Stormblood

by Jeremy Szal

  The rainforest around us is alive. The hissing of water. The hoots and growls of distant creatures. The wet-hot stink of the air, dripping with damp moss and bark. The susurrus of trees tall as highrises with a nervous system of branches, and leaves as big as houses. The world feeds into me like the soundwaves that appear on my HUD in radio chatter, only plugged straight into my brain, threaded into the dermis of my body. Everything’s got a polished, crystalline sheen.

  This isn’t just another sector of the forest. Blanket-surveillance tech has intercepted commslink transmissions between the Canine King and the Dog Commandos taking control of the area. Not content with sticking bounties on our heads, he’s been marking Reapers with White Skulls for live capture. We’re rendezvousing with Russo, a reconnaissance team deep behind enemy lines, tasked with pinpointing their exact location. Getting there involves crossing a dozen klicks of thick mountain forest.

  Alcatraz kneels down and peers through the foliage. ‘Undergrowth is dense, and the fog’s screwing with our visibility,’ he says as we unstrap our weapons. ‘Sonar and thermal overlays on. We use the 8-way formation. Everyone copy?’

  Five affirmative icons chime in my HUD. We devised the 8-way formation together, splitting up in two parties and scouting the area in a wide loop, meeting again in the middle and then scouting again. We cover a wide range, while any enemies we encounter get hammered in our crossfire. I walk with Ratchet and Alcatraz, their breathing heavy in my ears. Even with the armour’s interior cooling, in this sweltering heat there’re rivers of sweat dripping down my back and chest. I’m caked up to my knees in mud and sticky wet leaves. Our boots squelch through the bloated soil.

  ‘I hate the forest,’ Ratchet grumbles.

  ‘You hate everything,’ I say.

  ‘That ain’t true.’

  ‘Fine. Name one thing you don’t hate.’

  ‘I’ll give you two: stabbing Harvesters with their own knives and a good juicy steak.’

  ‘It’s slightly worrying that both your passions involve sticking sharp objects into meat.’

  ‘A man’s got to have his hobbies.’ He reaches into his armpit, where there’s a gap in the armour to allow for flexibility and scratches it with the hilt of his combat blade. ‘You know what? Steak tonight, boys.’

  ‘And onions,’ I add.

  ‘I could murder a side of bacon and hash-browns,’ Cable says.

  ‘I miss eggs,’ Alcatraz adds.

  ‘Stop making me hungry,’ Myra grumbles.

  ‘You’re always hungry,’ Ratchet snorts. ‘You eat even more than Cable.’

  ‘Don’t make me sit on you,’ Cable grumbles in that low, deep voice of his. Which shuts Ratchet up for all of thirty seconds. Squawking birds with bulging eyes and leathery wings swoop past like brushstrokes of colour. Ratchet tracks one with his rifle. ‘Steak’s good. Chicken’s even better.’

  I grin and let the comfortable banter wash over me. I’ve only known these people for two years, but it feels longer. It’s a hell of a messed up family, but they fit.

  We reach the windswept cliffs. The unrelenting forest yawns below us, interrupted with outcrops, jutting trees and webs of foliage. The jagged mountain landscape is a smudge of dark greens and earthy browns. There’re whole swathes of empty patches, like bullet wounds several kilometres wide in the forest. Myra scans the horizon for snipers while Alcatraz picks at abandoned Harvest tech and discarded helmets. Cable gives a pent-up sigh next to me and kneels down on one leg to review the scenery.

  ‘Hell of a sight,’ I say.

  ‘The forest used to be twice the size.’ Cable brushes his hand along patches of pale purple flowers. Digs his fingers into the rich soil. He turns his visor up to the muddy sky, perpetually churning with dark storm clouds. ‘Funiculars up and down the mountains, ferries on the river. It was dangerous and wild, but it was ours, and it was beautiful.’

  I turn to him. ‘This is your homeplanet?’

  ‘It was, a long time ago.’

  ‘It must hurt like hell, seeing it torn up like this.’

  ‘This is not my home anymore. The Harvesters took it. I have another home, now.’ Slowly, he climbs to his feet, lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘With all of you. Home isn’t where you’re born, Vakov. It’s where you feel calm and peace, even in a storm.’

