Fear the Reaper: An Intergalactic Space Opera Adventure (The Last Reaper Book 2)

by J. N. Chaney

  “Why can’t anything be simple,” I said to no one. “Fuck, that hurts.”

  Thinking about my Reaper nerve-ware brought back memories of my training. I remembered crawling through mud, ducking under razor wire, and keeping my mouth slightly open to reduce the risk of overpressure as explosives exploded mud nearby. There’d been a lot of getting yelled at by angry noncommissioned officers and even more running. Looking back, it seemed like our trainers had believed we’d constantly be running with huge loads on our backs when we finally deployed as Reapers.

  I found a quiet space where the sound of pedestrians and vehicles wasn’t too loud and no one bothered me. I sat against the wall, head in hands, and tried to breathe. There was a reason I was on Greendale and it was more than just to suffer confusion and pain.

  “I have to get past this, X,” I said.

  No one answered my pleas for the misery to end. More time passed and I was able to lever myself upright and continue.

  Late afternoon turned into evening. The dark, neon-filled nights of Zag City followed. I still felt disoriented, which was probably the result of a concussion.

  My vision tried to convince me I was on a drug trip as I walked beneath hundreds of neon signs flickering to life.

  Twice more, I had to lean on a wall, drawing the attention of two beat cops. They sauntered toward me with their hands on their stun batons. Cops were cops, no matter the planet. We were in the Deadlands, but these men looked like they’d seen military service somewhere, probably with the Union. They lacked the heavy accents of Sarkonians.

  I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact. “I’m okay. Sorry, officers. Haven’t had no Glad-sil for a while. I’m jonesing like crazy.”

  To complete the act, I reached down the front of my pants.

  “Knock that shit off and get moving,” one of them said. “Freak.”

  I shuffled away from them with my eyes downcast. They watched me for a while but didn’t follow.

  My vision finally cleared. I controlled my breathing and walked as normally as possible for several blocks. Recovery was slow and incomplete, but I was moving in the right direction.

  Jimmy’s diner was busy. I loitered near a dance club across the street, waiting in line as though I wanted in. What I was really doing was watching the diner, the street, even the skies. By the time the line moved me to the door of the club, I was confident there wasn’t anyone else keeping surveillance on the diner.

  “Hey, you gonna pay or what?” the doorman to the dance club demanded.

  “There’s a cover charge?” I asked. “Screw that. I’m out of here.”

  He shook his head. Other Zag City club goers pushed forward to take my place in line. I crossed the street to Jimmy’s place.

  A few of the patrons looked wary. I recognized them from the last incident. It said good things about the food and the service if they were willing to come back after the owner was attacked in public.

  I took a seat near the back, selecting a booth that allowed me to watch the door and the big side window facing the street. Two other waitresses worked tables while Jimmy handled both the counter and the kitchen, going back and forth between the two jobs.

  I nursed a cup of coffee, ordering food without considering the menu. The service was prompt. Everything tasted delicious in my ravenous state. “I would definitely frequent this place if I was going to stay on Greendale,” I said, waiting for X-37 to comment.

  A slight disturbance of my hearing suggested the Reaper LAI might have heard me and attempted to respond, but if he had I couldn’t make it out.

  Music thumped from across the street, competing with the comforting noises of the busy diner. Spotlights swept the sky in time with the music. Neon signs flashed as far as I could see in any direction. There were more than just eateries and dance halls. Tattoo shops, game arcades, and massage parlors were also doing a lot of business.

  The waiting area of the diner filled up.

  Through the window, I saw two men in trench coats casing the place. With their faces down and their collars up, I couldn’t confirm who they were, but I had my suspicions.

  I took out a cigar, considered it, and bit onto it as I retrieved my lighter.

  “Hey, mister. No smoking in here,” Jimmy warned.

  On any other world, during any other time in my life, I would have laughed and told him to blow me as I puffed away on the Gronic Fats—but I respected this man for the way he looked after Elise.

