Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series Page 11

  “Who are you people?” a strong voice crackled from an unseen speaker above the door. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

  12

  To say there’d been dissension in the ranks over the past few days would’ve been putting it lightly. Hell, even blind ol’ Aunty Sally could’ve seen it’d been there ever since Jarek and his Resistance pals had linked up with the Mosenites. Still, all the naysaying and leers and worse from the past couple weeks paled in comparison to the tension that had fallen over their group after Pittsburgh.

  Suffice it to say, Mosen was none too convinced by Jarek’s arcane intel. And after Jarek’s panic-attack-induced runaway act, he wasn’t exactly pulling the punches. Jarek had already lost count of the number of times the incessant a-hole had pointed out to the group that Jarek might well have cracked—that they’d found him on his knees with his arms wrapped around a concrete pillar for Christ’s sake.

  Jarek had to admit he hadn’t done himself any favors falling apart in front of the group like that. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d had much say in the matter. He hadn’t chosen to lose his shit.

  Even Al had been rattled, for the love of god.

  Whether or not anyone believed Jarek’s story about the arcane voice message, though, at least there’d been plenty of tangible evidence that someone had left town in a hurry.

  The scene at the hotel lobby. The tracks of the flight through the rail tunnel. The clear signs of the rumble on the bridge. And, beyond that, the mysteriously collapsed tunnel, which Jarek had a strong gut feeling had been either the handiwork of Nelken’s planning or the casualty of Rachel’s power.

  Mosen, of course, had pointed out that, even if it had been their allies—and he highly doubted Rachel could have pulled such a feat off, by the way—they damn well still could’ve collapsed the tunnel on themselves, and they might all still be buried down there.

  Jarek had returned that Mosen was a miserable twit and that, unless he wanted to set up a work zone and start digging, their only real play was to assume their allies had made it and to hit the road after them. Unless, of course, they wanted to sit around and see if any rakul came back to visit.

  Needless to say, the westward drive was not shaping up to be a cheery one. Add in the fact that they’d been forced to travel in plain daylight to vacate the scene of the crime, not to mention to keep an eye out for their allies, and they were all about a match strike away from an explosion.

  Assuming the rakul didn’t drop down on their heads to finish the job first.

  At least their being on the road kept Jarek and Mosen in separate vehicles. Then again, that arrangement came with its own set of downsides, not the least of which being that Jarek wasn’t around to defend himself while Mosen no doubt slandered his good name—and, more importantly, his sanity—to his faithful Mosenites.

  That was frustrating enough.

  What was truly disturbing, though, was that, after an afternoon and evening spent unsuccessfully sweeping the shell of Columbus for any sign of their allies, even some of the Resistance troops seemed to be wondering if Mosen wasn’t right about him.

  Maybe he had cracked, Jarek could all but hear them thinking. Maybe there’d been no message at all. Maybe he’d scrawled that symbol on the pillar with his own blood, and now they were all headed west on the word of a man who’d, after all, already been talking to the voice in his head for over a decade now.

  That Al corroborated Jarek’s story was all but meaningless. He was Jarek’s AI, after all, and most of the Resistance troops had never really gotten comfortable with the idea of an actual digital being, capable of its own free thought.

  And so Jarek seemed to have found his way to a slippery slope.

  One day of this bullshit, and he was already starting to understand how infuriatingly helpless it was when people started pointing the crazy finger. Once that bad boy started flying, it almost became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Crazy or not, you would be soon enough.

  “Forget about them,” Michael said that night while he bedded down beside Chambers in the musty motel room they’d claimed. “Once we find Rachel and Nelken and everyone else tomorrow, they’ll forget all about this. They’ll probably be thanking you.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath on the thank you bit,” Chambers said.

  “Took the words right outta my mouth,” Jarek said quietly.

  He didn’t say the other part—that he was worried Michael’s once should be swapped for a big fat if.

  If we find them tomorrow.

