by Scott Moon
Laura, Rickson, and even Orlan’s son needed him. He cursed himself for not trying to escape when Clavender and the others had come for him. What was he doing with this enigmatic Imperial general who wanted to burden him with power and responsibility?
“General Nander,” Kin said. “I need to know where my friends are. Give me a squad of troopers to look for them, and I’ll consider your proposition. Call it a test run.”
“You think I am making a proposition? If I name you my successor, you will serve the Empire or you will die.”
“We all die sooner or later.”
Nander grimaced. “Of this, I am aware.” He coughed and it sounded like his death sentence. “I’m sick, Roland. Time is short. Your proposal, though intriguing, is impossible. I will learn the status of your Crater Town people and your Earth Fleet girlfriend. You will have a detailed report, but you will not leave my protection while I live.”
“What happened to Orlan and the others?” Kin waited for a lie.
“They are dead.”
Words continued to reach Kin’s ears, but he ignored them. Orlan couldn’t die. How could he die? Kin had tried to kill him and failed. The man survived Hellsbreach and Reaper captivity. He was too stubborn to die.
“Why didn’t you choose Orlan? Why me?”
Nander looked toward the waiting officers and the strategy tables, then coughed again. “Don’t ask foolish questions. It does not become a high commander. Orlan was a dangerous fighter, but I doubt he could lead a company, much less the Grand Army. The Slomn will destroy your home world when they are done with us. Show some gratitude for the opportunity I am giving you.”
IMPERIAL FSPAA armor contained interesting features. The clarity of the communication system startled Kin at first. The concise speech of Mazz soldiers resonated in his hearing as though they stood near him despite the actual distance involved. There was no background hum at all. No clicks. No loss of reception. No annoying feedback.
His command unit accessed every unit in the Imperial force. He flicked his eyes to the menu screen inside his helmet as Captain Trak had taught him. With surprising ease, he muted unnecessary transmissions and listened to men and women guarding his area.
Voices as clear as his own thoughts filled the visor display. He noticed alert symbols of multiple units. With a glance, he saw brief situation reports that could be expanded for additional information. He couldn’t discern delay, distortion, or interference in the signals.
“Some features are the same,” Captain Trak said. “We walk and run just like you do. Pay attention to range notifications. You’ll see our weapons are superior in this and many other parameters.”
“How do I reload?”
Trak laughed. “All the ammunition carried in your armor’s vault loads itself through the belt feed as needed. Every grunt in the Empire wonders why your Fleet hasn’t figured this out. Our method is more efficient.”
Kin knew it was. He wondered how Earth Fleet had survived this long against such a numerically superior enemy with better weapons.
“You are the first human to operate an Imperial command unit. And we call them SKINS, not FSPAA.”
“What does the term stand for?”
“Nothing. We wear armor as though it were skin.”
The unit felt like a second skin. He didn’t get the impression of weight as he did in an Earth Fleet unit. Power output and hydraulic-assist mechanisms were precisely optimized. As Trak stood with arms crossed, watching Kin’s every move, Kin put the SKIN through several close combat drills.
“Smooth,” he said.
“I’m glad you approve,” Trak said. “SKINS also have better radiation shielding than Earth Fleet junk.”
Kin checked the rifle, sidearms, and energy weapons. All would function if he had ammunition and power cells for the short-range laser. “What about plasma launchers?”
“Orlan took a SKIN. Did you know that? How do you think he figured out the activation code?”
“Orlan wasn’t as dumb as he acted.” Kin lowered the helmet assembly. “Tell me about Imperial plasma launchers.”
“We don’t use them. Plasma attacks incite the Slomn.”
“Who cares? They’re already trying to kill us.”
“Trust me on this. If your Earth Fleet friends use plasma projectors against the Slomn, they’ll regret it.”
“Captain Trak,” a trooper said as he rushed onto the training field.
The man was one of Nander’s bodyguards. He moved close to Kin but spoke to Trak. “Directive 999 is in effect.”
“You heard him, Snake Eaters. Take positions,” Trak yelled.
Kin found himself surrounded by Trak’s men. They crowded close, forming a wall around Kin as they shoved him forward.
“What’s happening?”
Trak scanned the camp section by section. “General Nander has died. You may be in danger.”
“Nander left this part out of his explanations.”
“You will refer to him as General Nander. He was a great man.”
The words sounded spontaneous and genuine to Kin, but he sensed apprehension in Trak’s voice. The captain wasn’t part of Kin’s close escort. Rather, he coordinated his men and scanned the area ahead, around, and behind.
“What’s going on?” Kin asked.
“It’s the putsch General Nander warned me about. Not many people are excited about their new general.”
A squad of troopers, so strange that Kin stumbled, blocked the path. Four Imperial troopers, the lowest ranking a major, aimed weapons and shouted in Mazz. Kin scrambled up from one knee. His escorts lifted him and propelled him onward. Trak and the forward element opened fire at the same time the squad of officers unleashed a volley of bullets.
Trak charged into them, closing the distance until he pressed the muzzle of his heavy rifle against a colonel’s helmet and blew it apart. Return fire sliced through Trak’s arm. Other rounds ricocheted from Kin’s bodyguards.
