Soul of the Reaper: A military Scifi Epic (The Last Reaper Book 11)

by J. N. Chaney

  “So you can’t help at all.” I twisted one foot and pulled my legs, hoping for greater results than I got.

  “No,” X-37 said.

  “Why don’t you power down in case water gets into your circuitry,” I said.

  “Powering down my host computer. I will remain in sleep mode until you reactivate me. Good luck, Reaper Cain.”

  23

  Twenty minutes later I moved my left leg several inches before my foot got stuck in another crook of the debris pile. I turned my head as far as possible, opened my mouth, and tried to catch dripping water from a rusty piece of metal. Most of it missed my lips, but I managed to wet my tongue. Lapping at the water like a dog wasn’t dignified but beggars couldn’t be proud. The rest of the red-brown trickle found my eyes which wasn’t useful at all.

  “Delicious.” I blinked repeatedly and scrunched my face in an attempt to sluice the harsh liquid out of my eyes. “Not even kidding. Rust filled water is really under appreciated. Highly recommended for anyone trapped under a freaking building.”

  “Relax,” I told myself. “Just breathe and go with it.” In with the good air, out with the bad air. Everything was fine. Just fucking fantastic. Maybe some rats would chew my toes off, because why the hell not at this point.

  “Send down another clone, this one is all jacked up!” That thought was poison, so I crushed it like my worst enemy. What I needed was action, not self pity. Reapers didn’t mope and cry and feel sorry for themselves. There were enemies to kill the hell out of and old friends waiting for reunions.

  I removed everything from my belt and pockets, creating a tidy stack off to one side. Then I cut my shirt free. Once I had fashioned fresh bandages for my hands, face, and arms, I removed the nasty strips of not so sterile cloth and used the new ones.

  That left a lot of fabric. I cut what remained into strips and knotted them together. Using the small folding knife I had found early in this mad odyssey, I fashioned a hook by tying it halfway open. Next I broke parts of the blade until it looked more like a piece of bad cheese than a cutting instrument.

  The first toss fell short of the pool. My second try was better, nearly snagging the backpack. Ten more failed attempts proved the universe hated my guts and was seriously messing with my head now.

  I threw for the vambrace and caught it on the first try.

  “Nice work, Hal!” I reeled in the Mark 98 vambrace, shamelessly congratulating myself on my skill, resourcefulness, determination, and excellent singing voice. Why not go all the way with this fantasy was my motto?

  There was a problem. I had to strip off the bandages on my left arm to make this thing fit. It seemed to have an antibacterial safety layer between the device and my arm. X-37 wasn’t here to check the specs and I didn’t see a manual, not that I would have read it anyway.

  I removed the bandages, rubbed the disturbingly fresh wounds like that would do something. Rub some dirt on it, Hal, and get back in the fight. Maybe I hadn’t come so far from my old neighborhood on Boyer 5. Here I was, playing in the dirt and likely to be late for supper.

  The Mark 98 powered up the moment it locked in place. Seconds later, the skin beneath it cooled and felt more amazing than a Goldband and a whiskey.

  Emboldened, I resumed my quest to drag X-37 from the slimy pool of circuit frying liquid. A profanity filled hour later, I dragged the backpack halfway to me before the knife-hook slipped off.

  “It’s okay. Totally fine. I can live with that,” I said. “This is what progress looks like.”

  Every foot I dragged the pack took five or ten attempts. My back hurt from twisting, throwing, and pulling the makeshift rope. The drone injuries throbbed, I seriously needed something to drink, and the back of my head was raw from turning to look toward X-37 each time I attempted to hook the pack.

  A small green light appeared on the 98 indicating it was fully powered. I tapped it once and watched the display dim to a more tactical level. Many of the features on a Mark 98 resembled my old cybernetic arm. Nostalgia washed over me. Good times were here again. Totally.

  I went with it because good things were finally happening down here. Regardless of my situation, the ability to take action, any action, kept me sane and moving forward—inch by mother-trucking inch.

