Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series Read online

  Rachel closed her eyes and shut it all out—the visual input that was only distracting her, the tickling urge to break into manic laughter. All of it.

  She sank deeper into her task, picturing nothing but empty pavement, willing the image to life, embracing the crackling stream of power flowing from the batteries on her belt, through her body, and into the air around them.

  Time stretched.

  Was that the soaring sound of a rakul ship cutting through the air, or just the rush of her own racing blood?

  She couldn’t stand another second of not looking, but she didn’t trust herself to hold the illusion if she did.

  That was definitely the rush of a ship soaring in.

  “It’s working, Rache,” Johnny said quietly. “I think.”

  He thinks?

  She resisted the urge to open her eyes and check for herself, making a mental note to give Johnny pointers on his pep talk skills at a later date. Once they didn’t die here.

  The sound drew closer, closer. It was north of their position, she was sure of it.

  Maybe …

  “It’s passing,” Johnny confirmed.

  She let out a deep breath, careful not to release her illusion.

  In testament to his words, the rushing was definitely fading eastward now.

  “I think we might be …”

  Screw it.

  Rachel opened her eyes to see why Johnny had trailed off and saw with immense relief that the alien ship was indeed still rocketing off to the east, quickly fading into the distance.

  “Yup,” Johnny said, his face a shade too pale and his breathing a touch heavy. “I think we’re good.”

  Rachel slumped to the pavement and released her hold on the illusion with a grateful sigh.

  Johnny gave her leg an enthusiastic pat, earning himself a one-eyed glare.

  “What’d I tell you, Drogan?” he said, not to be deterred. “Lady knows what she’s doing.”

  Drogan just growled something under his breath about lucky fools and started pulling himself to his feet.

  “So …” Johnny said, looking between the two of them. “Who’s ready for some football?”

  3

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Slater.”

  Mosen faced Jarek, wearing that punchable sneer and holding his arms crossed as Jarek was coming to find he so often did when making these territorial stands.

  “We have no way of knowing your girlfriend or anyone else is still headed for Pittsburgh. We don’t even know if any of them are still alive.”

  Jarek glanced around at the few Mosenites who’d looked up from further down the dilapidated hallway, no doubt hoping to see their fearless leader putting Jarek in his place.

  He wondered what they’d do if he broke one of those sharp cheekbones of Mosen’s right now—or, better yet, his neck.

  With Fela, Jarek could’ve taken two Mosens, and it wasn’t like a few guys with guns could stop him, either …

  Jesus.

  A couple weeks of trying times on the road, and there was Conner’s black soul whispering its sweet nothings in his ear just as the man himself had tried to do when he’d been alive, “leading” his people.

  Jarek let out a long breath and focused back on those cold eyes. “You’re right, Mosen. Bravo. You nailed it. We’re flying blinder than old Aunt Sally here. And maybe we go and find out that no one made it to the rally point after all. But how is that any worse than what happens if we keep prancing around up here? Slim as it may be, Pittsburgh’s the only hope we have of linking back up with any of our own.”

  The rhythmic tensing of Mosen’s jaw and the furtive glance he shot down the hallway toward his men spoke volumes.

  He was thinking. And if he was even a quarter as cunning as Jarek already knew damn well he was, there was no way it was anything other than petty irritation and jealousy that could be driving Mosen to argue at this point.

  “We still don’t even know Pittsburgh’s the right location,” Mosen finally said, speaking more quietly now.

  That was technically true.

  In the days leading up to the Net’s untimely death, they’d collectively grown suspicious the rakul might be using the system to track them by their comms, or at least to listen in. Suspicious enough that no concrete details or location had been used during Jarek’s last comm contact with Rachel and Nelken—the very call they’d been on when the Net had croaked.

  In hindsight, that timing didn’t exactly bode well in itself, but Mosen didn’t need that extra bit of ammunition.

  Point was, sure, maybe there was a little interpretation involved, but …

  “He said ‘the old pigskin field where men were forged in steel’.”