“You better be all General Nander promised,” one of his guards said right before he went down.
“Keep moving.” Captain Trak didn’t yell. His voice resonated with authority, urgency, and resolve. “To the Command Bunker.”
Trak summoned reinforcements that fell into formation. Fighting escalated. An armored vehicle blocked the way. Trak and the others hesitated, losing momentum. No one wasted ammunition on the light tank.
Kin searched for an alternate route but saw small battles in every direction.
“I need armored support now!” Trak turned in a circle, not realizing a Light Armored Vehicle had anticipated his request. By the time he faced the putsch tank, the LAV was ramming the large vehicle, moving it just enough to open a gap between road barriers.
“They know where we’re heading,” Kin said.
“Can’t be helped. Once we make the Command Bunker, your ascendancy becomes official. There will be challenges, but no more direct combat.”
“He knew this would happen,” Kin said as they moved closer to the bunker.
“He did,” Trak said, pain evident in his voice.
“Then why risk it with the Slomn so near?”
A pause. “Necessity,” Trak said. “And a chance to purge bad blood.”
Kin didn’t like the sound of that.
Trak led them across the final approach to the Command Bunker, down the gradual slope leading to entrance tucked into the ground, and burst inside shouting a password. Guards jostled Kin into the dimly lighted area and surrounded him, facing outward in every direction.
Observing the backs of Imperial troopers dedicated to protecting him and enforcing his authority gave Kin pause. None of this seemed real. Everything that happened since he witnessed Earth Fleet and Droon’s ship from Laura’s deck seemed to have occurred during an intense but vaguely remembered dream. Life rushed toward destiny. His greatest struggles and triumphs during nine years on Crashdown appeared mundane and small in his memory.
But it wasn’t. Life was good in Crater Town. L
aura took care of me, despite how I treated her. He thought of passionate nights and even more passionate arguments. Rickson growing up. Repairs on the docks after the first terrible storm they experienced. Muldoch’s death. Droon’s relentless pursuit.
“Master Sergeant,” Trak said. “Equip General Roland’s SKIN for combat.”
“What about security clearances?”
Trak answered without hesitation, barely looking at the Master Sergeant. A lot was happening. Captain Trak earned his pay as he directed multiple units on successive tasks. “Full clearance, per General Nander’s last request.”
“Welcome to hell, General,” the Master Sergeant said as he accessed Kin’s armor with a handheld computer.
“Sounds ominous, Master Sergeant.”
The man grunted and completed his work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AT first, Kin focused on Captain Trak and other officers gathering to fight the putsch. When the security clearances opened previously unseen databases in the SKIN, Kin’s attention shifted.
The file scrolling across his screen was titled “The Son of Orlan.” He skimmed through images as the Master Sergeant loaded the SKIN’s ammo vault. He saw the encounter with William. Confused images of Commander Westwood and then the Reaper scrolled across the inside of his helmet with words in the Mazz language offering explanations Kin could only guess at. Dozens of sub-files of additional sightings and surveillance of William existed.
Kin skipped to the next. He watched Orlan, Tass, and Captain Raien fight to the death.
Sensing urgency, he peeked at several images of Rebecca, Laura, Rickson, and others from Crater Town. His lightning-fast research was shoddy, but he hoped they were in fact still alive. When he had more time, he could determine their probable location and contact them.
“Captain Trak,” Kin said.
Trak came quickly. “General.”
“You mentioned challenges to be faced after we secured the Command Bunker.”
“Yes, General. I hope you are ready to fight.”
“I thought that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“Open fighting is winding down. Once the surviving leaders gather here, they will be tried. Expect them to demand trial by single combat. Some are good fighters. Their plan is to wear you down until a child could terminate you.”
“Do I have options?”
“You could break tradition and execute them as traitors.”
“How many?”
“All Mazz soldiers above the rank of colonel have the right to trial by combat during a succession,” Trak said. “Numerous high ranking officers have abdicated and promoted younger fighters during the last week. General Nander told me this was how he knew for certain there would be a putsch.”
Kin nodded. “How soon?”
“Immediately.”
“Select three advisers with knowledge of my opponents. Any rank, any assignment, as long as they can tell me how to win. I want to know strengths and weaknesses, fighting styles, psychological pressure points.”
“Yes, General.”
“And you better explain the challenge protocol.”
The rules were simple. Kin mentally filed each; the first and most important was when and how the contest would begin.
“I am going to test the boundary of the rules of engagement,” Kin said.
“You’re the general.”
“Who are you betting on?” Kin realized gambling flourished in every army. He also understood some men bet on the best prospect of making money while others bet against officers they resented, regardless of the odds.
Trak turned to stone. It seemed the entire universe rotated around his perfect immobility and his face displayed shock. “I didn’t make a wager. Neither did my men. We honor Nander’s last request.”
“Serve and obey,” the loyalists said.
“Serve and obey,” Kin said. He didn’t apologize. In his experience, generals didn’t dare.
He listened to summaries of each man and woman he expected to fight as Mazz factions gathered in the large underground hall without further violence. The soldiers supporting his claim remained grim, dedicated, but not openly hopeful.
