The Chronicles of Kin Roland: 3 Book Omnibus - The Complete Series

by Scott Moon

  He encountered a sudden wave of blackness on the way to his objective. Even the memory of sight vanished. He stumbled to a halt and called for his officers, but there was only ear-piercing static on the radio. His suit froze, quivered, and began to initiate start-up procedures.

  Blinding light came next. When it cleared, he witnessed Earth Fleet troopers having difficulty restarting their FSPAA units. Armored and unarmored bodies littered the mountainside and valley floor.

  “Westwood, can you read me?”

  Someone grunted through the radio link.

  “The Slomn are trying to capture or destroy Clavender. Protecting her must be our first priority.”

  “Roger,” Westwood said.

  Captain Trak raced ahead of the others. The power and grace of his SKIN-assisted movements was something to watch. He hurdled a burning slag of rock, twisted around a beam of fire erupting from the ground, and fired at the Slomn vanguard emerging from walls of flame.

  Kin’s armor responded like an old friend. He had found the balance and responsiveness of the SKIN unwieldy at first. He felt as though he moved too fast, quicker than his brain could react to threats and obstacles, but he maximized his speed and prayed.

  Closer and closer he came to the center of the fight. He observed Ror-Rea warriors retreating on the ground and in the air. He stumbled. The Wingers didn’t retreat. A second evaluation of the scene revealed many of Dax’s followers were not fleeing, but were being hurled back by an unstoppable force.

  Westwood ordered his troopers to assault the center and the right flank. Kin sent all of his strength at the left flank. He raced along the slight gap between the badly formed assault groups, looking for Clavender. When he failed to find her, he looked for Droon, assuming the Reaper would track her position with the blood link between them.

  Garjiin went down after a trio of Slomn grounded their numerous legs, cracked open chest cavities, and sent lances of nuclear death through the torso of Droon’s mount. The Reaper King stepped off the burning corpse and ran straight for Clavender.

  Kin did what he could to help the Reaper. He could barely see. His SKIN suffered incredible damage. Entire units of his Mazz Imperial Elite Guard disappeared.

  A slug of darkness hammered Kin upside down and backward. His left leg touched the ground first and twisted beyond the safety limits of the suit. When the face shield struck, he vomited and blinked as vacuums sucked slimy stench from his face.

  Coming to his feet was a battle. Dignity evaporated as he flailed forward, looked up, and saw a Slomn standing over Clavender. The creature opened his chest. Kin aimed before the Slomn could destroy her. His weapon malfunctioned, a heat warning flashing across his helmet display.

  Kin drew his sword from his back and swore.

  Clavender!

  The Slomn hesitated, bent forward with its open chest cavity, and seized her violently.

  Kin stared. During the moment of hesitation, the monster fled with surprising speed.

  “Roland to Westwood, they have Clavender. Fix on my position and send all available units.” Kin rushed forward, knowing his guns had overheated from constant firing.

  “Westwood to Roland, we are paralleling your movement.”

  “Try to head it off.” Kin watched as rockets lanced toward Clavender’s captor, unconcerned for her welfare. He held his breath as the Slomn deflected each attack with its tail and upper arms.

  Kin’s radio screeched when he called off the missiles. With no better option, he drove forward and grabbed Clavender’s arm.

  She contorted her face with a scream. “Stay away. He is forcing me to the Bleeding Grounds. Don’t try to follow.”

  The Slomn tail whipped against Kin’s armor. Kin grunted, holding Clavender’s arm although he feared he’d tear her apart.

  Crystal silence spread from his radio and he used the unexpected gift without hesitation. “The Bleeding Grounds are open. Initiate the assault. Shift fire away from friendly target in Slomn custody.”

  Planetary assault forces dropped from Earth Fleet and Imperial Mazz orbit. Enormous wheeled land destroyers lumbered from the mountain base and the Crater Town fortress. The first reinforcements to arrive would be the Imperial Airborne troop transports. Until then, Kin had a scattered force of personal guards, Wingers, and Reapers in Bloodlust.