  It was ludicrous to expect to simply bump into Rachel and the others after only a few hours of looking. Especially based on no more detailed directions than a highway and a city.

  It didn’t help that he had no way of knowing how long ago Rachel had left that message in Pittsburgh. The bodies of the fallen horde members in the parking lot had looked and smelled plenty ripe enough to think they’d missed the action by at least a couple days, but that wasn’t exactly a precise indicator.

  All things considered, it was unrealistic to expect the search to pay off overnight.

  Of course, that didn’t really alleviate the worried weight on his chest, no matter how many times he repeated the logic to himself. And it sure as hell hadn’t kept the hounds at bay that evening as Mosen had led loud discussions cataloging and highlighting the day’s extensive failures.

  “Hey, at least we’ve got a mission, here,” Chambers said as she went to work binding Michael’s wrists for the night. “Better than scurrying aimlessly from hole to hole every night just to survive.”

  “Yeah,” Michael added, staring pointedly at his wrist bindings and lifting his legs so Jarek could slip another around his ankles. “That’d just be crazy.”

  Despite everything, that still got a smile out of Jarek.

  Chambers chuckled too.

  Jarek finished securing the binding and patted Michael’s leg. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  Chambers pulled Michael’s blanket up for him, covering their handiwork. Should anyone manage to sneak a peek through the blinders, Michael would by all appearances look to be lying there like a good little boy and definitely not tied up next to Chambers and Jarek for god knew why.

  Then again, the way his public perception was faring right now, Jarek probably could’ve just explained something as trivial as a few bindings away with nothing more than a sultry wink and an assurance that they really didn’t want to know.

  Given that they’d all spent the past twenty-four hours awake, driving to Pittsburgh, exploring the ruins, and then making their roundabout way to this dismal Columbus motel, most of their people were probably too tired to be snooping around anyway. He wasn’t even sure anyone had noticed the three of them sneaking off to their own room.

  At this point, he was too tired to care.

  And, apparently, too worried to sleep, he soon found out, laying on the floor at Michael’s bedside, shifting in a way that had nothing to do with any shortcoming in Fela’s supportive interior.

  Alone in the darkness but for the breathing of his sleeping roommates, the memory of Rachel’s voice whispered in his head, over and over.

  West, Jarek. Don’t give up. Don’t stop. Please.

  He had to find her. It was the only thing he knew for sure anymore.

  Everything else—seeing these men and women to safety, marshaling their forces, taking on the rakul …

  If he could just find Rachel, Jarek was convinced the rest of it would fall into place.

  She was already with Nelken and Drogan and a good chunk of the Resistance forces. They had the Enochians. The Enochians who, Maker willing, might yet prove to be the nuclear option they’d been looking for since Kul’Gada had been an ugly twinkle on their horizon.

  Finding Rachel meant finding their best hope of surviving this thing. That was what he needed to make the others understand.

  The Mosenites certainly didn’t care about the rest—that he missed her, needed her. That, withou
t her, he felt like little more than a suit and a sword, hunted, alone, and outclassed.

  But survival?

  That was the one thing he was sure everyone in this building was interested in.

  Together, they were stronger. Together, they’d find the only hope there was to find.

  Out here, eventually, they were all going to die.

  On and on these thoughts turned, having neither the mercy to abate nor the decency to produce some useful conclusion. When Al wordlessly opted to add a soothing ambient track to the feedback coming through Jarek’s earpieces, he resisted the urge to snip at his friend for the coddling.

  Al meant well, after all, and if Jarek didn’t get some sleep, it was more than his good mood he was putting at risk.

  So he sank into the relaxing sounds, focusing on deep breaths as completely as he could manage. It was even in danger of actually working when the sound of Michael’s snoring shifted to frustrated grunting and the rustle and bed creaks of subdued struggles.

  Jarek opened his eyes and came back to full awareness with a sharp breath.

  It figured.

  After the day they’d just had, it was probably best to operate under the assumption that Things, as they so stood, had made the collective decision to go on strike where running smoothly was concerned.

