‘I didn’t do it,’ I said, my voice an angry sob, fighting to regain control of myself. ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it. They did it. They did it all.’
But no one was listening, because mobs only ever see red. I stared down the sights of the scattershot at the crowd. Slowly backing away until I could duck back behind a building. I activated the suit’s recharging cloak and my body evaporated into a hazy shimmer. I flattened myself against the cool metalwork, members of the crowd stalking past, their bravery miraculously rediscovered. I shimmied up the walls until I reached the rooftop, then squatted on my haunches along the parapet, chest heaving, surveying the scene of desolation before traversing the rooftops towards home.
38
Stormblood
I’ve always hated space travel. Being strapped into a military frigate in orbit over a war-torn planet doesn’t do much to ease my prejudices. If I thought I could look down without puking my guts up, I’d see the stormy planet of Renchio below. The skies blossoming with artillery fire like little wounds. The clouds crackling with bursts of nuclear ordnance. Our ships have been outfitted with bleeding-edge stealth-tech, so we and the squadron of fighter-ships pass unseen through space as we utilise Renchio’s gravity to slingshot to the other side of the planet.
We’ve spent months tracking the Canine King down, shredding his outposts and smashing his men on the battlefield. With every week, Harvest’s grip on Renchio weakens, and his resources with it. Now, we’ve chased him down to a major Harvest outpost on the outskirts of a city. We break them here, and we’ll smash a serious dent in Harvest’s control of the planet. If we kill the warlord, it’ll be a borderline victory.
The rest of my fireteam sit around me in a corner of the ship. Ordnance, suits and weapons are webbed to the ceiling. The rest of the large military vessel is choked full of fireteams, squads, air-support troopers and miscellaneous Harmony personnel clad in bulky armour outfitted with glowing lights and whirring machinery. In the semi-dark we look like a factory of battle-robots. This drop is Reapers-only. We’re diving face-first into the darkest of Dead Zones. I saw corvettes, fighter-ships and attack drones, artillery being prepped for the operation. We’re packing heavy for this one.
I can’t wait.
I strain against the reinforced seat harness, too restless to remain seated, knowing that standing up in a storm like this is a death wish. And yet I can’t stamp the urge from my mind. The aircraft shudders with sudden turbulence. Strapped tight next to me, Alcatraz’s faceplate almost knocks against mine. The holographic readouts around us groan with warnings. ‘You seeing what I see?’ I ask, tagging a Drop Trooper who’s pacing and clawing at his body. His armoured fists slam into the hull, leaving massive dents. He’s got a hungry look on his face I’m not liking one bit.
It reminds me of Cable smashing that Harvester’s head in until his skull went soft.
And I’m starting to feel the same way. My hands are twitching by my sides. My breathing’s gone heavy and fast, like oxygen’s in short supply. I’m covered in cold sweat. I’m constantly agitated, an itch in me I can never scratch. Nothing I haven’t felt a hundred times already during the war. Only before I could always redirect it. Channel my energy and adrenaline towards our operation with sharpshooter precision. Now, it’s like grenades are going off in my body, spraying shrapnel in wild bursts and harming anyone within range. And I’m the one pulling the pin.
When Alcatraz doesn’t answer, I know he’s feeling the same way. The whole fireteam is. I can smell the stormtech inside them, inside me, growing thicker and more succulent. It should make us better soldiers, shouldn’t it? But there’s something increasingly wild about my body. Something primal I don’t completely have control over.
‘I’m not sure we ever had control over it,’ Alcatraz says when I share my theories with the rest of Ghost.
Ratchet stops fidgeting with his seat straps. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Stormtech makes us addicted to adrenaline. Stands to reason eventually it’ll make us do things we don’t want to do for that extra kick.’
‘They said that would never happen in basic training!’ Cable says. ‘That our bodies would adapt like any other augmentation.’
‘Except it’s not an augmentation,’ Myra says. The stormtech shivers warm and wet up my chest, like it knows what we’re talking about. ‘It’s alien, and Harmony knows nothing about what it’s doing to us.’
‘It makes us good soldiers,’ Alcatraz said. ‘Soldiers who do what no others can. That’s why we’re on these suicide missions. Marching into Dead Zones, chasing the Canine King, dropping into this battle in the middle of a storm. They’re deliberately getting our adrenaline levels to soar. They wind us up, then turn us loose on the enemy, sit back and watch us rack up some serious damage.’
I want to deny it. But it makes too much sense. ‘Those Intelligence Officers watching us train,’ I say with a sinking heart. ‘The post-operation assessments they’ve been asking us to do. Getting us to wear our armour as much as possible. They’re studying us like lab rats to maximise the stormtech’s potential. Even if it kills us.’
Fury pours off the others.
‘They lied to us,’ Ratchet growls.