General Pouk stepped forward, studied Kin with great intensity, then faced the room. “General Roland has accepted General Nander’s last request. All officers and enlisted servants of the Empire are required to submit to his authority. Those who fought against our new leader will have one chance to stand trial, which will be handled in accordance with Imperial law.”
A woman not much different from Rebecca strode forward. Her close-cropped hair and scarred jaw made her seem Rebecca’s sister, although blood streaked her yellow hair and there was no love in her eyes.
Good choice, Kin thought. Attack where I’m weak.
“I demand trial by combat.”
Kin launched himself across the room, seizing her upper legs in a bear hug and lifting her into the air. He’d been lucky enough to surprise her and trap one of her arms that had been touching the leg-holstered laser cutter that would be devastating at close range.
Normally, Kin would have slammed her to the ground. But he had a more desperate plan. Trak had estimated he would have to fight thirty cold-blooded killers before the putsch supporters relented. No amount of Reaper-fortified blood or rage would keep Kin alive that long. Exhaustion would undo him.
He carried the recently promoted colonel backward into the ranks of her confederates. Instead of taking her to the ground and strangling her — something he knew he couldn’t do to the Rebecca look-alike — he released her.
She found a fighting stance and yanked free her laser cutter.
Kin deployed his first, slicing off her head with one brutally quick movement.
The laser killed or maimed five others in the crowd, reducing his opponents further.
“Next.”
Silence held the room. No one moved.
“Next!”
“Stand and issue challenge, or submit to the authority of the General’s Tribunal.”
Kin stalked around the center of the room, eyeing each man and woman in the assembly, regardless of their affiliation. “The Slomn are danger close. General Nander decided I would face them. I survived Hellsbreach. I survived Crashdown. Reapers piss their pants when they face me and Clingers run away hissing. I’ll fight here until I triumph or I die. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m ready.”
“Reapers don’t have pants,” Trak muttered.
Someone laughed nervously.
Kin glanced back. Instinctively, he risked the loss of his momentum. He smiled with half his mouth. “Take that man’s name. I’ll have him rewarded for his humor.”
More laughter came from both sides of the room. The challengers conferred silently, trying to make a decision without words.
Kin approached the fallen body of his victim and closed her eyes, allow his touch to linger. “I never knew this woman.” He arranged her arms in a more dignified position. “I wish she had decided to fight for me.”
Time passed and he wondered how long he should remain kneeling and vulnerable. As long as there was silence, people were thinking. That was a good place to start. He could lead people who were willing to think.
“General Roland,” Trak said.
“Yes, Captain.”
“What is your first order?”
“Our fate has not been decided,” a challenger said.
“The Slomn decided our fate, unless you have the balls to send them to hell,” Kin said. “Captain Trak. Please give my compliments to whoever is in charge of communications with Earth Fleet, and ensure this message is transmitted.
“Commander Westwood. General Kin Roland, the last man on Hellsbreach, the man sentenced to death by Earth Fleet High Command, is now in control of Mazz Imperial forces. Given the unpleasant nature of his separation from Earth Fleet, the Imperial Grand General requests and demands a formal apology from Earth Fleet regarding that issue.
“An alien race threate
ns imminent battle on Crashdown with the intent of destroying Earth Fleet and the Mazz Fleet. Their first target will likely be an armada of Earth ships trapped below the planet’s surface. For the good of humanity, put aside previous hostilities and accept terms of an alliance.
“General Roland demands and requires an immediate parley.”
Trak nodded, turned away, and summoned several of his officers and noncommissioned officers.
Kin faced the assembly. “Does anyone else want to fight?”
The old veteran that had argued with Nander not long ago stepped forward.
Kin guessed he would have been one of the last challengers.
“I would fight today and the next against the Slomn, if it pleases the general.”
“It does.”
PART FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
KIN rallied the Imperials who supported him from the beginning but included many skeptics in his command structure. Draw them into the fold, Kin.
Politics didn’t interest Kin, never had. His only hope was to follow his instinct and remain decisive.
Cementing the unsteady acceptance of Imperial officers was important, but as soon as he could free himself, he went to the tower. Three squads of Captain Trak’s best troopers stood guard. No one questioned Kin’s choice of sleeping quarters. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. If he hoped to save his friends and two space-faring civilizations, he needed more than mindless drones to help. He thought of Rebecca, who did what she must and voiced her opinion. He thought of Laura, who argued with him, challenged his every decision, and was able to seduce him easily. He even thought of Rickson’s troublesome ways and Orlan’s brusque nature.
Now he had Captain Trak, who seemed loyal when a few days ago he had been a mortal enemy. Could the Imperial soldier really forget his father and transfer his loyalty?
These thoughts and others occurred to Kin, but the dominant theme of his concerns revolved around the dramatic revelation that came with full security access to the Imperial SKIN command unit — the reason the trooper had said, “Welcome to hell.”
The Mazz Empire was a true enemy of Earth Fleet. The common threat of the Slomn world destroyers had convinced Kin an alliance was not only possible, but made sense. How did the origin of the Slomn change things?
