by Scott Moon
“No closer, Kin-rol-an-da,” Droon said. He showed his teeth and took a step back. “She has no fear. Bad to eat. Hard to torture.”
“I made a mistake on Hellsbreach, but I won’t make another,” Kin said.
Droon pulled Becca from his back and placed her at his feet. He balanced on one leg with a clawed foot over Becca’s face. A human doing the same thing would have looked ridiculous, but the Reaper seemed ready to kill.
“Do you have a home world?” Droon asked.
Kin didn’t answer.
Droon spread his jaws and clicked his throat angrily. “Do you have a home world?”
Kin nodded.
“What would I have done there?”
“You would have killed us all. You’d have done what I should’ve done on your home world,” Kin said. He moved closer to Becca, but Droon hissed.
“No. I would have left some to hunt. As I am leaving you to hunt. Our young warriors will prove themselves by hunting Kin-rol-an-da.”
“Yeah, well, you will have to leave Becca or the deal is off,” Kin said.
He saw again that Droon’s illness had passed or had been healed. His eyes were their proper color. The markings on his skin were uniform and dark, although scarred with Clinger bites. This new Droon possessed intelligence that Kin hadn’t expected. They were having a kind of negotiation. Kin realized he was probably dead or dreaming but didn’t waste time trying to learn the difference.
“From this day until the end of days, Droon only hunts Cla-ven-da,” Droon said. “Droon wants to hunt you, but things are different since the Long Hunt is over. Droon has taken what he needs from Kin-rol-an-da.” He stepped away from Becca.
Kin looked into the night. He couldn’t see Clavender or her people but wasn’t worried. Droon might be able to kill warriors of the Ror-Rea, but there were too many for him at present. When he looked back at Droon, the Reaper was gone.
Kin spent a long time reviving Becca. She finally opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Are you okay, Kin?”
He kissed her forehead. “I am. I have all I ever wanted.”
Something moved in the piles of bodies behind him. Kin pulled his pistol close to his chest as he held Becca with his other arm. He concealed the weapon and turned slowly. The leg of a fallen Reaper fell out of view. Something tugged on it, growling.
Kin put a finger to his lips as he stood and moved away from Becca. He searched the tangled bodies and blasted pits, catching movement to his right. He faced it, raised the pistol, and waited.
“Ogre, put that down,” Kin said. The dog plodded toward him and dropped the Reaper foot in front of Kin.
“You’re in rough shape, dog.” Kin squatted and examined the scrapes, cuts, and burns marking the large mutt.
Becca came to his side but didn’t bend down. She leaned on his shoulders and examined Ogre. “That thing needs a bath.”
“Go find Rickson,” Kin said.
The dog perked up, sniffed the air, and bolted.
SON OF ORLAN
Book Two in the Chronicles of Kin Roland
Scott Moon
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
ORLAN strode boldly down the corridor, not as a man, but as a titan of potential violence. Red lights flashed on the floor, reminding crewmen, troopers, and marines the ship was in trouble — in case the earsplitting klaxon wasn’t a clue. Track lights pointed toward battle stations for soldiers or safe areas for noncombatants, although the ship had yet to sustain damage. So far as Orlan knew, there wasn’t an enemy in sight.
No enemy, but plenty of impact alerts.
Orlan hated debris fields. Before long, smoke would pour from vents and wall panels, sparks would explode from damaged circuits, and gravity would fail like Commander Westwood’s common sense.
“Out of my way!” He shoved a marine lieutenant against the wall and stepped past, heedless when the man fell to one knee and cursed.
The officer struggled to his feet and stabbed a finger forward, losing his balance as the ship lurched. “Take that man’s name.”
Orlan stopped, turned, and stalked toward seven wide-eyed marines with twitching trigger fingers. He didn’t have time for this, but there were too many officers who thought they could give him orders.
I’m the Hero of Man.
The group edged back, hands reaching for sidearms. Orlan quickly assessed each by size, apparent fitness level, arrangement of weapons, and glimmers of misplaced confidence or justifiable fear in their eyes.