  Mosen shrugged, unimpressed. “Yeah. So he could be talking about the fucking colosseum for all we know. It’s not exactly specific.”

  On second thought, maybe Jarek had given up on breaking the a-hole’s neck a little too soon.

  “You’re right, Mosen. Nelken could be making some wild assumption we’d all realize he was talking about Rome—which, by the way, I have no idea how he would’ve gotten to in the first place. That’s true. Or”—Jarek raised a finger—“and this is a real doozy … or, he could just be talking about his home town football stadium.”

  “That’s still a stretch.”

  “Forged in steel, Mosen. They called their team the Steelers, for Christ’s sake!”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “Nelken grew up there! C’mon, man!”

  Mosen pursed his lips, turning that chestnut over in his head, and Jarek decided to press the advantage.

  “How about this,” Jarek said, raising a hand as if in offering. “How about you remind me what great hint your mighty Zar left you. Where’s our old pal Krogoth planning to meet his favorite human lieutenant?”

  It was probably a mistake—the equivalent of poking a beehive for no good reason at all. Because, as far as he’d gathered, Krogoth had given Mosen little more than a cold good luck and a condescending reminder to die well if and when it came to that. And judging from Mosen’s reaction, Jarek’s intel must’ve been at least half accurate.

  The man’s expression went deadly flat in a way that made Jarek think of a viper preparing to strike, and he seemed to cycle through half a different starts and stops before he finally settled on his comeback.

  “How about this, Slater? How about you go fuck yourself? Then do us all a favor and be on your way. We don’t need you and your band of self-righteous idiots here. You go your way, we’ll go our—”

  “Sir!”

  It took Jarek a second to realize the hissed whisper had come from Mosen’s comm.

  The two of them traded a wary look, their squabble dissipating at the tone of that single word.

  Something was wrong.

  “What is it?” Mosen asked quietly into his comm.

  “It’s—shit, there’s a lot of ‘em. It’s a horde, sir. North of the course. You’d better come loo—”

  “Quiet,” Mosen said, his own voice dropping in volume but growing in intensity. “I’ll be there. Don’t move.”

  He tapped his comm and glared at Jarek.

  “They’ve never followed me this far before,” Jarek said, more to himself than to Mosen.

  “Yeah? Go tell that to the fucking horde outside.” Mosen shot a look toward the Resistance’s half of the second floor. “If not you, it’s probably the fucking human satellite dish.”

  Jarek clenched his jaw, wanting to argue with both accusations and not rightly sure he could deny either.

  Could this be his fault? Or Michael’s?

  What else could it be?

  “If they’re north of the course,” he said quietly, “we still have time to roll ou—”

  “Just try something new and shut the fuck up, will you? And see to it your people do the same.”

  With that, Mosen rushed off to go check in with his lookout.

  Jarek stood there du
mbly for a moment, mind racing with questions

  “Sir,” Al said quietly in his ear, “if Michael is—”

  “I got it,” Jarek said, turning for the rooms most of the Resistance troops had bunked up in.

  It was only a little past nine in the morning. Having been on the road all night and only fed properly a couple hours earlier, most of them would probably be asleep right now—with any luck, at least.

  That would sure help with the whole staying quiet order Mosen had issued so indelicately. If they ended up needing to run, though …

  One problem at a time.

  Jarek padded toward the end of the hallway, peeking into each apartment as he went. They’d gotten into the habit of bunking like this pretty fast—doors all open, so everyone could hear you scream, and sleeping as many as each room could fit. Safety in numbers.

  As he’d expected, the large majority of the Resistance troops were out cold, but some looked up as he passed. To those, he gestured with a finger to the lips and then pointed to the northern windows and mouthed, “Look out.”

  To their credit, once they’d peeked out and back to him with pale faces, they moved into silent action, quietly waking their comrades with enough confidence that Jarek had little worry they’d handle this thing admirably.

