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

by Scott Moon

  “If those vehicles lift off from there, the town will be incinerated,” Kin said.

  “Correct,” the trooper said. A pause. “You thought I was a man.”

  Kin looked up. He detected something in the trooper’s statement. The trooper didn’t face him or turn the helmet toward him. Whoever was inside had chosen the darkest possible visor setting. Anyone could be behind that convenient mask. Several famous Fleet commanders had the custom of mingling with the troops wearing second-rate armor. Much could be learned this way. Kin started to respond, but the wormhole opened and launched three battlecruisers toward the planet. Kin watched the ships burst into flame and sail over the mountains. A battle raged beyond the wormhole and Earth Fleet was losing.

  “Inside the Flagship,” the trooper said.

  Kin pulled away and watched the horizon until three mushroom clouds reached above the line of mountains. The ships had struck hard and were lost with all hands. More ships sprayed from the wormhole in all directions, even as two long tendrils reached into the sea and began sucking up millions of gallons of water. A third tendril grabbed the beach a mile away, but instead of pulling up sand, it blasted a deep hole. Waves rushed in, filling it with chaos. Small meteorites began to fall by the thousands, trailing smoke and flames like deadly rockets.

  The trooper grabbed Kin and flung him inside the Flagship loading bay. He landed hard — left hand, elbow, face, and finally pitching onto his back. When he stood, the trooper hit a button to close the door before lowering the helmet assembly of the armor.

  Kin saw the back of her head before she turned.

  “Becca,” he said.

  “What kind of idiot stands like a raw recruit watching a meteor storm? Do you have any idea how little time we have?” she said.

  A scar crossed her face from her forehead to her jaw. One of her eyes was probably synthetic and she bore the distinctive tattoos of a Shock Troop Brigade on both sides of her neck. The black and red tattoos were not large, but the fact she possessed both of them meant she had completed the training and seen combat.

  Kin tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. Becca had been training to be a navigator when he last saw her. What happened to make her a member of the Fleet Trooper Elite Forces?

  Kin wanted to run to her and gather her in his arms, but the bulky armor would make such a gesture ridiculous. Shock Troopers normally piloted Mechanized Units, which were similar to FSPAA units but larger, more heavily armored, and loaded with Devastation Class weapons including high capacity plasma rifles. The Shock Troops on Hellsbreach had laid waste to hordes of Reapers but had been used recklessly by command staff. None of them survived. Becca couldn’t have been on Hellsbreach, unless the Fleet had initiated a second campaign to wipe them out. He wanted to say something, but her eyes stopped him.

  “The commander is waiting for you,” Becca said. She signaled two loading bay guards and they hustled Kin into a hallway.

  Commander Westwood waited in the Tactical Planning Room with all his captains and senior lieutenants. Raien was there.

  Zelig looked up from the table and glared at Kin. He obviously resented the intrusion. His anger burned bright, causing his skin to flush red, which accentuated his facial scar. Despite the expression, Kin doubted the man recognized him as the Traitor of Hellsbreach. Other officers seemed equally upset about his presence for similar reasons. Only Commander Westwood met his gaze and held it. He was unreadable.

  “Kin Roland, good of you to join us,” Commander Westwood said. “It would have been nice had you sent word the Reaper bonded with Clingers and leads a pack of Crashdown wolves. We lost seven troopers in its first attack.”

  “I was unable to send messages. It nearly killed me twice,” Kin said. He looked for Laura Keen and found her near the commander, keeping quiet for once. She stared at him. Kin didn’t know if she had betrayed him but understood this interview was dangerous for both of them. If the officers of the Fleet learned she had failed to report him, she would be executed as well.

  Commander Westwood frowned and ordered him to come closer. Kin obeyed.

  “I need to know if this Reaper can manipulate technology. Will he be able to reconstruct and pilot a spacecraft, should we leave functioning parts behind? The wormhole storm has made destruction efforts difficult,” Commander Westwood said.