  He stared at me, his manner firm but business-like. I shrugged and put the cigar in the front pocket of my coat. Maybe he’d come by my table when it wasn’t so busy and I could ask where to find Elise.

  “Keep an eye on that one, Tom,” Jimmy said.

  The textbook reader swept his finger across the pad, swiping a page, and he glanced up at me as he answered, “I am. Marked him as trouble the first time he was here.”

  He adjusted a pair of reading glasses and returned to his pad.

  I could tell it was newer but had no idea what it was about.

  “That is most likely a library pad," X-37 provided. “How are my signals?”

  “Reading you just fine, X,” I murmured softly, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention.

  Something about Tom made me think he was a more important part of the diner crowd than I'd first guessed. Call it instinct.

  The man wore a jumpsuit, a machine shop uniform that looked like something he had worn often, probably every day.

  It wasn’t long before the two men in trench coats made their approach. I recognized the way they moved. Britton Michaels and Roger Olathe held down their long coats—probably to conceal weapons—as they pushed through the people on the waiting list.

  They wore heavier body armor this time—visible through the edges of their faux leather trench coats. Michaels adjusted his lapel and I saw part of a load-bearing harnesses normally used to carry extra ammunition, gas-mask-like helmets, and other dangerous tools. If the police came and cornered them, they were ready to fight it out no matter how much gas was deployed.

  Jimmy also saw them. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said warily, placing himself between the men and as many of his patrons as possible. He was a big, burly man but didn’t seem overly confident right now. Their last encounter had taught him caution.

  I waited for an incapacitating headache, but it didn’t come. Or maybe it was there and I was just used to it. I wanted to get up, but uncertainty made me pause. What happened if I took action and was suddenly driven to my knees?

  When the pair stepped clear of the people in the foyer I knew there would be trouble, and just sitting here was no longer an option, debilitating headaches or not. Each of them held full-faced tactical helmets in their non-gun hands.

  "X, this is going to be ugly," I said.

  "The ugliest," X-37 agreed.

  18

  “Where’s the girl?” Michaels asked.

  “Had to fire her. She was stealing from petty cash,” Jimmy said, stuttering an otherwise convincing lie.

  “Bullshit!” Michaels shoved Jimmy with his free hand.

  Olathe slipped on his helmet and raised his shotgun, facing the crowd and shouting a warning. The digitized helmet speakers made his tone ominous. “Stay back. The first person who calls the police gets a slug in their face.”

  Michaels put on his helmet then opened his trench coat to reveal a belt-fed machine gun. The ammunition boxes explained some of the added bulk I had noticed earlier. Battered ballistic armor explained the rest.

  “Everyone, get on the ground!” Olathe shouted, striking one man in the face with the butt of his weapon. His victim staggered backward and fell hard.

  Olathe aimed his shotgun at another man’s face, bumping him with the barrel aggressively. “Get off that fucking comm, asshole!”

  Fire filled my veins as I started to move. Pain radiated from my eye. I could still see, but the lights were too bright—every shadow was harsh and disorienting.

 
I really should have gone to Roxo III. Shoulda, woulda, coulda…there was nothing to be done about it now and I never really had a choice. Elise would have been gone by the time I got my gear fixed and found passage to Greendale.

  My legs felt like lead and I struggled not to drag my feet across the tiled floor. Cramps seized my arms, shoulders, and chest. I fell on the ground amongst the other patrons.

  “What the hell is happening to me? X, where the fuck are you?” I grunted, holding one of the booths for balance.

  No answer.

  And then it hit me. There was another Reaper on Greendale and he was jamming my systems. No one else would even know it was possible. There had been contingencies for rogue operators. What the Union had feared most was a bunch of Reapers banding together and forcing their own agenda on legitimate governments and corporations.

  Silencing that part of the program was the only time we had all worked together against our Union masters. After we were done, the only people left alive who knew about the Reaper off switch, or the ROS as we had called it, were other Reapers.

