by Scott Moon
Kin considered her statement about the Mazz people. He wasn't certain if he agreed but was willing to consider her assertion. Working with and leading them revealed the inhuman discipline of their culture. He wanted to believe in the camaraderie and accord of mutual victory over the Slomn but doubted they could resist attacking their ancient enemies.
Trak looked back but didn’t seem to have heard the conversation.
“Can you help them?” Laura asked.
Kin wanted to answer, but he had no hope to offer. He was tired. It seemed he’d been running and fighting for his entire life. That wasn’t far from the truth, but the effect of the contest against Droon and then the Battle of the Bleeding Grounds had marked him with a kind of weariness he’d never known, not even on Hellsbreach.
Trak reached the top of the trail and looked down where the path descended the other direction. He stopped. “The Wingers are fighting amongst themselves.”
Kin joined him on the elevated position. When threatened, the Ror-Rea warriors banded together. As soon as the shadow of peace drifted across the sky, they fought each other for dominance. Slowly, he realized the true measure of Dax’s character and wondered if even he could unite them without war on the horizon.
“The Emperor has not ordered an attack,” Trak said. “His only wish is that you are reunited with Rickson.”
Kin held his breath. He didn’t like the sound of Trak’s words. The sudden concern for the boy made no sense. Trak’s father, Grand General Nander, had been a consummate liar and master of intrigue. Trak didn’t seem capable of falsehood. He’d never been able to control his emotions or keep his opinions private. Something was different now, but Kin couldn’t imagine what the Mazz officer was up to.
In a strange way, he didn't believe Trak knew either. Out of his depth and beyond the boundary of his imagination, the officer withdrew inside a shell of menacing body language.
Laura moved up behind Kin. “Awfully grand for him to think of a mere shepherd-soldier at a time like this,” Laura said, her tone soft and secretive.
Trak clenched his teeth and said nothing.
“Where is Rickson?” Kin asked.
“I ordered my soldiers to take him to their quarters for concealment,” Trak said. He spoke the words looking forward but glanced over his shoulder when they were done.
“What kind of quarters could they have this soon after the battle?” Laura asked.
Trak ignored her.
“And why would he need to be kept out of sight?” Laura asked.
Trak turned and looked down, looming above her. Not only was he much taller, he stood on higher ground. His broad shoulders and thick arms gave Kin pause. He had always known Trak was dangerous, but something about his stance suggested that he was not to be tried or tested now. The man seemed neither angry nor happy. He had the face of a grim soldier doing his duty, following orders, whether he liked them or not.
Just like a Mazz.
A sudden war cry from a distant mass of Ror-Rea warriors distracted Kin. He looked and saw dozens of winged swordsmen turn in unison and sweep down on another group trying to jump into the air. Dax stood among the soldiers on the ground, sword and shield raised, his face tired and angry at the same time. The King of the Wingers didn’t yell or scream but bellowed orders.
Kin wished he was close enough to hear what the man said. He wished he was near enough to help. The king hadn’t found ruling his people easy. Kin had witnessed the High Lords question him numerous times and argue against his claim to leadership. During the events leading up to the Bleeding Grounds, Kin watched the High Lords declare loyalty, but the alliances hadn’t held. The only thing he knew for certain was that Clavender was in the middle of everything.
“Take me to Rickson. If you have a medic who can help the dog, I’d be in your debt. I need to get this done and find out what’s going on with Dax and Clavender,” Kin said.
Trak nodded, but it seemed like there was a slight pause before he consented. “My soldiers are not stationed close to the Emperor’s Pavilion.” Dark emotions crossed his face. “Though they earned the right to serve him.”
“Falling from grace is something you get used to. You will get over it.” Kin surveyed his surroundings, keeping his situational awareness sharp. For years, he had felt less like a soldier and more like a rogue, but certain things never left his psyche. “What did you do to piss off the Emperor?”
“I did my duty and served well.” Another grim pause. “There are some who have made much of my association with you. It will be a long time before I can prove myself loyal,” Trak said.