  He sat up to see that Chambers was already awake and waiting at Michael’s side in case he managed to wriggle his way off the bed or out of his bonds.

  “You know,” Jarek whispered, “you’re pretty damn good at all this. Keeping secrets. Flying under the radar. Throwing snark like … frisbies? Rolling with the punches, I guess I’m trying to say.”

  She propped herself up on one arm to look over at him in the dark. “I’m gonna assume you mean all that as a compliment.”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  In the silence, Michael wriggled on.

  “Also, snark frisbies?”

  Jarek sat up straighter and shrugged in the dark. “I’m tired, okay? I was kinda hoping I might actually get to sleep tonight.”

  “Yeah, I hear that,” Chambers whispered. Then, after another few moments of Michael’s zombie-like floundering, she added, “God, this is creepy.”

  She wasn’t wrong, Jarek decided after a silent stretch of staring at Michael’s flopping, expressionless features on his in-helmet display.

  “Are you really sure this isn’t … I don’t know, like rakul GPS or something?”

  Jarek shook his head. “No. But Rachel and the raknoth never seemed to think it was, and they’re the experts.”

  Not exactly confidence-inspiring, he had to admit.

  “Honestly,” he added, “if it were, I can’t imagine we’d still be breathing right now.”

  Way more helpful.

  “Fair point.” She sighed in the dark. “We really need to find them, don’t we?”

  He gave her a wan smile despite the fact that she couldn’t see it in the dark and behind his faceplate.

  At least Chambers got it.

  “We really do. Just gotta convince the Moseni—”

  “Sir! Someone at the door!”

  No sooner had Al said it than the door popped open with a splintering crack of old, dry wood. It hit the doorstopper and bounced back only to thud to a halt against a raised hand.

  Jarek caught a glint of red eyes, and his stomach sank.

  “Well, well,” Mosen chided. “Whatever do we have here?”

  “You’re pissed,” Jarek said.

  Understatement of the century, clearly.

  “I get it, Mosen,” he continued, “but this isn’t nearly as catastrophic as you think it is.”

  Mosen paced back and forth, neck muscles tensed and eyes casting glints of red. Finally, he paused and looked around at the audience he’d woken and assembled in the motel lobby by virtue of his racket alone. His gaze settled back on Jarek. “How long have you been covering this up? How many times?”

  “Syracuse was the first time,” Michael answered before Jarek could. “Tonight was the third.”

  The onlookers muttered among themselves.

  Mosen uncrossed his arms. Flexed and unflexed his fists. “Carver’s out. We can’t have him with us anymore.”

  “That’s not happening,” Jarek said.

  Michael swallowed. “Maybe he’s right, Jar—”

  “It’s not happening, Carver,” Chambers interrupted at his side.

  Michael looked from Chambers to Jarek with an expression that was half-grateful, half-pleading.

  Jarek tilted his head at Chambers. “You heard the lady, Mikey. Not happening.”

  “You two are free to go with him,” Mosen said. “If you’re going to put the safety of the entire group at risk for one helpless runt, we don’t want you, fancy suit”—his cold eyes flicked maliciously to Chambers—“or otherwise.”

  “This isn’t your personal dictatorship,” Jarek said. “Michael’s an equal part of this group. We all are. An unfortunate accident and a fucked up head don’t change that. If anyone should be able to sympathize with that one, it’s you, Mosen.”

  Mosen’s lip curled in a soundless snarl that he quickly gained control of and replaced with a frosty glare. “This isn’t a charity we’re running. We can’t help every sad puppy we find.”

  Jarek gave a humorless laugh. “You do remember they literally call me Soldier of Charity, right?”

  “Called you, Slater. Past tense. They are probably all dead by now, considering what’s happening out there. This is survival. You don’t have to like it.”

  “Ah, survival. You know, that’s exactly what the guy who gave me the nickname told me, once upon a time.”

  “Sounds like a smart guy. Maybe you should’ve listened to him.”

