The Skin Hunter Series Box Set

by Tania Hutley

  It’s Sentin’s Reptile Skin. He must have come out of the Presidential Office, and he’s climbing onto the stage, flanked by a line of stompers.

  Cale moves up beside me and we exchange a look. I can tell he’s wondering the same thing I am. How are we going to attract Sentin’s attention? The stompers arrange themselves in a row at the back of the stage, and Sentin stands in front of them. If Cale or I try to coax Sentin off the stage to talk to us, the stompers are sure to see.

  In his giant Reptile Skin, Sentin stands still, his body upright and his head not moving, though his silver eyes are restless. His pupils are black, vertical slits, and they slide back and forth, examining the crowd.

  Before I can come up with a plan to make him notice me, Triton’s President strides out of the Presidential Office and onto the stage. He’s even more handsome in real life than he looks on the holo, almost like a superhero from a cartoon. Was he rich enough to afford his expensive body and face before he was elected to run the city? He’s been in charge for so long, I can’t remember what he used to look like.

  The crowd greets his appearance with claps and cheers. They edge forward, packing in tighter, and the din of everyone talking at once quietens down.

  President Trask steps up to the microphone and clears his throat. He used to be against the whole idea of Skins, but now he makes a long speech about how proud he is that Triton technology has created such a brilliant new tool, and how he and Director Morelle are working in partnership to defend our great city.

  He finishes his speech by introducing Director Morelle in such a fawning way, I have to wonder what could have happened to make him Morelle’s biggest fan. I imagine the Deiterran attacks were a shock, but I can’t help but wonder if that’s the only thing that triggered the change.

  When Director Morelle steps out of the Presidential Office, the crowd around me erupts with claps and cheers. They surge forward, pushing and shoving in a polite, New Triton way. In his excitement, the floater next to me jabs his elbow in my face and almost rips the bandage off my nose.

  “Watch it,” snarls Cale, and the guy gives him a startled look before shuffling over to give me a little more room.

  Director Morelle gets on the stage slowly, ambling up to the microphone so the applause goes on for what seems like forever. Eventually, she holds up both hands in an ‘aww shucks, that’s enough’ gesture, and the huge crowd falls silent on command.

  A chill runs over me. I touch Cale’s arm to get his attention, and he bends his head so I can speak quietly into his ear.

  “I don’t remember her ever being this popular.”

  He nods, his expression grim. “Nobody’s ever been this popular. Director Morelle’s made herself the saviour of Triton.”

  “Thank you.” Director Morelle’s voice booms over the microphone. “I appreciate your warm welcome. But I know I’m not who you’ve come to see today. You’re here to see your new soldiers. And although the Skins will be operated by the sons and daughters of Triton, you can rest assured our volunteers will be in no danger. While the Skins fight on the front line, their operators will be in a secure location, safe from harm. Watching the Skin Hunter Contest, you all saw for yourselves how impressively the Skins fought, yet the competitors remained completely unscathed.” She turns to Sentin for confirmation and he nods and steps forward.

  “That is correct,” he says into the microphone, before stepping back. I guess that’s his main job, to lie for the director. His human body might not have been hurt in the contest, but mine sure was.

  “Our new Skin Soldiers will ensure there will be no more deaths,” the director declares. “No more wounded.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “No more war!”

  The crowd erupts on cue, but instead of waiting for the cheers to die down, she turns and looks behind her.

  As one, the crowd falls silent.

  That’s when I see them. Two lines of armoured creatures are marching in formation out of the Presidential Office.

  An excited murmur starts from behind me. It builds as the Skins march toward us. Then unseen trumpets blast a fanfare I’m sure I’ve heard before, probably on a holo show set in medieval times.

  Through the drawn-out, triumphant notes of the trumpets, I hear a sound that makes me shiver with dread. It’s a sound that’s hated by every sinker, yet the clueless floaters around me still cheer.

  It’s the stomping of heavy boots.

  The director is beaming. “Here are the knights of Triton, ready to stride into battle.”

