The Chronicles of Kin Roland: 3 Book Omnibus - The Complete Series Page 4

  Hellsbreach memories, ever present, rose to the surface. He took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. The urge to close his eyes was strong, almost as strong as the desire to return to his bed and sleep the day away. He never yielded to the post-traumatic stress and the melancholy that came with it.

  Anxiety could give way to manic euphoria, much as it had when he realized he survived the first Reaper attack, but he didn’t know whether other veterans felt the same. He embraced the supercharged good feelings as often as he could, aware that he had probably lost his mind more than once. He scanned his environment and remained ready for anything, although the cinematic big screen in his head played continually.

  Kin heard his younger voice screaming at his platoon as Reapers charged across sand and rocks. Sergeant Kin Roland, Class IV Weapons Master and unit commander, gathered his men and retreated behind a smoking row of Colossal Class Battle Tanks. The Fleet’s war machines leveled two cities before the Reaper ambush annihilated them.

  Kin glanced at the unit motto stenciled on the side of an armor panel. Unstoppable HOE.

  Unstoppable Hell on Earth. Tanker humor.

  “First and Third squads, choose your targets. Fire at will.”

  How do animals without heavy weapons destroy a CCBT column?

  Burns tattooed broken hatches. Metal rods jutted from multiple barrels of each tank. Segmented wheel treads stretched across the ground — dead metallic snakes — sad, lost, and betrayed.

  “Second and Fourth squads, hold right and left flanks.”

  Hundreds of deadly humanoids charged Kin’s unit, armed with fists of lightning that they could throw a hundred meters and swords wreathed in fire. He had never seen Reapers like this. They reminded him of shock troops; aggressive and well armed. Their leader carried a whip that cut burning arcs in the air, splashing acid in all directions. Weapons were a new development for Reapers, but their fearsome ingenuity unnerved Kin.

  The Reapers roared, voices full of clicks and scraping sounds.

  “Double perimeter,” he ordered.

  His best troopers moved to fire large caliber rifles and plasma guns, using the damaged tanks as cover. Some climbed on the twisted metal turrets for better advantage. They opened fire. Scores of enemies went down. Few stayed down.

  “Fall back,” Kin ordered.

  The outer line of soldiers ran for cover while the second team opened fire to protect them as they hustled toward new positions. Kin’s unit was being pushed back as far as they could go without fleeing into the desert. No cover or concealment existed beyond the Tanks. The Reapers would drive them beyond any source of water or refuge. One step into the sandy waste was a death sentence.

  His unit fired weapons but started edging back. They were good soldiers, but every one of them had seen how the Reapers fought. They didn’t kill in battle. That came afterward, when there was time for torture. The beasts liked to eat living meat.

  “Stand fast! Hold your ground!” he yelled when his men looked like they were about to break. “Hand to hand. Weapons up.”

  Kin led the way with a sharp bayonet. He fired, charging into the wave of Reapers, never pausing to reload. The fight was close, bloody work, and he received more injuries through his armor than he could count. The rifle was torn from his hands. Without hesitation, he drew his sword — a weapon his superiors didn’t approve of — and thrust it through the mouth of a Reaper.

  One of the psychotic beasts fell away from his attack after losing its hands. Another lost its head. The third refused to die, even though the sword ran through its body. When he couldn’t free the blade, he abandoned it, hacking with the axe he pulled from the back of his armor. He didn’t see his unit through the enemies surrounding him but had little time to search for them with Reapers slashing with claws and flaming weapons.

  Just keep killing. Take care of business. Regroup later. But Kin knew there would be no time to regroup. Too many. I’m sorry, Becca. There are too many.

  Mental images tormented him. He couldn’t understand the visions he saw but felt each thought as a physical pressure in his brain. When he could no longer lift the axe or remain standing, he fell to his knees. Reapers pounced on him. He suddenly understood why he couldn’t see his unit. They had fled — every one of them.

  Strong hands forced him to the ground, holding him there. Sharp things pierced his skin through his armor, cutting slowly, like a skilled surgeon wielding a scalpel. They would tear him out of his armor with their teeth and devour him.