  Which was just two of us so far as I knew.

  Until recently, I’d firmly believed I was the last of us.

  “Get the girl. I’m losing my patience,” Michaels said, causing the barrels of his belt-fed machine gun to spin.

  Patrons squealed in fear, some unable to resist crawling for the door. The sound of the belt-fed slug thrower cycling up sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Bring us the girl, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” Olathe yelled, firing a round from his shotgun.

  Jimmy waved his hands for them to stop and babbled desperately. “No, no, no. I can’t. She’s just a girl. Don’t shoot anymore. You’ll ruin my business. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “I can pretty much guarantee that, you big oaf,” Michaels shouted.

  Sweat ran down my back. I had to get up.

  Olathe slammed his shotgun into Jimmy’s gut, then head-butted him with his helmet.

  Jimmy staggered, one hand holding the counter and one hand holding his bleeding face. “Just leave her alone. She never did anything to you.”

  “People are going to start dying,” Michaels said. “A lot of people. How do you think that will affect your business? Give me the Super Egg Special and a side order of Mass Murder!” he shouted, forcing a laugh. “Are you trying to get everyone killed?”

  “I couldn’t give her to you, even if I wanted to. Please just leave,” Jimmy begged.

  “He has a fucking safe room,” Olathe said in disgust. “Otherwise, she’d already be ours.”

  “We planned for that contingency. Just calm the fuck down and let’s do this,” Michaels said.

  I crawled to my feet. “Hey, assholes. Did you plan for this contingency?”

  Both men aimed their weapons at me.

  “What the fuck?” Olathe exclaimed.

  “Did you plan for this contingency?” I repeated, pretending confidence I didn’t have in my condition. “Leave now, and I’ll forget this happened.”

  “We were even,” Michaels said. “I ain’t afraid of you, no matter what you are.”

  “No fear, man. No fear at all because we have the guns and the armor,” Olathe added, his digitized voice thinner than it had been a moment ago when his victims were helpless civilians.

  “I warned you before. And you really should have some fear, punk, because I’m not just going to kill you—”

  He fired twice, hitting me with gel rounds, slamming me off my feet and sending me in and out of darkness.

  If I was lucky, someone heard all the gunshots and the police were on the way. Staring down the barrel of the shotgun had been a calculated risk. As much as I disliked these two losers, they were smarter than a lot of others like them and probably understood getting caught for mass murder wouldn’t be worth the reward for Elise.

  Aggravated assault wasn’t a life sentence. On some worlds, a conviction barely carried any time at all. Most of the smarter criminals had started taking a page from law enforcement, adding less lethal munitions to their options. At close range, even a gel or bag round could be lethal. I knew better than to get hit again.

  I writhed on the ground, fighting my malfunctioning technology and new injuries.

  There was an explosion as smoke and dust blasted from the back room, coating the dining area in seconds.

  The blast disoriented me, a high pitched wheezing sound in my ear as the pressure settled. My optics jerked and danced, distorting my vision. I shook my head, trying to clear some of the fogginess, and heard Elsie screaming curses at them as they dragged her out.

  “Give her the needles!” Michaels ordered. “The police are on the way. It’s all over the scanners.”

  “Get that away from me, you ball-less—” Elise yelled right before I heard a pop similar to an electronic stun device.

  From my position on the floor I couldn’t see a damn thing. The interference between my Reaper LAI and my nerve-ware diminished, but I didn’t know why.

  Did that mean the other Reaper was too close to keep the ROS active?

  Olathe dragged Elise through the smoke.

  She staggered like a zombie and plastic darts stuck out of her side. The Zag City contractors were using an Olson Device. Easily attachable under the barrel of most firearms, the OD launched electric stun darts that also delivered a payload of compliance drugs.

  Olson Devices had fallen out of favor after Union agents used them incorrectly, reportedly firing their weapons with the intent to use the non-lethal darts, but accidentally firing their primary weapon instead, killing a man they had wanted to detain on minor charges.