  “Hey, kid, are you still there?” I asked.

  A few moments passed. “We’re here. Can you hurry up?”

  “Working on it. Keep looking for your own way out while you wait.”

  “We’ve been digging, but it’s slow and old man Jeffers says we need to be careful not to cause another collapse,” he said.

  “Listen to Jeffers. I’m making progress over here but it’s slow.”

  “Okay. My mom says thanks.”

  “Why can’t she talk to me?

  The kid’s voice cracked. “Something fell on her face. I think her jaw is broken. She looks like a giant grape with eyes—barely able to cry. Everyone else is exhausted and sweaty. Just lying around not even telling me to shut up like they normally do.”

  “Listen to me, kid. I can’t talk to you all the time, but I will check on you. If you haven’t heard from me for a while and there are no drones around, call out and let me know you’re still awake.”

  “Okay, mister.” He hesitated. “Thanks a lot. Really glad you’re here. Watch out for the Reaper clones. I heard there was a new one in town. That’s why we hid in this building. You don’t want to get caught by one of those torturing meanies.”

  “Right. I’ll keep a lookout,” I said.

  I gathered my raggedy rope, checked the knife-hook, and threw it until I got a solid snag on the strap.

  I pulled slowly, careful not to dislodge the knife. Grabbing the bundle with my hand felt like winning a lifetime achievement award. “Got you!”

  The backpack was a slimy mess so I removed the computer and set the bag aside. I dried X-37’s host device with what was left of my shirt, then carefully powered it up.

  X-37 didn’t respond immediately, but that was normal. I put the computer down and started chipping away at the concrete with the stock of my D3D. More and more of the obstruction broke free. I was on a roll.

  Contrary to my earlier claim, I wasn’t fond of my singing voice, but I could whistle. Maybe dehydration and blood loss was making me delirious but I felt the need to try out the rarely used skill. The tune came out sweeter than expected, but sad, like a lone gunslinger crossing the desert, not looking for trouble, but always finding it.

  I allowed my mind to drift but kept my senses dialed into a trancelike awareness. Every surface of my prison had a sharper edge—each image holding a clear contrast and finer detail. Dust motes drifted in the morning light and I realized an entire night had passed. This was like the moving meditation Path had attempted to share with me so many times.

  Bug still wasn’t back. Why? Because he was smart enough to abandon a lost cause. I really didn’t blame him.

  The rhythmic sound of mech feet striking the ground reached down from the surface. Dust danced around me. X-37 could help me estimate the distance but the computer hadn’t powered up. I tapped the device several times, then whispered profanities I thought would help.

  My vambrace vibrated. When I looked down, the small screen showed a red dot approaching from the south, five hundred meters distant and closing.

  Drawing the combat knife, I bent forward far beyond my comfort zone and dug like a maniac. Who cared if this blade was destroyed? I probably wouldn’t need it to fight for my life later. The shoulder stock of the D3D had taken its share of abuse and done amazing work. Now it was time for additional sacrifices.

  My hand was a blur. Sweat and rusty water burned my eyes. I heard the civilians starting to panic and wanted to slap all of them until they shut the hell up.

  “Hello, Reaper Cain,” X-37 asked. “I see that you recovered the Mark 98. I will begin the data transfer at once.”

  “No, X! We’ve got an incoming mech,” I said without slowing my work.


  “Of course, Reaper Cain. Unfortunately, this is now or never. My charge is very low, and the computer is damaged. Please work more quietly and silence those screaming bystanders to avoid attracting the wrath of the mechanized assault unit.”

  My new vambrace vibrated, just enough for me to know I had a message. The mech was two hundred and fifty meters and closing.

  I worked faster. “Hey, kid. Tell everyone to shut up or the mech will kill us.”

  “I’m trying, mister!”

  “Tell them I am a Reaper and I’ll come over there and shut them up if they don’t listen to you.” I didn’t need the vambrace or X to tell me the mech was right on top of us now. I heard the thunder stop dead above us.