“You followed General Nander’s orders. He was your father and your superior officer. I may not understand your laws and traditions, but I would’ve thought the Emperor would praise you for your duty rather than punish you,” Kin said.
Trak walked down the trail as he spoke. “I was not punished. My men were not punished. Our tents were merely positioned farther from our leader than some of the others.” He muttered words under his breath in the Mazz language, something he rarely did. “You understand nothing.”
Laura moved to Kin’s side and took his arm. She spoke softly. “I may not be as good at navigation as you are, but it feels like he’s taking us to a very secluded place.”
Kin nodded. “I noticed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Wingers
“DOGFACE, rally on my coordinates plus two kilometers on heading zero-two-five,” Rebecca said.
She arrived at the location simultaneously with the survivors of Rebecca’s Brigade. “We’re a sorry bunch of rogues, aren’t we?”
Dogface and the others laughed.
“Report,” she said.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Dogface asked.
Rebecca waved the arm of her Mech in a gesture equivalent to a shrug.
“Well, there isn’t good news, so let me tell you about the Winger princess,” he said.
“Clavender?”
“Yeah. She is trying to reach her father near Raven Rock. A half dozen Ror-Rea warriors escort her. They had a larger force, but a Mazz company has been overtaking them and picking off the rear guard. They can’t last much longer,” Dogface said. His concise words now had the tone of professionalism. This was all business. “Westwood’s Own have regrouped. They will overtake us before long. We are out of tricks. I say we pick up the pace and head for the newly arrived Earth Fleet ships. We can plead our case with whoever commands there.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s give the Mazz a surprise and the Wingers a break. They saved our asses several times on the Bleeding Grounds. I don’t know what these jerkoffs will do with Clavender if they take her, but it won’t be good.”
Rebecca swelled with pride as her Mech troopers formed up for another lost cause. From what Kin had told her, the Winger princess commanded wormholes that reached every corner of the universe. She didn’t want the Mazz to have that kind of power. Even though they were hunted outlaws, her men and women would do the right thing.
She wondered, for about the time it would take to slide a knife into a sheath or pull a trigger, if this lost cause was worth dying for. The answer was just beyond a curtain of exhaustion she could not penetrate. She decided that she didn’t give a fuck.
Battle noise crackled through the speakers of her helmet, muted and analyzed by filters. The first bullet to smack against her armor reminded her of a training exercise. She felt no emotion, only detachment and a vague feeling of dread. As a girl, she had waited for storms to sweep over her family’s home with similar apprehension. Thunder came and went. She understood this better than she understood her own heart.
She braced for the primary attack and wasn’t disappointed by the sudden flurry of incoming ordinance. Dirt exploded around her. She activated smoke generators and waited until thick clouds surrounded her location.
“Call it,” Dogface said. “Let’s do something bold.”
“Green Dog seven, seven,
niner, execute,” she said. Rather than wheel and maneuver, she lowered her Mech into a sitting position. She couldn’t see Dogface and the others but heard them yelling over the open radio link to support the ruse.
“Race you to the base,” Mikey-Danny said.
“Too slow, Dogface,” Kate said.
Rebecca peered through the cloud with all her sensors, satisfied to see several Mazz units rushing past their position. Some detected the trick and reduced speed to search with weapons ready.
“Now!” Rebecca lurched to her feet and rammed a pair of SKIN troopers, tumbling them aside as she aimed at other targets and fired. Her nostrils flared and her heart raced as she entered a state of heightened ability; her team had a grammatically awkward name for it — maximum kill shit. Like many great traditions, the phrase started out complete and complex. All members of Rebecca’s Brigade, please proceed on heading three-twenty-five to Rally Point fuck-these-guys-up and go into maximum kill shit mode.
Laughter.
Camaraderie.
Friends that weren’t dead yet.
Battle raged. Wingers swept down from the sky with their swords and slashed through the SKIN armor of mutual enemies. She’d been skeptical of the Ror-Rea at first. Seeing them fight changed her opinion.
