Red Gambit: Book One of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

“Jarek is a mercenary who is astoundingly unclear on how being a mercenary works,” Rachel said.

  “That,” Jarek said, holding a finger up for pause, then dropping it back down and nodding his agreement, “is actually pretty true. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  A flicker of surprise (among other things) shot through his core as she gave him a sultry wink. The very next moment, order was restored to the universe as she waved her hand in a shooing motion. An invisible hand shoved him backward. His stump tipped over, but he managed to land in a deep squat right behind it.

  She rolled her eyes as he grinned, righted his stump, and plopped back down.

  “She doesn’t like the S word,” he explained to Alaric.

  Michael was clearly not amused. “Getting back to the matter at hand …”

  Alaric, who clearly was amused, turned the fading spark in his tired, dark eyes back to Michael. “What is it you think I can do for you?”

  “Well …”

  “I got it,” Jarek said, holding a hand up. He turned to Alaric. “Mikey and your mutual pal Huxley stole one of the Red King’s toys and stuck it in a safe because they thought they could use it against the raknoth, but now”—he hesitated, realizing he’d just talked himself into the corner of breaking the news of Huxley’s death—“they can’t get to the goods, and we got a call from the Reds saying that it’s gonna be Doomsday 2.0 up in here if they don’t get it back in”—he glanced at his comm—“twelve-ish hours, and uh … what?”

  Alaric had stopped chewing. He turned to Michael, his mouth in a tight line and his brows fighting to meet. “Hux is dead, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.”

  It took Michael several seconds to meet Alaric’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Alaric sat back, his eyes somewhere far away. After a while, he chewed once. Then again. His jaw slowly built pace like an old steam engine until he finally grimaced and said, “Well, shit.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said.

  Alaric came back from whatever distant place he’d ventured off to and focused on Michael, his expression stoic but not unkind. “What did he lock up in there? What could possibly be so important?”

  Michael proceeded to spit it out: how he and Huxley had found the strange egg-shaped device, how the thing had felt when he’d touched it, how desperately the Red King and the Overlord wanted it back, the doomsday warning—all of it. Rachel and Jarek pitched in on the more recent parts.

  Alaric listened patiently, chewing all the while.

  “I don’t know what it is you’ve found,” he said when they’d finished, “but it seems to me the lady has the right idea here. This nest thing is already buried. All you have to do is walk away.”

  “What?” Michael said.

  Alaric studied Michael, sympathy creeping into his expression. “The Resistance isn’t going to take those monsters down, son. Probably never was. I learned that the hard way. You wanna help? Find some people that need helpin’ and give it to them. Find someplace you can forget the vamps, and forget them.”

  Michael looked as if he’d just stumbled onto a dead pet. Jarek didn’t blame him. It wasn’t easy, finding out that one of your heroes has given up the good fight. He’d found that one out the hard (and violent) way back around the same time he’d met Pryce.

  Of course, if this old cowboy didn’t play ball, Jarek could also kiss Fela goodbye for the foreseeable future—maybe forever. Despite whatever Al might say, that wasn’t an option.

  He leaned forward. “While I generally agree with the philosophy, old-timer, it kind of falls to shit if this whole doomsday threat pans out.”

  Alaric shrugged. “Vamps’ll do a lot worse than lie to get what they want. You really think they’d be the ones trying to prevent something terrible from happening to the planet after what they did?”

  “They do live here.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re feeling some bomber’s remorse.”

  “I don’t buy that for a damn second.”

  “Either way, this might be one of those if-there’s-even-a-slight-chance kind of scenarios.”

  Alaric looked out the window toward the small jail. “I can’t leave this place. Especially right now.”

  “We’re talking about a day trip here, man. It’s not like we’re asking you to throw in and reroot your life.”

  Alaric narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly do you get out of this? What’s your angle?”

  Jarek might’ve given any number of lies at this point, but the one that probably wouldn’t fly was that he was here out of some noble urge to save the world.

