Page 14 of Ravaged By the Reaper
HAKTRON
Coordinates pulse in my skull like a war drum. The black site isn’t on any star chart, not even the Reaper archives. Doesn’t matter. The moment I breach sublight range, Ifeelit. The moon glows a dull purple beneath the dead light of Grolgath’s sixth star. Orbiting it—like a parasite—a hunk of composite steel and spite. No call signs. No IFF. No emergency beacons. No exit logs.
No witnesses.
Perfect.
“Engaging cloak disengage,” I growl to the shuttle’s AI. It chirps, too cheerful for the carnage about to unfold. The cloak ripples away like torn skin sloughing off bone. External lights flicker red.
“Target lock on hangar turrets.”
The ship shudders as I slam both fists into the control gauntlets. Twin plasma bolts scream from the nose guns, searing through the automated defenses before the station’s security systems even register the threat.
They never see me coming.
I punch the descent thrusters and rip the yoke toward the hangar doors. Alarms flare through the station—late. Always late.
Steel peels away like wet bark as the shuttle rams into the landing zone. A gout of flame licks the air as secondary blasts ignite ammunition crates Imayhave aimed for. Whoops.
By the time the ramp slams down, I’m already moving.
Bloodfont spins in my grip, chain humming with hunger. The scythe head sings as it catches the edge of the nearest Grolgath trooper, slicing through powered armor like butter under a plasma torch.
He doesn’t scream. Hegurgles.
That’s better.
I whip the scythe backward on its chain, embedding the hook into a second guard’s shoulder. I yank—hard—and he spins into my reach. My foot caves in his ribs with a meaty crunch.
Two more down.
Blaster fire rips past my shoulder. I turn, grinning, eyes glowing hot. One unlucky bastard is trying to fire from behind a stacked loader crate. I swing Bloodfont like a meteor on a leash—twenty feet of pure destruction—and the hook crashes through the crate, slicing the coward in half with a wet snap.
Chunks of meat and cloth splatter across the landing bay. Civilians—techs, clerks, medicals—scream and scatter.
I ignore them.
I’m not here for mercy. I’m not here to rescue.
This ispunishment.
A cluster of guards form up near the far wall, shields glowing. “FIRE!” one yells.
I run.
Not away,toward.
Their first volley splashes across my chest, scorching flesh, singing bone spurs. My shoulder jerks back, but I don’t stop. I never stop.
By the time I’m within reach, their formation is already broken from sheer panic. The moment I’m inside their ranks, it’s a slaughter.
I catch one by the throat and slam him into another. Their headscracktogether like overripe fruit. Blood sprays. Screams tangle with radio static.
A power blade slices across my ribs, deep and hissing. Pain lances white-hot through my side, but I laugh. Ilaugh. It’s been too long since I felt a worthy wound.
I grab the attacker—small, maybe barely an adult—and crush his elbow before headbutting him into the wall. His skull splits open like a melon.
More come. I pivot. The scythe whirls—whish, whish, thunk.Heads roll.
