The Sub Zeros were easy to spot, even without their fin-dragged helmets and bulky armour that made them look like monsters wrapped in concentric layers of metal and rock. They all stood a little too straight, chests puffed out, staring straight ahead from behind black triangular visors. Their hands seemed to have fused to their long-range assault rifles and scattershots with underslung micronade launchers. They somehow carved out a space around them, like a shockfield, keeping others at least a metre away. Only the most effective and battle-hardened of soldiers in Harmony’s SSC rose to this specialised rank. They operated with their own rules on their own terms. I tried to imagine them stealing children in the night, bundling them away from their homes and parents because Harmony had decided they were prime Reaper candidates.
A different time. A different era. A different set of people making the decisions. But the same blood staining Harmony’s hands.
I turned to Kowalski. ‘Won’t they see us coming?’
‘Not in one of these, they won’t.’ She pointed to a flexiscreen displaying a feed from an exterior starboard cam. The slipship’s polished hull had a black, glossy sheen, before it disappeared in a slow wave that rolled from aft to bow. Only the faintest gold outline of the nanoshielding remained. We were totally cloaked. Had to say, it was impressive. ‘And this is for you.’ Kowalski offered me a thin-gun. The black gel handle adjusted to my grip as I tilted the hardware over to inspect it. Oil-black, snubbed nose and ultralight. You wouldn’t be taking down a mechsuit with this, but at a short to medium range you could still deal out some serious damage. ‘Better safe than sorry, right?’
I flexed my aching shoulders against my armour. There’d been no time to repair or clean it, so I was painfully aware of the two holes in the back and the thick coating of my sweat and blood slathering the insides. I’m used to being trapped in my own stink, but I hoped no one else would notice the awful smell. Hadn’t the chance to get any more sleep, either. Four triple-shot coffees and my rising adrenaline level was the only thing keeping me conscious.
‘That hurt much?’ Jasken turned his skullface towards the bullet-holes in my back. News spreads fast among SSC men.
I shook my head and raised the shoulder in question. ‘Nope. Tickled a bit is all.’
Jasken chuckled. With his deep, sandpaper voice, it sounded more like a grunt. ‘Stupid question, I guess. Still, you want to get that fixed. There’s a guy down in the Upper Markets who knows his stuff inside out.’ A passkey was exchanged between our shibs. Everyone glanced at the exchange. Seemed Jasken interacting was a rare occurrence. ‘A little something from me. Show it to him and he’ll sort you out.’
I nodded my thanks as we fast approached the Warren. Ugly up close, and ugly from a distance. The roads were clotted, charcoal veins that bled through the slate-grey grid of cracked tenements, crumbled warehouses and scorched walls. It looked completely detached from the rest of the level, as if Harvest’s weaponry had for ever ripped the place into two opposing worlds.
It was a perfect hiding place. And still would be, if I’d not followed Artyom.
My guts twitched as we spiralled into a rapid descent. I could only hope Artyom wasn’t caught in the crossfire. I couldn’t hold back the assault on my own, so if he really had stuck around, it was his own fault.
If I told myself that often enough, maybe I’d believe it.
Dust swirled as we landed on a grime-smeared rooftop, cluttered with ratnest shacks. The Sub Zeros surged ahead like a shifting mass of black sand, kicking out the doorway and spilling into the darkness. The rest of us followed as they spread out, searching each room. I waited for the crackling echo of gunfire and screams, sour dread knotting my guts as the seconds dragged by.
It took them three minutes to confirm the place was abandoned. They’d all seen the footage I’d taken in the debriefing. Our rats must have fled their sinking ship the moment I’d escaped.
Kowalski looked ready to punch a wall, and even her Shocktroopers were maintaining a healthy distance. She fumbled for her vaper, soaking up the cloud of fumes. ‘Couldn’t have been more than a few hours,’ she puffed. ‘You’re sure it’s the same place?’
I just looked at her. ‘I know, I know.’ She sighed. ‘I had to ask.’
But it was the same place. Same white-washed walls moist with condensation, the same empty hallways, the same powdery smell. The same particle blaster scorch on the wall.
A rangy SubPrimer called Saren leaned towards me. ‘How many did you see here?’
‘I saw a half a dozen but heard more. Maybe ten, fifteen people?’
‘Could have moved,’ Saren told Kowalski. ‘Taken the canisters, dumped everything in a deprinter, reprinted them up again later. Torched what they didn’t need.’
‘That’s mighty quick work for an entire base,’ I said.
‘This is nothing,’ Saren said. ‘Stormdealers practise a fast-track escape if they’re ever cornered. They call it burning out. EMPs, false DNA sprayers, chem-bombs that scour every surface with microbes to destroy any evidence. The bastards can clear a lab in under ten minutes.’
‘Which means they’ve got somewhere else to move to,’ I
