The Chronicles of Kin Roland: 3 Book Omnibus - The Complete Series Page 5

Kin leapt into the air without hesitation, drawing his work knife and punching it into Orlan’s mouth before the helmet closed. The blade scraped Orlan’s teeth. Kin’s fist, gripping the knife hilt, also slammed into Orlan’s jaw with knockout force. The helmet snapped shut, nearly taking off his fingers as he pulled back his hand. The knife ripped out of his grip as he careened into Orlan and tumbled to the ground.

  Dust settled. Kin sprawled his weight, driving his chest against the helmet for maximum leverage, desperately aware he couldn’t hold the man long.

  Orlan didn’t move.

  The armor began a first-aid sequence. The FSPAA visor reverted to clear tint for identification purposes. Kin peered through and saw vents inside the helmet vacuuming blood clear of Orlan’s mouth. Fleet troopers rarely died of blood loss. Battle armor not only sealed and applied pressure to most wounds but recycled lost blood at a decent rate.

  Kin held his breath. Pain flared in Kin’s arm as he tried to stand. He looked down and saw Orlan had managed to grab him. The mechanized gauntlet held him like a vise.

  “Fuck.” The suit would send an alarm to headquarters if it remained motionless for more than a minute.

  He yanked his arm free and fell against the wall of the alley. His shirt was torn and his arm throbbed. There would be a massive bruise in the shape of an assault armor hand.

  He scanned the alley. No witnesses. He knelt over Orlan, attempting to access the armor’s control panel.

  He could see Orlan was alive but couldn’t power down the suit or determine whether the trooper would regain consciousness without medical attention. With seconds left before the suit broadcast a “trooper down” alert to the Command and Control center, Kin walked quickly away.

  Just act natural. What’s the worst that can happen?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DROON ate the body of the pilot man, although it was dead and tasted foul. No flowing blood. No screaming. No satisfaction.

  This wasn’t the first planet Droon had come to and survived. He sucked out the eyes and the soft parts. Then he bit into the flesh, removing it in strips until there was nothing but bone.

  His metabolism accelerated to accommodate the influx of nutrients and slowed when he carefully cleaned every piece of meat from the skeleton. The cartilage between the joints took a long time and was the portion of the meal when his kind typically became distracted by mating. Young females were sometimes excited when blood spurted across their faces. Droon never complained. Sometimes he ate and mated at the same time.

  The thought of a screaming victim and a moaning mate caused his heart to ache. He understood his quest was important, but he was far from the others. He couldn’t go to them on the other side of the planet. As one of the last seekers, he couldn’t turn from the Long Hunt.

  Squatting over the bones, he wailed his loneliness at the strange sky. The pilot man had feared Droon but hadn’t enjoyed the sensation as much as Droon had. He studied the cleaned skull, remembering how angry the pilot man was when Droon ate his three dogs and his monkey. And the girl. Droon nearly had to kill the pilot man after the girl. The pilot man called him a demon and cursed him, but Droon couldn’t eat the man because Droon couldn’t pilot the ship.

  “Not a good pilot,” Droon said to the bones, because the pilot man had crashed and died.

  Droon crushed the skull between his palms and played with the pieces, bouncing them into his mouth. He sucked on the shards before crunching them. He started on the vertebrae. By the time he reached the feet, he was bored. Humans died too quickly. Creatures on his home world twitched until the last bite.

  The ship wobbled on its perch atop the tangle of trees, roots, and rocks that fell away from the mountain each time he shifted his weight. Humans with weapons were at the faraway water — more water than he had ever seen.

  They called it an ocean and it was different from rivers and streams, although just as wet. Thinking in human language was difficult. There were so many words.

  He forced the memory of the human who destroyed his home world into his vision. He whined and didn’t like the sound, but the face of the hard-eyed man frightened Droon.

  Not good to be afraid. Not good to let the man steal blood knowledge and escape.

  Droon had been wrong. He had thought releasing Kin-rol-an-da would end the explosions from the sky, but Kin-rol-an-da had caused explosions from the ground.

