How the hell do you answer something like that?
‘Cable told me about a word they used on this planet.’ Alcatraz talks without looking up. ‘It describes someone willing to venture out into the worst storms to help others. No matter how hard or brutal or bitter the weather, they had the bravery and guts to do what needed to be done for the people they cared about.’ He rakes in a long breath. ‘I don’t know the original word. Only the translation. Stormblood.’
He spreads his arms to the stormy sky above, distant lightning forking down as he thumps his chest. ‘That’s what we are, every single one of us Reapers. We’re not fireteam Ghost. We’re not Tusk Battalion. We’re stormblood. And as part of our new pact, I want you guys to promise me something. If it happens to us, we have the guts to end it. Before we become monsters.’
I close my eyes. The stormtech slithering through me like toxic water, turning everything damp. ‘Deal,’ I say.
‘Deal,’ Myra mutters.
‘Deal,’ Ratchet whispers.
‘And on the flip side, if one of us gets killed, we hunt down whoever did it,’ Alcatraz says. ‘Even if we have to go to the ends of the universe. We do what needs to be done.’
‘Deal,’ I say.
‘Deal,’ Myra mutters.
‘Deal,’ Ratchet whispers.
A rippling echoes soundlessly through the dawning skies, shuddering through my bones. A Harvest dreadnought slams into existence above us. Stark blue with a zigzagging orange streak, it’s arrow-shaped design typical of Harvest warships. It’s followed by a second dreadnought, its engines burning from warpspace travel, then a smattering of ancillary warships, frigates, and military-class corvettes.
‘The bastards already heard what happened to their outpost,’ Myra growls.
The stormtech’s a biotech bomb, ticking down with every combat encounter. But it’s also saved me countless times. Saved my fireteam. Armoured me against the hell that’s hammering down on us all.
I could ignore it and die right here.
Or I could gamble again and lean on it until I can’t any longer.
I gather the squirming dark monstrosity up, letting it writhe and twitch inside me, fusing its sticky blue threads tighter and deeper into my body.
Alcatraz stands and looks back at the stirring crowd of Reapers scattered around the captured outpost. ‘Many of our friends and squadmates are dead,’ he yells. ‘This planet is dead. They killed it.’ He points towards the incoming battle fleet. Reapers pick themselves up, turn towards him in the sunlight. ‘We can lick our wounds and mourn. Or we can make their deaths mean something. No one will fight for us. The Common will never remember what we did here today, what we do tomorrow. But we will. Because we’re a family, until we’re dirt and dust. Are you with me?’
One by one, hundreds of Reapers cross their fists across their armoured chests. A promise. A declaration of undying loyalty. Alcatraz makes an addition to his fireteam name, so it reads as Ghost Fireteam – Stormblood. One by one, hundreds of Reapers make the same change, the icons popping up in my HUD, until we’re all one unit. One family. One shared promise between us all.
The sun glints off Alcatraz’s visor as he turns back to us. ‘Are you with me?’ he asks quietly, my dog tag gleaming around his neck.
‘Always,’ Myra says with a sniff.
‘Always,’ Ratchet says, his tears leaving muddy tracks down his face.
‘Always,’ I croak out, my own tears coming.
We gather in a tight hug. Holding each other against this never-ending nightmare. Then we slide our helmets on, scoop up our weapons and move out, marching with our fellow Reapers into whatever fresh hell’s waiting for us. We’re all broken, no question about it. But, for now, we’re still human, and we’re going to make what we do count.
I don’t know if the stormtech will let me live long enough to fulfil my promises, but I’m going to fight until my dying breath to do it. That’s what a Reaper would do.
I’m stormblood.
Until I’m dirt and dust.
39
Back to Base
I didn’t want to watch the news. But it’s not like you get a chance to decide what people say about you. There was no footage of me, but plenty of descriptions of an armed Reaper who threatened a crowd of innocent bystanders and was now a suspect in this appalling act of cultural terrorism. Several very distressed eyewitnesses were babbling that I’d been about to gun them all down. The stories were getting crazier and crazier, prompted by newscasters feigning duty but delighting in the public outrage, exaggerating and distorting the events to boost their ratings, sensationalizing tragedy, their race for the headlines churning nuance and fact into obscene fiction. It would have been worrying enough, but became anxiety-inducing when I remembered the hatred seething from the crowd as they stepped towards me. It was hard not to correlate the events with two recent reports of hate-related crimes perpetrated against stormtech users.
Was it my fault? I’d played into the House of Suns’ hands. Seemed impossible not to shoulder some of this blame. That’s a Harmony trick: to swoop in, do terrible damage, and then eschew any responsibility.
Kowalski didn’t seem to think so when I called her up. ‘If you hadn’t been there, we’d be none the wiser,’ she said. ‘We have a lead now, and you’re okay. That’s all that matters.’
‘We need to get over to the Warren,’ I told her.
‘Got men heading over already. But we can’t afford to waste time. You and Grim swing by as soon as you’re able.’
Grim helped me strip out of the stealthskin. The thick fabric made a liquid squelching as it peeled from my sweaty skin, like tape being torn away. I noted the inner suit was soaked blue with sweat and blood as I slipped back into my underskin. But besides the stormtech-healed bullet wound, I’d hardly any injuries to show for my work. The bruises, burns and even the fractured knuckles had all disappeared