  They were all stamped with cloaking glyphs, after all. And Mosen’s men had their cloaking field generator—which he prayed to the Maker was tuned to an inconspicuous range, if there were such a thing.

  Michael, on the other hand …

  The room at the end of the hall was dim and quiet, but for a faint rustling. Everyone appeared to be asleep. As for that rustling, it seemed to be coming from—

  Shit.

  On the bright side, Michael’s twitching form hadn’t yet reached full on screaming seizure mode.

  On the less-bright side, he looked like he was about ten seconds away from doing so.

  Jarek crept into the room, cursing each creak of the old floor.

  A few Resistance men stirred, but no one woke.

  He needed to warn them, needed to get them on their feet. But first, he had to get Michael out of there—had to find some way to keep this quiet. But where? And how?

  On the floor, Michael shuddered and let out a pained moan.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Jarek bent down and shook Michael by the shoulder.

  No good.

  Michael’s brow furrowed, and his eyes began racing behind closed lids.

  Now or never, then.

  Jarek scooped Michael’s bulk from the floor as quietly as he could, blanket and all, and stalked for the door, stepping carefully over sleeping soldiers as he went.

  By the time he reached the hallway, Michael’s nonsensical muttering was coming steadily, and several soldiers were shifting in their sleep behind them.

  Jarek looked down the hall, weighing his options.

  Upstairs. Downstairs. The ship.

  Not great options. And if Michael started howling—

  A pair of sharp jerks from Michael informed Jarek he was out of time to think about it.

  He hurried into the room across the hallway. It was on the southwest corner—the one furthest from the incoming horde.

  It was also where Chambers was posted up for her lookout duties.

  She spun at their entry, hand drifting toward her holstered sidearm, then froze, taking them in with wide eyes. “Slater? What the—”

  “Shhh.” Jarek touched a finger to his lips. Then, at a whisper, “Don’t mind us.” He hooked a thumb the way he’d come. “Do mind the horde.”

  “What?” she hissed.

  “Company,” Jarek whispered. “Coming from the north. Actually, if you could go quietly wake the boys and girls across the hall …”

  Thanks to Fela’s auditory sensors, Jarek could hear the horde drawing closer outside. He could almost see them in his mind’s eye, some of them placidly plodding along, others mindlessly wailing on their helpless companions.

  For an understandable moment, Chambers just stared at him, seemingly unable to decide what to make of any of what he’d just said. “I … Is he okay?”

  “Who, Mikey?” Jarek yanked the blanket from Michael and tossed it at Chambers, who caught it without looking, her open-mouthed stare riveted to Michael. “He’s great. Tripping on the R waves, we call it.”

  Chambers looked less than convinced, probably not least of which because Michael chose that moment to growl and violently thrash with his legs.

  Jarek sank into the corner nearest the door, pulled Michael’s back to his chest, and looped his legs around Michael’s torso, hooking his feet into the back of Michael’s thighs.

  “I thought he wasn’t …” Chambers said slowly, still fixed on Michael. “Anymore, I mean.”

  “I was sure hoping,” Jarek said, wrapping an arm around Michael’s chest. “Never a dull day here on Team Earth, though. Actually …” He paused from sliding his hand over Michael’s mouth and instead held it out for the blanket he’d tossed.

  Chambers shook off the remainder of her shock and came to hand it to him. “What do you need me to do?”

  Jarek tilted his head toward the room he’d pulled Michael from. “Make sure everyone’s ready to roll if this goes poorly. Quietly, if possible.”

  Chambers shuffled a few steps toward the door, not turning from them, pausing when Jarek placed the balled-up blanket lightly against Michael’s mouth in preparation for any sounds that should try to escape.

  Chambers glanced at the open window. She must’ve finally been picking up the sounds that were now disturbingly audible to Fela’s sensors. Her eyes settled back on Michael, and she stood there by the door looking stuck, uncertain who to help and how.

  He couldn’t say he blamed her—especially not with a horde approaching and him sitting here looking like he was preparing to smother Michael in his sleep.