  “Thought about it,” Jarek said. “Cut his head off instead. Took three bullets doing it.”

  Mosen threw his hands up, his calm expression cracking into a growl. “You think I give a shit? This talking is pointless. Carver goes. End of story.”

  Jarek shook his head, “We don’t toss our own out on the streets for rakul meal time.”

  “No?” Mosen said. “And what do you call driving around in broad daylight”—he jabbed a finger toward Michael—“with a fucking rakul satellite dish, looking for your girlfriend because the voices in your head say so?”

  “That’s kind of putting it—”

  “And where are they, by the way, Slater?” Mosen snapped, looking around, arms spread wide. “If this hasn’t all just been one giant bumblefuck of a goose chase, where the fuck are they?”

  Jarek hesitated a second too long, weighing potential answers against the receptions they’d likely find with the not-so-friendly onlookers.

  Mosen sneered. “That’s what I thought.” He looked around at the gathered crowd, which had grown in number since they’d started, and jabbed a finger dramatically in Jarek’s direction. “He has no idea what he’s doing.”

  “And you do, Mosen?” Michael asked. “What’s your big master plan, here, man?”

  “Patching our leaks first, Kul-bait,” Mosen said. “After that—”

  “Oh, fuck this …” Jarek breathed to himself.

  Except apparently not to himself, judging by all the heads that suddenly swiveled his way with surprised expressions.

  Fine. That was fine.

  He didn’t care anymore.

  Never mind that the smarmy little shit was relying on straw man sensationalism to make his argument. Never mind that they could have argued back and pointed out quite convincingly that Mosen was even more lost and hopeless than Jarek.

  Jarek was done.

  Done letting Mosen prance around like he was some big badass who merited fearful respect. Done watching this group cannibalize itself in slow motion.

  Done running from what clearly needed to happen if any of them were going to make it through this.

  “Okay, Mosen. You’re not gonna stop until we see whose is bigger? Fine. Whip it out, big guy. I’ll fight you for it.�
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  Mosen eyed him wearily, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

  “Head honcho.” Jarek splayed his hands wide. “There can only be one, right? And I know that that there thick skull of yours don’t do so good with the words, so fuck it. Let’s settle this thing like the damn dirty apes we are. Winner takes the reins.”

  That sure got the crowd talking.

  Mosen gave him a contemptuous sneer through the sea of agitated murmurs and whispers. “Big words coming from a guy in a weaponized exosuit.”

  Jarek couldn’t deny that. So he gave the mental command.

  “Are you sure about this, sir?” Al asked.

  He looked around at the crowd. To Michael and Chambers. He thought about Rachel and Pryce. The Enochians. The rakul.

  Finally, he looked back to Mosen, standing there with arms crossed, barring the way as best he could to the one path Jarek truly believed to be their best hope.

  They could do this.

  He just had to clear the way, first.

  “I’m sure, buddy,” he said quietly.

  And with the familiar series of clicks, clacks, and whirs, Fela began peeling open for him.

  “Please, Mosen,” he said more loudly, stepping out of Fela’s embrace to face his foe with naught but a thin pair of briefs. “I don’t need a fancy suit to kick your ass.”

  He looked around the room again, conscious of both the cool air and the dozens of eyes currently assaulting his thinly-briefed equipment.

  “Just, you know, maybe pants first.”

  13

  If the silence in the mountain tunnel had been tense before, it could have suspended the Golden Gate Bridge now. That was just as well, as far as Rachel was concerned. She needed the empty seconds to will her adrenaline-soaked brain to get its shit together and focus.

  She was almost proud of just how damn quickly she’d managed to throw a telekinetic barrier into place. Or would have been, if she weren’t so busy splitting her mind to maintain the defense while also reaching out to try to disable the oversized Gatling guns preparing to tear their entire group to bloody ribbons.

  It might’ve been a waste even bothering with the barrier. Judging from the looks of those guns, she’d be on her knees or unconscious in under ten seconds if they decided to open up with her trying to protect the group.