  Whatever the kid said to his people worked, because they were silent as the grave now. I waited for the mech to continue onward but it didn’t.

  “Is it running a scan?” I asked quietly, but X was already screwing around with the Mark 98.

  Something bit my ankle. I kicked the attacker but my foot still lacked mobility. When I stared into the crevasse, beady rat eyes glared at me. Then it bit me again.

  “Knock that off,” I hissed. “Go eat someone else. I’m not dead yet.”

  Three more rats went after my ears. I grabbed one and stabbed another. The third darted backward. After tossing both the bodies away, I wiggled my feet to keep the other beast at bay. I tried not to make noise.

  The mech took one step, then stopped.

  “Come on, X. I really could use some help.”

  I listened for the mech for a long time. The rat corpses stunk, and I forced myself not to estimate the water content of their blood. Survival instincts would push me to do a lot of things, but that time hadn’t arrived. Yet. Instead, I squeezed water from the backpack and choked it down, pretending nothing would happen to my gastrointestinal tract in about two hours.

  But at least I wouldn’t be quite so dehydrated.

  A large, aggressive predator howled as night fell once more. The mech, patient enough to stand motionless all day, stomped toward the sound. Gunfire followed. Other animal cries joined the ruckus until I was convinced the mech was chasing a pack of creatures around the city.

  I pulled my leg free, then curled into a ball as pins and needles danced on every nerve from my toes to my neck. The Mark 98 displayed a progress bar of thirty percent, which I assumed meant X-37 was making progress.

  Rummaging through my pack confirmed that I was out of water. There were ration bars, but I couldn’t stand the idea of eating one despite my hunger. The inside of my mouth felt like sandpaper.

  “Hey, kid, you there?”

  “I’m here, mister,” he said. “Are you really a Reaper?”

  “Yeah. Thought you should know.”

  “You a clone?”

  “What else would I be?”

  “I don’t know. You seem different. Thought maybe you might be the one sent to stop all these HC jerkoffs from scaring everyone,” he said.

  “How is your mom? And the others?”

  “They dug their way out after I told them you were a damn Reaper.”

  “They got free of the building collapse that easy, huh?”

  The kid hesitated. “It wasn’t easy. Everyone was digging. Ripped their hands to shreds, especially me. I feel like I’m doing everything today.”

  “What are you doing here, kid?”

  “Stayed behind to see if you were alive. Hard to call out to you without alerting the mech or the hunters,” he said.

  “Tell me about the hunters.”

  “Not sure how to describe them. They’re like horse lizards. People call them dragons, whatever that is. Shouldn’t be in season, but I heard them and so did everyone else,” he said. “Almost better to stay buried with them out there.”

  “So when you say hunters, you’re not talking about the razor monkeys?”

  “No, but those are bad. I’ve only seen them from a distance because they don’t usually come to Marsi. Sometimes they do, if they’re hunting the dragons.”

  “Thanks for hanging out, kid, but you need to go with your family. Try to keep them safe. Stay away from Reapers,” I said, not sure why I added the last part.

  “My name is Jacob.”

  I hadn’t wanted to know his name. “Call me Hal if we meet face to face. Ask me what I found under the building if you aren’t sure it’s me.”

  A few seconds passed. “What did you find, Hal?”

  “A Mark 98 vambrace. Don’t worry about what that is, just remember the answer. If a Reaper tells you anything else, get the hell out of there and hide.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You need help getting out? You’re deeper than we were, looks like.”

  “No. I got it covered. Get out of here. You bother me.”

  “Such a dick. I won’t need to know the question if you’re the real Reaper. Never heard of a Reaper being such a total jerk.”

  “Guilty as charged, Jacob. Now go.”

  “Bye, Hal. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I listened for another round of useless dialogue and wondered if I shouldn’t have asked him to help me. The idea was idiotic and weak. What could a kid, eleven or twelve years old, really do? He didn’t need to be around me, and I didn’t need to babysit anyone.

