“Are you going to swoop in once I find him? Steal my glory? Leave me there on the ultimate death row?”
“I’m running your extraction team.”
“But you’re not the only spec ops unit on this operation,” I said, pointedly. “You’re just the only one I’m allowed to know about.”
He adjusted his gear and checked his team as he answered me, a good way to avoid eye contact. “Stop breaking my balls, Hal.”
“What fun would that be?” I slugged him in the shoulder. “We’re friends, right?”
“Sure, Hal.”
“Then, as a friend, would you mind shutting the fuck up and letting me get my head straight? If you’re going to lie and hold shit back, I want to focus on what I need to do to survive this.”
“You’re a real son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” I took out one of Briggs’ cigars, a lighter I lifted from another officer, and nursed it to life.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, mouth slightly agape.
“Don’t worry about it.”
The dropship trembled as we passed through the atmosphere shield. Turbines twisted downward to keep us from crashing into Dreadmax. We were over a landing field bordered by one of the mechanical trenches.
"That's damn close, Andrews!” Grady shouted.
"Not my fault. The power must be running low for the shield to be so close to the surface. Might be better to just land and fly along this crap," Lieutenant Andrews said, a good-natured lilt in the tone of his voice.
"Not an option," said Grady, struggling to be heard over the noise.
"Roger that. We'll talk again when I slam into one of these watchtowers," muttered Andrews in response.
I heard everything they said. "I'm ready. I'll go now."
"Negative, Hal. You have thirty seconds before optimal deployment."
Leaning toward the hellhole, I took a breath and fell forward. A static line attached to my back immediately pulled the ripcord on my grav-chute. It took about twenty seconds to glide down.
Static garbled the sound of Grady's voice in my ear piece. "That was reckless. Don't fuck up now. I'm tired of cleaning up your messes."
The second my feet touched metal, I released from my gravity-parachute and sprinted toward the nearest cover. The backup guys watching me were probably losing their minds that I didn’t pack up my chute, but why would I waste time on that?
The dropship turbines tilted backward again and my ride sped away. It didn’t feel like they were coming back for me. Ever.
"Well, at least there's atmosphere. More than I expected really."
"There are better ways to test atmosphere than to deploy a parachute," X-37 said. Unlike Grady's garbled radio voice, X-37 sounded like part of me.
"Where am I, X?"
"You are one hundred meters from trench one forty-two. Would you like a more exact measurement, including centimeters and elevation?"
"Maybe later. Can I get down a level? I’d prefer to travel beneath the surface in case there is atmosphere lost through the degrading shields."
Several seconds passed, which was an unusual time lag for X-37. “I have quarantined the BMSP CIM for the duration of this mission. As to your question, traveling beneath the surface of Dreadmax is not part of your mission plan. Can you advise a reason to deviate?"
"Because deviation is fun. And I've already gone off the plan. We jumped early in case you didn't notice."
"This was noted. Can you explain?"
"Can you keep a secret?"
“Of course, but while the CIM is quarantined, I am unable to determine how much data it will gather passively. It will sync up with the mainframe on the UFS Thunder the moment we return.”
This was interesting because I assumed the CIM would need to get all the way back to the Bluesphere Maximum Security Prison before spilling the digital beans.
"I don't trust Grady."
"Analysis shows this to be an appropriate precaution. I will look for access to the below deck area.”
“What is it, X? You seem hesitant,” I said suspiciously.
“My analysis suggests that there is a reason no mention of below decks was considered in the briefing.”
5
Prisons have gangs. Abandoned space stations populated by convicted murderers have the worst gangs imaginable. And crazies. I hadn’t gone a kilometer before spotting dozens of watchers. Shadowy faces peered out from windows and alleyways and ventilation shafts.
Moving quickly, I stopped at the corners of buildings and checked my back trail to be sure I wasn't being followed. The place was quiet and dark. The star field was intense, with no competition from artificial lighting. The moon and the nearby planet were somewhere on the other side of Dreadmax now, throwing a weird glow up from the horizon of the main ring.
"Can't go this way. You'll die,” said the slightly distorted voice of a child through a public address speaker.
I looked around, blood running cold as I struggled to remember how long this place had been a prison. Twenty years?
"X, how long has this place been open for business?"
"I'm not sure ‘open for business’ is the phrase you're looking for. Would you like me to consult my database of human languages?"
"We've been through this before, X. Just answer the question."
"Twenty years, three months, five days, seventeen hours, and three minutes."
"I'm assuming it's a coed facility."
"Why wouldn't it be? Are you concerned about the children watching us on the surveillance cameras?”
I reminded myself that X-37 didn't have extrasensory abilities. He was making inferences from my behavior and my sensory data.
"I bet none of them were convicted of capital crimes."
"There is a zero percent chance anyone born on Dreadmax has had due process," remarked X.
I moved to the next position, wondering why the child spies seemed so interested in my welfare.
"Didn't you hear me, mister?" asked the child.
“Why are you following me?” I asked.
