my environment. None of the guards felt like talking to me. I guessed they were more than a bit put out that I’d just racked out, totally unworried about their dangerousness. I hadn’t been trying to disrespect them, so how they felt about my nonchalance was on them.

  “Feels like the BMSP, X,” I said.

  “Your current environment has many similarities to your stay on death row,” X-37 said. “The guards, while they look tough, have not beaten you once. The BMSP did feed you regularly. I doubt that will occur here.”

  “The food there sucked, and I am pretty sure every one of the guards spit in it.”

  I heard Jacob in the observation room before he pressed his face to the murder hole.

  “Hey, Hal. You made it. Every time I heard fighting in the city, I went to one of the towers to look for you. Can’t believe you’re alive,” he said.

  “Me neither,” I said. “Can you get these fine gentlemen to let me inside? I’ve had a long couple of days.”

  Jacob spoke to someone. I only caught part of the conversation. “… he needs help just like everyone else… no I can’t guarantee anything, I’m just a kid…”

  Minutes passed.

  The door on the far end of the storage container opened. The first guard and the two heavies waited just beyond the threshold.

  “Come on through. My name is Mac. Some call me Big Mac or the Macanator. You can call me Mr. MacMillian. Not that we’re gonna have a lot of conversations.”

  I spotted military style tattoos on his forearms and guessed he was from Wallach by his accent. His attention wasn’t comfortable to endure, and there was a moment I thought he might step back and level the spear at me, but he didn’t. Could he recognize me? Sure, but I hadn’t had face to face contact with every soldier who helped us reach Maglan.

  “I’m not planning on staying. Just need to rest, gather my wits, then be gone,” I said.

  “Probably for the best.” He tapped the spear on the ground, then jerked his chin toward the old city, which seemed to be a sign to the other guards they weren’t needed. Both men left after giving me a hard once-over. We’re watching you, stranger. Don’t test us.

  “Any other rules?”

  “Don’t steal anything. Don’t let anyone in—basically leave everything about the wall and the gate to us. See something, say something,” Mac said.

  “I knew a guy named Mac,” I said as he was leaving.

  “I’m sure you did. Got to get back to my post. Head inside and don’t cause trouble. That kid is probably waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.” I worked my way through a series of storage containers. Anyone forcing their way through the gate would then have to navigate this maze. It wasn’t hard to find the way, but there were lots of murder holes carved in the ceiling, and I suspected each of them could be sealed. Invaders would have to ram, cut, or otherwise force about twenty metal doors. That would slow anyone down, even the Obsidians. The Reaper mechs would probably just slap the entire wall aside like it was an annoyance—and the guards probably knew that. They were doing the best they could with what they had.

  The final passage opened into a square. For a moment, all I could do was stare at the artwork that must have been
spectacular once upon a time. Sidewalks wove a pattern around a fountain central to a wide, tree-filled intersection. The mosaic pattern was faded, dirty, and chipped. Half of the trees were stumps, and the rest looked stunted. More than a few had died and been left to dry out. A row of carts and axmen left me to assume they would be firewood soon.

  Buildings loomed on all sides, though not as high as the downtown skyscrapers of Marsi. These were maybe five or six stories tall, wide in the middle, and lacking windows. If they weren’t made—possibly carved—from stone, I might have imagined them as ships waiting to lift off.

  “What do you think of that design, X?”

  “Analysis suggests the buildings are a form of tribute art. The ancient people most likely were no more native to Maglan than the migration you led here, or the Alon even. This is an old planet with many mysteries.”

  “Hal, you made it,” Jacob said.

  The kid was even skinnier than I imagined, happy eyes sunken into his face, his rough cut hair cleaner than I expected after seeing the shabby looking guards who hadn’t bathed for days, maybe weeks.

  “Yeah, I slipped out of that mess. How’s your mom and everyone else?” I asked. The last thing I wanted was a stowaway. They sought me out, and Jacob had the vibe of a boy looking for an adventure in the wide, wide galaxy.

  “She’s good. Had her face looked at. Nothing broken, but her eyes were swollen shut for a while. Chunk of steel hit her right in the face—killed the woman next to her. Never knew her name. Someone from the east side, over by the salvage yards.” Jacob practically bounced on the balls of his feet with excitement. “You have armor. Are you an Obsidian? Can’t believe they let you in.”

  “That is a good question, Reaper Cain,” X said. “Mac must suspect more than he revealed, but he decided to trust you. The chance of this happening again is four thousand to one. I rounded off the numbers due to your frequent complaining about the detail of my predictions.”

  “Mac must know what he’s doing. Probably knows I stole this stuff,” I said, giving X a rude hand signal on the sly as I answered the kid.

  “Really? How’d you do that?”

  “Just got lucky. The previous owner didn’t need it anymore.”

  “Be careful, Reaper Cain.”

  Jacob nodded sagely. “Dead. Too bad for him, but oh boy I wish I could find some gear like that. Not that it would fit me.”

  “Let’s get away from the gate,” I said. “People are looking at us.”

  “They’re going to look at you a lot. You should buy a poncho or something. Maybe wrap a blanket around your shoulders. People do that when it’s cold,” Jacob said.

  “It’s not cold,” I pointed out.

  “True. Follow me. I know where there is a taco stand.”

  “Taco?”

  “You’ll love them, but get ready to spend some time on the can afterward,” he said. “Totally worth it. I only get one at the end of the month. When we can barter for extras.”

  We strode through an increasingly populated area. Everyone noticed me, but only a few stared for long. A pair followed us until I gave them a look that changed their plans.

  The tacos tasted like heaven when we finally ate them standing near the source. Locals loved tacos, apparently. And why wouldn’t they. I considered adding them to my list of personal vices.