  Sunlight glints off the black armour of the creatures marching toward us. Though the Skins sound like stompers, I can see why the director called them knights. Their armor makes them look a little like medieval knights.

  But I’m willing to bet that nobody wearing armor ever marched as smoothly as these knights. Their armor doesn’t seem to have any joints, but looks like part of the knight’s body, like Aza’s Wasp Skin, only less organic and more like metal. The armor covers their entire body, including their head.

  The murmurs around me grow louder, the crowd starting to cheer. The lines of Skins are probably an exhilarating sight to them. But my chest feels tight with a horrible foreboding.

  The knights pour out of the Presidential Office. There are dozens of them. Maybe a hundred or more. And every one is identical.

  “Though the knight’s skeleton is humanoid, its DNA mix gives it enhanced senses. For example, we’ve used eagle DNA to make its vision eight times better than that of a human. And its body is constructed from a bullet-proof ceramic composite.”

  The knights are completely black, except for their yellow eyes. Their heads are animal shaped rather than human, with pointed ears like a bat, and a short snout. As they march closer, their size gets more threatening. They’re much taller and wider than a regular person, and their long arms hang to mid-thigh, like Brugan’s Devil Bear Skin. Everything about them is big and hulking. To me, they look like an armored version of the devil bear, but with a sleeker bat-like face.

  Every soldier is exactly the same. They have no distinguishing features or marks to identify them. Even if they’ve never learned to fear the chilling sound of a stomper’s boots, why can’t this crowd of floaters see what a dangerous idea it is to have anonymous, identical soldiers?

  “There are a lot more Skins than I thought,” mutters Cale. His expression tells me he doesn’t like the knights any more than I do.

  I edge closer so my shoulder is touching him and our arms are pressed together. He doesn’t pull away. Maybe because he hasn’t noticed what I’m doing, but I’m hoping it’s because he wants to feel my touch right now as much as I need to feel his.

  Instead of climbing the steps onto the stage like the president and director did, the Skins march around it, toward the front row of the crowd. Now I can see that their armor is made up of plates that slide over each other to allow their joints to move, but the edges of the plates slide so smoothly, they’re all but invisible.

  The knights each have guns nestled in hollows on the outside of each thigh, set inside their legs as though the weapons are growing organically from their bodies. The sight makes me even more uneasy. It’s always been illegal for anyone but stompers to have guns, and that was bad enough.

  I’d thought the director’s new Skins might be beautiful, like my clouded leopard, but there’s nothing beautiful about these soldiers. Maybe some of my revulsion is because of their resemblance to the devil bear, and my memories of Brugan’s bloody ruthlessness. But even if I hadn’t known Brugan, the knights are obviously killing machines, and their menacing size and lack of expression would probably still give me chills. Though the Skins march like a human would, I can’t see a trace of humanity in them.

  They’re monsters.

  But it seems like the only one who might agree with me on that is Cale. The rest of the crowd are cheering as though these creatures have really been designed to save them.

  As though in response to a silent command, the
knights stop in unison. They stand at attention beside the stage, staring straight ahead.

  “The knights are strong, fast, and agile,” says Director Morelle. “Super human, well armed, and deadly. The knights are your soldiers. Here to protect you.”

  The crowd cheers even louder.

  “The knights will prevent any more terrorist attacks,” she announces. “There will be no more injured children. No reason for fear.” She lifts both arms, her chin tilted up, her perfect face addressing the heavens. “The knights will strike terror in the hearts of our enemies. They’re New Triton’s heroes. Our instruments of peace stand before you.”

  Everyone around us is clapping, hooting, and stomping their feet. The noise is deafening.

  Amongst the din, I cup my hands around my mouth and bellow. “SENTIN.”

  My lone voice is all but lost in the noise of the crowd, but the Reptile jerks his eyes in my direction. I push my way out from behind the tall guy with the elbows, so Sentin can see me. For a moment I’m exposed to the stompers, the director, or whoever might be watching. Then I duck back behind the tall man.