“Take my name, Lieutenant. Take it and shove it up your ass.” Orlan glared at each man in turn as the lieutenant sputtered nonsense. He pointed a thick finger at the leader. “I’ll see you planet-side.” He leaned forward, introducing his jaw to the officer’s face. He paused. He turned and sauntered away, listening for a challenge that never came.
Public address systems blared, “Planetary assault personnel, report to the armory. The ship is entering atmosphere. Assault personnel, report to the armory for equipment and deployment orders. Welcome to Crashdown, people.”
Orlan stopped. He turned in a circle as though he might see bulkheads exploding or gravity generators failing. Orion’s Gift, a Type IX battlecruiser and 4th Fleet’s Flagship, didn’t do landfall. The monster rarely came near a world unless Planetary Forces needed to get some troopers killed in an assault. The battlecruiser was strictly a space vessel. Captains liked to talk about the invulnerability of their ships, bragging they could set any craft down safely if it came to that, despite what happened to Admiral Horn when he tried.
The fool would live forever in the annals of history, even though he died in a tangle of molten steel and shattered ceramic heat shields with all hands.
Billy!
Orlan knew the boy was smart, but nothing could prepare the stowaway for what was about to happen.
Officers, troopers, and marines swarmed toward Orlan. They poured out of their holes, every half-assed one of them moving the wrong direction.
Go ahead. Run to your stations. I’ll still be first in the fight. Orlan spat over his shoulder without slowing his pace. And I’ll be saving your asses, unless you’re stupid.
He didn’t waste time with troopers or marines who picked the wrong fight and got jammed up in a suicide mission. Was it his fault boys wanted to be heroes? Overestimating their abilities; believing the boot camp propaganda; thinking they could be the Hero of Man? And girls. Don’t forget girls. Rebecca is the worst glory seeker of the lot. What had she thought to achieve by putting Kin in that coffin?
Another group streamed out of the cafeteria — yelling, asking stupid questions, begging friends for reassurance. He smashed the first man to the ground, hesitated as he stared down at the Academy-educated boy, then stepped into an alcove as the panic-parade rushed by. He wasn’t hiding. Anyone could see him. A few made eye contact as they strapped on safety equipment and hurried forward.
Orlan yelled as they passed but didn’t join them. “Is this the only Goddamn hallway on the ship? Your instructors didn’t explain about getting blown to hell when a ship goes down?”
A marine sergeant, a man who thought he had a reputation because he’d been in a dozen engagements, slowed to stare at Orlan. An order crawled up his throat and parted his lips.
Orlan cocked his head sideways. “What are you looking at?”
The press of the crowd moved the man away. His face bobbed in the river of people, looking back, shoving crewmen ineffectually, his expression reddening with each attempt to shout down the Hero of Man.
“Idiot.”
When he couldn’t tolerate another second of the pathetic wannabes, he stepped into the flow of men and women. He shoved people out of the way, two or three at a time like they were children. Before long, he didn’t have to push, because humanity parted for him. He strode toward his quarters, cursing the size of the ship and the chaos that slowed him.
Billy nearly died the first time Orlan went after him. Of course, he’d likely die now
, but Orlan had to do something. He had to fight. Had to explain his will, his intentions, his demands to the universe. I’m Jack Washington Orlan. You better watch your ass.
Everything came back to Hellsbreach. He spent the reward he received as the only living Hero of Man. Lesser soldiers would’ve made the money last weeks, even with drinking, whoring, and gambling. Roland would’ve retired in luxury with his sweet Becca. Course, he was floating across the void, probably frozen solid and shot through with solar radiation.
Orlan had gone straight to Tabitha. One night, that was all it took to leave him a pauper. It’d been a damn good night, no arguments there. By morning, he believed he’d slept with every female officer on Orion’s Gift except Becca.
And now I have a son.
Tabitha didn’t love him; it wasn’t in her job description. Maybe she feared him. Respect wouldn’t be too much to hope for. Women liked strong men — men that kept them safe, made them feel beautiful, put them so damn high on a pedestal that gods were jealous.
It seemed like it should be easy.