  He tried to twist his head as a Reaper pushed down on the side of his helmet with a clawed foot. The weight was too much. His helmet cracked. Claws thrust into the sand near his mouth. With one eye, he managed to see three men in battered assault armor dashing toward a craft that swooped down to rescue them.

  Milton was the slowest. Kin watched helplessly as Reapers jumped on his back and pried open his armor. A small, fierce Reaper thrust his hand through Milton’s shattered visor until his elbow disappeared. Blood, flesh, and brains squished out of the helmet. The Reaper thrust deeper, all the way to his shoulder, clawing down Milton’s throat and into his chest.

  Kin saw Jack Tenderfoot turn and fight. Reapers piled on him, ripping off his arms and legs, dragging his body toward a hole in the ground. Jack’s wet screams blasted from the helmet speaker. The battery of his armor failed, mercifully silencing him until the visor broke open.

  Sergeant Orlan never looked back. Fifty meters from the rescue ship, with a hundred Reapers right behind him, Orlan sprinted, pushing the armor to its limit. The craft lifted off the sand and hovered for a moment.

  “Run, Orlan! Run the fuck out of here!” Kin shouted as demons twisted his arms behind his back and pulled his legs in two directions.

  He hated Orlan for abandoning him. He hated Orlan for escaping when he was being dragged toward a Reaper hole but wouldn’t wish death at the hands of Reapers on his worst enemy.

  Kin sobbed in rage and frustration. “Get on that ship, you motherfucker!”

  “Do you know Sergeant Orlan?” the trooper asked, walking beside him, bathed in the odd light of Crashdown’s sky — not under the blood red sun of Hellsbreach.

  Kin massaged his face. What had he said? Had he screamed? “I knew a sergeant named Orlan. He probably wouldn’t remember me.”

  “You said his name. Sounded like it hurt.”

  “Have you ever seen a friend die in battle?”

  “Many times. It’s a good reason to lift a glass,” the trooper said.

  Kin looked away, concentrating on the road to the meeting hall. This grunt considered another man’s death nothing more than a reason to get drunk after the mission. Kin had been the same before Hellsbreach. He attempted to watch the trooper without being obvious. The bland, inflectionless voice hid behind the helmet speaker.

  “Were you in the Fleet?” the trooper asked.

  “Like everyone else,” Kin said. What a stupid question. Every descendant of Earth was required to serve in Earth Fleet, most in the military for at least a portion of the compulsory service. Kin walked faster. He didn’t want to talk about his tour of duty because that would lead to his court-martial and memories of Orlan’s cocky smile as he shut the space casket in Kin’s face.

  Fleet discipline broke men and women equally. Slackers were beaten, whipped, and placed in solitary confinement only to suffer constant humiliation by their sergeants and officers afterward. Incompetents were brutalized until they learned to get the job done. Traitors were killed by any expedient means. Traitors who caused the failure of an entire campaign were sealed in a coffin alive and launched into the void of space.

  Orlan wouldn’t have failed if the final mission had been his, but Kin compromised. He rendered Hellsbreach a wasteland and destroyed the Reapers’ spaceports, but he hadn’t annihilated them completely. Orlan wouldn’t have hesitated. He hadn’t hesitated to abandon Kin when the cause was lost and he hadn’t hesitated to close the funeral pod and condemn Kin to the
mercy of deep space.

  “Why are you here?” the trooper asked.

  The meaning of the trooper’s words seemed clear. He wanted to know why Kin no longer served Earth Fleet. Why was he the head of security for a marooned expedition of terra-forming colonists? Kin sensed deception and cunning but also an emotion he couldn’t name. Better questions were bound to be asked. Kin needed to avoid this person as much as he needed to avoid Sergeant Orlan.

  “I retired,” Kin said, leaving the trooper near the front door of the meeting hall. He went inside, hoping to find Laura.

  The oddly shaped hall followed the contour of the largest hill on the coast. Several rooms cut deep into the hill, serving as fallout shelters. On the other side, exterior porches faced the sea. When weather allowed, the Council used the expansive porches and balconies for both formal and informal occasions. Kin counted fifty officers at the main table. Laura Keen and the other council members were discussing something with the Fleet Commander, his captains, and his lieutenants.