  I’ve taken a huge risk. Now it’s up to Sentin to seek me out, if he decides to.

  My heart beats hard and I’m ready to run if stompers approach. As I try to see as much as I can while keeping hidden, the wild applause slowly dies down.

  “These are the first of the knights, but my factory will produce hundreds more.” The director’s voice cuts through what’s left of the noise, killing it completely. “It’s not enough for us to simply defend ourselves. We must prevent such a devastating attack from ever happening again. We will cross the border wall and take control of Deiterra, subduing the enemy’s forces and bringing them under Triton’s leadership.”

  The crowd cheers again, while the news reporters get close-up shots of the Skins.

  When Morelle lifts a hand for silence once more, her expression has hardened.

  “But now I must tell you about something shocking. Something that proves how much we need our new soldiers.” She stops to scan the crowd, a frown creasing her brow, and I shrink a little smaller.

  “We have uncovered a serious plot, and captured four Old Triton traitors who planned to blow up this very stage. They intended to kill your elected president, and they didn’t care how many they murdered in the process.”

  Cale makes a noise in the back of his throat, like he’s struggling to breathe. The blood drains from his face.

  Chapter Six

  Eight more of the Skin Soldiers march out of the Presidential Office. Each pair of knights is dragging someone between them. The first is a pale-skinned man in his mid-twenties who’s bleeding from a deep cut below his eye.

  Cale sways a little, like he’s about to pass out. “That’s them,” he mutters. “The friends I was supposed to meet.”

  My legs feel weak too, but it’s not with fear for his captured friends so much as an overwhelming sense of relief that Cale wasn’t with them when they were arrested. I don’t know what I would have done if he were being dragged onto the stage with them.

  The next pair of knights is hauling along an Old Triton woman, who’s obviously been beaten. Her dirt-covered clothes are ripped and bloody with fresh wounds, and bruises are forming on her arms and face. She’s struggling against the knights, her face twisted with rage. As the knights pull her closer to the stage, she turns her head and spits on one of them. The knight seemingly ignores the saliva dribbling down its black metal cheek, but I see its armoured fingers become claws. They dig so viciously into her arm that blood trickles to her elbow.

  Behind them, the other two sinkers are both young men. All four are about Cale’s age. One has had his nose broken and blood is smeared over his cheeks. The other looks only half conscious. His eyes are unfocused and the tops of his shoes scrape across the ground.

  The knights line their four prisoners up at the front of the stage. Around us, the crowd is booing the sinkers, shouting their anger at the four battered prisoners. Their faces are so twisted with spite and outrage, my heart sinks for Cale’s friends. I doubt they’ll be shown any mercy.

  Director Morelle steps aside to let President Trask take over the microphone.

  “All four of you are guilty of treason,” announces the president. “You plotted to kill me, and you conspired with the enemy. You’re Deiterran agents, terrorists, and traitors to your country.”

  “We have nothing to do with Deiterr—” The woman’s shouted denial becomes a scream of pain as the knight holding her arm digs its claws even harder into her flesh.

  The man with the broken nose lifts his head. “The president deserves to die,” he yells. “For the crimes he’s committed against Old Triton.” Though the knights have him by the upper arms, he manages to force one hand up enough to rip the front of his shirt, revealing a tattooed hologram of a fist on his chest. “What’s buried will rise!” His shout rises over the booing of the crowd.

  At a gesture from President Trask, one of the knights holding the tattooed man grabs his face, wrapping his big, armored hand over the man’s mouth. Even over the noise the crowd are making, I can hear the crunching of broken bones as the knight’s hand presses into his nose. The people around me shift from foot to foot, cheering the knights, and jeering at the sinkers.

  The president holds up one hand up for silence. “The Fist are a criminal organisation of vandals and terrorists. And now they’ve aligned themselves with Deiterra, they will be swiftly dealt with. The first duty of our new Skin Soldiers will be to arrest all Fist members and hold them accountable for their crimes.”