  Alcatraz reaches our access point first. We unhook our harnesses, reinforced to support our armour’s weight, and slowly abseil down. My harness groans around me, metal buckles scraping against my back and shoulders. The thin abseiling cable creaks. There’re so many blind spots in this area. A patrol unit could walk by and see us dangling here like idiots.

  The deeper we go, the harder I can feel my biorhythms spiking. The stormtech is telling me there’s no immediate danger, but it’s incoming. I swallow. It’s looking forward to the danger.

  I could push the sensations aside. Just because my body’s speaking doesn’t mean I need to listen. I think of Drummer, shot to the ground, bleeding out because his body didn’t warn him. Reapers, tortured and skinned and stuffed into cages. Clear signs of what happens if you don’t take note of the warnings.

  I pull the stormtech around me. With every day, reaching for it gets a little easier. Depending on it feels a little more natural. We haven’t slept for over twenty-eight hours and yet we’re all operating at prime performance. The tension begins to ease. I’m aware of each movement and groan of my fireteam, can hear the quiet whirr of their armour and the rapid thudding of their hearts.

  I feel so alive.

  We abseil down to a ledge that leads into a yawning, mossy cave. We detach and walk through into the splintered remains of a Harvest warship, smashed from orbit in battle, years ago. The rainforest is taking its time eating it up. The dark grey hull’s plastered with Harvest propaganda posters. A fist festooned with Harvest tattoos is squeezing an armoured figure with a grotesque face, blue gore bursting from his crushed chest. Quiescent terminals flicker in the semi-darkness. The rotten, metallic stink of blood hangs heavy in the air, getting my own blood up. We clatter down a telescopic tunnel towards the hangar bay. Platforms that once held ships and interplanetary spacecraft slump like broken ribcages.

  My heart leaps into my throat before I see the shapes dangling from the scaffolding, swaying in the sour wind. Reapers. Nailed to thick, tapered posts and strung up with razorwire. My visor picks out their IFF tags. They’re the remains of Russo.

  No. Not remains. They’re still alive.

  I’m hugging cover on instinct as the world shatters into horror. Railgun missiles scream above our heads and slam into the roof of the tunnel, bringing it down in a scream of concrete and metal. A burst of red plasma fire chews through the rusted metalwork of a barricade. Ratchet’s helmet slams into mine as he scoots up next to me, cradling his weapon.

  We walked face-first into the Harvesters’ trap. The recon team was the bait. Russo’s squad leader twitches, spasming as a sniper round slams through the back of his skull and explodes through his open mouth. Another screams as a fist-sized hole punches through her abdomen. There’re still four of them dangling in their sights, struggling and hyperventilating.

  ‘Hold,’ Alcatraz snaps, knowing what we’re feeling because he’s feeling it, too. We’ve all seen what Harvesters do to Reapers, pulling us apart to learn how we work, and then turning it against us. My mouth’s salivating with hunger, body clenched with rage. I’m moments from charging headfirst into the bullet storm to tear the Harvesters limb from limb. An ear-splitting crack echoes through the spaceport, blood spattering. Another Reaper screams. I’m growling now, but I stand my ground. I cast a long look at my fireteam, huddled down here with me. Got to stick by them, form a tactical approach together.

  I swing upwards, carbine crackling in my hands, muzzle flashing as I lock onto a target and return fire. But they’ve got the high ground on the walkways above us a
nd our shots ping off the scaffolding, earning laughter. I get a glimpse of black armour, an insectoid helmet. Berserker killsquads. Specifically trained to kill Reapers. A slash on their shoulders for every Reaper they’ve slaughtered.

  Russo did what they set out to do. We’ve found our Dog Commandos.

  A slug the size of a fist cleaves through the barrier and slams into the ground between me and Ratchet. He jerks back, fists clenched around his service pistol. I see him glance towards the dangling Reapers, see the reflection in his visor as one has his foot blown off, screams rattling like shrapnel in my skull. I see the stormtech firing rage and heat into his body.