  If the world were actually in danger, who knew? But he was less than convinced.

  “I’m trying to help a friend get his home back,” he finally said. “Long story.”

  Alaric pursed his lips, his gaze flicking between all three of them. “I could tell you where Hux would’ve hidden your nest, but it wouldn’t do you much good without me.”

  Michael nodded. “Hux told me he booby-trapped the place.”

  “That might be an understatement. And if he didn’t give you access, I’m assuming it’ll be my credentials you’ll need. My fingerprints, my voice, and my retinas, which all means you’ll be needing me.” He shook his head. “But I can’t leave. These people need me.”

  Dammit.

  He could see the wheels furiously turning in Michael’s head as the kid tried to figure out what to say—what magical combination of words he could string together to make Alaric see reason. It wasn’t just going to click into place, though; that much was clear.

  Maybe it was time to strike a match under Alaric’s ass.

  “Are you sure about that?” he asked quietly.

  Alaric’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sure about what?”

  “That these people need you. You sure it’s not the other way around?”

  Michael started to say something, but Alaric raised a hand and he fell silent, looking about as tense as a cat in a dog pound.

  “Son,” Alaric said, his expression stony, “I appreciate what you did to help my people today, but you best be careful with your next words.”

  “Careful,” Jarek said. “Like you today, when you strutted up to face a company of armed thugs on your own? What were you planning to do next? It was blind luck we showed up when we did.”

  Alaric’s jaws slowed briefly, then sped up as if to make up for lost chews. “I’d have figured out something. I always do.”

  Jarek barked a short, harsh laugh. “You thought today might be the day, didn’t you? And then us meddling kids had to come along and spoil everything.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, please. I recognize a death wish when I see one.”

  Michael leaned forward. “Jarek, this—”

  “Shut it, Mikey.”

  Michael rocked back. Rachel bristled.

  Maybe he should just knock the geezer out and cart his ass back to Newark, but that would leave them still needing Alaric to show them where to go. Somehow, that didn’t seem like much of an option. Besides, he wanted—maybe even needed—to see this washed-up old fighter cut the shit and admit the truth. He’d wring it out of him if he had to.

  “Your people can survive twenty-four hours without you. What are you scared of, old-timer?”

  “Son, you need to—”

  “Funny you’d use that word so much, considering.”

  It was as if a switch had been thrown.

  Alaric wasn’t chewing anymore. His breath came in long, heavy draws. He locked stares with Jarek, murder in his eyes.

  Jarek felt his own pulse quickening, his nerves crying that he should bolt for the door, or draw his gun, or do something.

  “Get out,” Alaric said, his voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “All of you.”

  “Jarek …” Michael said.

  “You can’t run forever,” Jarek said, ignoring Michael.

  “Out,” Alaric said. “Now!”

  “You can’t escape him ou
t here.”

  In the space of a second, Alaric was on his feet with a revolver drawn, cocked, and pointed straight at him. Rachel came to her feet too, staff in hand, but Alaric’s eyes remained resolutely locked with his.

  “My son is gone,” Alaric said.

  He leaned forward. “Say his name, then.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Say his name if he’s gone,” he repeated, his voice growing in intensity.

  “Just go. Get out of here.” Alaric’s voice wavered, but his gun hand remained steady. Steady enough.

  “Say it.” He stood to lean over the table toward Alaric’s revolver. “Say it!”

  Adrenaline roared through his body as Alaric jerked the revolver and pulled the trigger.

  In the small cabin and directly in front of the weapon, the shot was nearly deafening, but not so much that he missed Alaric’s next words.

  “SETH IS DEAD!” he roared, kicking over his stump as he turned for the door. He threw the screen door open hard enough that it crashed into the wall and bounced back, but he was already clear, stomping down the porch steps to storm off who knew where.

  The bullet hanging in the air a few inches in front and to the right of Jarek’s head fell to the wooden floor with a small thunk.

