Chronicles of Kin Roland 1: Enemy of Man

by Scott E Moon

  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 place. 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, though 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, though 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, though there was no need.

  He walked through Crater Town, waiving 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, bu
t 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.”

  “Thanks, 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, drift wood, 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.

  “Do you know the penalty for sabotaging the only marker that would have helped us find this town?” Raker asked. “Many lives could have been lost, had we landed elsewhere.”

  Kin waited a moment and said, “Whoever doused the lighthouse should be shot.”

  “I am glad we understand each other.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  KIN stood at parade rest. Captain Raien walked around him, studying his body as her company of Fleet troopers waited at attention behind her. She placed the palm of her hand on his chest. Outwardly, the touch wasn’t intimate or wanton, but lingered for a moment as she studied the muscle beneath her hand before inventorying the rest of his body with her eyes.

  Instead of the gesture of a comrade, the hot hand became a none-too-subtle signal of intent. Captain Raien acted like one of the men, but she was a woman with her own needs. She reminded Kin of Laura, self-assured, unashamed of her sexuality, and not likely to be denied. He hadn’t expected the sudden appearance of the Fleet Planetary Assault Force to provide him a new sexual partner, but he wasn’t going to say no.

  “You can put your shirt on.”

  Kin winced as he pulled his shirt over his head. He anticipated something like this and beat his left arm with a stick, bruising it from elbow to shoulder before his injury could be exposed and examined. A close inspection would reveal the finger marks Orlan’s gauntlets left, but Raien wasn’t interested in his arm.

  She turned to her company. “Full armor. Ten minutes. Sergeant Orlan will not be joining us on this mission, but is expected to recover,” she said.

  “More for us,” one of the men said.

  She scanned the ranks for the owner of the voice, found him, and spoke. “This is a reconnaissance mission into dangerous enemy territory. There is a Reaper out there. We’re not marching into the mountains to rape and loot.” She smiled just before turning away from her men. They smiled and exchanged sly looks. Raien’s men, the 11th Light Reconnaissance Company, dispersed to prepare for the mission.

  “My quarters, Roland. You will suit me up,” she said.

  Two minutes later she was holding him down and biting her lip, twisting against his upward thrusts, and tossing her hair as though it was long enough to toss.

  She wasn’t completely flat chested, but it was a near thing. Her well defined abdominal muscles clenched, relaxed, turned, and twisted as she moved. Her sculpted shoulders pulled back, thrusting her chest forward as she rode him. Her hips and thighs, muscular and rounder than a man’s, gripped him firmly. Kin never closed his eyes. He memorized her body, admiring her feminine grace diminished only by the winged skull tattoo in the center of her breastbone.

  “Oh, God, I love a stranger,” she said, grabbing his chest, squeezing, and then pushing down forcefully. A moment later, she patted his face and stood.

  Kin massaged his neck and watched her. She saw that he hadn’t gotten up, snapped her fingers twice, and beckoned him impatiently—using only her fingers like one might summon a dog. He smiled, rocked onto his feet, and crossed the room.

  Raien dressed quickly. Her jumpsuit was faded and patched. She looked at his naked body. “You don’t have scars.”

  “This is when you notice?”

  She made a dismissive sound, neither a grunt nor a laugh. “You seem like you should have scars. Your arm is beat to hell. You walk like a fighter. I wondered after seeing your bare chest, but Fleet armor is strongest aro
und the torso. I’d have thought you’d have scars.”

  “I have scars.”

  “You know what I mean. Battle scars, not accidental scars. Not scars from the occasional fight.”

  Kin secured her armor expertly. Planetary assault armor was extremely tough, but each piece needed to be fastened and adjusted in a precise manner to form one cohesive whole. When done properly, few organic creatures could penetrate the metal and ceramic exoskeleton. An improperly sealed suit could leave hydraulic tubes and circuitry vulnerable. Reapers were one of the five known alien races that could kill a Fleet trooper in assault armor, but it wasn’t easy for them.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said. She watched him approvingly.

  “A couple of times,” Kin said. “What would it take for me to draw armor from the quartermaster?”

  Raien narrowed her eyes and smiled. Her face was still flush from their tryst. She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. Having the pilot of a three-hundred-pound war machine explore his mouth with her tongue was a strange sensation. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he couldn’t push her away.

  “I’ll protect you, sweet.”

  “No doubt.” Kin held her gaze as she tapped the button to expand the helmet from the shoulder assembly, sealing her from the environment. “I know there are replacement suits, and suits the original owners no longer need.”

  “I’ll check with the quartermaster when we return,” Raien said. Her voice was less feminine, amplified by the helmet. He couldn’t see her eyes. The flash-romance disappeared.

  He dragged his shirt over his head, fastened his gun belt with its drop holster over the belt that held up his pants, and followed her out the door. In her battle armor, Raien was just a few inches taller than him, but weighed half again as much. She strode into the square and brusquely inspected the company of assault troopers without another glance at Kin.

  He watched her, bracing for the dark emotion about to punch him in the gut. After nights spent with Laura, he went onto her deck and stared into the night to think. Kin had never been a stranger to women and the pleasures they offered. He had been somewhat chaste when stationed on the same planet as his beloved Becca, his childhood friend and adolescent infatuation. But like any soldier, he didn’t want to face death with regrets and missed opportunities.