  At the end of the Long Hunt, he would again be most honored amongst his kind. At the end of the Long Hunt, Droon would make sure Kin-rol-an-da caused no more explosions. Droon’s kindred would remember who was strongest.

  The water below the cliff looked deep, but not deep enough to kill him. He thought he could touch the bottom. He extended several vertebrae of his neck, looked around, then settled his head back on his shoulders.

  Strange sounds caught his attention; nothing dangerous, but exotic.

  New planet, new prey.

  He turned his proud spotted face right and left, flashing his strong mandibles and clicking his throat to be certain he could swallow live prey. He thrashed his tail, although there wasn’t a mate to impress.

  Droon struggled to reach the minds of his kindred. Silence answered the call. He wrestled with the human concept of time. Their confusing language contained many words for time.

  This planet was in the future, but he was here. Past. Present. Future. All the same.

  But where do these memories come from? Why won’t they change?

  He hadn’t dared follow the humans into space, not immediately. But he was here. He was on the Long Hunt. It was dangerous to leave the home world, because his kind were misunderstood and hated. Humans hated Droon’s kindred because they hunted. This made no sense. Did humans not eat? Were they kept alive by magic? For a moment, he felt as though he had never left, but he had, and the confusion angered and frustrated him.

  Droon slapped his hands against his face repeatedly and closed his eyes. The home world was ruined, his kind forced to migrate. He wanted to hunt with them in the ten-thousand-warrior pack on the far side of this world, but he must finish the Long Hunt. He must prove himself.

  Droon bit the palms of his hands, then smeared blood over his face. Red, then purple, then black, the blood dried and felt good. His skin tingled with new life. Blinking the crust from his eyes, he set his sights on the ocean in the distance. Alien ships — human ships — rested on the sand by the big water where humans lived in buildings made of wood and brick and pieces of ships.

  He climbed to the top of the mountain and stared across the valleys. A maze of little worlds spread below where creatures lived without knowing Droon was coming to eat them. He would warn them in their nightmares, terrorize them, and then devour them.

  Moons marched across the sky. An angry tube of bright colors stared at him from high above. He didn’t like it. He looked at the machines on the beach and the men in their skin that was not skin, but armor.

  Droon snarled. Eating a man in armor was a cruel joke. They screamed, but he couldn’t pull out all the flesh and bone, which left him hungry.

  He once stood on a rock spire of his home world, looking for his kindred, watching the fires that melted stone. Wind and smoke had burned his face and damaged his proud spots. His eyes had been dark orange, almost red, but now they were yellow. He felt sickness in his body. He howled his loneliness at the strange sky and studied this alien world, waiting for his kindred to appear. He understood he was not the only one who came to this world with the strange moons and orange snake in the sky, but they were hunting in the ten-thousand-warrior pack. They weren’t on the Long Hunt.

  There were three kinds of kindred now. Those who migrated and merely hunted for food and pleasure with their families in the pack, those who were enslaved by the humans — who were not the humans who destroyed his home world — and those who hunted for the last man.

  The Long Hunt.

  Others stole ships and followed the wrong trail. They were lost. Droon was in the right plac
e. He had slaughtered dozens of people who had known Kin-rol-an-da. Their dream memories always pointed to wormholes, and all wormholes led here.

  Droon didn’t understand the humans who enslaved thousands of his people after the fires drove them into migration, but he understood the humans who came with Kin-rol-an-da. Earth Fleet came to kill, but not to eat. The others had come only to take his people away. They looked like the Kin-rol-an-da’s kindred but used different words and captured creatures to fight for them.

  The strangers didn’t matter. They didn’t set the fires that melted the surface of the home world. The only human that mattered was the one who had been last. The only man who mattered was Kin-rol-an-da. When he was taken, the Long Hunt would be over and Droon would be first of his kindred.