"You're funny. We’re not following you. We’re watching you."
This confirmed a couple of things. One, there was some sort of active surveillance system in place. Two, it was controlled by children, which meant adults couldn’t get into the control room or didn't care about video surveillance.
“Please sweep your eyes across the landscape,” X-37 ordered.
“Sure thing, X. Anything for you.”
“Sarcasm detected. There are three cameras aimed at your current location. By outward appearances, they are inoperative. No LED power indicators seen. However, analysis of the situation suggests they are, in fact, fully functional. The public address system is operating adequately,” X-37 announced.
“Figured that one out all by myself.” Steam burst out a vent, explaining some of the rust I saw during the flyover and warning me of the lack of maintenance on this place. That type of inefficiency shouldn’t exist on a trillion-ton battle ring—even if it was decommissioned.
Moving, listening, and searching along narrow walkways at the bottom of metal trenches, I picked up other noises that were more dangerous—like gunshots in the distance.
“Someone thinks they can take down the dropship with small arms fire,” I said, not expecting a comment from X-37.
“That would be a false assumption,” replied the child’s voice instead.
“Hey, kid. Come out where I can see you.”
Several voices laughed through the PA. It sounded weird because the air pressure inside the environment shield was wonky as hell.
“We’re not stupid. It’s safe in the tower. Crazies can’t get in. The RSG don’t care about us and the Nightfall Gangsters don’t come this far.”
“What’s an RSG?” I crept under a surprisingly sophisticated cluster of cameras, PA speakers, and listening devices.
“Red Skull Gangsters, dummy,” came the indignant response.
&nb
sp; “I should have seen that coming,” I muttered.
“Hey, mister. We’re serious. You can’t fucking go this way. Slab is having a big party.”
“Slab?”
“He puts people on a slab. Cuts them up and eats their fingers.”
“Your mother tell you that?”
Several children laughed nearby. They weren’t just watching via camera feed, they had creepers.
I moved into an extremely narrow passage probably not meant for humans. There were rails along the floor and walls where I imagined maintenance bots could travel. It took a lot of twisting and squatting low to get through, but I came out in a new trench and heard what the watchers were talking about.
A quick scan of the area fed X-37 details I couldn’t pick up from such a quick peek.
“There’s an armed guard at each corner and a rover,” X-37 said.
“Got an eye on him.” I looked around for a camera but couldn’t find one. “Seems like all the cameras in this area are disabled.”
“Perhaps you should heed the advice of the child in the tower,” X-37 cautioned.
“Let’s call them kids or watchers. Just humor me on this,” I said.
“I always do.”
I wish my Reaper AI could highjack the Dreadmax security systems, but if wishes were fishes, then beggars would eat. And I’d be on my own ship heading out of the system.
“Update me only when needed. I want to go silent for a while and concentrate,” I whispered before I crossed the street and ran in a low crouch through shadows cast by a massive three-story building ahead of me. It looked like a repair facility for large ships, a dry dock that could handle up to a destroyer class. The building had a main hangar and several smaller hangars. The building attached to it rose up three stories but probably went below decks as well.
It was probably as large as the entire BMSP facility.
I passed near the sentries on the way and noted their weapons. I wasn’t sure how prison gangs could be carrying better weapons than I was, but I thought I’d ask Grady in a strongly worded complaint as soon as I saw him again.
“Contact imminent,” X-37 said.
A wheeled vehicle with a chassis magnet holding it down in case of gravity loss sped around the corner, something obviously wrong with the motor.
“Okay, maybe now isn’t a good time to put you to sleep. What the hell is wrong with that thing?”
“It seems the locals have removed the electric motor in favor of an internal combustion engine.”
I sprinted away from the party. “Whatever. It’s loud as fuck and it stinks.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Trust me, X, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
The car screeched to a stop near the entrance of my hiding place. One shouted while another shone a flashlight in my direction. I pressed my back to the wall and held my breath until they moved on.
Loud music boomed from Slab’s building. The sound of a crowd cheering and stomping feet was unmistakable.
“Doesn’t sound like a prison,” I remarked.
“There are no guards who don’t work for the gangs. The residents of Dreadmax probably understand it is a matter of time before all systems fail,” X-37 replied.
“What about the kids? Is there a normal part of this place where people have settled down and learned how to survive with a modicum of civility?” I wondered.
“Doubtful,” X-37 said.
“Hey, kid? Are you listening?” I felt like a dork for calling out, but I needed to know. They were a good resource if they controlled the surveillance system and were willing to answer some questions. Maybe they’d even provide real time intelligence.
I checked my gear, hunkered down, and pulled the mission tablet from a slim backpack attached to my recon gear. The Reaper AI could give me information, but I wanted to look at the map.
“This sucks, X. We need to be on the other side of Slab’s building or inside it.”
“That is only an estimate of where the doctor will be, based on his last known location and observation of the locals,” X-37 said.
“You mean gangs and crazies. Let’s not sugar coat this goat fornication.” I packed up and moved out. Staying in one place more than a minute or two felt dangerous.
