Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  She nodded back and continued looking around until …

  “Pryce!”

  Rachel’s exclamation earned her a few indignant looks—and a few more curious ones—from those nearby. But there was only one look she really cared about at that moment, and Jay Pryce’s expression was far from indignant.

  The frazzled old tinkerer pushed through the crowd and wrapped her in a surprisingly firm hug.

  “Thank the Maker,” he said softly.

  He pulled back to inspect her company, his expression flickering from hopeful to wan as he confirmed Jarek’s absence and looked back to her.

  She swallowed against a growing ache in her throat, tilting her head toward the crowded room. “I was hoping …”

  Pryce gave her an understanding nod and squeezed her shoulder. “As was I.”

  “Daniels,” came a familiar stern voice from the left. “Report.”

  The crowd shifted to let through a limping Commander Nelken, still hobbled to the point of using a cane after he’d taken a collapsing section of the old HQ ceiling in the battle with Zar’Golga. It felt as if it had been years ago.

  Nelken paused for a beat when he caught sight of Rachel, Johnny, and Drogan, then he continued forward, his expression recovering from surprise and relief back to disciplined order.

  “All clear to the west, sir,” Lea said. “Except these three.”

  Nelken shifted his gaze to Rachel. “The rest of your group?”

  “Across the river,” she said, the words demanding more effort than they should have. “Waiting for us to check that it’s safe.”

  She half-expected Johnny to chime in with something, but Drogan beat him to it.

  “You have heard nothing from Zar’Krogoth?”

  Nelken shook his head, his expression grim. “Aside from the few we met on the road, you’re the only ones to make it here. Once they took the Net down …” He just shook his head again, apparently lost for words.

  “We can’t leave here,” Rachel said. “Not until the others make it. If we don’t …”

  Nelken was still shaking his head, looking like he was about to cut her off.

  “You have cloaking generators running here,” Rachel said quickly, dialing her cloak back in. “I can feel them. We can hide if the furor sweeps this way—get to the upper floors, keep quiet. If we leave now …”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  Leave now, and their chances of seeing Michael and Jarek again went from scary to hopeless.

  But Nelken knew that. The tension in his jaw and the conflict in his eyes made that clear enough as he chewed over her words.

  “Sir?” one of the men called from over by the lobby’s front desk.

  Nelken started to turn but paused to look back at Rachel. He opened his mouth to say something. Before he could, there was a wet ripping sound, and a few specks of dark red blood spattered his face.

  That’s when the screaming started.

  5

  If Jarek had to guess what the life of your average woodland rabbit felt like, he would’ve wagered their current travel conditions were a decent approximation—long stretches of benign existence, punctuated by the occasional moment of sheer, predator-induced terror.

  The going of their convoy that night, as it had been since they’d gone on the run, had been tediously slow and maddeningly boring, save for those few moments when someone thought they saw something and the group proceeded to clench until Jarek could practically feel the vehicle trembling with the collective strain.

  Without fail, though, the somethings in question had proven themselves nothing more than passing animals and ominous tricks of wind, branches, and shadow. Once, funnily enough, the culprit had even been a particularly large rabbit.

  That was the problem with trying to fly under the radar when you weren’t actually sure what manner of radar your enemy was even packing.

  For starters, traveling at night and minimizing their light usage had seemed like no-brainers. For all they knew, the rakul could be watching from orbit, scarfing down space popcorn and waiting for them to show their sad little heads in the light of day.

  Of course, by similar logic, one might posit that, if the rakul possessed such abilities, they might well be able to spot them in the dead of night all the same, lights or no lights. But there were only so many precautions they could take.

  So Jarek had handed over the two pairs of night vision specs he’d had on the ship to two of their drivers. Jarek, having Fela’s broad-range optical sensors, and Mosen, being a creepy raknoth spawn, took the wheels in the other two vehicles. Al, not really needing light to start with, hovered the ship along above them, packed full with the rest of their happy little platoon.