  It was a terrible design and it amazed me that they still existed.

  “Stop pushing me,” Elise complained groggily.

  “You want us to push you,” Michael said.

  “Okay, you’re right,” she said, passively resisting until they pushed her out the door. “Just… don’t push so not nicely.”

  I pushed to my feet, frustrated at my own sluggishness. Everything seemed impossible. With the powerful drugs flowing through her system there was little chance Elise would be able to escape. Even a full-grown man would have a hard time resisting a dose that size.

  Other patrons of the diner had started to stand and were getting in my way. I wanted to scream, because I lacked the strength to shove them aside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this weak. The unfamiliar feelings of helplessness surged through me and I wanted to rage against the galaxy.

  “Will you please respond, Reaper Cain?” X-37 said so loudly that I yelped. The actual physical sensation of my nerve-ware’s communication mechanism remained a bit of a mystery to me. I knew how it worked, but didn’t dwell on it much.

  “It’s about fucking time you showed up,” I growled, pin-balling my way through the crowd. Men and women stared at me like I was some kind of psychotic cybernetic freak show.

  I laughed, feeling for my cigar, thinking they weren’t wrong. Time only seemed to slow. When I stepped out of the diner, Michaels and Olathe were still trying to force Elise into their transport.

  She writhed against them, twisting her bound arms and kicking at them when she could.

  I heard police sirens and it occurred to me that there was never a cop around when you needed one, although even if they showed up, it would probably have only made things worse.

  “Let go of me, you squishy jerk!” Elise squealed, sounding about ten years younger than she was. The drugs were making her goofy and gave her profanity a silly quality.

  “How much did you give her?” Michaels demanded, struggling to control her.

  “I gave her the maximum dose,” Olathe said. “Just push harder. We need to get the hell out of here.”

  “I don’t say this to you often,” X-37 said direly, “but you must hide. There is another Reaper launching an attack and you are in no condition to fight him.”

  “Really? What makes you think that?” I snorted, resistin
g the need to vomit from the stress put on my nerve-ware.

  “The unknown Reaper is using a shutdown box,” X-37 said. “My records indicated they were all destroyed.”

  The shade of Byron Thane crossed my vision, seeming to move slowly as he pulled a knife from the back of his belt and struck twice. Quick as a snake but hard as a jackhammer, he stabbed Michaels in the back of the neck, right below the edge of his helmet—then did the same to Olathe.

  Both men fell flat on their faces without a twitch.

  The precision of the attack was impressive. The blade had gone between the bottom of the helmet and the top of their body armor and struck between the first and second cervical vertebrae—more effective than a sniper round in the T-zone.

  It had also been fast enough he could have done it in a crowd with no one realizing exactly what had happened.

  He was fast, deadly, and determined to have Elise.

  But he wasn’t Reaper fast. Something was wrong here. I had the very distinct impression any well-trained soldier could do the same thing.

  “You are three meters from the ROS. Disable it if you can,” X-37 advised helpfully—because I wouldn’t have thought of that on my own.

  The Reaper yanked Elise backward by her hair, then hesitated as though surprised.

  Odd. No true Reaper who survived training would have paused like that. Not for any reason.

  I visually searched the man’s gear for the ROS box but couldn’t see it. He had a sort of flat backpack on the outside of his long coat that might’ve contained the device but could also be nothing more than an ammunition bumper or a bundle of stealth netting.

  He was wearing armor, probably better than what the locals had used, but I couldn’t see the exact model. My nerves tingled with dread.

  Byron snapped plastic restraints on her wrists and ankles. Every action was smooth and had the look of a professionally trained martial artist. After restraining her, he tossed Elise over one should in a single, graceful motion.

  He turned slightly, hesitating when he saw me as if deciding whether to kill me or not. Byron then strode away as police cars slowed to a stop. One officer just gawked silently at the sight of dead bodies and the crowd swarming out of the diner.