  Thunder boomed across the sky above the collapsed building. Lighting flashed over and over again. It was only a matter of time before my run of good luck reversed itself. A spark found its way to the drying oil that I had dragged out of the pool with the backpack.

  Smoke filled my prison. My leg was free, but so much of the debris had shifted that I was still trapped.

  Rain poured down, threatening to drown me if I stayed too long. Did it put out the fire? Hell no. Whatever had been in that pool was something really special. I wondered how much of it I had drunk and how badly it was going to kill me.

  Assuming I didn’t drown while burning to death first.

  Why the hell had I crawled out of that life pod? It was getting really hard to remember.

  I worked up enough saliva to spit once, which was a miracle in itself. Of course that did nothing to slow the spread of the flames. Opening my mouth, I let rain water flow in. Some of it was run off from the concrete and steel, but a few drops winged their way through the gaps and landed directly on my tongue like little angels of mercy.

  “I am pausing the synchronization,” X-37 said. “Please provide a status report while I check your biometrics.”

  “I’m screwed, X.”

  24

  “Hal, are you down there?” Bug yelled through the haze of my delirium. “Godsdamnit there is a lot of smoke coming out of this mess.”

  I blew out a breath, blasting sweat and grime away from my face. My hands were raw, my bandages askew, and new wounds were bleeding from digging out of the rubble—which had shifted three times since I started. Another layer of concrete, steel, and insulation stared me in the face.

  A breeze brushed over me, teasing me with freedom so close I could feel it. Light pierced the gloom, and I heard birds.

  Two men dug frantically to get me out of this nightmare. I could barely move now that someone else was doing work.

  Sleeping wouldn’t be bad, would it? Like maybe forever.

  “Thanks for coming back, Bug.” My voice cracked. The words barely sounded like galactic common. “You know I had it covered. Totally under control. Part of my plan.”

  “To bleed and starve to death?” Bug asked, then grabbed me under the shoulders and pulled me onto the street.

  I tried to grab my D3D but missed it.

  Pain wracked my body. Every bump jolted wounds. I had stopped counting my miseries a long time ago. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the sky. Crossing my wounded hands over my chest eased some of the pain, but I knew I needed a lot of wound care. And whiskey. And cigars. And naps. Without my shirt to protect my upper body, I was a mass of scrapes and bruises. Nearly two days stuck in the rocks
had jacked up my legs as well despite heavy boots and tough work pants.

  But at least I had the vambrace. The computer lay with my rifle and other gear. “How did you know I was down there?”

  “Some kid told me. Tried to grab him to ask questions, but he took off like a cat,” Bug said.

  “That’s Jacob. Good kid. Reminds me of someone else I knew a long time ago on a decommissioned space station turned into a prison,” I said.

  His silhouette stepped back. A new man squatted over me and stared for a long time.

  “Who the hell are you?” I finally asked.

  “You wasted your time, Bug,” he said, and I knew his voice immediately.

  “Drop that hood, Tom. Let me see you,” I said.

  “Voice patterns identified,” X-37 said. “Signs of trauma detected. Be careful, Reaper Cain.”

  Tom pulled the hood back with older hands covered with scars and graceful tattoos—a striking contrast, especially since he hadn’t possessed either the last time we talked. His face was worse, crossed with slashes in the pattenn of an X, like someone did that intentionally—probably as part of a long torture session. The damage had healed to white scars, no longer as angry as they probably had been when they were healing.

  “Damn, friend. You’ve been through some bullshit,” I said.

  He looked sad, said nothing, and didn’t move.

  “Help me up,” I said.

  “Better if you just stay down for now. I’ll talk to you, but I’m not fighting another clone. Move, and it’s the end of the line for you,” he said, then aimed an alien pistol at me.

  I wasn’t sure what the weapon did, but it looked menacing. Technology had been advancing on Maglan when I left. We had encountered several alien races together and explored worlds. Who knew what horrible death ray he was using to stay alive these days.

  The pistol had three barrels, the largest on top. None of them looked friendly. A sword and a rifle were sheathed across his back, and he had a long whip coiled on one hip.