  The fact that they were all still alive—and mostly unmolested—suggested the nighttime routine was serving its purpose, so they’d kept a healthy if it ain’t broke mentality, despite the inherent inconveniences of their nocturnal activities.

  Looking over at Michael in the passenger seat of their SUV, Jarek wondered whether he should apply that same logic to the younger man.

  For probably the hundredth time that night, he resisted the urge to tell Michael to take a nap.

  For one thing, he didn’t really want anyone wondering too hard about just what had left Michael so damn exhausted. For another, after what had happened back at the apartments, he wasn’t so sure it was the best idea to let Michael fall asleep with anyone else but Chambers around.

  He knew next to nothing about the nuances of telepathic influence. Especially in Michael’s case, which seemed to have perplexed even the experts. But he distinctly recalled Rachel having mentioned at some point that the telepathic range of a sleeping mind was considerably larger than that of its waking counterpart.

  Whatever was going on with Michael, keeping him awake seemed like the safest play. At least until six of their Resistance allies weren’t around to get a glimpse of what may or may not be the ticking time bomb named Michael.

  “Okay,” Jarek said. “Driver’s getting tired. Who’s ready for another round?”

  “Not again,” someone—Edwards, he thought—groaned in the far back.

  “Hey, it’s either that, or Mikey gets a bit handy up here to keep me up.”

  “Don’t let us get in your way, lovebirds,” Chambers said from the back seat. “Anything’s better than another goddamn road game.”

  “Touché.” Jarek looked over and gave Michael a shrug. “Looks like we’re out of options, Mikey.”

  Michael just shook his head. “I have no idea why I keep agreeing to ride shotgun with you.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” Chambers said.

  Jarek wasn’t quite sure what to make of the statement until he glanced back to see Chambers shoot him a wink only he could see in the dark.

  She couldn’t see his return smile, but the guffaws of the men around her made up for it.

  Either Chambers happened to have a good working relationship with happy coincidence, or she was something of an evil genius. First, there’d been her stellar cover-up back at the apartments, and now there was this.

  Maybe she was just joking around. But Jarek had a feeling it wasn’t an accident she was helping kindle the idea of some kind of bromance between him and Michael right when they might be needing a good excuse to be spending some quality time alone—at least until they got to Pittsburgh.

  “Don’t listen to ‘em buddy,” Jarek said, making a point of reaching over to pat Michael’s thigh, though the gesture might have been lost on the others in the dark. “They’re just jealous.”

  It almost made Jarek want to laugh, even thinking about playing these silly little games when there were ten-thousand-plus-year-old super-beings hunting them like sad little vermin right now, but, somehow, this had become his reality.

  Because, whatever happened, he wasn’t planning on leaving anyone behind. Not even Mosen. And right now, the best bet at keeping everyone happy with the status quo was keeping Mich
ael’s episode quiet until they could quietly figure out whether it was going to become an issue again.

  And speaking of which, he was going to need to act sooner than later.

  The slow brightening of his faceplate display told him dawn was approaching even without checking the time. He cycled off the night vision and saw the sky was shifting from velvety black to the first dark shades of blue.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Bunking in the ship was probably the best bet. Jarek, Michael, and some of the other Resistance troops had already set a precedent of doing so at a few of their stops earlier on in this big happy team adventure.

  The Mosenites probably wouldn’t like it, and it might raise a few Resistance eyebrows as well, but screw it.

  Jarek was getting too tired to worry about treading on toes at this point. And by the time real light was creeping out from the horizon and the convoy was starting to slow ahead, he didn’t have any better master plans.

  “Home sweet home, boys and girls,” Jarek said, killing the SUV’s power across the street from the pair of big white houses he assumed were Mosen’s choice destination.

  The Resistance crew wasted no time in piling out of the vehicle with a chorus of grateful sounds.

  Jarek touched Michael’s shoulder for pause when he started to follow his comrades.

