This isn’t just another sector of the forest. Blanket-surveillance tech has intercepted commslink transmissions between the Canine King and the Dog Commandos taking control of the area. Not content with sticking bounties on our heads, he’s been marking Reapers with White Skulls for live capture. We’re rendezvousing with Russo, a reconnaissance team deep behind enemy lines, tasked with pinpointing their exact location. Getting there involves crossing a dozen klicks of thick mountain forest.
Alcatraz kneels down and peers through the foliage. ‘Undergrowth is dense, and the fog’s screwing with our visibility,’ he says as we unstrap our weapons. ‘Sonar and thermal overlays on. We use the 8-way formation. Everyone copy?’
Five affirmative icons chime in my HUD. We devised the 8-way formation together, splitting up in two parties and scouting the area in a wide loop, meeting again in the middle and then scouting again. We cover a wide range, while any enemies we encounter get hammered in our crossfire. I walk with Ratchet and Alcatraz, their breathing heavy in my ears. Even with the armour’s interior cooling, in this sweltering heat there’re rivers of sweat dripping down my back and chest. I’m caked up to my knees in mud and sticky wet leaves. Our boots squelch through the bloated soil.
‘I hate the forest,’ Ratchet grumbles.
‘You hate everything,’ I say.
‘That ain’t true.’
‘Fine. Name one thing you don’t hate.’
‘I’ll give you two: stabbing Harvesters with their own knives and a good juicy steak.’
‘It’s slightly worrying that both your passions involve sticking sharp objects into meat.’
‘A man’s got to have his hobbies.’ He reaches into his armpit, where there’s a gap in the armour to allow for flexibility and scratches it with the hilt of his combat blade. ‘You know what? Steak tonight, boys.’
‘And onions,’ I add.
‘I could murder a side of bacon and hash-browns,’ Cable says.
‘I miss eggs,’ Alcatraz adds.
‘Stop making me hungry,’ Myra grumbles.
‘You’re always hungry,’ Ratchet snorts. ‘You eat even more than Cable.’
‘Don’t make me sit on you,’ Cable grumbles in that low, deep voice of his. Which shuts Ratchet up for all of thirty seconds. Squawking birds with bulging eyes and leathery wings swoop past like brushstrokes of colour. Ratchet tracks one with his rifle. ‘Steak’s good. Chicken’s even better.’
I grin and let the comfortable banter wash over me. I’ve only known these people for two years, but it feels longer. It’s a hell of a messed up family, but they fit.
We reach the windswept cliffs. The unrelenting forest yawns below us, interrupted with outcrops, jutting trees and webs of foliage. The jagged mountain landscape is a smudge of dark greens and earthy browns. There’re whole swathes of empty patches, like bullet wounds several kilometres wide in the forest. Myra scans the horizon for snipers while Alcatraz picks at abandoned Harvest tech and discarded helmets. Cable gives a pent-up sigh next to me and kneels down on one leg to review the scenery.
‘Hell of a sight,’ I say.
‘The forest used to be twice the size.’ Cable brushes his hand along patches of pale purple flowers. Digs his fingers into the rich soil. He turns his visor up to the muddy sky, perpetually churning with dark storm clouds. ‘Funiculars up and down the mountains, ferries on the river. It was dangerous and wild, but it was ours, and it was beautiful.’
I turn to him. ‘This is your homeplanet?’
‘It was, a long time ago.’
‘It must hurt like hell, seeing it torn up like this.’
‘This is not my home anymore. The Harvesters took it. I have another home, now.’ Slowly, he climbs to his feet, lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘With all of you. Home isn’t where you’re born, Vakov. It’s where you feel calm and peace, even in a storm.’
Alcatraz reaches our access point first. We unhook our harnesses, reinforced to support our armour’s weight, and slowly abseil down. My harness groans around me, metal buckles scraping against my back and shoulders. The thin abseiling cable creaks. There’re so many blind spots in this area. A patrol unit could walk by and see us dangling here like idiots.
The deeper we go, the harder I can feel my biorhythms spiking. The stormtech is telling me there’s no immediate danger, but it’s incoming. I swallow. It’s looking forward to the danger.
I could push the sensations aside. Just because my body’s speaking doesn’t mean I need to listen. I think of Drummer, shot to the ground, bleeding out because his body didn’t warn him. Reapers, tortured and skinned and stuffed into cages. Clear signs of what happens if you don’t take note of the warnings.
I pull the stormtech around me. With every day, reaching for it gets a little easier. Depending on it feels a little more natural. We haven’t slept for over twenty-eight hours and yet we’re all operating at prime performance. The tension begins to ease. I’m aware of each movement and groan of my fireteam, can hear the quiet whirr of their armour and the rapid thudding of their hearts.
I feel so alive.
We abseil down to a ledge that leads into a yawning, mossy cave. We detach and walk through into the splintered remains of a Harvest warship, smashed from orbit in battle, years ago. The rainforest is taking its time eating it up. The dark grey hull’s plastered with Harvest propaganda posters. A fist festooned with Harvest tattoos is squeezing an armoured figure with a grotesque face, blue gore bursting from his crushed chest. Quiescent terminals flicker in the semi-darkness. The rotten, metallic stink of blood hangs heavy in the air, getting my own blood up. We clatter down a telescopic tunnel towards the hangar bay. Platforms that once held ships and interplanetary spacecraft slump like broken ribcages.
My heart leaps into my throat before I see the shapes dangling from the scaffolding, swaying