  Kin thought about Droon before answering. “He adapted to Sergeant Orlan’s patrol tactics and foiled every trap I laid for him. I think his use of the Clingers as armor was an accident. The wolves were probably subdued out of necessity. I led the Reaper into their territory hoping they would destroy him.”

  “You utilized a dangerous enemy to attack your greater enemy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interesting.” Commander Westwood moved to another table and discussed something with his captains. Kin tried to listen, but they were talking about other issues. He saw evidence of plans for a hasty withdrawal. Situation reports were given by junior officers. Supply reports were updated.

  Kin walked toward Laura and sat in a chair. Becca watched him from across the room.

  “Don’t get too familiar, Kin. I think that woman wants to kill me,” Laura said.

  “Where’s Orlan?” Kin asked.

  “He’s hunting the Reaper. For a sergeant, he receives significant respect from Commander Westwood.”

  “Fleet sergeants are a special breed. Even commanders listen to their reports,” Kin said. “We need to talk.”

  “No, we need to not talk. Westwood is the smartest man I’ve ever met. His handling of intrigue scares me.”

  Kin laughed. “The two of you should get along well. Did you send the doctor?”

  “Westwood is coming back. Do what he says if you want to live.”

  “What’s going to happen to the people of Crater Town?” Kin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Laura said. She shifted her eyes to Westwood and smiled. “Commander.”

  “Laura, I need you to take a walk. Attend to that matter we discussed,” Westwood said.

  Laura nodded and left the room. A guard followed her.

  “I received a report from Doctor Gold. She claims you have no contagions that concern the Fleet, unlike your friend Clavender. She also stated that your identity plate is damaged and unable to send information to a scanner,” Westwood said.

  “I didn’t think I would need my identity plate. Crashdown is a one-way stop. No one has ever left.”

  “A good place to hide.”

  Kin searched his expression but found no hints at what he meant by the words. Someone had sent the doctor, but no one had admitted it. He divided his attention between the commander and thoughts of Clavender. If she were considered infected with a local contagion, then it was unlikely she would be allowed to leave the planet. In a best-case scenario, she would be confined to a quarantine ship. There were always provisions for such a vessel, although they were never used. Most people who became contaminated with anything that could endanger the Fleet mission were exiled to the first rock that would sustain life. Most killed themselves before being marooned on lost planets.

  “How long have you been here, Roland?” Westwood asked.

  “Possibly ten years. The seasons are long. One Crashdown year is at least three standard years,” Kin said. “I lost track because it seemed pointless to keep a log.”

  “Convenient,” Westwood said. “Laura tells me it has been exactly nine Fleet years. Do you believe in fate? A romantic would see significance in our arrival on the 9th anniversary of the Goliath’s wreck.”

  “Nine years, ten years, a thousand years, what does it matter?” Kin asked.

  “Do you think you will be alive in a thousand years?” Westwood asked with arched eyebrows. “If so, you could keep Sergeant Orlan company. It seems not all effects of Hellsbreach were negative. Doctors say that Sergeant Orlan exhibits virtually no signs of aging. This was not discovered until three years after his service in the Hellsbreach Campaign. Apparently, he
is getting stronger and smarter as well. I read his evaluations from his early years in the Fleet. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer then, but now, he is almost capable of maintaining an intelligent conversation.”

  “What happened to Hellsbreach?” Kin asked.

  Commander Westwood studied him before answering.

  “It remains under blockade, more or less, but few ships are assigned to the detail. After a year, it was evident the Reapers were making no progress at developing space travel. In fact, it seems they are either dead or gone. The Fleet has other concerns now. From the amount of wreckage falling through the wormhole, the battle still rages.” Westwood waited for a response and seemed satisfied with Kin’s curiosity and alarm.

  “What happened?” Kin asked.

  “War. We have come in conflict with a new galactic power. They are human, or close enough. Their technology is similar to ours, different, but functionally very similar. It should be an even match.”

  “But it’s not,” Kin said.