  “What say we crash in the ship tonight?” he asked quietly as the troops gingerly closed their doors behind them to avoid any loud noises.

  Michael didn’t say anything—just shot a worried glance at the rest of their unloading forces then nodded to Jarek, looking, of all things, embarrassed.

  Jarek clapped his shoulder. “Good man. It’ll be fun. We can make Al tell us ghost stories. Just let me do the talking out there.”

  With that, he hopped out of the driver’s seat and went to help the others lug their dwindling supplies into their new day-homes.

  Al, having heard the plan, informed Jarek he was tucking the ship down among a patch of trees behind the houses. Jarek strolled out back with Michael and Chambers to meet Al’s debarking Resistance passengers and grab a few things from the ship.

  That Michael and Jarek didn’t exit the ship right along with everyone else shouldn’t have been particularly suspicious, but …

  “What are you two doing?”

  Goddammit.

  Jarek didn’t have to look to identify the spiteful voice as Mosen’s, approaching from the houses to stick his hateful little nose wherever he damn well pleased.

  Was it just nosiness? An overbearing play for authority?

  Or did Mosen suspect what they were up to?

  Jarek decided he didn’t really give a shit at this point.

  He was just about to turn from his dresser to say as much when Al, bless his dignified circuits, powered on the filmscreen TV that hung over the dresser.

  Jarek turned from the TV and the dresser to show Mosen his best fuck-off smile. “We wanna watch a movie, you a-hole. The day I can’t do that in the comfort of my own ship is the day I’ll crawl out of this suit and hand you the gun.”

  It was barely even a lie.

  People were stopping to watch now, Resistance and Mosenites alike.

  “I’d hardly need a gun,” Mosen said, still eyeing them suspiciously. “What are you watching?”

  Jarek waggled his eyebrows. “You don’t wanna know, Mosen.”

  He needed to shut this down before it became a debate.

  “And besides,” he added, slapping the hatch release and shooting a wink at Chambers, who was watching this all unfold with a heavily furrowed brow, “it’s no girls allowed.”

  That got a few chuckles from the Resistance boys.

  Chambers shook her head and turned to walk away with what might’ve been a furtive grin.

  Mosen, on the other hand, continued holding Jarek on the end of his glare until the boarding ramp clacked into place, sealing them away from one another.

  “Super smooth,” Michael said from the cot behind him.

  “Discreet as always, sir,” Al agreed quietly from the cabin speakers.

  “Hey, it worked.” Jarek shook his head, fishing in his dresser for a pair of sweats. “Everyone’s a critic … Jesus.”

  Mosen, the rakul, and the rest of the universe be damned. Now that he was here, he was going to have himself a ship shower and enjoy the freedom of cotton for a night.

  And hell, why not watch that movie?

  Michael, unfortunately, had other plans.

  “Why don’t you stand up to him?” he asked. “Why are you letting him pretend like he owns this whole convoy?”

  Jarek glanced over his shoulder and saw frustration building in Michael’s expression—the same frustration Jarek had been sniffing lately from the rest of the Resistance ranks too, right on the back of every conversation Mosen butted his way into.

  “I know he’s got …” Michael continued. “Well, I know he’s not just another human, but you could put him through the wall with Fela, couldn’t you?”

  He could. He absolutely could—and god, did he want to sometimes. But …

  “Look, Mikey, I’ve seen what happens to guys who take the power because they think they know best.” He pointed at the rear hatch. “Exhibit A—Seth ‘asshat’ Mosen.”

  Exhibit B—Conner.

  Jarek suppressed a grimace and pushed down the unpleasant memories of his old outfit leader. “I don’t need those people out there looking to me for direction. I just wanna get us all back to the others in one piece. Nelken and whoever else can take over from there. If that means letting Mosen parade around like a yappy little show dog for a couple more days, so be it.”

  Michael dropped Jarek’s gaze and stared somberly through the wall. “And if they’re not waiting for us in Pittsburgh?”