  None of them moved for several seconds. Jarek ran a mental sweep of his body and came to the same conclusion his eyes had told him: he had not been shot. Given where the bullet had ended up after Rachel stopped it, Alaric had pulled the shot on purpose. It was something, but it didn’t exactly quell the feeling that he’d just fucked up big time.

  “Thanks, Goldilocks,” he murmured, picking up his sword and slinging it over his shoulder.

  “What were you thinking?” she said.

  “Is he coming back?” Michael said.

  Jarek looked at them with unseeing eyes. What had he been thinking? Digging into someone like that—someone he barely even knew … It didn’t matter now. He was tired, and he was pretty sure that waiting around for Alaric to return wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

  “Hell if I know.”

  He started for the door as his hopes of ever recovering Fela began cracking at the foundations.

  Sixteen

  By the time they made it back to the ship, the sun was a couple of hours past the day’s pinnacle. Jarek had barely spoken a word since Alaric’s cabin, much to the irritation of Michael, who was clearly in full-on what-are-we-going-to-do mode. Rachel, on the other hand, simply radiated disapproval at the way he’d handled the situation.

  Whatever. They could both shove it. He wasn’t in this for the Cause, and he sure as hell wasn’t in it for the Resistance. Now, more than ever, he just wanted to get back Fela and get the hell away from this bullshit.

  Alaric had that part right, at least. It was a pretty damn big world, and screwing with the raknoth was purely optional. Hell, maybe those scaly bastards just wanted to be left alone themselves. Maybe they blew the whole world up trying to find some peace and quiet. Who knew?

  “So what,” Michael called as Jarek ascended the boarding ramp, “we’re just going to hang out here and wait?”

  “Unless you have a better idea.” He grabbed the cleaning kit from his locker and pushed past Michael down the ramp. “Then yeah, I guess that’s the plan for now.”

  He went around to the side of the ship and sat down, leaning back against a landing strut.

  “Just leave it, Michael,” he heard Rachel say in a low voice.

  Apparently the advice didn’t jibe with Michael’s current mood, because the kid came stomping down the ramp and around the ship to square off in front of him, arms crossed and dark jaw set.

  Jarek calmly laid out a cloth and began disassembling his pistols.

  “So what were you thinking?” Michael said after several seconds of idle huffing and puffing.

  “Well, I don’t want ’em getting all rusty and whatnot,” Jarek said, not looking up. “Glocks are pretty good, but—”

  “Dammit, Jarek. This isn’t a game, man. You know what could happen.”

  He looked up at Michael. “I really don’t. Aside from me not getting back what’s mine. You don’t either, Mikey, so why don’t you hop off that high horse and relax in the grass with the rest of us for a few minutes?”

  “Boys,” Rachel called, her tone that of an admonishing elementary school teacher.

  “No, Rache, I’m sick of this jerk screwing with everyone and refusing to take any of this seriously just because he’s mortified at the thought of actually giving a crap about anything other than himself and his damn suit.” By the end, Michael was basically shouting.

  Jarek let the bitter amusement seething in his chest creep onto his face. Apparently, Michael had been hoping he’d kowtow like a reverent, scolded puppy.

  “This is why you’re alone, man!” Michael cried. “I know it bothers you. It has to bother you.” He regained some composure before he continued. “I’m fighting for something I believe in. You can mock that all you want, but until you find the courage to stand up for something yourself, even if it’s not perfect, you’re never gonna be happy, man. You’re just gonna be this bitter wiseass who’s too afraid to even open up long enough to—what? What’s so freaking funny?”

  Jarek tried to stifle the laughter that had threatened to bubble out during Michael’s tirade, but he only half succeeded.

  Michael’s hands curled into fists.

  “I’m sorry.” Jarek dropped the pistol frame to the cloth with the rest of the parts and raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “You’re totally right. You’ve clearly had a lot more experience than me with how the world works. Maybe you could show me a thing or two. Like where are these unicorns I keep hearing about? And those fields where there’s always sunshine and rainbows?”

