Blade of the Reaper: An Intergalactic Space Opera Adventure (The Last Reaper Book 3) Read online

  J. N. Chaney

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  Blade of the Reaper Copyright © 2019 by Variant Publications

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  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Blade of the Reaper

  Book 3 in The Last Reaper Series

  J.N. Chaney

  Scott Moon

  Book Description

  Blade of the Reaper

  The Last Reaper Series #3

  Halek Cain’s journey has only just begun.

  In search of answers to both his past and his future, Hal and his newly formed crew must overcome obstacles unlike anything they’ve ever seen.

  Hal needs repairs, and there’s only so many places a Reaper can find them.

  Far across known space, hidden inside an uncharted slip tunnel, a hidden Reaper facility may hold the answers Hal needs.

  But the Union would rather the dead stay buried...and they’ll kill to keep their secrets.

  Contents

  List of Acronyms

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

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  Books in the Renegade Star Universe

  About The Authors

  For all the Renegade Readers. You made this possible.

  -J.N. Chaney

  This book is dedicated to all the readers and writers at Keystroke Medium. Without your support and encouragement, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Thank you!

  -Scott Moon

  List of Acronyms

  AI—Artificial intelligence

  AWOL—Absent without leave

  BMSP—Bluesphere Maximum Security Prison—Ultramax IX

  CD—Climbdown Day

  CIM—Computerized Inmate Monitor

  CV—Curriculum Vitae

  DM—Dreadmax Marines (inmates on Dreadmax, often falsely imprisoned, who have prior military experience and protect people from gangs and cannibals)

  Feg—Fredrick Eugene Grady

  HDK—Highly Destructive Kinetic (weapon / rifle)

  HDK 4—Shortened (11 inch barrel--from the trigger assembly) HDK commonly used by spec ops and law enforcement

  HDK 4 Dominator—Full length (16 inch barrel--from the trigger assembly) HDK with double high capacity magazines and a grenade launcher under the barrel)

  HUD—Heads up display

  LAI—Limited artificial intelligence

  LED—Light Emitting Diode

  LZ—Landing zone

  MRE—Meals Ready to Eat

  NG—Nightfall Gangsters

  QRF—Quick reaction force

  RC—Reaper Corps

  RSG—Red Skull Gangsters

  SD Regulator—Slip drive regulator

  UFS—Union Fleet Ship

  UPG—Union Prison Guard

  X-37—Halek Cain's Reaper AI (limited)

  YT—Galdiz 49 rifle, sniper model. (YT is a randomly generated model number)

  1

  “I’ve got absolutely no fucking reason to complain,” I said.

  Silence. No response from X-37.

  My Reaper limited AI’s purpose was to keep me functioning at maximum capacity. I wasn’t sure how being a huge pain in my ass accomplished that task.

  “I’m sorry, Reaper Cain. Does your statement require a response?” X-37 asked.

  I ignored him. He was treading dangerously close to mind reading and I wasn’t in the mood for an argument or a lecture. Transcending from limited artificial intelligence to a fully functioning AI could activate his shutdown sequence, a topic that always put his panties in a bunch.

  Why would I want to go there?

  Life was about as good as it could get for a man on the Union’s ultimate shit list. Not only had my military occupational specialty been phased out, I’d been phased out—framed for seventeen gang murders and sentenced to death plus forty years, whatever the hell that meant.

  I was also aiding and abetting a teenage runaway wanted by the Union because she was full of super-secret genetic research derived from the Lex program. And my ship was stolen from the Union fleet. Which I didn’t think should be held against me because it had already been liberated and converted to a smuggler when I found it on Dreadmax.

  I said as much to X-37.

  “You did, in fact, murder seventeen gang members in Night City,” he reminded m
e.

  “But I wouldn’t have if the Union hadn’t planted evidence blaming them for my father’s death and the disappearance of my mother and sister. Stop being difficult and let me vent.”

  “It should have been twenty-three murders, but six survived their injuries—two instances of gunshot wounds, an uncountable number of stab wounds across all six survivors, and one man thrown from a building,” X-37 continued.

  “You’re making me sound like a psychopath,” I said, inwardly relaxing as the confrontation continued. This was something I’d learned on Greendale. I thrived on confrontation. It made me feel like me.

  I got bored traveling one slip tunnel after another. But life was pretty decent, almost good, sort of. Definitely better than being on death row. Or getting shot in the face. Far more pleasant than being lit on fire and thrown from a moving train like that time on Picardy 19.

  Long story. Better to not think about missions I did for the Union before Dreadmax. Point was, today, on my way to Roxo III to find the ocular engineering specialist James Henshaw, I was living the dream.

  My Reaper nerve-ware still gave me problems. I had headaches several times a week, often twice a day, but nothing compared to the crippling ordeals I’d endured on Greendale. Just the mention of Zag City was enough to make me nauseous.

  The optics in my eye worked, but there had been ghost images assaulting my vision ever since I tried to wear the Reaper mask I’d taken from Byron Thane. I couldn’t afford to see things that weren’t there. To rectify that problem I needed a certified ocular engineer, and the only one X-37 and Jelly, my ship’s computer, had been able to locate was James Henshaw on Roxo III.

  My cybernetic arm worked better every time Tom tuned it up. The man was constantly asking questions and trying new things. He’d been homeless with only the clothes on his back when we met. Hardly indicative of someone with the skills to work on my advanced Reaper tech but, then again, I knew better than anyone that appearances didn’t mean shit. In any case, there was nothing to complain about from his performance or his companionship.

  But to say my arm was perfect would be an exaggeration. It felt a bit heavy—most of the time. Strong as hell, but slower and less coordinated than I wanted. Or maybe that was just in my head. X-37 promised me it was freakishly fast. It just didn't feel that way to me.