  Kin found the man’s rank interesting. Commanders at the Armada level were appointees, whereas Admirals rose to the position through the normal rank structure. In theory, this man could be from any section of the military — from Planetary Forces to Military Intelligence.

  “The Fleet doesn’t have terrestrial jurisdiction except during war,” Laura said. She faced the trained killers without flinching. Her dress was tight, her hair fell down her back, beautiful and elegant, but Kin knew she had come to do battle. This was her kind of fight. She didn’t argue. She spoke to them as though their compliance was a foregone conclusion.

  Kin worked his way across the room, searching for Orlan or anyone who might recognize him from the Hellsbreach Campaign. He fantasized that Becca might be in the room but didn’t see her. She would be the most dangerous person he could meet. She’d recognize him immediately, yet encountering her for even a moment would be worth any price.

  When the commander spoke, Kin moved behind Laura to listen.

  “If the craft that landed in the mountain pass belongs to a Reaper, then this is a war zone.”

  “One Reaper? Surely your army isn’t afraid of one Reaper. And I thought they had been exterminated,” Laura said. She spotted Kin and waved him closer. “Commander, this is Kin Roland, our security officer. He has military experience and should be able to handle a single Reaper. Kin, this is Commander Benjamin Westwood.”

  Kin nodded and shook the commander’s hand.

  The man scrutinized him. “No offense, but Kin Roland is an infamous name. I once knew a young man named Kin Roland.”

  “My parents probably never guessed my name would be shared with the Traitor of Hellsbreach,” Kin said.

  The commander held his hand a moment longer than was comfortable, ignoring the people speaking. Laura moved to the commander’s side and touched his arm intimately. She stood very close to the man.

  Kin wondered if she were going to thrust her hand down his pants and bite his ear. Jealousy was a foolish and pointless emotion when it came to Laura. She belonged to no one, certainly not to Kin.

  “The man I knew is dead,” Westwood spoke evenly.

  Kin held his gaze, no longer hearing the commotion in the room. He counted enemies and looked at the door, checking for anyone who might block his path. His pulse increased. His skin tingled. He breathed in through his nose, filled his lungs, held it, and let it out slowly, forcing himself to relax.

  “Commander,” Laura said. She leaned on Westwood’s shoulder and spoke softly in his ear. “I have teased Kin about this coincidence for years. Surely he’s tired of his unlucky name. Now’s not the time to drag him through it again, is it?”

  Kin waited. Westwood smiled and shrugged.

  “Let’s pray no one named Benjamin Westwood betrays humanity. I would hate to share my name with such a person.”

  Kin doubted Westwood was done with the topic and would order Fleet intelligence officers to investigate. He turned away from the commander and listened to a heated argument among the captains and lieutenants. Laura was playing games as always. Perhaps she had protected him out of loyalty, or perhaps she was waiting for the right moment. Kin hoped her game was a long one.

  Locals hurried to bring food and drink. Young women flirted with the men of the Fleet. Young men stood tall, trying to impress the women officers. Most were ignored, but Kin guessed they’d get more than they bargained for when the meeting was over.

  Laura slipped him a note as she passed by on Westwood’s arm. Kin pocketed the paper and watched them go. Hiding in plain sight had never been his favorite tactic. He couldn’t sustain it for long.

  “The craft your scouts observed is not rated for extended space travel and is not a Reaper vessel,” a captain said. He was tall and thin with a scar across his left eye, possibly a sword wound or from improperly handling a blade launcher. The man was either a hardened battle veteran or a clumsy, incompetent pretender with rank to protect his claim from those who doubted his prowess. Kin struggled to put a name to the face.

  “The Reapers don’t have their own space vessels. They borrow technology from their victims.” Kin immediately regretted his words. The last thing he needed was to be recognized as an expert on Reapers.

  “Who are you?” the captain asked.

  Kin gave his name and the false identification number he paid a fortune to acquire before signing on as the security officer for the Goliath. The man barely listened. His arrogance probably saved Kin’s life, because with that momentary eye contact, Kin recognized him.