  Droon squatted and tried to sleep. Doubts plagued him. He couldn’t visualize tearing Kin-rol-an-da apart as he could other creatures. The idea of doubt was strange, as was the feeling of fear. He wanted the Long Hunt to end, not for the satisfaction of feeding on an enemy, but because he was unaccustomed to fear and desired relief.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SERGEANT Orlan’s blood clung to Kin’s hands, although he cleaned them in ice-cold water from the hand pump. A squad of Fleet troopers rushed past him. He kept his eyes low, scrubbing harder and faster.

  For a moment, guilt affected his imagination. Orlan was never his friend, but they had been brothers-in-arms. Many times, when he could forget Orlan’s savage nature and admit he was also a man of violence, Kin approached the edge of friendship with the man. Before Hellsbreach, they had fought together, killed together, and saved each other’s lives. The blood on his hands seemed to resist washing. He rinsed his fingers clean, but when he did the back of his hands and looked at his fingers again, blood smeared them — thick, hot blood that mocked him.

  Additional squads of troopers and a Stryker moved into the area, searching each street, yanking citizens from houses, and separating men from women. Kin abandoned the hand pump and moved quickly. Turning a corner, he looked at his hands and saw blood being absorbed. He stared as he walked, realizing he couldn’t seem more guilty.

  His vision blurred. A thought persisted. This was the blood of Hellsbreach. He shared a bond with Orlan. His blood was infected. He knew it. His time on the Reaper planet changed him, although he never imagined Orlan had suffered as he had.

  The Reapers tortured Kin. Evil bastards. But maybe they just didn’t understand humans. Deep, flesh-tearing bites were a form of endearment to Reapers. Eating small, parasitic monsters was their medical care. He tried to forget the things they forced down his throat, the corrupted fluids they rubbed into his wounds, and the way they wanted him to eat living things. Now Orlan’s blood had soaked into his skin as though seeking sanctuary. Kin washed again at the next hand pump, although there was no need.

  He walked through Crater Town, waving at people he knew as they repaired buildings and machines. Excited people returned his greeting and went about their work. The Fleet was here. They thought they were saved.

  “Kin!” shouted a boy, running toward him. Wind pulled at his patched coat and loose pants. His hair had been cut recently, but not well. The shepherd boy had no family and no one to groom him. Tall and lean, the muscle of approaching manhood gave him strength but did nothing to diminish the awkward appearance of adolescence. Ogre, the black and brown, half-feral mutt, ran beside the boy. The animal had become the spoiled mascot of the town.

  “Rickson,” Kin said as the boy slid to a stop on the dirt street.

  “The Fleet came!” Rickson said. “I can share a cabin with you on the ship since you don’t have a family and neither do I. You can teach me more about fighting, and if I study like you are always telling me, I could enlist!”

  “That’s a lot in one breath,” Kin said. He leaned over to rub the dog behind the ears. The animal wouldn’t hold still. Kin reached this way and that to provide the dog a thorough treatment.

  “I’d give you privacy when Laura came around,” Rickson said.

  “The Fleet will probably leave us here.”

  “What?” Rickson’s face betrayed surprise and distress.

  Kin laughed. “They’ll take all of us, even obnoxious shepherd boys that can’t shut up.”

  “I came as fast as I could. You should have seen it from the foothills. I thought the town was being attacked.”

  Kin tilted his head, raising his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “And I saw a Reaper, so I had to go around,” Rickson said. “It looked just like you described that time you were telling stories with Bear. You remember — that time when you both got so drunk I had to go into town and tell Laura you were okay.”

  “You saw this supposed Reaper in the foothills?”

  “Well, I sort of went up into the mountains to look at the ship that crashed.”

  “I told you never to do that. When you see something come through the wormhole, you find me and let me deal with it.”

  “I know, I know.” The boy’s expression changed as his eyes shifted to something behind Kin.

  Kin turned and saw a Fleet officer walking toward him. Two bodyguards followed. None of them wore armor, which confirmed Kin’s assumption the man was an intelligence officer. The spies of the Fleet were trained to use FSPAA units but rarely wore them when mingling with a local population.

  “Go check on Clavender. Make sure none of the Fleet troopers are bothering her,” Kin said, speaking to the boy but keeping his eyes on the men as they approached.