  ‘Don’t!’ I roar, even as Ratchet tears out of cover and sprints towards the walkways. It’s suicide to follow him, and it’s exactly what the Berserkers want. But I won’t let him die like Drummer died. I run after him, spraying covering fire, the others charging in beside me, refusing to let me down.

  Gunfire blazes down. I see every glinting round as it comes punching towards me. My armour crackles with disrupted shielding as the rounds hammer home. My body takes the pain the armour doesn’t neutralise. Muscles pumping like pistons. My feet echoing on the hard decking. There’s a pause, Harvesters exhaling hard. The clack of their weapons priming. The combat zone seems to unfold like a map in my skull. Enemies, weapons, vantage points, blind spots, popping up like glowing tactical outlines in a schematic. We slide into our 8-formation again by instinct. Flanking wide on the lower levels. Gunfire tears up the decking around me as I hammer out three-round bursts.

  I slide behind a concrete wall for cover, a Harvester launching a salvo of rounds into it with devastating force. The urge to throw myself into the line of fire spears into my head like a blade. I’m so surprised I almost don’t back away as the concrete wall bursts inwards in smouldering chunks. I charge out through the choking dust, up the walkway and slam my armoured shoulder into the Harvester. He’s sent tottering backwards, gun going off. I hose him in the chest and he’s sent flipping backwards and crunching to the decking below.

  Beneath me, my fireteam’s carving their own way up through the screaming chaos. Rounds streaming past. Sparks spitting in glinting orange arcs. Harvester bodies spinning, smashing to the floor. A micronade explosion rips a chainship from its berth. Adrenaline throbs in my veins as it comes smashing down towards us, hooked metal whipping past, spraying engine fluid on my visor.

  My hackles prickle and I lunge sideways as a sharpshooter round grazes my helmet and punches a smoking hole the size of my head in the hull. I slide into cover, breath burning. The stormtech telling me where to look for the sharpshooter.

  I focus.

  The clack of his sniper rifle as he loads another round in the chamber. Watery sunlight glinting off the metallic stock as he takes aim.

  There.

  He peeks out and I let rip, pumping high-velocity rounds through him, his arm jerking sideways, rifle going off and shooting another Harvester through the head. The sniper screams as I leap up to the final walkway, their covering fire gone. Two remain, so busy blasting away pieces of the Reapers they captured that they’re slow to turn their rifles towards me. I charge, throttling the trigger of my carbine, thunderclaps exploding in my skull. The first shooter whips backwards, his skull smoking. The second tries to keep up the assault, but I cut him down to the walkway, dark blood spreading and dripping over the edge.

  A last noise behind me. Weapons up, primed. Finger stroking the trigger.

  But it’s just my fireteam.

  I lower my weapon. Electricity streaming down my throbbing body, every fingertip on fire, my eyes darting around for enemies that aren’t there.

  We’d taken them all out, and I didn’t even realise it.

  Or that all four kidnapped Reapers are dead.

  The lone Harvest survivor’s been stripped of his weapons and tech. The red engravings across his shoulder tell me everything I need to know. Even if I didn’t know how to read Harvest ranking, the sneer on his face, the way he holds himself, would have told me he’s the veteran of the lot. When he stares up at us, he’ll see two-metre tall men and women wrapped in bulky armour and helmets, our bodies crawling with alien biotechnology that morphs us into living weapons. And he doesn’t even blink.

  Alcatraz returns from their supply crates and dumps a dog tag on the bloodied deck between us. It’s the snarling face of a vicious dog. The metalwork’s some sort of nanotech, the dog’s jaws tearing into dripping blue flesh on an endless loop.

  Alcatraz steps forward and dangles the snarling dog tag in front of the Harvester’s face. ‘Where’s the Canine King?’ I know they’re running translation software similar to ours, so even if the gesture isn’t clear there’s no misunderstanding.

  The Harvester laughs. ‘He’s planning to play with you blue freaks.’ The words jump across my HUD in neon-red text as he speaks. ‘He cuts Reapers open, likes to watch how the blue pumps through your arteries. Takes it slow enough you last the whole day. And when you’re broken, he staples the ones he likes to the front of his ship, gives them a little tour of the planet while it burns.’