  Captain Zelig, a member of the elite Marines trained to board vessels in space, sampled local wine, unaware of the unusually high alcohol content. Marines were a rare breed. They trained for the most difficult type of combat but were rarely used in that capacity due to the inherent danger of such operations. The scar on his face had been earned during a duel. Marines were legendary duelists, quick to anger, and quicker to defend their honor with a blade.

  Kin steadied his breathing, bracing for a fight. All Zelig needed to identify Kin was to locate his enlistment picture, scan his identification plate, or request a DNA scan. Kin kept his mouth shut, waiting for a chance to leave.

  “Hmm. Where did you obtain your vast knowledge of Reapers? I was on Hellsbreach. I know how Reapers think, what they eat, how they move and fight,” the captain said.

  Kin fought back a laugh. Perhaps the man had been on Hellsbreach, but Kin doubted it. The man was soft; an academy trained officer who had probably never been in a frontline battle. He had done all his killing in man-to-man combat as ladies watched and his friends stood by to save him if needed.

  “We should send a company to scour the pass for this Reaper and capture it,” said another captain, a woman who looked at Kin as she spoke. He thought she would demand his assistance as a guide if she were permitted to pursue her plan. He didn’t know her. She was too young to have experienced Hellsbreach, but he knew most Fleet captains took liberties with subordinates of the opposite sex. No doubt she marked him for that purpose, if nothing else. She wasn’t unattractive, although she was thick through the shoulders.

  Probably rougher than Laura.

  “Reapers cannot be captured. There is no need to seek it. If it survived the crash, it will come to us in search of prey,” said Captain Zelig, the Hellsbreach veteran. He was right about that. A Reaper wouldn’t be able to resist hunting humans, although Kin thought it would rely on stealth with so many Fleet troopers on the ground.

  “Regardless, we should send scouts. I recommend a full company with armored Strykers and Tanks,” the woman said.

  Zelig considered the plan, viewing maps as Laura pulled Commander Westwood farther from the table, serving him wine and clinging to his arm.

  Kin waited and watched. He didn’t like the idea of Laura and the commander in bed. Pillow talk could easily turn to tales of the public enemy living right here in Crater Town. But he owed her. She didn’t know the exact nature of Kin’s cr
ime, although once, during the drunken afterglow of sex, he admitted he was a wanted man and joked that the price on his head would pay for a rescue mission to save the people of Crater Town.

  “I need you here, Raien, but call Orlan and brief him on your plan. He can take a squad to look for this potentiality,” Zelig said.

  “A fucking squad?” Captain Raien said.

  “A platoon, then,” Zelig said.

  Raien argued with Zelig. As the senior captain, he should have quashed Raien’s insolence immediately, instead of letting her negotiate a full company of Fleet troopers. It was the right decision, but Zelig showed weakness by giving in and incompetence for not understanding the danger in the first place.

  Kin scanned the room, marking the location of each officer, guard, and Laura. He moved away from the table, thankful the officers hadn’t confronted him about dousing the lighthouse. The deliberate act of sabotage wouldn’t go unpunished, regardless of whom they thought he was.

  Leaving through a side door, he made his way down an alley no Fleet trooper would think to use. He’d willingly guide the Fleet scouting company but not with Orlan.

  That was death.

  THE alley was on the downward slope of Meeting Hall Hill, subject to both storm runoff and sewage when the plumbing was damaged. No regular Fleet trooper would use this alley unless ordered to do so. It was dark and narrow — a perfect place to be ambushed by angry locals or rivals in the Fleet. Too late, he remembered Orlan wasn’t a normal trooper.

  Kin’s superiors had thought him clairvoyant or at least preternaturally attuned to danger because he had saved his unit many times from ambush. He saw Orlan enter the alley a moment before Orlan saw him. The Fleet trooper had his helmet rolled back, collapsed into the thick shoulder armor. Orlan had always been sloppy, relying on brutal athleticism and ruthlessly quick decisions.

  Orlan rushed forward, raising one hand to close his helmet and reaching for Kin with the other.