  Kin was far ahead of them, armed with his sword as he entered a realm painted by a red sun. He saw versions of the ancient Earth ships scattered for miles, cast down from a battle that didn’t start here. Other ships were familiar. Many were strange. The shadow forms of men and women turned to watch from across the distance.

  Were these people dead? Did they live here? Were they servants of the Bleeding Grounds? Sadness weighed on Kin’s senses as he pitied the damned.

  He stumbled, unable to keep pace with Clavender’s captor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  EARTH VI. Crashdown. Hellsbreach. These were places Kin considered real. Even in memory, they had physical force.

  The Bleeding Grounds appeared as Long Canyon without rock formations, rivers, or a terminus point. The horizon seemed incredibly distant and impossibly near at the same time. A great red disk dominated the sky. From its perimeter radiated a thousand wormhole tendrils.

  Every Slomn that followed Clavender through the gateway forced the opening wider. It was a jagged boundary between the Crashdown that was and what it would be. Pockets of swirling light and dark destroyed units that pursued the enemy. Kin realized the serpent men were spaced at two-hundred-meter intervals. The battle formation was three lines deep and the center supported flanking units that dug in to fire the heavy beams of fire that devastated Human, Mazz, Reapers, and Ror-Rea warriors.

  Kin had sought to fight the final battle here.

  So had the Slomn.

  He studied the monsters created by the Mazz Emperor and the Reapers created by ancient Earth generals. They were weapons rebelling against their masters.

  Earth Fleet assembled adjacent from Kin’s army.

  “General Pouk,” Kin said. “Status report.”

  “Units are being deployed.” The Imperial General seemed to be inside Kin’s head. Communications had been eerily clear one moment and full of static the next. Now the Imperial technology appeared unnecessary. Kin felt as though he could step into the mind of each trooper at will.

  Surely it was an illusion. He tested the theory and found himself unable to use telepathy.

  “Clavender!” Kin moved ahead of his bodyguards to a field of cooling sand where Clavender, no longer important, had been cast down.

  “This is the nightmare I resisted. If I could have blocked the migration of my people, they would not have seized the opportunity to enter this place as you have.” Her hair fell over her burnt face. She looked toward the ground as she talked.

  “You knew this would happen.”

  “I dreamed it many times.” She stared toward the sky where the entire nation of the Ror-Rea descended into the battle.

  Kin wanted to comfort her, tell her she was beautiful even with horrible wounds distorting her form. But he couldn’t think beyond the vision of winged warriors. Thousands upon thousands engaged the snake-like creations of their worst enemy. It didn’t seem there was enough room for them to fly.

  A hundred Wingers perished for every Slomn destroyed, yet victory, as costly as it was, seemed assured.

  Kin activated his radio. “Support the Winger attack. Throw everything into the fight, all reserves, hold nothing back.”

  Captain Track stood near Kin. “The Ror-Rea are also the enemy.”

  “No longer,” Kin said.

  Track shifted uncomfortably as his dark, emotionless face shield stared at Kin.

  “Do you serve?” Kin asked.

  “I serve and obey.”

  “Ensure that my generals understand the orders, then report back.”

  Kin hailed Admiral Westwood. “Let the Reapers fight the Slomn.”

  “They’ll turn on u
s as soon as the battle ends.”

  Kin looked at Clavender, who stared back, her face calmly waiting his words. He held her eyes as he spoke to Westwood. “Clavender will send them back to Hellsbreach.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Westwood closed the radio link and went to lead his portion of the battle.

  “And what would you have me do with the Slomn?” she asked.

  “They are losing. We should erase them. “

  She narrowed her eyes. “But you can’t allow that.”

  Kin shook his head.

  “When they have lost the fire of battle, I may send them to the remotest world in this galaxy. Is that what you desire?”

  “I want this to end.”

  She looked at Captain Trak as the man returned from his mission.

  “I could not have helped you if that man’s father had not destroyed the Slomn devices — the things you call wormhole beacons.”