  I choke back a horrified gasp and clench my fists to keep from grabbing Cale and dragging him forcibly away from here. He’s a Fist member. So was Tori, last time I saw her. Could the stompers already know that? Have they been keeping tabs on who belongs?

  President Trask motions to the four prisoners on the stage. “In times of war, justice must be dealt swiftly, and traitors must be made an example of. Their guilt has been proven. The sentence is execution.”

  The woman prisoner’s face jerks up, her eyes wide with shock. She gulps for breath for a moment, then yanks her arm, trying to free it from the knight’s grip. She may as well be trying to bend steel. But she’s not trying to get away. She has her hand clenched and she’s trying desperately to give the Fist’s salute. “What’s buried will rise!” she screams.

  My heart feels like it’s being crushed. Her defiance and courage reminds me of Tori. It’s all too easy to imagine Tori up there, on that stage, captured while fighting for what she believes in.

  Bile burns up my throat. Though I didn’t want the Fist to blow up the stage or put innocent lives in danger, I can’t believe nobody’s speaking up against this madness. The crowd around me want to see the sinkers killed. They’re baying for blood, cheering and shouting as four knights line up in front of the prisoners.

  Even Sentin’s just standing there, not speaking up or making a move to stop what’s about to happen. His scales have turned such a dark green they’re almost black, but he’s motionless, staring at the prisoners without blinking.

  Each knight pulls a gun from the hollow in its thigh, and trains it on the sinkers. Their guns have longer barrels than the ones the stompers use, and maybe it’s my imagination, but they look even nastier and more lethal.

  I grab Cale’s hand and grip it tightly. He’s trembling, and I can feel his fear, rage, and shock, even stronger than my own. As terrible as it is for me to watch this, how much worse is it for him?

  At a signal from the president, the knights fire their weapons. The loud retort of gunfire echoes through the square as the four Fist members drop to the ground.

  There’s a moment of absolute silence as the entire crowd takes in the unprecedented sight of four bloody corpses lying on the stage. Then the crowd erupts into cheers so loud, the sound swells to fill the square.

  I close my eyes, struggling to catch my breath, but I can still see the four dead sink
ers as though the terrible image of their bodies has been permanently imprinted on my retinas.

  I tug on Cale’s hand. “Let’s go.” The words burn their way up through a throat that feels raw.

  Cale ignores me. I’m not sure he heard me, or has registered that I’m gripping his hand. He’s staring wide-eyed at the stage, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

  President Trask speaks up again and the crowd’s cheers die down. “The Fist are a destructive force aligned against Triton, but we will stamp them out. Effective immediately, the knights will start patrolling the streets of Old Triton. A curfew is now in place. All law-abiding Old Triton citizens must remain off the streets from sunset to sunrise, so our new Skin Soldiers can identify and deal with terrorists.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, waiting for somebody to speak up, to say this isn’t fair, that they can’t do this. If we were in Old Triton, the crowd would shout a thousand objections. If there’s a curfew, where will the rough sleepers go? Anybody who can’t find work isn’t allowed to sleep in a shelter. And what about the night shift workers who walk to their jobs just before dawn, or the day workers who finish as night is falling? What about the food stalls, and the app sellers, and all the people struggling to make enough money to feed their families?

  “The curfew is a temporary measure,” says President Trask. “It will remain in force until we’ve wiped out the Fist, won the war with Deiterra, and made our great dual cities of Triton safe for good.”

  Somebody starts clapping and the sound grows quickly as more people join in.

  I gape in disbelief at the people around me. Don’t they understand what this means? It’s impossible to stay off the streets when you have to go to work, which means no sinker will be safe from the knights. Every Old Tritoner will have to break this new curfew, including Ma and Tori.

  Are they trying to stamp us out?

  President Trask steps away from the microphone, giving control back to Director Morelle. She motions the knights forward and they advance to parade in front of the crowd, their boots as loud on the ground as any line of stompers. The crowd cheers louder.