by Scott E Moon
Sergeant Orlan never looked back. Fifty meters from the rescue ship, with a hundred Reapers right behind him, Orlan sprinted, pushing the armor to its limit. The craft lifted off the sand and hovered for a moment.
“Run Orlan! Run the fuck out of here!” Kin shouted, as demons twisted his arms behind his back and pulled his legs in two directions.
He hated Orlan for abandoning him. He hated Orlan for escaping when he was being dragged toward a Reaper hole, but wouldn’t wish death at the hands of Reapers on his worst enemy.
Kin sobbed in rage and frustration. “Get on that ship you motherfucker!”
“Do you know Sergeant Orlan?” the trooper asked, walking beside him, bathed in the odd light of Crashdown’s sky—not under the blood red sun of Hellsbreach.
Kin massaged his face. What had he said? Had he screamed? “I knew a sergeant named Orlan. He probably wouldn’t remember me.”
“You said his name. Sounded like it hurt.”
“Have you ever seen a friend die in battle?”
“Many times. It’s a good reason to lift a glass,” the trooper said.
Kin looked away, concentrating on the road to the meeting hall. This grunt considered another man’s death nothing more than a reason to get drunk after the mission. Kin had been the same before Hellsbreach. He attempted to watch the trooper without being obvious. The bland, inflectionless voice hid behind the helmet speaker.
“Were you in the Fleet?” the trooper asked.
“Like everyone else,” Kin said. What a stupid question. Every descendant of Earth was required to serve in Earth Fleet, most in the military for at least a portion of the compulsory service. Kin walked faster. He didn’t want to talk about his tour of duty, because that would lead to his court-martial and memories of Orlan’s cocky smile as he shut the space casket in Kin’s face.
Fleet discipline broke men and women equally. Slackers were beaten, whipped, and placed in solitary confinement only to suffer constant humiliation by their sergeants and officers afterward. Incompetents were brutalized until they learned to get the job done. Traitors were killed, by any expedient means. Traitors who caused the failure of an entire campaign were sealed in a coffin alive and launched into the void of space.
Orlan wouldn’t have failed if the final mission had been his, but Kin compromised. He rendered Hellsbreach a wasteland and destroyed the Reaper’s spaceports, but he hadn’t annihilated them completely. Orlan wouldn’t have hesitated. He hadn’t hesitated to abandon Kin when the cause was lost and he hadn’t hesitated to close the funeral pod and condemn Kin to the mercy of deep space.
“Why are you here?” the trooper asked.
The meaning of the trooper’s words seemed clear. He wanted to know why Kin no longer served Earth Fleet. Why was he the head of security for a marooned expedition of terra-forming colonists? Kin sensed deception and cunning, but also an emotion he couldn’t name. Better questions were bound to be asked. Kin needed to avoid this person as much as he needed to avoid Sergeant Orlan.
“I retired,” Kin said, leaving the trooper near the front door of the meeting hall. He went inside, hoping to find Laura.
THE oddly shaped hall followed the contour of the largest hill on the coast. Several rooms cut deep into the hill, serving as fallout shelters. On the other side, exterior porches faced the sea. When weather allowed, the Council used the expansive porches and balconies for both formal and informal occasions. Kin counted fifty officers at the main table. Laura Keen and the other council members discussed something with the Fleet Commander, his captains, and his lieutenants.
Kin found the man’s rank interesting. Commanders at the Armada level were appointees, whereas Admirals rose to the position through the normal rank structure. In theory, this man could be from any section of the military—from Planetary Forces to Military Intelligence.
“The Fleet doesn’t have terrestrial jurisdiction except during war,” Laura said. She faced trained killers without flinching. Her dress was tight, her hair fell down her back, beautiful and elegant, but Kin knew she had come to do battle. This was her kind of fight. She didn’t argue. She spoke to them as though their compliance was a foregone conclusion.
Kin worked his way across the room, searching for Orlan or anyone who might recognize him from the Hellsbreach Campaign. He fantasized that Becca might be in the room, but didn’t see her. She would be the most dangerous person he could meet. She’d recognize him immediately, yet encountering her for even a moment would be worth any price.