  Tears streamed down her face as her people poured their lives over the Slomn fire like water. “Help my people, Kin Roland, or I will have no one left when this is done.”

  Kin abandoned her to her grief and sought Rebecca and the remaining Shock Troopers.

  “Are you ready to get your hands dirty?” Rebecca asked.

  “Are you going to protect me?” Kin asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing since we crash landed.”

  Kin shook his head. He laughed. “Then show me what’s so special about the infamous Rebecca’s Brigade.”

  Kin issued orders, and when there was nothing left to be decided, he went to war beside the woman of his dreams.

  The battle lasted for days and made Hellsbreach seem a training exercise.

  The final shots were fired. The last of the Slomn herded into a circle of Clavender’s choosing. She opened three ways out of the Bleeding Grounds and sent first the Slomn, then the Reapers, and finally the few surviving warriors of the Ror-Rea to their home worlds.

  On the edge of the canyon, a rock formation grew into place. Color became rich. The scene took on the weight of reality. A man sat watching the ragged survivors of the Bleeding Ground as they marched away from the battle without armor or weapons. The battle had consumed many lives and every last instrument of violence.

  Earth Fleet troopers looked at the man strangely as they passed. The Mazz Imperials stopped in a circle, bowed their heads, and sat cross-legged when the figure waved a hand for them to sit. His manner was subdued but welcoming. He looked each person in the eye for a moment, but when he saw William, he beckoned him closer.

  Kin followed Orlan’s son but stopped when he climbed the rock and sat next to the spectator that commanded the complete attention and obedience of the entire Mazz race.

  “Have you any water?” asked the man.

  William smiled. “Water isn’t so easy to find in the Bleeding Ground.”

  “No. It is not. Sit beside me. I wish to tell you a final story.” The man who seemed regal despite his rags stretched his back for a long moment. “I may also tell you how I fell injured on the Bleeding Grounds and was caught between immortality and oblivion.”

  “I always liked your stories in the Iron Box, even the scary ones,” William said.

  “Especially the scary ones, if I’m any judge of young boys and their fascination with such things,” the Mazz Emperor said. “This tale is a dark warning to all who come after us. It will leave you shaken but wiser. I will explain how two races created demons to destroy what war machines could not touch.”

  William looked at the Mazz Emperor as a student, or perhaps a son, gazes upon a master.

  Kin held his breath.

  “This, young William, is how two races sought to destroy each other and spent thousands of years fighting their own creations.”

  WEAPONS OF EARTH

  Book Three in the Chronicles of Kin Roland

  Scott Moon

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gods, Family, and Sergeants

  AFTERMATH. Kin didn’t know how other troopers felt when the final explosion echoed across the battlefield, when injured men and women cried a dissonant, counterpoint melody to the celebrations of survivors drunk on life, but he had eyes and ears. He saw soldiers clutching mortal wounds, wailing in the wordless language of vowels pushed through clenched teeth. Veterans and rookies begged for mercy, calling to friends who died long ago on other planets, during other campaigns. They beseeched gods and family and sergeants.

  He could see Laura sitting on a rock and had been trying to reach her for half an hour. She looked tired but not wounded – not seriously. Everyone was slashed and shot and burned in this place. Beyond her, like the backdrop to a tasteless recruiting poster, were new Earth Fleet ships. The sleek machines dominated tactical positions blocking the pass to Long Canyon, more recently known as the Battle of the Bleeding Grounds. Kin paused, then resumed his slow progress forward.

  “Mother!” The cry came from an impossible distance, or it was very close.

  “God help me!”

  Kin searched for the second voice — a woman facing oblivion with a damaged larynx — but never found her. Stop making that noise.

  Time passed. He walked without blinking as dusk stretched across the sky.

  A face coughed blood. The weight of his fallen comrades pinned him to the ground, forcing him to stare between their arms and legs into the blinding noonday sun. “He got me, Kevin. Got me good.”