  Michael’s mouth drew so tight Jarek thought his head might simply suck into his mouth like a vacuum and invert.

  “Just give a shit about something, will you?” Michael said.

  He stormed off to go do something on the ship—probably sleep, if the flight over had been any indication.

  Jarek looked over to find Rachel frowning at him from the corner of the ship.

  “Kids, right?”

  “You’re an asshole,” she said, turning to join Michael on the ship.

  He nodded to himself and resumed cleaning his weapons.

  An asshole he may be, but at least he wasn’t a naive little shit. The more he thought about what Michael had said, the more irritated he felt. Michael was a smart kid and he had a good heart, but he had no fucking idea what he was talking about. He didn’t know where Jarek had been, what he’d been through. How could he? More than that, he was too damn young to appreciate just how much he didn’t know.

  He’d been like Michael once. Ten years ago, back when he’d thought he was going to return peace and prosperity to the world, starting with Boston.

  Boston, believe it or not, had yet to enter its new golden age, and his naivety had earned him little more than hard lessons about the depravity of men, some serious scars, and that stupid freaking nickname. From the carnage, the Soldier of Charity had risen, wise enough to know that even the most well-intentioned of rulers had to shit somewhere.

  He finished reassembling one clean pistol and slid it into his right holster.

  Now, without Fela, he was just another schmuck—a particularly crafty, resilient one, maybe, but a schmuck all the same. Reason five-thousand and … whatever.

  He didn’t hear much from the other two for the next few hours. After cleaning his guns and oiling his sword, he stood for a stretch and found that Michael had indeed fallen asleep (in his cot, no less, the not-so-little bastard), and Rachel had returned to working on her second catcher.

  He went back outside to occupy himself with a holo game until he grew too antsy.

  Would Alaric be back by now? Who knew? The better question was how they were going to salvage things enough to get the ex-freedom-fighter back on b
oard.

  “Why didn’t you tell me to pump the brakes back there?”

  “Because I thought you were right about him, believe it or not,” Al said in his earpiece.

  “Man, that ship computer must really be bogging you down if you’re finding yourself agreeing with me.”

  “I’m still not sure we were wrong, sir. You did resort to high-pressure tactics. He may simply require some time to reorient.”

  “That or he’s busy carving my name in the bullet right now.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid, sir.”

  “Not of Alaric.”

  Just of the crushing thought of never finding Fela. But he didn’t have to say that part. Al knew.

  “We should send Michael,” Jarek said after a while. “Assuming his watchdog will let him off to play on his own for an hour or two.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, sir. I think you might still get through to Alaric if you two can make peace.”

  Over his dead body, most likely.

  “Yeeeah. Or we send Michael first.”

  Al sighed. “Or that.”

  Playing make-up was all well and good, but he was pretty sure he’d surpassed even the leader of those marauders on Alaric’s People I’d Like to Murder list. Much as the kid’s high-and-mighty attitude was starting to irk him, Michael probably had the best chance at reaching Alaric.

  He was standing to go pitch the idea to the others when his comm buzzed against his wrist.

  It was Pryce.

  News? Another broadcast from the Reds, maybe?

  He accepted the call and waited as the feed struggled to establish through Deadwood’s abysmal net coverage. Really, it was actually kind of impressive there was a signal at all this far away from major civilization. As it was, the holo sputtered with a few slow frames of aliased garbage before his comm automatically dropped the call to audio only.

  “—arek!” Pryce’s voice crackled through.

  “Pryce. What—”

  “Shut up and listen! No time. They’re here.”

  He froze. “Who?”

  “The Reds. They’re coming for me. Must have tracked you here. You need to get Alaric and get out of there. No telling if they—”

  There was a heavy thud, coupled with a sound of groaning metal. Was that Pryce’s door? Or maybe the steel security hatch at top of the staircase? Shit, why couldn’t his stupid comm find the signal to establish a video link?