Hellsky (Hunter-Killer #3)

Chapter 20 - No Soul Left Drifting

It had been a while since Ryke had seen Stamm Basin seething with the activity of war.

He watched, perched on a bench outside the main Hunter-Killer barrack, a bottle of scorch beer in one hand, a data slate in the other, and a lot of grim, grim thoughts rattling around inside his skull. The mobilisation order had come down that evening, and since then the whole base had been sent into a state of well-drilled pandemonium.

Balloon-wheeled infantry trucks rumbled off through the formidable armoured gates, shadowed by the dark, blade-like shapes of Scout Cadre skiffs. Freshly forged Hunter-Killers, their armour shining in the low dusk light, clumped out after them in between the ponderous shapes of heavily armoured Mammoth transports. The two suns of Rychter sunk low against the horizon, casting a bloody red glow over Brekka's towering walls.

Ryke knew it was only a matter of time before he and his squad joined them. Being in the eye of the storm at the Liaison Post, and having lost a pilot in the process, they had a few days – a few days to rest and to fit another new piece in to the never-ending churn of the Hunter-Killers.

He took a gulp of his beer and examined the data slate again. Reinforcements were spilling out towards the human settlements south of the city, bolstering the towns and mining villages that dotted the badlands in anticipation of a Scraegan advance.

What intelligence they had didn't show that such a thing was imminent, but Brekka's defenders had learned long ago to err on the side of caution. Reports from Scouts with long range seismics showed Scraegan war packs reinforcing their own lines – both sides drawing up their battle lines for a new conflict that seemed horribly inevitable.

Ryke swore under his breath and turned the slate off, placing it down on the bench beside him. His thoughts drifted once again to Ivy and his big brother Kelso, trapped deep in the dark of Scraegan territory – alive as far as anybody knew, but how long could they stay that way if this escalated?

And he was stuck here, hundreds of miles away, kicking his heels and drinking. A surge of self loathing washed over him and in a vicious motion he flung the half-empty beer bottle, sending it sailing out onto the concourse where it shattered, splashing its contents over the sun-backed concrete.

"Bad day, boss?"

Ryke looked to his right and saw Preese trudging across the concourse. The other pilot hopped up onto the bench beside him, holding a data slate of his own.

"You're supposed to be off duty," Ryke murmured.

"So are you," Preese countered. "But I thought you'd want to know, we got our new recruit assigned."

He straightened up at that, beckoning. "Let's see."

Preese handed the slate over. "Not wasting any time with replacements right now, are they?"

"I wouldn't." Ryke scanned the dossier on the screen; clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Couldn't have given us someone with a few dents to the armour?"

"With the truce, not so many squads missing pieces anymore." Preese's expression darkened. "Guess that's not going to last much longer."

"I guess not."

"At least his scores are good."

"We'll get the official meet and greet tomorrow morning. Old Sergeant Mulrough's got a few new gangs running through their final combat drills tomorrow and he wants us there to set a good example."

Ryke nodded, his eyes not leaving the slate. "You know the worst part about it?"

"What, about Ricardo?" Preese gave him a wary look. "That he's dead?"