  Westwood shook his head slightly. “No. It is not. We are getting destroyed. Some of our civilian leaders blame the incompetence of Fleet Command. But I blame it on luck. We cannot get a break. Ten thousand years of battle tactics and strategy have proved only that no battle can be taken for granted. I recently won a major victory for the Fleet, right before I was sucked through a wormhole and marooned on a planet that will someday be known as Hellsbreach II. Did you know the other side of this rock is swarming with Reapers?”

  “No,” Kin said.

  “You should lie better.”

  Kin looked at him and held his gaze. “I was told of the possibility but couldn’t verify the report.”

  “Who told you this?” Westwood asked, suddenly very interested.

  “A hermit, right before he was eaten by Clingers.”

  “Ah, yes, the Clingers. It would be bad for us if the Reapers of this world learned to use the Clingers as armor and somehow managed to navigate the wormhole. It seems unlikely, but with our luck, I could imagine the wormhole scooping them up from the planet surface and delivering them to Earth,” Westwood said. He looked to his officers and decided they were still sufficiently occupied. “We are going to nuke the Valley of Clingers when we leave. That only leaves the Reaper you encountered and his strange proclivity for turning alien life-forms into weapons.”

  “You should nuke him too,” Kin said.

  “That is an option, but an imprecise option. I have sent Orlan to capture the Reaper. We will put him in a quarantine vessel.”

  “Better to kill him.”

  “We are in the middle of a war, Roland. Have you been listening? This Reaper could give us an edge.”

  “Better to lose.”

  Commander Westwood fixed him with a hard stare. “Talk like that will get you executed. I plan to keep you for the same reason I plan to keep Droon. I think you and Sergeant Orlan have much in common.”

  Kin said nothing.

  “What else do you know of this planet?”

  “Are you asking if there are other forces besides the Reaper horde?” Kin asked.

  “Maybe,” Westwood said.

  “The climate around Crater Town becomes more toxic and the storms more violent the farther you travel from the coast. My most recent information is that this barrier is not indefinite. I suspect a warlike civilization exists beyond what I have explored,” Kin said.

  Westwood studied him and slowly smiled. “There may be hope for you. The satellite we launched completed one orbit before colliding with the wormhole. Transmissions confirmed other humanoids on the far side of the world. I would like to know their nature. It might be worth my friendship, which you will need sooner or later.”

  “I encountered one man, not exactly human. Warlike, unreasonable, and concerned that an enemy race he called the Mazz were massing for an attack,” Kin said.

  “There is more,” Westwood said. It wasn’t a question, but a demand for information.

  “I believe he was talking about the Imperials,” Kin said.

  Westwood steepled his fingers and stared at nothing. “We are losing the war against the Imperials. In the best-case scenario, they will impress us into their service, but thus far, they have slaughtered nearly everyone who has surrendered to them. We need to leave Crashdown. I believe Clavender can help.”

  Kin shook his head. “When I first set out to find her, I believed her absence was what released the storm and caused the wormhole to act up, but now I think whatever Droon did to her caused her to lose control of the wormhole. Don’t count on her to whisk your armada to safety. She did that once, and it turned out badly.”

  “And now I am curious,” Westwood said. “Explain.”

  “She pushed an army through the wormhole,” Kin said, regretting this entire conversation.

  “You witnessed this?”

  “No, it happened long ago.”

  “You are speaking of the Imperials,” Westwood said.

  “Clavender is important to Crater Town. She uses her influence to keep things away.”

  “She will use her influence to rescue the Fleet. She will summon her people to fight for us or control the wormhole until we can escape,” Westwood said.

  “Clavender’s own father couldn’t persuade her to unleash her people against the Mazz. I doubt you will have better luck.”

  “I can be persuasive,” Westwood said.

  Kin’s blood ran cold. Most Fleet Commanders had god complexes. They were more powerful than kings during a mission. He didn’t know what atrocities Westwood would commit to survive, but human sacrifice and world breaking were not off the table.