  “Copy the recipe, X.”

  “Already done, Reaper Cain. You will regret eating that thing in an hour.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Jacob asked.

  “Myself. Something I do.”

  The kid looked uneasy but didn’t press the issue—probably because he didn’t know what questions to ask. We watched the crowd instead. Men, women, and children from every background came and went—young and old, light and dark, happy, sad, worried, or energetic. Often they were all of these things. It reminded me of the voyage to get here and how we had overcome so much. I wanted things back the way they were. The Oroth invaders and Scheid were officially on my list—the one no one wanted to be on.

  “I had some friends,” I said. “We got separated. Tom Singer and a soldier named Bug?”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of Tom Singer. But he can’t sing. Kinda funny. He’s the fix it guy. Comes through and fixes anything. Never charges money but will take food if there is enough to share.”

  “Sounds like Tom,” I said.

  “He was working on a ship. That’s what I heard. Some old hunk of junk, but no one knows where it is and he’s really secretive about it. Don’t try to follow him is all I’m saying.” Jacob walked several strides, brow furrowed like he was thinking. “Don’t think anyone has slipped the clone and drone sweeps lately, except you. I could be wrong. I mean I am a kid. That’s what mom reminds me a thousand times a day.”

  “Clone and drone sweeps?”

  “HC clones. Not sure what that means, but someone said it has to do with Reapers. You said you were a Reaper. And your name is Hal. Listen, I better not take you home because when I told everyone you were a Reaper, they really panicked.”

  “Maybe we should just keep that between ourselves and not talk about it where anyone might overhear,” I said.

  “Right on. Let’s find you a poncho. Gotta cover that armor. Some one will try to steal it. Or figure out what you say you are,” he said. “Are you a Reaper?”

  “Lead the way, kid.” I followed, marking the faces who watched me too closely and realizing that more and more people avoided my approach. Food had kept people distracted or made them more accepting of strangers. The locals became more cautious the deeper we moved into the city.

  29

  We turned the next corner and stopped. Jacob was confused by the line of men holding clubs and tools, but I wasn’t. Hard gazes told me all I needed to know.

  “Show me another way, Jacob. I’m not welcome on this street,” I said.

  “They don’t even know you.” Jacob’s indignation gave the scene a surreal quality. The kid walked faster, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a picture of juvenile indignation.

  I turned another way. “They’ve got eyes.”

  He looked me over, searching for clues, obviously picking the ones he could argue against. “Just because you found some armor? That’s not fair.”

  The boy was quick to ignore the scrapes, dents, and bloodstains on the black gear. My dead eyes didn’t bother him, and the fact that I told him I was a Reaper was irrelevant.

  “Don’t blame them,” I said. “I’m used to it. Nothing wrong with Bastian. We had tacos. Best day I’ve had since getting stuck in a building collapse.”

  He didn’t laugh. “Don’t tell that joke at my place. No one will laugh.”

  “I laugh at things I shouldn’t,” I said, watching for trouble. On the next street, we encountered a lot of people sulking on the sidewalks. They didn’t array themselves to block our passage or hold weapons, but the intent was similar. I wasn’t wanted, and before long, my association with Jacob was going to make him an outcast as well.

  X-37 posted a list of objectives in my HUD. I hadn’t made much progress. This didn’t feel like it was getting me closer to my estate on another continent. I certainly wasn’t about to find a ship here.

  “Why didn’t Tom mention he was working on a ship, X?”

  “I am not sure that was a topic of conversation,” X-37 said. “You were busy staying alive as I recall.”

  “You talking to yourself?” Jacob asked.

  “Basically,” I said.

  He gave me a confused look but didn’t ask any more questions.

  “I must remind you that the computer still requires recharging. There is information that will be useful to my integration into your nerve-ware. I would like to retain all possible data. If you can find a power source, I can resume my work,” X-37 said. “My full integration to your nerve-ware will increase your chances by twenty-three percent. I will be able to manipulate metabolism and hormone parameters to boost reco
very, or give you that extra murderous edge in a fight—for a short term of course.”

  “When you say it like that it makes me want to read the fine print. Why the hell did I volunteer for the Reaper Corps?”

  X-37 beeped. “You have never read the fine print.”

  “I read it when needed. Remember all those assassin contracts? Every word, X. The devil is always in the details with things like that.”

  “Rare exceptions do not disprove the rule.”

  “Whatever, X. I’ll find a place to charge your battery.”

  Jacob skipped to keep up. “I should talk to myself. Bet people would leave me alone if I did.”

  “They’d think you’re crazy,” I said.

  “No one thinks you’re crazy.”

  “Psychopath. That’s the word they use.”

  “I knew that,” he said, then shut up.

  He didn’t, of course. I’d found a new way to shut him up—give him something to puzzle out.

  The next street was deserted, but I didn’t like the feel of it.

  “We’re not going that way?” Jacob asked.

  “Too dark, too quiet. Probably an ambush waiting to happen,” I said.

  “Right. Gotcha. That’s not good.” He hesitated. “But all that leaves is Outcast Park.”

  “Show it to me, then you better head home.” I wasn’t sure if he’d listen, but it was worth a try.

  Outcast Park was larger than I thought—over a square mile. Once, it had been a grand place with sweeping fields, expansive gardens, and orchards of trees with white bark and pink and orange flowers. Now it was a shadow of what it had been, especially at night. Tents and lean-tos surrounded a pond. People were still awake, some of them cooking, many of them telling stories or strumming instruments.

  “Happy group for outcasts,” I said.

  Jacob shrugged. “They never tell me to leave.”

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked.

  He smiled broadly, eyes lighting up. “I go everywhere. Once my chores are done. Or when no one is paying attention.”

  “I need to find a charging station. Does this place have power?”