Something struck her helmet, punching a hole in a noncritical system. Noise spilled inside. Audio dampers hissed static and amplified signals they were designed to diminish. Smoke leaked through her visor. Her ears rang and her eyes watered. She tasted blood.
A klaxon repeated in the left helmet speaker. The right interior helmet speaker spoke in her own voice — her most ladylike tone — because she had programed it that way. Who wanted some gruff sergeant grunting warnings and alerts?
Your ammunition levels are low. Power system fail: overload imminent. Your ammunition levels are critically low. Please acknowledge.
“At least I can’t smell the vomit,” she said.
Dogface grunted something she couldn’t understand but had to do with his struggle against SKINs swarming him with laser torches. He threw one down and swept the others away with a powerful Mech arm.
Rebecca grimaced as Dogface stomped on the fallen man in SKIN armor.
“Earth Fleet,” a Winger yelled. “This way. You must advance this direction.”
“Some people call that retreat,” Rebecca said.
The Winger smiled. “I am Ceana. King Dax sent me to witness your bravery and offer thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Rebecca said. “Dogface, let’s move.”
Dax met Rebecca, Dogface, Kate, and Mikey-Danny near a tower of rocks as the Crashdown moons faded in the sky. Clouds raced above — either fleeing an ephemeral enemy or rushing to their destruction. For the first time in days, the clouds were just clouds; Rebecca thought of them as desperate spirits and envied them for reasons she could not articulate.
“You are the friend of Kin Roland,” Dax said.
“Yes I am. Can you gather your warriors?”
“Thanks to you, we can regroup. You are a brave warrior, Rebecca Lacroix.” He raised his sword in salute. Ceana and the others went to one knee and bowed their heads toward Rebecca and the remaining Shock Troopers.
She nodded curtly, distracted by enemy forces moving into the area. “We’ve got Mazz behind us and Westwood’s Own on our flank.”
“Roger that,” Dogface said. “I’m out of ammunition. Won’t be good for anything but a knife fight from here on out.”
Rebecca didn’t respond. The ammunition counter on the inside of her visor had gone blank. The recording of her voice had sighed and stopped nagging about her busted-ass, resource-depleted Mech. She wasn’t sure what that meant but had a good idea of her limitations. She looked at the King of the Ror-Rea as he put an arm around Clavender.
“This fight has been worse than the Bleeding Grounds,” Dax said. “I am honored to stand with you and your warriors at the end.”
“Don’t get excited,” Rebecca said. “Shock Troopers don’t go in for that kind of fatalistic heroics. Get the princess out of here. We can stall for a short time. After that, you’ll need some kind of miracle.”
Dax smiled. “Each day is a miracle. Fight well, Rebecca.”
She saluted and turned toward Dogface. “Pick your poison.”
He looked at the Mazz and then Westwood’s Own. “This might sound like I’m chickening out, but I think the best distraction would be to flee — draw them after us.”
“Well, since no plan is a good plan, let’s make it happen. Give me one sharp engagement, then evade and elude. Regroup in three hours at the new Earth Fleet ships.”
CHAPTER SIX
Double Cross
THE ferocity of the distant Winger conflict rose to a crescendo, then faded. Kin wasn’t sure if that was because they had decided the contest or because they were too weary to fight on. By the end of the Bleeding Grounds battle, many of the Ror-Rea had fought hand-to-hand, their swords broken, shields smashed to bits, injuries plaguing every warrior on the field. He took one last look at Clavender’s people before disappearing around the rough terrain where Captain Trak’s soldiers claimed to have Rickson detained.
In the distance, the Wingers were forming two lines, each making a half circle, wings blackened for battle. In the center, there was a small figure with white and blue wings sparkling in the fading daylight. The figure could only be Clavender kneeling to fate.
“This way. We’re almost there,” Trak said.
Kin watched the big soldier’s back. He shifted Ogre’s weight to his left arm, then used his right hand to signal Laura. Glancing over his shoulder, he made sure she understood. She slowed her pace just enough to appear fatigued from the long hike.