  Panic made a hard grab for Jarek’s throat, sudden and surprisingly intense. He swallowed, trying to fight it down.

  The question was just that. A question. The same question he asked himself every day. It shouldn’t affect him so strongly. But the closer they got to their hopeful rally point, hearing his own worries expressed through others’ mouths … It all just gave tangible authority to the swirling murk of fear and doubt at his center.

  “If that happens,” he said, willing himself back to calm control, “we’ll deal with it then.”

  Michael was quiet for a while. Then, finally, “He’s not gonna stop until someone makes him.” He met Jarek’s eyes again. “If not you, who else?”

  Jarek sighed. “You want me to put him in his place? What if I’m not so sure exactly where that place is? What if I get foggy on which lines should and shouldn’t be crossed here? You really wanna deal with me going all dark-side dictator on your asses?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “You realize people said shit like that about every crazy evil bastard in the history of humanity, right? ‘Oh no, not Adolf! He’s just passionate—he’d never hurt anyone! Oh no, not Anakin! He’s the chosen one—he’d never slaughter a room full of padawans!’”

  Michael frowned. “Who’s Anakin?”

  “Dammit, Mikey! Not the point. The point—and side note, I know what movie we’re watching now—but the point is that I’m not interested in knocking down assholes just to take their places. We’ll get to Pittsburgh. It’s enough for now, and—and why are you looking at me like that?”

  Michael was studying him like Jarek was some odd creature, the likes of which he’d never seen before.

  “You’ve just … changed,” Michael said.

  “Not out of this exo, I haven’t, so if you’d kindly cease your babbling long enough for me to wash myself, maybe we can do something productive. Like educate your sadly lacking inner child.”

  Michael hardly seemed to have heard him. “I mean, what happened to the guy I watched cut down a church-full of marauders?”

  The question took him by surprise.

  “He—I …” Jarek studied Michael for a length of silence and finally rolled
his eyes. “Christ, I’m gonna go take a shower. Fire up the movies, Mr. Robot.” He started for the ship’s tiny bathroom and turned back to jab a finger at Michael. “And no psycho-babble-bullshit when I get back.”

  Michael just smiled and gave him a crisp salute, and Jarek turned for the bathroom with a muttered curse.

  6

  For one horrible moment, Rachel’s shocked brain couldn’t comprehend where the blood on Nelken’s face had come from. Was it his? The commander touched a few fingers to the crimson streak on his cheek, eyes wide with surprise, seemingly wondering that same question. Then there was a flicker of motion to the right, and they both got their answer.

  The mangled body sailed across the room with frightening velocity and hit the front desk with a sickening crunch.

  In the time it took Rachel to process the fact, another Resistance soldier slammed into the wall to her right, impaled a few feet up off the ground by … what?

  There.

  A flicker of shimmering motion, as if the room’s daylight were bending around a section of thin air.

  Drogan darted forward and drove a hard kick into that thin air.

  Another flicker of motion, and then the wall seemed to implode as if a sizable projectile had slammed into it.

  “Run!” Drogan bellowed.

  No one seemed inclined to argue. Nelken included.

  “Tunnel plan!” the commander barked. “Let’s move, soldiers!”

  Rachel was too busy reaching for her cloaking pendant and watching for more tenuous glimpses of movement to wonder what the hell the tunnel plan was. She dialed out her cloaking field, extending her senses.

  She didn’t have to search long.

  To her eyes, there was nothing but the cracked wall of the lobby. Telepathically, though, the presence in the corner of the room was immense, dwarfing even those of the raknoth, at least on even footing with the power she’d felt in Kul’Gada, if not stronger.

  That kind of presence could only be one of the Kul.

  And it felt her prodding.

  Her breath caught. A string of rapid pulses sounded off from Johnny’s rifle beside her, and several small holes tore into the wall, accompanied by specks of an orangish fluid.