  “Sure, Kin. They wouldn’t do that, would they? Aren’t they here to help us?”

  “They might be, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  The two bodyguards armed with short rifles, pistols, and hard gazes flanked Kin.

  “Are you Kin Roland?” the officer asked.

  “I’m Kin Roland. Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Raker.”

  “Raper? That’s a horrible name.” Kin heard the man perfectly, but rake sort of rhymed with rape, and he compulsively taunted the pretentious officer. It was a stupid, foolish indulgence. Kin only regretted it a little.

  “Raker, as in a Reaper rakes a man with his claws. I was not informed you possess a sense of humor, which must mean you are mocking me.”

  “You have an accent I’m not familiar with,” Kin said, leveling his gaze on the man, holding it as he tried to dominate him psychologically. Or maybe he just hated the man on sight.

  Raker adjusted his collar and looked away for a moment. “I was a prisoner of the Imperials for several years. Infiltrated them for several more. I don’t expect you to appreciate the danger I faced, but you will respect me.”

  “Try living on a hostile, uncharted planet for ten years,” Kin said. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you about the lighthouse.”

  “I asked around. It seems Brian Muldoch doused the light. He must have wanted to avoid being executed as a deserter,” Kin said, watching Raker’s every move and studying his posture.

  “Yes, that is what Laura Keen told us. What is your relationship with the councilwoman?”

  Kin ignored the question. “Did you have another question about the lighthouse?”

  “Are you a subversive, Mr. Roland?”

  Kin met his gaze and held it. To his surprise, Raker didn’t look away. Perhaps captivity had hardened him.

  “There was another Kin Roland. My mentor, a skilled intelligence officer, branded his face.” Raker laughed as though not talking about torture and disfigurement. “To hear him tell the tale, the Traitor of Hellsbreach was eight feet tall and had claws longer than a Reaper’s.”

  “I went through this before. The captain of the Goliath did a thorough investigation and cleared me before granting my commission.”

  “Yes, of course. But sadly, he is dead and his ship’s computers were ruined.” He tapped his chin several times with long fingers. “You have remarkably young skin for a man your age.”

  “T
hanks for noticing. I’m seeing someone.”

  Raker snorted a laugh. “Are you a vain man, fond of cosmetic surgery?”

  Kin didn’t answer.

  “The other thing — that just occurred to me — is Sergeant Orlan’s condition. He fought on Hellsbreach — suffering terribly, to hear him tell it — and now he does not seem to age, not like the rest of us. Perhaps you did not have a tattoo and branding scar removed. Perhaps you are a freak of nature, growing new skin as a Reaper does. Perhaps Hellsbreach blessed you as it did Orlan. Were you, Mr. Roland, on Hellsbreach?”

  Kin was a step ahead of him. The question could damn him, but he knew a lot of men bragged about their imaginary heroics on Hellsbreach. Captain Zelig claimed to be a veteran of the campaign and Reaper expert. “I was there. Made planetfall three times. Captain Moore of the Goliath gave me the security commission on his ship because of my service.”

  “Where exactly did you make planetfall? Keep in mind that I will check the veracity of your statements.”

  Kin pretended to be nervous, avoiding Raker’s gaze and shifting his weight. When he sensed Raker taking the bait, he listed three popular battles he heard other false veterans speak of. He fumbled some details and talked louder, as liars did.

  “Are you an agent of the Imperials?” Raker asked.

  “I never heard of them until you arrived,” Kin said. “If they’re an enemy of Earth Fleet, then they’re mine as well. The only ships to come through the wormhole in the last ten years have been explorers, pilgrims, and pirates.”

  Raker looked at his feet, then studied the buildings made of scavenged ship parts, driftwood, and other materials. “We will talk again, Mr. Roland, and I will be watching you.”

  “Are we done?”

  “We are done. Commander Westwood requires you to assist Captain Raien with a reconnaissance mission. Report to her first thing in the morning.”

  Kin nodded and turned away.

  “Mr. Roland.” Raker’s level voice was cool.

  Kin looked over his shoulder.