by Scott Moon
Kin ran to Clavender and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder. Her wings brushed his face, surprising him with delicate softness. He had never touched them but thought they looked stronger than they felt.
Near the blazing campsite, the woman crawled to help her comrades.
There was no time to help them. He fled with Clavender over his shoulder. She was small, virtually made to be carried away, and he moved with the strength of fear pounding through his body. He listened for the Reaper, hoping the monster had been killed, but not squandering much time or energy on the thought.
“Kin!” Rickson said, appearing beside him. “Let me carry her. You have weapons.”
Kin pushed Clavender onto Rickson’s shoulders and drew his sword. He briefly considered firing his pistol into the night where he thought the Reaper was struggling to stand but decided not to waste bullets or expose his position. “Where’s Bear?”
“He should’ve been here with the horses by now,” Rickson said.
Kin led the way back to the horses with a bad feeling in his chest. The horses were gone. The prisoner was gone. He heard the horses galloping through the night, whinnying in terror, and Raif cackling with insane laughter.
“I’m coming for you, Roland. I’m coming for you and I’m bringing friends,” Raif screamed from the darkness.
Kin ignored the fading rant of the one-handed trooper and ran up the trail. He saw Bear thrashing on his back with a swarm of Clingers fighting for his body. In Bear’s left hand was the rope with which he had tied Raif. Bear must have decided to deal with Raif while Kin fought the Reaper but had been ambushed by Clingers before he could finish it.
“Bea — !” Rickson tried to shout as Kin slapped his hand over his mouth.
“They have him. We need to go,” Kin said. He pushed Rickson toward a side trail.
“I thought troopers never left a man behind.”
“I’m not a trooper and he’s no longer a man,” Kin said. He pushed, shoved, and dragged Rickson. He pushed Clavender back onto Rickson’s shoulder when he started to drop her. “I can’t do everything. Move your ass.”
The sound of Bear’s tortured voice echoed through the valley. Rickson turned back, eyes wide.
“That’s not Bear. Listen to me, Rickson. Droon is in your head.” Kin grabbed the boy’s shoulder. With one hand, he pointed toward a stand of rock in the middle of the broad canyon floor, ignoring the eerie light of the distant wormhole. “Focus on that point. Walk there. Carry Clavender and think of nothing else.”
Rickson turned toward the distant shelter and marched forward like a machine. Kin followed, lost in thought. He understood how to build mental walls and play tricks on himself. Orlan had sealed him still breathing inside the space casket and he had spent what seemed a million years and a hundred lifetimes mastering his mind. He had lost toes to frostbite and spent a fortune on genetically grown prosthetics before boarding the Goliath. Patches of skin on his hands, feet, and body remained insensitive from the damage of space.
The casket barely kept him alive until chance put him in the hands of junk-scavenging space pirates. But throughout the ordeal, he had faced his fear. He had held the image of Orlan because his face was the last human he saw before entering a living hell that should have destroyed his sanity forever.
“This is a farce, Kin,” Orlan said. “Being buried in space is an honor, but since you’re not dead yet, maybe it doesn’t count.” He smiled and closed the lid. Years later, Kin could still feel the change in air pressure and see the total blackness. If the casket had been opened moments later, it would have felt as though years had passed.
Not much air inside, Kin. Try to remain calm. Don’t look at the monsters you see emerging from the darkness. Don’t answer the voices. They lie. They lie. They lie. They lie.
Kin watched Rickson carefully but didn’t relieve the boy’s burden. Rickson had to carry Clavender. Even if she regained consciousness, she would be too weak to move fast. The boy’s thin body was stronger than it looked. He wouldn’t stop until they were inside the island of rocks Kin selected as the most defensible position within reach.
Kin looked back, searching for Droon or the Clingers.