Should be, but wasn’t. Orlan had no luck with women. He always left them crying — cursing sometimes — but never happy.
He grunted as he neared his quarters, striding forcefully onward, slowing as his mind replayed memories but still stalking the corridor in a broad-shouldered attitude of strength.
Thoughts of betrayal added fifty pounds to each arm and a ton to his legs. He pushed away visions of Hellsbreach and his failure. Escaping a thousand bloodthirsty Reapers wasn’t betraying his buddies; it wasn’t anything but staying alive. Looking back, it felt like betrayal. Fuck that. I didn’t fail Billy, did I? Didn’t betray him? I found him when no one else gave a shit.
The door had exploded when he kicked it. Clouds of noxious dust and computer parts scattered the floor as he punched the Iron Death Gangster in the throat — something more like Roland would’ve done, aiming for a man’s weakness instead of overpowering him.
To hell with that.
Orlan should’ve killed the guards. If he’d known what they’d done to Billy, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
“Get up, Billy. You’re coming home.”
The boy stared, amazement and gratitude flooding his expression. Orlan wished he could feel the spine-tingling rush one more time — the shining gleam of hero worship in his son’s eyes.
Doubt killed the moment. He didn’t deserve such adoration. He couldn’t have fathered this beautiful child. Monsters didn’t make angels. Killers didn’t give life.
Maybe he wasn’t the kid’s father, but who else could’ve gotten a million-credit prostitute pregnant? Who besides Orlan, the baddest motherfucker to survive Hellsbreach?
“You came,” Billy said.
“I never leave a man behind.” Orlan’s stomach soured as he untangled Billy from computer cables connected to his spine. Even as he ground his teeth at the sight of his son equipped as a digital pleasure slave, he suffered images of Colossal Class Battle Tanks on Hellsbreach and his squad screaming.
“Help me, Orlan!”
An arm flew across the desert landscape.
“Help me, Orlan! No, no, NO!”
But Roland never screamed. The arrogant jerk was still fighting, trying to pull his unit together, facing Reapers who had destroyed an armored column.
Stupid.
Orlan found it easier to consider what gangsters had done to his son than remember his buddies being dragged into holes. At least he could kill the Iron Death thugs. He could kill them and any living creature in this universe that thought Orlan’s son was to be messed with.
Fuck these gangsters. Fuck the universe.
Orlan flung the boy over one shoulder and turned to leave. A dozen gangsters blocked the door. Two held military pistols. One had a shotgun. Rows of them waited behind the front line with knives and clubs, tattoos scrawling over muscle, rings and pins piercing flesh, and eyes leaking chemical stimulants.
Orlan placed Billy on the floor and stepped forward. He cracked his knuckles. The thugs shifted backward.
“Might as well do this now,” Orlan said. He loosened his neck, tilting his head right, then left, and narrowed his gaze. “Save me a trip.”
Earth Fleet klaxons blasted apart Orlan’s violent memory. He bent at the waist, still walking despite the pain forcing him to squat and clench every muscle in his body. He covered his ears and exhaled, hoping to make the damn noise go away.
“Stop blowing that fucking horn!” He rushed past the directional cone of sound.
Orlan knew how the klaxons worked. They wouldn’t kill or maim him because that would make him a casualty and casualties lost battles. But the device made it hard to finish his personal mission. He realized he was on his knees, tears squeezing between closed eyelids. All he had to do was move the other direction and the noise would cease — an immediate reward for compliance.
But this wasn’t his first deployment. Sooner or later, there would be crewmen and troopers following the path required by standard operating procedures. That would cause the anti-deserter horn to stop. He stood, pressing against the sonic blast until people came toward him.
One laughed at his posture and red face. Orlan made a mental note of the man’s nametag, Corporal Raif, and tried not to puke. As the dedicated men and women of Orion’s Gift went to their assignments, the klaxons dropped fifty decibels until the sound was music to his ears.
Get up. Rush through these order-obeying sheep. He reached his room, slammed his palm on the reader, and rushed inside as the door slid into the wall. “Billy!”