When the commander spoke, Kin moved behind Laura to listen.
“If the craft that landed in the mountain pass belongs to a Reaper, then this is a war zone.”
“One Reaper? Surely your army isn’t afraid of one Reaper. And I thought they had been exterminated,” Laura said. She spotted Kin and waved him closer. “Commander, this is Kin Roland, our security officer. He has military experience and should be able to handle a single Reaper. Kin, this is Commander Benjamin Westwood.”
Kin nodded and shook the Commander’s hand.
The man scrutinized him. “No offense, but Kin Roland is an infamous name. I once knew a young man named Kin Roland.”
“My parents probably never guessed my name would be shared with the Traitor of Hellsbreach,” Kin said.
The Commander held his hand a moment longer than was comfortable, ignoring the people speaking. Laura moved to the Commander’s side and touched his arm intimately. She stood very close to the man.
Kin wondered if she were going to thrust her hand down his pants and bite his ear. Jealousy was a foolish and pointless emotion when it came to Laura. She belonged to no one, certainly not to Kin.
“The man I knew is dead.” Westwood spoke evenly.
Kin held his gaze, no longer hearing the commotion in the room. He counted enemies and looked at the door, checking for anyone who might block his path. His pulse increased. His skin tingled. He breathed in through his nose, filled his lungs, held it, and let it out slowly, forcing himself to relax.
“Commander,” Laura said. She leaned on Westwood’s shoulder and spoke softly in his ear. “I have teased Kin about this coincidence for years. Surely, he’s tired of his unlucky name. Now’s not the time to drag him through it again, is it?”
Kin waited. Westwood smiled and shrugged.
“Let’s pray no one named Benjamin Westwood betrays humanity. I would hate to share my name with such a person.”
Kin doubted Westwood was done with the topic and would order Fleet intelligence officers to investigate. He turned away from the commander and listened to a heated argument among the captains and lieutenants. Laura was playing games as always. Perhaps she had protected him out of loyalty, or perhaps she was waiting for the right moment. Kin hoped her game was a long one.
Locals hurried to bring food and drink. Young women flirted with the men of the Fleet. Young men stood tall, trying to impress the women officers. Most were ignored, but Kin guessed they’d get more than they bargained for when the meeting was over.
Laura slipped him a note as she passed by on Westwood’s arm. Kin pocketed the paper and watched them go. Hiding in plain sight had never been his favorite tactic. He couldn’t sustain it for long.
“The craft your scouts observed is not rated for extended space travel and is not a Reaper vessel,” a captain said. He was tall and thin with a scar across his left eye, possibly a sword wound or from improperly handling a blade launcher. The man was either a hardened battle veteran or a clumsy, incompetent pretender with rank to protect his claim from those who doubted his prowess. Kin struggled to put a name to the face.
“The Reapers don’t have their own space vessels. They borrow technology from their victims.” Kin immediately regretted his words. The last thing he needed was to be recognized as an expert on Reapers.
“Who are you?” the captain asked.
Kin gave his name and the false identification number he paid a fortune to acquire before signing on as the securi
ty officer for the Goliath. The man barely listened. His arrogance probably saved Kin’s life, because with that momentary eye contact, Kin recognized him.
Captain Zelig, a member of the elite Marines trained to board vessels in space, sampled local wine, unaware of the unusually high alcohol content. Marines were a rare breed. They trained for the most difficult type of combat, but were rarely used in that capacity due to the inherent danger of such operations. The scar on his face had been earned during a duel. Marines were legendary duelists, quick to anger, and quicker to defend their honor with a blade.
Kin steadied his breathing, bracing for a fight. All Zelig needed to identify Kin was to locate his enlistment picture, scan his identification plate, or request a DNA scan. Kin kept his mouth shut, waiting for a chance to leave.
“Hmm. Where did you obtain your vast knowledge of Reapers? I was on Hellsbreach. I know how Reapers think, what they eat, how they move and fight,” the captain said.