  “Do you have enough ships to evacuate?” Kin asked.

  “That is classified, but since I doubt you are going to spread rumors among my troops, the answer is, probably — given the right circumstances.”

  “But you won’t, because there’s an Imperial armada waiting for you in space.”

  “That depends where the wormhole takes it. No one can control a wormhole, Mr. Roland, but I am willing to explore the possibility. The fight will be here. I have never been defeated, not even by Imperials. Our crash-landing is a setback. A tactical pause,” Westwood said.

  “Did you hear the part of my story where the Imperials were forced to fight for thousands of years through the farthest corner of the galaxy in a constant state of war in order to return?”

  Westwood studied his hands. He looked at Kin. He leaned back in his chair. “There was a time when we believed Hellsbreach was the worst the universe had to offer.”

  They stared at each other. Neither spoke. Noise filled the room as reports came in of wormhole damage. Westwood ordered Kin to quarters. A pair of guards, without armor, escorted him. He watched Becca, but she made no move to follow. His heart fell through his stomach and he wondered if she were the same person he remembered.

  “These are your quarters,” the guard said.

  Kin went inside. The room held two bunk beds and was wide enough to turn around. The place could have been a prison cell, but he felt as though he had come home. No one had stayed in the room recently. Decorations included a video screen on one wall and a rubber floor slightly darker than the paint. The wall had brackets to secure pictures or other items. Regulations prohibited unsecured items anywhere on the vessel in case the ship lost gravity or the suffered an impact. The room was too small for a man or woman in armor, but troopers went to the armory to draw gear. This was just a place to sleep. Troopers and ship crewmembers spent a lot of time sleeping during each voyage.

  The door opened and Orlan walked in, allowing the door to close behind him. Kin stood and backed away, not all the way to the wall, but away from the bigger man. He wanted room to maneuver.

  “I thought you were hunting Droon,” Kin said.

  Orlan swung his fist and the fight was on. From the first moment of the confrontation, Kin knew it wouldn’t be lethal. This was a brawl, nothing more. They punched and kicked. Kin tripped Orl
an and executed several submission attempts. He was better than Orlan, but the man’s size and strength equaled the contest. Once they were both tired and bruised, they backed away from each other. Orlan sat on a bunk and drew a bottle of water from one of the wall compartments.

  “I’d kill you here if there wouldn’t be an investigation,” Orlan said. “Commander Westwood knows you tried to frag me, so watch your step. One word from me and you’re dead.”

  “What do you want, Orlan?”

  “I know who you are and so do three other people. You best learn to do what you’re told,” Orlan said.

  “What do you want?” Kin asked.

  “I want to catch Droon. I lost three of my best men. Those fucking wolves are the fastest damn creatures I’ve ever fought. I’m pissed, Kin. The commander has never given me a mission I couldn’t complete. If we’re still planet-side tomorrow, I’m going out again and you are going with me.”

  “I don’t think the commander is going to allow that,” Kin said.

  “Why’d you try to kill me?” Orlan asked.

  “Because I owe you.”

  Orlan took another drink and stared at him. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t just leave you, I left everyone. It was every man for himself by that point.”

  “It’s never every man for himself in the Fleet. You took an oath. We depended on you,” Kin said.

  “You were a dead man.”

  “You sealed me in that casket. And what did you say about poisonous scorpions? Sounded like you wanted me dead, but Becca paid you not to kill me.”

  “I wasn’t serious about the scorpions.” He finished the water and placed the bottle back in the wall. “I talk trash, you know that. The commander never slept with Becca. She’s not his type. She’d probably kick his ass. Becca’s a badass, Kin — Shock Trooper through and through. She was mad as hell when the pirates left with your body. I told her they wouldn’t risk hanging around and getting captured by the Fleet, but she’s like you: stubborn, stupid, and full of righteousness.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re the only person I know that was on Hellsbreach. We should be best friends,” Orlan said.