The station was turning toward the planet, which was between us and the sun for a while longer.
“Darkness is good,” X-37 reminded me.
“Sure.” What bothered me were sounds. Screaming, shouting, and random gunfire or improvised explosive devices.
“Who the fuck would they be torturing on this place?”
“Anyone they want,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
“Thanks for that, X.”
“Overwatch One to Cain. Respond.” Grady sounded annoyed.
“I heard you the first time. The RSGs have more than one heavily armed patrol in this area,” I whispered, then dashed into a building.
“What’s an RSG?”
“Hold on. I need to clear some rooms.”
Not wanting to get shot in the doorway, I moved quickly through then slowed down just enough to provide a stable shooting platform while walking heel to toe. The standard HKD 4 short rifle came with red dot sights, infrared targeting options if I had the right helmet to go with it, and fifty round magazines. The bullets were small, but fast and accurate.
All things equal, I wished I had a shotgun for rooms this size. The HKD was decent for a lot of jobs and master of none. Not the worst choice in the armory.
I kept it at low ready, down six inches from my plane of vision so I didn’t miss seeing someone crouched. There were three rooms in this structure, each with doorways rather than closable doors. I sidestepped without slowing, viewing a larger and larger section of the room I was about to clear, then went through.
By the numbers. No mistakes. No rushing to failure.
“Clear, no Red Skull Gangsters in this crib.”
Grady grunted acknowledgment. “Glad to hear it. That’s what RSG means? Where’d you learn that?”
“Some kids from the neighborhood told me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Do me a favor, Grady, and pull some strings. This place needs evacuated no matter what happens with my mission. Make some calls. Get something going on that.”
“That’s not my job and it sure as hell isn’t yours,” he said, but I could tell he was talking to his team and pointing at screens in his command center. He’d probably at least send up a request.
“There’s some sort of shindig going on in maintenance hangar 1847 Zulu. Lot of noise. Music. Gunfire. Everything you might expect in a maximum-security prison.”
My old friend keyed up without talking. Sounds of a busy command center came through my earpiece.
“I could use visual confirmation there are children on Dreadmax. All of the inmates should have been sterilized before being sent there,” Grady said.
“Well, that didn’t fucking happen. Or someone put these kids here. I’ll make sure to ask first chance I get.”
“Send me a picture. Just one. I can’t justify compromising the mission for your personal photo album,” Grady said as he typed on his forearm keypad.
I knew the sound. I’d seen him do it often before I left spec ops.
“I haven’t put eyes on them yet.”
“What?”
“Audio comms only with the kids.”
“Godsdamnit, Hal. You had me all worked up.”
One tap of my helmet lowered the volume until I could barely hear him, especially as I moved closer to the maintenance hangar and the hellish party this Slab person was throwing.
“The clock is ticking, Cain. Find the principal.”
“That might not be possible. If he ran into the RSG, he’s probably in that building with about a thousand murderous thugs guarding him.”
“Can’t be that many.”
“Sounds like everyone the Union’s convicted in the last year,” I said, slipping dangerously close
to one of the spotlight vehicles. Motherfuckers were loaded for bear. Galdiz 49 heavy rifles, one YT sniper model, body armor. Fucking spotlights. Fucking motorcars with battery packs for magnetic road locks.
“We’re doing a high-altitude flyover to confirm or deny your reports,” Grady said.
“You should have done that before you pushed me through the hatch.”
“No one pushed you,” he reminded me.
A new vehicle, an armored car with a crew-served machine gun, rolled around the corner with its headlights off. I had a gut feeling these guys had received training before earning their life sentences.
Methodically, the crew of the new vehicle used their spotlight to sweep the trenches and walkways. The light stopped on my position, even though I doubted they could see where I was hiding.
The heavy machine gun opened fire, cutting holes in the walls around me. I dropped to my stomach and crawled for a bot tunnel.
“X, can you help me out here?”
“Certainly. The tunnel you are entering is a dead end. There will be a filter welded in place.”
“Thanks. For. That.”
None of the bullets reached me and the gun crew apparently didn’t want to leave their vehicle, lucky for me. Twenty minutes later, I backed out of the worthless tube and dropped into a pile of debris created by the sustained machine gun fire.
“Cain for Overwatch,” I said quietly.
“Go for Overwatch,” Grady said.
“What kind of gang members have light armored vehicles with crew-served machine guns?”
He answered somberly, “Don’t worry about that now. We confirmed there is something going on in the hangar building. They’ve pulled in all of their patrols and barricaded the doors. Smaller groups of people are locking themselves in wherever there are doors or gates.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because there is a swarm of foot traffic flooding into the area. They’re… running,” he answered, hesitantly.
“Running?”
“Yeah, but the way they do it, they look like animals.”
Crazies. Perfect.
“Shelter in place,” Grady shouted. “I’m not shitting you. Our scans show the assholes are fucking freaks. Probably cannibals.”
The Last Reaper Page 5