Night birds hunted and chattered. Thin clouds wandered across the vast sky. Kin thought about the space casket and the pirates that salvaged it. He did some work for them, since he had nothing to pay for his rescue. They weren’t very good pirates, but their ship made it to a port and Kin eventually purchased a new identity and boarded the Goliath. He still didn’t believe his luck. He spent many long nights pondering how the pirates could have been so near the Fleet without being detected. He wondered what made them pluck one worthless casket from the river of space junk the Armada left in its wake.
Most of all, he wondered whether Becca had anything to do with it. She had claimed not to believe the Fleet would execute him in such a cruel manner, but perhaps that had been an act. Who else would pay pirates to risk approaching the Armada to steal anything — even junk — under the shadow of battlecruisers and space stations?
“I can’t go any farther,” Rickson said after traveling several hours. It was a solid performance. Clavender was easy to pick up, but time and distance added weight.
Kin took Clavender without a word and carried her into a cave, thinking of Bear. Not even the memories of Hellsbreach or the casket could push aside his sorrow. It was foolish to try. Now he suffered from nightmares as well as the loss of his friend.
He covered Clavender with his cloak and checked her breathing. “Clavender, can you hear me?”
She didn’t answer. Kin surveyed the cave. People had lived here once, probably before time began. Many cave dwellings loomed above them, out of reach. The ancients had the right idea — lower rope ladders to friends and pull them up when enemies approached. The cliff dwellings seemed familiar. He stared at them, unable to recall which world the memories came from.
“Make a fire. Keep an eye on her. I’ll stand watch.”
“Neither of us is sleeping tonight,” Rickson said.
“You can sleep all you want. Just don’t plan on waking up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DROON crawled in a circle out of habit, but it was the wrong thing to do. He wasn’t the hunter seeking wounded prey, but an injured, hunted weakling that would die. The explosion had struck him with his eyes open. He could barely see, but the worst part had been the Clingers.
He knew the parasites followed him. They fed like a virus and were relentless, but he had been able to avoid them. The creatures had difficulty covering long distances and didn’t dare attack when he was strong. Only one Clinger managed to bite him and hold on to his flesh. He thought the others hoped he would weaken and fall so they could devour him.
Droon whined as he felt the ground with his hands. He had lost more than his vision. He couldn’t smell or hear his hunters. Terror dominated his consciousness. He didn’t dare be on the defensive. He must attack. He must be the hunter. They must fear his wrath. He must taste their fear as he fed on them.
The Clinger on his back stretched over his head and around the sides of his face. The stupid attack worked this time because Droon couldn’t inflict enough pain to frighten the creature. It knew others of its kind were near and that Droon would die.
He felt one seize his foot and wrap tightly from his toes to his knee. This Clinger was small but strong. Another went after his other leg. Droon thrashed to avoid it. More came all at once, taking his hands and arms, his chest, his groin. Droon wailed until it seemed blood and flesh ripped from his throat.
Pain.
There was so much pain.
Pain. Fear. Knowledge.
He would die. He would be consumed.
Droon thrashed on the ground. The Clingers refused to let go. He hurled his body from a large rock, striking the ground with force. A Clinger released his left hand and he immediately began to claw the others that swarmed over him. They came in waves, wrapping his body and
piercing him with their needle-mouthed undersides. He shredded them, cutting into his own flesh many times to dislodge them. He wailed.
So much terror. He didn’t like the feeling.
Other creatures in the enormous canyon reminded him of his lost home. They fled. He heard their hearts beating in panic but couldn’t chase them. There were so many Clingers on him that he could barely stand. But some of them were dead. He pushed away the motionless flaps of two-sided flesh. The short fangs poked through his skin and the hard top layer banged his knuckles like a rock hammer when he punched them.
Droon snarled. He would live. He summoned inner strength. What came wasn’t exactly Bloodlust, but something similar. The first Clinger to flee escaped. Others weren’t so lucky. He managed to free his hands and grab a Clinger at both ends. He pulled until it tore apart. All of the Clingers shrieked and spat venom. He threw one into the sky. He bit a hole in the center of another.