  Kneeling, pushing bodies aside, Kin poured a trickle of water from his drinking tube into the trooper’s mouth, watching his lips tremble as the man’s head rose toward the source of mercy. He was from Earth Garden, designated Earth XI in official records. Distinct for their walnut-colored skin and lavender irises, they were uncommon in the Fleet during Kin’s days.

  “Who are you?” the injured Garden man asked. Confusion bloomed in his eyes. Clarity followed. Tears filled cracks and wrinkles.

  “I’m not Kevin,” Kin said.

  The man shook his head in denial as he spoke, skin pale from blood loss, smoke drifting from inside his armor. “He made it home. I know he made it home.”

  Kin nodded, placing his hand on the dying trooper’s shoulder. He paused, then stood and faced the carnage.

  Sunlight cut through the gloom. A stoic noncom broadcast rally-point coordinates and big band music over loudspeakers. Troopers arched signal flares into the sky as they cheered. Men and women with venial wounds congratulated fellow survivors, slamming together in powered-armor hugs and fist bumps that thundered like the titans of mythology.

  Kin saw them. He heard them. But he didn’t know their hearts or minds. It was as though he watched the scene through time and space. The red plains of Hellsbreach had been lonelier, but not by much.

  Dead men and women said nothing. Maybe they looked as though they were passing judgment on the living. Perhaps the corpses were resentful. Kin picked his way across the Bleeding Grounds, stepping over bodies without touching them. Many of the faces had turned into the dirt to avoid the mind-bending horror of the battle’s climax as they died. He had stared into the eyes of fallen soldiers before, but a hellish vacancy dominated victims of the wormhole nexus as though they had never lived.

  Fifty meters away, a trooper fired a tight pattern of rounds into the back of a Reaper as it squatted on a corpse and tugged flesh from the face of a Winger. Bullets spattered through the monster’s body. Before the last projectile struck, the trooper was kneeling to strip gear from a fallen comrade that had nothing to do with the Reaper slaying. The terrible efficiency of the routine resonated through Kin’s soul.

  That one will survive the next battle.

  Standard operating procedures directed field commanders to secure battlefields for the Resource and Salvage Division under the command of the Quartermaster General. One FSPAA unit cost more than the average civilian earned in a lifetime. A magazine of uranium-depleted bullets would fund a vacation to many of the better casino platforms around E
arth VI; not for the uranium, but for the technology that made them so small and deadly. Battlefield cleanup was big business. Every molecule of weaponry belonged to the Fleet. On harsher planets, reclamation tankers sponged up blood and processed corpses for water.

  Kin collapsed the Mazz helmet into the shoulder assembly of his SKIN armor and rubbed sweat from his eyes. The stink of chemicals floated on wind and smoke. He understood that when the odor of technology faded, there would be organic smells. Odors lingered the longest. He couldn’t decide which was worse — the smell of burnt flesh and bone or ravaged armor and weapons systems. One was alive, the other was mechanical. On this battlefield, there was something assaulting his olfactory senses he didn’t understand. If the sense of smell could also be the haunting awareness of atmospheric pressure, then he would know it now.

  “Return to base and recharge, soldier,” the SKIN computer said.

  “I’ll get right on that.” Crashdown’s gravity had pushed down with insulting persistence as the armor lost power. Kin pried his arms and legs free of the unit, then dropped the torso shell. He looked at the Mazz gear and shook his head. There were so many pieces missing that he wondered why he hadn’t ditched the wreck hours ago.

  He blinked against the breeze and thought of Earth VIII, a cursed planet that enjoyed three hundred years of independence from the home world before starting a war to break a trade embargo. Kin’s companions had pounded fists together as they prepared for the planetary assault. He hadn’t sung bawdy songs or boasted with his troops because he’d been busy listening to people he wouldn’t see on the next mission, memorizing the tone and melody of voices, the quirks of individual expressions, and bidding them farewell. Each trooper understood the odds of survival. Each sergeant knew he would get half his unit killed if he was both lucky and good. The bad sergeants, well, they got fragged on this type of drop.