The second week came when the last of the Haggard Sons gangers overwhelmed a cor-sec defense unit and detonated a suicide bomb that collapsed a critical tunnel system nearby. The joint forces had intended to use those tunnels to transport all of the heavy equipment that would eventually be needed to cut into the multitudes of pylons that supported the massive spire city from far below.
The Reapers were pulled from the frontline and stationed at the forward operations base. Samuel knew that most of the Reapers didn’t mind, as they were still getting their hazard rates whether they were being shot at or not. For better or worse the marines had time to relax, though for Samuel that came with some difficulty given the situation in upspire. The marine sipped his drink and wondered just what sort of nightmare was unfolding above him.
“Hey, Prybar, you’ve got that far away look in your eyes,” said Harold joked as he slapped Samuel’s back and joined him at the makeshift bar, little more than a plank of wood nailed across two fifty gallon barrels covered with a tarp, “Thinking about home, eh?”
“Beats the alternative,” answered Samuel, as he nodded at a pair of children taking turns dipping their fingers into what looked to be the discarded remnants of an MRE package.
“I can’t watch that,” groaned Harold, turning away, “Me, Jada, and Virginia gave all our extras out when Boss Marsters wasn’t looking. I’m going hungry as it is.”
“A round for both my friends here!” shouted Ben to the withered old woman who tended the bar as he joined the pair of Reapers.
“You barter by the drink boy, this is downspire,” scoffed the old woman as she made little effort to show her hand fingering the stubby pistol holstered on her hip, “I don’t care if you’re Executive Lord Vorhold hisself.”
“Easy, lady, I didn’t come empty handed,” Ben smiled, undaunted by the woman’s hostility. “I brought two size beta charge bricks and a full toiletry kit that ought to buy us the whole damn bottle.”
“On the barrelhead and we’ll see,” she spit, but already her expression was softening, and soon it became a greedy smile as Ben laid the promised loot before her.
The barkeep poured out four shots of the amber liquid into cups of hammered metal and then passed one to each of the men.
Samuel had taken a liking to the local liquor, though he had specifically avoided asking what was in it or how it was made, as this was indeed downspire. Samuel had found it quite fascinating just how much ingenuity was on display in this subterranean world. They had a use for everything, a skilled scavenger was held in high esteem indeed.
“Drink up, Reapers, the night is young,” boasted Ben as he raised his drink in toast to the other two soldiers, each who met his cup with their own in a soft clunk.
“One for the Stalker in the Dark,” said the old woman in a quiet voice, surprising the marines by clinking her own drink against theirs before hurling the liquid over her shoulder. Ben and Harold looked at her with abject confusion at the waste of good booze.
“I’ve seen others here say the same thing before pushing tidbits of food away,” Samuel remarked, resting his elbows on the bar. He pointed at the two children, “Even starving kids do it. What does it mean?”
“It keeps…them… from getting too hungry or too thirsty,” growled the barkeep as she lined up three more rounds of the liquid, “Its bad luck to talk too much about it. Now drink your drinks and shut up.”
“Let it go, Samuel,” Ben insisted before he swallowed his drink. “We have one night cycle left before we have to put our boots on.”
“What did you hear?” Harold asked.
“Bianca and Patrick overheard Boss Aiken arguing with the quartermaster.” As if the thought of the Boss being angry somehow lightened his mood, Ben grinned.
“There are apparently welding crews coming over from our support cadre, they’ve been pulled from upspire salvage ops and re-tasked to accompany us further down.”
“Ah, they must have managed to find alternate routes into deepspire,” said Samuel after pondering it for a moment, taking a sip from his drink.
“Why can’t we just drill right through the base of the spire itself?” Harold argued, as if the other two soldiers were management. “We’ve been pushing through District 12’s downspire for weeks and I don’t see how that’s a better use of resources.”
“Likely the surveyors and engineers reviewed the architectural data and determined it to be more profitable to send Reapers the long way in on foot than to drill or blast down to deepspire,” Samuel replied as he finished his drink and stood up from the table, “It’s just like back on Tetra Prime, they’ll shove us through the meat grinder if that means the balance sheet looks better when the mission is done.”
“City demo is complicated stuff, could be that some of the structures down there are so old that nobody really remembers how or why upspire doesn’t just collapse, especially considering that all of the industry is concentrated right there at the base of the spire,” mused Ben.
“You guys talk shop even when we’re trying to get a load on,” grumbled Harold, as he shoved the pair of friends ahead of him and deeper into the refugee sprawl of FOB Specter’s makeshift red light district, “Let’s go find Vol and he’ll show us where the real party is.”
6. HARD MEAT
Samuel and the rest of the Reapers in the squad going into deepspire were gathered around the hole that was the entrance giving their repelling gear and weapons a final check.
“Reekertown,” Boss Marsters stated flatly, staring down into the blackness.
“Last stop where you’re likely to meet anything walking on two legs you’d want to call a man,” said Vol in a tone that bespoke both a sense of pride and dreadful certainty, almost as if the ganger was pleased about the fact that he was going down there despite his fear. Vol’s words hung in the air for a few moments as the Reapers considered them.
Samuel silently looked Vol up and down, really seeing the man for the first time.
Though technically a civilian by military standards, Vol was certainly a veteran, and his life as a ganger was displayed in his very dress and manner. The man was covered in homemade tattoos, most of them a variety of hash marks and repeating symbols that seemed to tell a story, even if in a language that only other gangers would understand. No doubt they were the story of his life, a record of his deeds, and when combined with the various scars visible on the man’s face, arms, and neck, his life had been quite full.
Vol was shorter than most of the marines, perhaps the result of malnourishment as much as genetics, and though his body was thick with corded muscle, the man’s face betrayed his chronological youth. Underneath the patchwork armor, the tattoos, scars, and general downspire filth, Samuel realized that Vol was in his late twenties at the oldest.
“Detailed recordings of the Rotted King’s intelligence briefing was made available to squad leaders prior to deployment, therefore, we have an adequate appreciation for the dangers ahead. With respect, let’s just get on with it shall we?” Boss Aiken snapped as he released the catch on his repelling line and disappeared into the darkness below.
“Hey, Boss,” Vol said as he looked gravely at his own reflection in Boss Marster’s Reaper helmet, “Them Reekers is hard meat, we better step light and bang it for keeps.”
“Understood,” nodded Boss Marsters as he leaned backwards over the edge of the vertical concrete tunnel, “Tillman, Hyst, you two send Vol down then tie off this line. I want it set in case we need a hasty retreat.”
With that, Boss Marsters kicked off and released the catch on his repel line to descend. Not long after Vol, Samuel, and Virginia made their landing and rushed to catch up with the platoon as it moved out. The Reapers moved with a purpose while still doing their best to keep the noise signature as minimal as possible despite their bulky combat armor and weapons.