“I hope I’m not about to get us both killed, dog,” Kin said. He had almost expected there to be no tents, no military encampment, and only a group of armed soldiers waiting to gun him down. The idea was ridiculous. A sniper could have ended him earlier had that been the goal. He expected betrayal, expected to become the Emperor’s prisoner, expected some Earth Fleet bureaucrat to jump out of the bushes and proclaim that his debt to society had not been paid just because he had been executed.
Perhaps he was wanted as a hostage for William’s good behavior.
The shape-shifting son of Orlan had no reason to be especially attached to Kin, but the boy trusted him. He hadn’t spoken to William since before the battle. When the Emperor returned, the boy had been kept under guard by the Mazz patriarch.
He worked at the idea, but it felt incomplete. A piece of the puzzle was missing. He laughed, wondering if the entire puzzle was missing.
A neat square of environmentally sealed tents occupied the area between the two hills. The bivouac wasn’t at the bottom of the rise, occupying a space high enough for security and sanitation issues, but not at the top where it would draw attention and possibly enemy fire. Kin evaluated the terrain features. Captain Trak and his men had made good use of natural rock formations in their defensive perimeter.
He didn’t see Rickson.
Ogre whined and squirmed in his arms.
Kin placed the dog on the ground and adjusted his bandages. The dog huffed but wagged his tail.
“Wait here, mutt,” Kin said. “Once I talk to Rickson, I’ll give you a whistle. Otherwise, make yourself scarce.”
Ogre barked.
Kin caught up with Trak.
“Are you not bringing the animal inside to see his master?” Trak asked.
“Ogre will get too excited, might tear his bandages.” Kin walked with confidence he didn’t feel and fell in stride beside Trak. “Is Rickson injured? Where did you find him?”
Trak grabbed the zippered flap of the tent. They would both need to duck to enter the doorway, but once inside, it was a large dwelling. The Mazz people had been at war for a long time. Their field equipment was as comfortable as could be expected. “See for yourself.”
Laura caught Kin’s eye and asked questions without words.
Kin pointed to one side of the tent with his palm down and watched her draw back.
“I’ve been feeling ill since the battle. Womanly, I know, but I better stay out here. Unless your men like the smell of vomit,” Laura said, holding her stomach and making sad eyes at Trak.
The Mazz captain grunted, then motioned Kin inside.
Kin stepped through the opening without hesitation. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He didn’t find Rickson, and that wasn’t much of surprise. But neither did he find a mob of Mazz soldiers with weapons drawn.
The men, or women, he faced, wore FSPAA units — the most advanced, perfect gear Kin had ever encountered. He assessed the arrangement of their equipment and each trooper’s position within the tent. The strangers stood ready to fight. On the left breast of each piece of armor was a blue eagle holding a lightning bolt.
“I’ve never seen that emblem,” Kin said.
A voice spoke from an opaque helmet visor. “I’ve never seen the Enemy of Man.”
“I have,” the voice of another trooper said.
Kin recognized the man’s voice. Michael Eagle was a veteran about five years senior to Kin, and not one to use the voice neutralizer option of FSPAA armor. His face shield was dark, as were the rest of these troopers, but Kin knew him. His nickname in the division had been a source of consternation to the man, a play on the phrase Bravo Mike — BM, as in bowel movement.
“Looks like you have your own company now, Eagle,” Kin said. The rank insignia on Michael Eagle’s armor indicated he was a major. “I thought you’d be a general after Hellsbreach.”
“My career has been much less interesting than yours.” He pressed a button at his wrists and his helmet slid into the shoulder plates of his armor. The action of the machinery was smooth and silent.
“I came here to find a young man I am protecting,” Kin said. “Can you at least tell me he’s okay?”
A scar divided the upper lip of Major Mike Eagle’s mouth. Given the effectiveness of modern medical technology, the wound must have been severe. Some troopers retained scars as badges of honor, but few left disfigurement on the face. Eagle had been in the second wave of the Hellsbreach campaign. Kin fought in battles with him, but never side by side. Eagle’s troopers had a reputation for being professional and efficient.