  Softly as he could, he spoke. “It’s Lisa, right?”

  He’d only ever exchanged a few words with the woman, all of them in the past week, but he’d heard others call her by the name.

  She finally pulled her eyes away from Michael to meet Jarek’s gaze and give a small nod.

  “Right, then. Lisa.” He resisted the urge to lick his lips or otherwise fidget, holding her eyes steadily. “I need you to make sure the others are squared away, and I need you to keep this”—he nodded at Michael’s writhing form—“quiet. We’re all gonna get through this. I promise.”

  Lisa seemed to consider that for a long moment, then she set her face, nodded, and slipped out of the room.

  Michael’s struggles were growing positively insistent now. Even with Jarek’s superior leverage, it wouldn’t have been a fun ride without Fela. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a fun ride as it was, either.

  When the growls threatened to spill over into more vocal protest, Jarek whispered his apologies on unhearing ears and pressed the balled up blanket more firmly to Michael’s face.

  That was a mistake. Michael’s struggles intensified, and the first real sound that poured from his mouth instantly demonstrated just how ineffectual the blanket was going to be.

  “Fuck,” Jarek hissed, looking frantically around the room for some miraculous other option.

  How in holy hell had he thought this was going to work?

  Nothing. There was nothing.

  Unless …

  Shit.

  With a sinking stomach, Jarek transferred the blanket to his other hand and slid his free fingers over Michael’s throat, armored thumb and forefinger seeking out the carotid arteries on either side.

  Gently, gently …

  Michael’s struggles and growls intensified for a second, then began to die, his head bobbing downward as if heavy sleep were trying to take him.

  Jarek kept the pressure on, waiting to be sure.

  “Sir,” Al said quietly in his ear, “need I remind you that people tend to die when you do that to them?”

  “Thank. You. Mr. Robot.” Jarek sa
id, whispering each word so quietly he could barely hear them himself.

  The horde was passing outside now, not even a stone’s throw away, save for the walls between them. Every shriek hit Jarek like a splash of ice water. Every thud of boots on dirt—or of limb on limb for those more given to friendly fire.

  He held his breath, tense and waiting for each and every moment to be the one they were found out, the one the downstairs door would burst open and—

  “That’s enough sir,” Al said.

  With a jolt of panic, he realized he was still pinching Michael’s throat. He released the pressure but kept his hand ready.

  If this was the same horde he’d fled that morning—and he didn’t see how it couldn’t be—it was big enough that they’d probably be several minutes in passing. And contrary to every one of the considerable number of action movies he’d devoured in post-Catastrophe boredom, he knew Michael wouldn’t stay out for more than a few seconds with his blood flow restored.

  The first time Michael began to stir, Jarek waited against his better judgment to see if it’d be to understandable disorientation or to mad flails and growls, hoping that maybe Michael’s slipping out of consciousness had served as some kind of reboot.

  No such luck.

  So began a slow, tense game.

  Michael stirred. Jarek squeezed. Michael slumped.

  Over and over.

  And below, the horde continued its march all the while, so close he could almost feel their gnashing teeth on his armor.

  Jarek lost track of time, too focused on the delicate balance of Michael’s oxygen-deprived brain and the sounds of the hundreds of maddened civilians.

  They were taking too long.

  Had something caught their attention? One of the sounds that had escaped Michael earlier? Or maybe someone else in the building had lost their shit at waking up surrounded by a giant mob of violence-happy automatons. Jarek hadn’t heard anything—nothing that stood out from the ruckus of the horde, at least—but …

  Jarek had just applied what he was pretty sure was Michael’s twelfth mini-strangulation when movement at the door nearly made Jarek jump out of his armor.

  Chambers padded silently into the room, keeping low enough to stay out of the line of sight for any ground viewers who might happen to be looking up. She took in Michael’s lax form and Jarek’s ready fingers at his throat, looking like she wasn’t quite sure whether to help Jarek or pry his hands off of Michael.