Kin fought back a laugh. Perhaps the man had been on Hellsbreach, but Kin doubted it. The man was soft, an academy trained officer who had probably never been in a frontline battle. He had done all his killing in man-to-man combat as ladies watched and his friends stood by to save him if needed.
“We should send a company to scour the pass for this Reaper and capture it,” said another captain, a woman who looked at Kin as she spoke. He thought she would demand his assistance as a guide if she were permitted to pursue her plan. He didn’t know her. She was too young to have experienced Hellsbreach, but he knew most Fleet captains took liberties with subordinates of the opposite sex. No doubt she marked him for that purpose, if nothing else. She wasn’t unattractive, though she was thick through the shoulders.
Probably rougher than Laura.
“Reapers cannot be captured. There is no need to seek it. If it survived the crash, it will come to us in search of prey,” said Captain Zelig, the Hellsbreach veteran. He was right about that. A Reaper wouldn’t be able to resist hunting humans, though Kin thought it would rely on stealth with so many Feet troopers on the ground.
“Regardless, we should send scouts. I recommend a full company with armored Strykers and Tanks,” the woman said.
Zelig considered the plan, viewing maps as Laura pulled Commander Westwood farther from the table, serving him wine and clinging to his arm.
Kin waited and watched. He didn’t like the idea of Laura and the Commander in bed. Pillow talk could easily turn to tales of the public enemy living right here in Crater Town. But, he owed her. She didn’t know the exact nature of Kin’s crime. Though once, during the drunken afterglow of sex, he admitted he was a wanted man and joked that the price on his head would pay for a rescue mission to save the people of Crater Town.
“I need you here, Raien, but call Orlan and brief him on your plan. He can take a squad to look for this potentiality,” Zelig said.
“A fucking squad?” Captain Raien said.
“A platoon then,” Zelig said.
Raien argued with Zelig. As the senior captain, he should have quashed Raien’s insolence immediately, instead of letting her negotiate a full company of Fleet troopers. It was the right decision, but Zelig showed weakness by giving in and incompetence for not understanding the danger in the first place.
Kin scanned the room, marking the location of each officer, guard, and Laura. He moved away from the table, thankful the officers hadn’t confronted him about dousing the lighthouse. The deliberate act of sabotage wouldn’t go unpunished, regardless of whom they thought he was.
Leaving through a side door, he made his way down an alley no Fleet trooper would think to use. He’d willingly guide the Fleet scouting company, but not with Orlan.
That was death.
THE alley was on the downward slope of Meeting Hall Hill, subject to both storm runoff and sewage when the plumbing was damaged. No regular Fleet trooper would use this alley unless ordered to do so. It was dark and narrow—a perfect place to be ambushed by angry locals or rivals in the Fleet. Too late, he remembered Orlan wasn’t a normal trooper.
Kin’s superiors had thought him clairvoyant or at least preternaturally attuned to danger, because he had saved his unit many times from ambush. He saw Orlan enter the alley a moment before Orlan saw him. The Fleet trooper had his helmet rolled back, collapsed into the thick shoulder armor. Orlan had always been sloppy, relying on brutal athleticism and ruthlessly quick decisions.
Orlan rushed forward, raising one hand to close his helmet and reaching for Kin with the other.
Kin leapt into the air without hesitation, drawing his work knife and punching it into Orlan’s mouth before the helmet closed. The blade scraped Orlan’s teeth. Kin’s fist, gripping the knife hilt, also slammed into Orlan’s jaw with knockout force. The helmet snapped shut, nearly taking off his fingers as he pulled back his hand. The knife ripped out of his grip as he careened into Orlan and tumbled to the ground.
Dust settled. Kin sprawled his weight, driving his chest against the helmet for maximum leverage, desperately aware he couldn’t hold the man long.
Orlan didn’t move.
The armor began a first-aid sequence. The FSPAA visor reverted to clear tint for identification purposes. Kin peered through and saw vents inside the helmet vacuuming blood clear of Orlan’s mouth. Fleet troopers rarely died of blood loss, because battle armor not only sealed and applied pressure to most wounds, but recycled lost blood at a decent rate.