When he finished, a surviving Clinger mounted on the hard, many jointed back of another. He studied the two monsters, realizing they weren’t killing each other but holding each other.
Were they exchanging fluids, sharing the things they called thoughts? Droon marveled at his amazement. The strange sensation wasn’t unpleasant, although he thought it was a human emotion. At the same time, he thought he was right. The Clinger he carried shared thoughts, shared blood, shared hate.
With great effort, Droon selected three of the healthiest Clingers, including the first that had bonded with him, and stacked them. They resisted. He pummeled them with his fists while holding them against a rock. When he had control of them, he slipped them over his back like a cloak. The new Clinger community was heavy, but it made him feel invincible. His armor was strong. No warrior of his race ever had armor.
The night pulled away from him, afraid of his wrath. He ran after small creatures and devoured them whole. He learned to command the Clingers and soon his arms, legs, body, and even his tail were sheathed in organic body armor.
He listened for Cla-ven-da and moved toward the rocks where she hid. A thought occurred to him, exotic and new. He worried that he could not remove the Clingers. Worry was like fear, although even more rare to him. While he had occasionally experienced fear, he had never worried and was not sure he was using the correct word to describe it. It was a human word, and he realized its poison.
He roared at the moons that seemed just out of reach in the sky. When he ran through the night, he sometimes stopped to make a different sound. On his home world, the fear sounds would have made him an outcast, but he was alone. He stopped near the rocks and bit his hands. He smeared the blood on his face and felt the skin growing thick and strong.
“Cla-ven-da,” he said. Then he made whimpering sounds that changed each time his wounds throbbed. He searched for something to eat and remembered the people left near the fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SUNRISE advanced across the central valley of Long Canyon. Kin watched the shadows recede. His eyes closed for a second. Several heartbeats later, they closed again. He clenched his jaw and exhaled forcefully. A hard slap across his face would wake him up, but he didn’t want to move. His post was still in shadow and he had an excellent view of the approaching trail.
“Are we dead?” Rickson asked as he walked out of the cave and sat beside Kin. “I fell asleep.”
“I know,” Kin said. “You snore.”
“Really?”
“Sounded like a lion.” Kin had almost described Rickson’s nocturnal rumblings as the sound of an angry bear, but caught himself at the last instant. He thought of his old friend all night. He also pondered the probable fate of the four travelers and decided they were dead or severely injured. If Droon followed Kin and his companions, the travelers might still be alive, but being tied up and wounded at night in the wilderness was dangerous, even if there weren’t Reapers, Clingers, and other things prowling the night.
“I need to go back,” Kin said.
“For the prisoner?” Rickson asked.
“I’m more concerned about the four travelers we found at the Reaper camp, but I should find Raif also.”
“Are you really afraid he will accuse you of being some kind of traitor?” Rickson asked. “Does it really matter, since the Fleet already knows about you?”
Kin kept his eyes on the valley, watching for the Reaper, not looking at the young shepherd. “There’s no telling what he’ll do. To make an accusation, he’ll have to admit he was AWOL, which is punishable by death. But since he’ll claim to have been foraging, they’ll go easy on him.”
“How easy?”
“Twenty lashes and a stint in the brig.”
“I don’t see how the Fleet can punish you. I bet no one else could have destroyed them.”
Kin stood and gathered his weapons. He slung two of the rifles across his back with his axe and gave the other to Rickson. “This is the safety. This is the trigger. Don’t use it unless you have to.”
“Where are you going?” Rickson asked.
“Back to the Reaper camp. If the travelers are alive, I’ll do what I can for them and come back before sunset.”
“What about the Reaper?”
“I’ll look for him too,” Kin said. He studied Rickson. The boy seemed a frightened child, not a teenager, but a little boy. Kin hated the decision he had made, yet the force of it was like the planet’s gravity.
I’m not his father.
He couldn’t resist the need to hunt, although guilt assailed him. Rickson was young, but he was Kin’s most loyal friend.