Billy flung his legs out of his bunk and sat up holding a book. He was small, nothing like Orlan.
Tabitha, I wish he were my son. I wish I meant more to you.
She’d been an angel of mercy when he needed it most, and a seductress when he could forget his nightmares and push aside the guilt he felt for everything he’d done. The boy couldn’t be his, but Orlan played the game.
Why not? I’ve never been a father. Never had one either. How hard could it be?
“Is the ship going to crash?” Billy asked.
“Ships don’t crash, boy. They blow up.” Orlan checked the room, deciding Billy couldn’t remain here. He needed to get his son in a safety harness. When the ship went down, he would bounce around the room until he was dead. The image of his broken face attacked Orlan like a Reaper; relentless and terrible.
“I didn’t think battlecruisers were meant to enter a planet’s atmosphere.” Billy held up the book as though to support his theory.
“What is that? A Fleet manual? Didn’t think so. You don’t know shit.” Orlan handed Billy a jumpsuit to cover his regular clothing — clothing Orlan made by hand. He couldn’t just ask the quartermaster to outfit his fourteen-year-old stowaway son. “Put this on. I’m taking you out.”
“You told me not to leave the room.”
“Like I said, you don’t know shit. This is an emergency. I can get you into the midshipman’s technical area, but you have to be quiet and stay out of the way. I’ll strap you in a chair near the wall. You’ll sit there and shut your mouth until I come for you.” Orlan glanced at the novel, Last Stand in the Yano Quadrant, Book Three in the Marine Commandant Brighten Saga. He read it the first time when he was Billy’s age. The story was about as stupid as real life.
Billy retreated. “Commander Westwood will put me off the ship.”
“Put on the jumpsuit!”
Billy crossed his arms. “I’ll wear it if you call me William.”
Orlan snatched the boy off the ground with one hand and ripped free the shirt and pants with the other, ignoring the kicking and thrashing. Dropping his naked son felt like another sort of betrayal. Sour heat bloomed in his gut.
“Get up. Do I have to dress you too?”
“My name is William.”
“Roll up the legs and sleeves.” Orlan moved to the doorway and peeked out. He drew back his head, charged his pistol, and held it ready as Billy glared.
“I don’t know why I have to wear this.”
“Because it’s mine. Anyone who sees you in the jumpsuit will think twice before locking you in the brig, where there isn’t safety gear.”
The walls, floor, and ceiling began to vibrate.
“Move your ass, William.”
CHAPTER TWO
“ORLAN has a son?” Kin couldn’t believe the trooper would take responsibility for a child. The six-and-a-half foot giant never bragged or talked about conquering women as other men did. As far as Kin knew, he indulged in murder and extortion during every sack of enemy territory but didn’t tolerate rape. Sergeant Orlan personally swung the lash on troopers suspected of cheating prostitutes. For a brutally masculine man, Orlan seemed chaste in a sadistic, horrifying way.
Rebecca tightened a piece of the Fleet Single Person Assault Armor: Mechanized Unit, officially designated on the Table of Organization and Equipment as FSPAA: MU 291, and stepped back to appraise her work. Grease smeared her left cheek. The lean muscles of her arms and shoulders flexed as she worked the wrench.
“Commander Westwood ordered Raker to take the boy to the Valley of Clingers and leave him. Orlan blames you.”
“He would.” Kin looked at the pieces of his FSPAA unit stacked on the outdoor worktable. “Did Raker do it?”
Rebecca shrugged. “He reported he did, but he lied. The boy probably escaped.”
“You think a fourteen-year-old boy outsmarted Raker and his counter-intelligence goons? Not likely.”
Rebecca wiped her hands on a towel and faced him. “William’s mother was a prostitute, a shapeshifter, the kind to fulfill any fantasy. Orlan spent his entire Hellsbreach reward on her. That’s why he’s broke. That’s why he wanted the bounty on your head and the capture fee for a living Reaper.”
“It felt more personal than that,” Kin said.
“When she realized the boy couldn’t shape shift, she dumped him on Orlan.” Rebecca folded the towel and put it away.