  I extended the blade from over my fist as I walked, listening to the satisfying clunk and experiencing the recoil all the way to my shoulder. “It snaps out pretty hard. Didn’t used to bang like that.”

  “Was that a complaint? Very recently, you stated you had nothing to complain about. This, however, leads me to believe that you are in need of Tom’s assistance. Shall I contact him and set up a meeting for another round of repairs and re-calibration?” X-37 asked.

  “No. I’ll see him later. We’ll have our usual meeting on the view deck,” I said.

  “You mean whisky and cigar time?” X-37 asked sarcastically.

  “I mean careful consideration of who we are and why we’re here,” I said. “Meaning of life stuff, X.”

  “Of course, Reaper Cain. It is obvious you're getting in touch with your feelings,” X-37 said. “Will you be attempting to use the Reaper mask and stealth armor? Because I thought we agreed you needed as much practice as possible with these complicated items—before your life depends on such tools.”

  An involuntary shudder rippled through my entire body at the mention of the mask. As though on cue, ghost images wandered into my vision. The device had left an impression on my nerve-ware. It was as though I had endlessly stalked a Union facility I had never seen in reality. The perpetual wandering depicted in the images made me lonely.

  Was this what Thane had seen before I killed him and took the mask?

  “Why are you harassing me?” I asked, pushing back the unfamiliar emotions evoked by the ghost tour. “We’ve got plenty of time in the slip tunnel for that. It’s better not to rush new things.”

  “You’re afraid to try it,” X-37 asserted.

  “Whatever,” I muttered. “I need to ask you a serious question, X,” I said.

  “How serious?” X-37 asked with mock concern.

  I bit back several choice swear words that wouldn’t add to the conversation. “Do you see the ghost images from the mask?”

  “I have detected them,” X-37 admitted. “It is surprising that you can see them. They are merely the residue of deleted files. My assumption is that X-27 and Byron Thane scrubbed the mask long before we encountered them in an attempt to hide its origins. These visual artifacts should not exist in your nerve-ware when you’re not using the mask. It is quite vexing.”

  “That’s what I thought. Can you identify the location where the images occur?” I asked, feeling dread I couldn’t quite explain.

  “I cannot,” X-37 said. “My analysis suggests it was a Union facility completed after your incarceration began. My advice is to forget about it, unless you can somehow get the Union to allow you admittance to their secret laboratories.”

  “Can you make the images stop?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.

  “They have already been deleted. Perhaps James Henshaw can scrub the nexus of your ocular augmentation and nerve-ware,” X-37 said. “Or you could just put on your big boy pants and deal with it. There should be no measurable effect on your performance as a result of these visual artifacts.”

  “You’re such a dick, X.” I swaggered down the narrow, curving hallway of the Jellybird, the ship that had saved us from Dreadmax. We didn’t talk about that mission or what happened to all the people below decks, but I couldn’t help thinking about them at times.

  There had been murderers and psychopaths dumped on Dreadmax, every one of them with multiple life sentences for crimes too vile to mention. But there had also been political refugees and people who had merely angered the wrong bureaucrat.

  There had even been children born and raised during the twenty years the place was operated as a prison. I thought about Bug, the kid who had spoken to me over the public address system and helped me out of some tight spots. I wondered where he was and if he was okay. The last I heard, Bug and his friends were heading for one of the few ships to escape the doomed station.

  I thought about my past, but only for a second. Ramming those thoughts back into the darkness where they belonged was second nature. I didn’t need to dwell on them to keep my hatred of the Union burning hot. But if I let those feelings get out of control, I would do something stupid and endanger my mother and sister.

  They were out there somewhere. No one had been charged with their murders because their bodies were never found. To me, that meant they were still alive and probably being held hostage by the Union for that moment when they needed to punish me or use me.

  “Shall I remove ‘test and evaluate the Reaper mask’ from your to-do list? You haven’t taken action on this item for nine days,” X-37 stated.

  “I’ll work on it after you scrub the ghost images,” I said.

  The mask was something different for me, a dilemma I’d never faced. I craved using the device yet feared what it might show me. Confidence in my decisions had been one of my earliest definable personality traits, long before I reached adulthood.

  I remembered my mother and father laughing at how determined I was over small things. This was one of my earliest memories. To be so conflicted about the Reaper mask and the weird ghost-like aura it sometimes projected was unnerving.

  “We have discussed this, Reaper Cain. There is nothing more I can do. Your best course of action is to face your fears and master the device before you are required to use it in a life and death situation,” X-37 said.

  “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” The more X-37 harassed me, the more I wanted to kick back with a glass of whisky and a cigar. Tom was better at foraging for supplies than I was. He brought in some decent stuff during our last spaceport call.

  “You are equidistant from the training room and the observation deck. I can easi
ly send Tom a message advising of the delay,” X-37 offered.

  I hesitated, fumbling the decision. In the middle of a mission or a hard fight, I thought more quickly, and it usually paid off. The lack of violent confrontation and the promise of imminent death was making me sloppy and weak-minded.

  I didn’t like it.

  The easy life sucked.

  There were reasons the mask filled me with indecision. Warnings flashed every time I picked it up. X-37 promised he had neutralized the anti-theft measures inherent to the Reaper mask.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to trust my Reaper limited AI completely.

  The thought of putting on the mask and triggering an anti-tampering response where it leaked acid into my face and gassed me to death didn’t exactly motivate me to use the device. My soul craved a challenge, not a face-melting incident with Reaper gear designed after my “decommissioning.”

  Still, the mystery of the mask was calling me and I knew I couldn't resist forever. But I could give fate the finger, because I was a jerk that way.