And I’m going to leave him here to protect Clavender from the worst killer in the galaxy.
“I can’t leave them out there. I should’ve fought the Reaper back there. Then we’d be on our way to Crater Town with nothing to worry about.” The words were lies — wishful thinking — but he didn’t want Rickson worrying about Raif and the Reaper.
“So I just stay here with Clavender?”
“No, you throw her across your shoulder and hump back to Crater Town by yourself,” Kin said.
“I’ll have to if you get killed.”
“I won’t get killed. I’ll be careful,” Kin said.
Rickson didn’t look convinced.
THE trip took Kin three hours. He moved cautiously, searching for signs of Droon and the travelers. The Reaper was strong and hard to kill but not invincible. He probably ate something or someone and burrowed underground to heal.
The camp had been abandoned hours before Kin returned. All the equipment was gone and the cook fire covered with dirt, evidence the travelers were alive and healthy enough to move out. He searched for a gravesite, found nothing, and eventually picked up two trails. The pattern of footprints told a story. Kin read it on one knee, scanning the area for signs of an ambush as he always did.
The four travelers were moving on foot, single file. Raif was paralleling them.
The travelers were probably armed and Raif only had one hand, but Kin didn’t like their chances. Raif was a Fleet trooper. If he were naked and missing both hands, he could still murder four civilians in their sleep.
Kin ran possible scenarios as he tracked them. The least likely: Raif would contact the travelers and beg for help, claiming to be a victim of the Reaper or bandits. That didn’t feel right. Troopers like Raif didn’t trust civilians and weren’t good at pretending to be meek victims.
Kin squatted in a dry gully, sipping water from a pouch and chewing a ration bar dense with nutrients. He considered the travelers and their poorly concealed trail.
Raif would dominate or kill them.
Droon’s voice split the air, echoing in the distance. Kin slowly put away the water skin as he chewed his last bite. Slow movements were quiet and harder to see. He counted the seconds and waited for another Reaper call, but nothing came. Without a second cry, there wasn’t way to determine which direction the Reaper was moving.
He looked at the footprints. None of the travelers were moving
fast; their tracks were close together, indicating short strides. Someone heavy — one of the men — was dragging his feet, either tired or wounded.
They had taken time to properly break camp, as good survivors would, but Kin thought they were probably injured from the explosion, although he hadn’t found blood or discarded bandages. He closed his eyes, massaged his forehead, then looked at the tracks one last time.
He turned back to Rickson and Clavender, feeling ineffectual and foolish. He should have stayed. Hours of tracking and using energy he couldn’t spare had only put him in a bad position between two enemies.
He came across the tracks of the travelers again. They were either lost, which was unlikely, or on the run. The terrain wasn’t confusing; it was uneven, but easy to climb a rock and see for miles. Something pursued them.
He heard the Reaper again and decided it was closer to the rocks where Rickson and Clavender were hiding. He started to run, watching for the travelers, Raif, and whatever was hunting them.
An image of Droon slowly stabbing one of his claws into the abdomen of the bound woman replayed in Kin’s mind. Would Droon let her go? Kin doubted it. A gambling man might assume the Reaper would ambush the travelers caught in the open, rather than assault a defensible position. Kin had placed his bet when he left the cave. He needed to stick to his plan.
He veered toward the direction he believed the travelers were headed. He found them a short time later and they were waiting for him.
Daylight revealed much about Droon’s recent victims. Kin recognized them. Several months ago, they visited Crater Town, committing minor crimes — disorderly conduct and larceny. They made the townsfolk uneasy, so Kin ran them out.
The largest man was covered in religious tattoos — symbols from many cultures that scrolled across his muscular frame. A nine-digit series of numbers on each forearm marked him as a registered pit fighter, a modern day gladiator trained since birth. Kin wondered how long he had been stranded here. Pit fighters were pampered and treated like celebrities. Living in the harsh environment of Crashdown seemed to have soured his mood.