Kin held his breath. Pain flared in Kin’s arm as he tried to stand. He looked down and saw Orlan had managed to grab him. The mechanized gauntlet held him like a vice.
“Fuck.” The suit would send an alarm to headquarters if it remained motionless for more than a minute.
He yanked his arm free and fell against the wall of the alley. His shirt was torn and his arm throbbed. There would be a massive bruise in the shape of an assault armor hand.
He scanned the alley. No witnesses. He knelt over Orlan, attempting to access the armor’s control panel.
He could see Orlan lived, but couldn’t power down the suit or determine whether the trooper would regain consciousness without medical attention. With seconds left before the suit broadcast a “trooper down” alert to the Command and Control center, Kin walked quickly away.
Just act natural. What’s the worst that can happen?
CHAPTER FOUR
DROON ate the body of the pilot man, though it was dead and tasted foul. No flowing blood. No screaming. No satisfaction.
This wasn’t the first planet Droon had come to and survived. He sucked out the eyes and the soft parts. Then he bit into the flesh, removing it in strips, until there was nothing but bone.
His metabolism accelerated to accommodate the influx of nutrients and slowed when he carefully cleaned every piece of meat from the skeleton. The cartilage between the joints took a long time and was the portion of the meal when his kind typically became distracted by mating. Young females were sometimes excited when blood spurted across their faces. Droon never complained. Sometimes he ate and mated at the same time.
The thought of a screaming victim and a moaning mate caused his heart to ache. He understood his quest was important, but he was far from the others. He couldn’t go to them on the other side of the planet. As one of the last seekers, he couldn’t turn from the Long Hunt.
Squatting over the bones, he wailed his loneliness at the strange sky. The pilot man had feared Droon, but hadn’t enjoyed the sensation as much as Droon had. He studied the cleaned skull, remembering how angry the pilot man was when Droon ate his three dogs and his monkey. And the girl. Droon nearly had to kill the pilot man after the girl. The pilot man called him a demon and cursed him, but Droon couldn’t eat the man because Droon couldn’t pilot the ship.
“Not a good pilot,” Droon said to the bones, because the pilot man had crashed and died.
Droon crushed the skull between his palms and played with the pieces, bouncing them into his mouth. He sucked on the shards before
crunching them. He started on the vertebrae. By the time he reached the feet, he was bored. Humans died too quickly. Creatures on his home world twitched until the last bite.
The ship wobbled on its perch atop the tangle of trees, roots, and rocks that fell away from the mountain each time he shifted his weight. Humans with weapons were at the faraway water—more water than he had ever seen.
They called it an ocean and it was different from rivers and streams, though just as wet. Thinking in human language was difficult. There were so many words.
He forced the memory of the human who destroyed his home world into his vision. He whined and didn’t like the sound, but the face of the hard eyed man frightened Droon.
Not good to be afraid. Not good to let the man steal blood knowledge and escape.
Droon had been wrong. He had thought releasing Kin-rol-an-da would end the explosions from the sky, but Kin-rol-an-da had caused explosions from the ground.
At the end of the Long Hunt, he would again be most honored amongst his kind. At the end of the Long Hunt, Droon would make sure Kin-rol-an-da caused no more explosions. Droon’s kindred would remember who was strongest.
The water below the cliff looked deep, but not deep enough to kill him. He thought he could touch the bottom. He extended several vertebrae of his neck, looked around, then settled his head back on his shoulders.
Strange sounds caught his attention, nothing dangerous, but exotic.
New planet, new prey.
He turned his proud spotted face right and left, flashing his strong mandibles and clicking his throat to be certain he could swallow live prey. He thrashed his tail, though there wasn’t a mate to impress.
Droon struggled to reach the minds of his kindred. Silence answered the call. He wrestled with the human concept of time. Their confusing language contained many words for time.
This planet was in the future, but he was here. Past. Present. Future. All the same.
But where do these memories come from? Why won’t they change?