  I can feel slow fury shooting into every joint and every limb, so hard I can feel my veins prickling. I want to hurt him and keep hurting him until he’s spluttering on the concrete in front of me. I flinch. I’ve never felt like this before. There’s a thick, overripe smell in the air. Something intoxicatingly sweet. It’s coming from me. It’s coming from my fireteam. We’re all struggling to hold ourselves in check.

  He’s still talking. ‘You ever seen a Reaper cut open while they’re still screaming? I have.’

  Ratchet slams his blade into a crate so hard the metal breaks inwards. ‘Let’s gut him.’ His voice is strangled and thick. ‘Give me thirty seconds and a pair of pliers and I’ll have your answer.’

  ‘No,’ Alcatraz barks. Myra moves behind them to start rifling through their munitions for salvageable intel.

  Ratchet’s almost spitting. ‘Fine. Fifteen seconds and a hot screwdriver. I’ll make it quick.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘They’d do it to us,’ Ratchet snarls back. He gestures towards the dead Reapers, strung up and swaying in the muggy wind. Kept alive as long as possible, but drugged enough so they couldn’t escape. ‘I say we send the Dog King and his pack of bitches a message. You screw with Reapers, we screw you back.’

  Alcatraz starts to speak, but closes his mouth again.

  ‘I know you five,’ the Harvester continues. Every word oozing out of his twisted, smiling mouth sets my nervous system on fire. How many civilians and children have men like him killed? ‘The Canine King’s been watching you. Put bounties on your heads. It’s just a matter of time before you’re screaming in his—’

  The words die as Cable’s armoured fist crunches into his jaw.

  He’s slammed backwards, his head thunking off the guardrail. Cable picks him up like he’s a sack of dirt, starts smashing his head against the metal wall with a wet crack. Cable slams him again and again and again, harder every time. The Harvester’s struggling grows weaker, his legs starting to shake.

  My instinct is to reach for Cable, to pull him off. But the urge is swallowed by the electric fury the stormtech’s been feeding into my body, arming me with the reflexes needed to survive this nightmare. Reapers, hunted down like animals. Towns and cities vaporized into blackened shells. Harvesters gunning Harmony personnel down and watching them howl in the mud.

  The stormtech holds me back.

  The stormtech makes me watch.

  The Commando’s feet stop twitching. Cable lets him go. The body slides down the wall, leaving a long streak of blood, his skull smashed apart. Cable clenches his hands, his body hunched, his muscles tightening inside his armour, his eyes darting in search of new enemies before swinging around to us. He blinks hard, then glances down at the man he just killed.

 
No. Not killed. Murdered.

  I know I shouldn’t be glad. But I am.

  I let the stormtech’s wet warmth crawl up through my body like thousands of sticky ropes. I feel my body heat declining. My breathing regulating now the last of the threat has gone.

  We’re alive. And staying alive is the only thing that matters.

  Myra mutters something.

  I shake my head. Listen again. ‘They had the data with them the whole time,’ she says, holding up a passkey she’s removed from their commslink device. ‘Not precise co-ordinates, but close.’

  ‘Move out,’ Alcatraz snaps, his breathing shallow. The sticky wind rushes through the hangar bay. Rusted walkways creak. The sky rumbling as rain comes hurtling through holes in the roof and spatters on my armour. I roll my shoulders and scoop up my weapon. But as we pick our way back through the rainforest, it crosses my mind that we didn’t need to kill that Harvester. And how much we had wanted to do it anyway.

  31

  Head in the Clouds

  I’m not good in small places.

  The memory of being trapped in my armour with the nightware wasn’t helping much. And someone of my size and height doesn’t work too well when you can stretch your hands out and feel both walls. And I was sharing this space with someone who was no less hyper than me. Worse, with the never-ending whine of hardware, substrates, powerlines, and memory crystals, the room was an airtight sauna. There was a constant stripe of sweat down my back and soaking into my underskin collar. I could practically feel the walls pressing in on me, the agitation barrelling along my synapses. Still, it wasn’t safe to leave, given the likelihood the Suns were still determined to feed me my own balls on a silver platter.