No. Not remains. They’re still alive.
I’m hugging cover on instinct as the world shatters into horror. Railgun missiles scream above our heads and slam into the roof of the tunnel, bringing it down in a scream of concrete and metal. A burst of red plasma fire chews through the rusted metalwork of a barricade. Ratchet’s helmet slams into mine as he scoots up next to me, cradling his weapon.
We walked face-first into the Harvesters’ trap. The recon team was the bait. Russo’s squad leader twitches, spasming as a sniper round slams through the back of his skull and explodes through his open mouth. Another screams as a fist-sized hole punches through her abdomen. There’re still four of them dangling in their sights, struggling and hyperventilating.
‘Hold,’ Alcatraz snaps, knowing what we’re feeling because he’s feeling it, too. We’ve all seen what Harvesters do to Reapers, pulling us apart to learn how we work, and then turning it against us. My mouth’s salivating with hunger, body clenched with rage. I’m moments from charging headfirst into the bullet storm to tear the Harvesters limb from limb. An ear-splitting crack echoes through the spaceport, blood spattering. Another Reaper screams. I’m growling now, but I stand my ground. I cast a long look at my fireteam, huddled down here with me. Got to stick by them, form a tactical approach together.
I swing upwards, carbine crackling in my hands, muzzle flashing as I lock onto a target and return fire. But they’ve got the high ground on the walkways above us and our shots ping off the scaffolding, earning laughter. I get a glimpse of black armour, an insectoid helmet. Berserker killsquads. Specifically trained to kill Reapers. A slash on their shoulders for every Reaper they’ve slaughtered.
Russo did what they set out to do. We’ve found our Dog Commandos.
A slug the size of a fist cleaves through the barrier and slams into the ground between me and Ratchet. He jerks back, fists clenched around his service pistol. I see him glance towards the dangling Reapers, see the reflection in his visor as one has his foot blown off, screams rattling like shrapnel in my skull. I see the stormtech firing rage and heat into his body.
‘Don’t!’ I roar, even as Ratchet tears out of cover and sprints towards the walkways. It’s suicide to follow him, and it’s exactly what the Berserkers want. But I won’t let him die like Drummer died. I run after him, spraying covering fire, the others charging in beside me, refusing to let me down.
Gunfire blazes down. I see every glinting round as it comes punching towards me. My armour crackles with disrupted shielding as the rounds hammer home. My body takes the pain the armour doesn’t neutralise. Muscles pumping like pistons. My feet echoing on the hard decking. There’s a pause, Harvesters exhaling hard. The clack of their weapons priming. The combat zone seems to unfold like a map in my skull. Enemies, weapons, vantage points, blind spots, popping up like glowing tactical outlines in a schematic. We slide into our 8-formation again by instinct. Flanking wide on the lower levels. Gunfire tears up the decking around me as I hammer out three-round bursts.
I slide behind a concrete wall for cover, a Harvester launching a salvo of rounds into it with devastating force. The urge to throw myself into the line of fire spears into my head like a blade. I’m so surprised I almost don’t back away as the concrete wall bursts inwards in smouldering chunks. I charge out through the choking dust, up the walkway and slam my armoured shoulder into the Harvester. He’s sent tottering backwards, gun going off. I hose him in the chest and he’s sent flipping backwards and crunching to the decking below.
Beneath me, my fireteam’s carving their own way up through the screaming chaos. Rounds streaming past. Sparks spitting in glinting orange arcs. Harvester bodies spinning, smashing to the floor. A micronade explosion rips a chainship from its berth. Adrenaline throbs in my veins as it comes smashing down towards us, hooked metal whipping past, spraying engine fluid on my visor.
My hackles prickle and I lunge sideways as a sharpshooter round grazes my helmet and punches a smoking hole the size of my head in the hull. I slide into cover, breath burning. The stormtech telling me where to look for the sharpshooter.
I focus.
The clack of his sniper rifle as he loads another round in the chamber. Watery sunlight glinting off the metallic stock as he takes aim.
There.
He peeks out and I let rip, pumping high-velocity rounds through him, his arm jerking sideways, rifle going off and shooting another Harvester through the head. The sniper screams as I leap up to the final walkway, their covering fire gone. Two remain, so busy blasting away pieces of the Reapers they captured that they’re slow to turn their rifles towards me. I charge, throttling the trigger of my carbine, thunderclaps exploding in my skull. The first shooter whips backwards, his skull smoking. The second tries to keep up the assault, but I cut him down to the walkway, dark blood spreading and dripping over the edge.
A last noise behind me. Weapons up, primed. Finger stroking the trigger.
But it’s just my fireteam.
I lower my weapon. Electricity streaming down my throbbing body, every fingertip on fire, my eyes darting around for enemies that aren’t there.
We’d taken them all out, and I didn’t even realise it.
Or that all four kidnapped Reapers are dead.
The lone Harvest survivor’s been stripped of his weapons and tech. The red engravings across his shoulder tell me everything I need to know. Even if I didn’t know how to read Harvest ranking, the sneer on his face, the way he holds himself, would have told me he’s the veteran of the lot. When he stares up at us, he’ll
