by Scott Moon
Rickson stopped near the Mazz Executioner armor and participated in an animated discussion. The black Mech turned and stared at the distant battle several times, then scanned the horizon for nearer threats. Rebecca maintained her position in hopes of spotting a Mazz patrol.
None came.
She decided to contact Rickson, Ceana, William, and the Mazz Mech pilot.
“Earth Fleet Mech 292 requesting communication with unidentified Mazz unit,” she said over an open channel.
“This is Captain Trak of the Mazz Imperial Army. Present yourself for identification, Earth Fleet.”
Rebecca laughed, then keyed her mic. “Are you telling me you haven’t marked my position?”
A pause.
“The communication request confirmed it,” Trak said. “Please identify.”
“Rebecca Lacroix,” she said, arming her weapons. “Are you here to kill Kin?”
“He does not matter to me one way or the other. I am here to find and destroy the Imperial Imposter.”
Rebecca emerged from her hiding place.
“Will you help me save the Mazz Empire?” Trak asked.
Rebecca thought of Randal Dogface, Mikey-Danny, and all the others. “I have debts to settle. We can work together for a while, I think.”
“The Rage is a creature of the false Emperor,” Trak said.
Rebecca moved closer and took stock of the encampment. Trak was the only Mazz soldier left. There were pieces of SKIN armor and other equipment strewn between bloodstains that had been Reapers or some other assortment of Hellsbreach monsters.
“I ran into him,” Rebecca said.
“Then why do you live?” Trak asked.
“That is a really good question that I haven’t worked out, but I think it has something to do with a common enemy,” she said.
Trak waited.
“I don’t think the Rage is pleased with the Omega, the creature you know as the false Emperor. If we play our cards right, we could all get what we want.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Reaper Queen
BLACKNESS surrounded Droon — penetrated his eyes, his soul, his imagination. Pain returned to his fingertips, just below the slits where claws could extend if there were space. Something hard as Earth Fleet armor blocked his natural weapons, pressed them back. Pricks of fire danced in his toes, then stabbed to his knee, his groin, his belly.
That was where the worst pain lived. Droon hungered. Behind the ravenous stomach need, his spine had been twisted and folded. He opened one eyelid because the other pressed against something that pressed back.
Droon can’t open both eyes. Droon is in the nightmare of Kin-rol-an-da but tangled like Reaper child in a womb.
He saw blackness with the open eye but understood he was facing his rectum. Something evil had rolled him into a ball and stolen light from the universe. He couldn’t hear because his thighs covered his ears. He couldn’t taste or smell because fluid filled places that were not Droon. The space casket of Kin-rol-an-da hadn’t been full of fluid, only tubes and visions of green hills and Rebecca the cadet and Reapers tearing apart troopers and something Kin-rol-an-da had called prayers. In his nightmares, the man was too busy screaming for things Droon didn’t understand to fear Droon as he should.
Droon never liked Kin-rol-an-da’s nightmares. Fear was meant to be devoured, not experienced. Images of the Burning One danced between memory and imagination, running too quickly, jumping too high — fighting Droon like no Reaper or Slomn-da could. Droon flexed and tried to scream.
He pressed the wall, or perhaps the ceiling, or perhaps something else. Was Droon alone? He pulled his legs and flexed his back, moving less than the width of a human thought. His ankles and wrists were bound to the wall, or perhaps the ceiling, or perhaps something else.
Droon blinked his good eye several times. A not-Droon voice spoke like a memory or a halooosoonaashon. He did not know what it meant, so he tried to think as Kin-rol-an-da thought when Droon hunted in his nightmares. Hallucination. Unreal thoughts. Mind sickness.
Metal bands wrapped his torso and bolted to a wall. A flexible tube ran deep into his throat, gagging him. The muscles of his throat flexed and trembled involuntarily. Cables cocooned his tail, forcing it to bend the only direction that was uncomfortable.
Droon snorted a sound Kin-rol-an-da had called a Reaper laugh, though it was a sorrowful thing without throat clicks and tongue rasps.
There is no part of Droon free to move.
The Burning One would not, could not, do this. How had Droon become a boxed Reaper? A voice had used those words — boxed Reaper — and laughed. The human had been large but short — too many muscles for his stature. Beside him had been a man even taller than Kin-rol-an-da’s friend Orlan-da-kil-da.
Silence pulsed. Faint remembrances of color bloomed and faded. Droon sipped air through his nostrils, remembering the liquid atmosphere too late.
Thunder vibrated through the chemical ooze, amplifying Droon’s misery. World-crushing power battered the shell of his prison — a sound like artillery shells striking mountains, hammers on his eyes... doom, doom, doom. Heart pounding with the rhythm of fear, his soul danced alone — frantic one moment, timid the next.
Lightning flashed. Droon blinked both eyelids — the left five times and the right three times before his eyes synchronized. His legs dropped. He twisted his neck until he saw the lightning flash that didn’t flash. The slash of sunlight opened wide, and he saw the glorious sun of Betaoin. Hellsbreach. Home. Fluid rushed out of his prison and he realized that his legs and arms remained attached to walls that fell away, stretching one arm at a cruel angle. He snorted gooey mist from his nostrils.
A hand grabbed the gag rod and slid it from his mouth. He tried to bite the fingers even as he realized they weren’t human.
“What has Solaa found? A warrior or an infant?”
Droon stared at the vision of terror and grace looking down on him. The orange glare of his home world’s sky fringed her silhouette. Black metallic skin, shimmering spots that told a story of a thousand Reapers before her and promised a thousand yet to be born. Flexible spines stood from her back and moved rhythmically side to side in counterpoint to her slowly lashing tail. Her claws and teeth sent a thrill into his loins, though it wasn’t the season for mating. Not yet, but soon! His blood ran hot until he saw her eyes and his death.
“Are you weak?”
Droon snarled and struggled to his feet.
Droon is weak. Why so weak? Droon will die.
Many Reapers, bigger and stronger than Droon, fed on the bodies of humans. Some were half out of armor, others had been pilots without trooper armor. He listened to death cries as his Kindred fed.
Not Droon’s Kindred. Other Kindred. Reapers that will kill Droon.
Huge metal boxes had been scattered among the airship wreckage. Smoke drifted toward the sky, abandoning recently fired weapons. An engine whined, sputtered, and bellowed hot smoke.
Dwarf. The thick-necked man was called Dwarf. Dog was the other one.
The Reapers howled.
Solaa stood among them, covered in blood. She had fed first, which caused Droon to crawl backward as his legs trembled and failed. When did a female feed first? Was this the birthing pit? Was this a home warren?
“Warriors feed first,” Droon said.
Solaa spread her hands, indicating all that could be seen from the top of the dune. “Solaa is first warrior. Solaa is Queen.”
Droon blinked. He stared at Solaa. Kin-rol-an-da had a word called love, a strange word with unclear meanings, a word that made the man do crazy things. Droon had been inside his mind and knew the word as humans knew it, but the concept was strange and poisonous. Droon understood lust. He understood violence.
Solaa had been bitten and slashed many times. Teeth marks marred her breasts with webs of scar tissue. One eye had been gouged cruelly, and ridges around the healing part of her face had been slashed. Droon could see that her teeth wou
ld extend far from her mouth if she chose to snarl. Her tongue lashed like a shadow inside of her mouth, thrashing the light of Betaoin that passed her teeth.
She was naked except for a chain around her waist that suspended a longer chain that dangled between her legs with the bolt attached to a human skull fringed in flesh.
“You do not eat the bones?” Droon wrinkled his face in confusion and looked at the other Reapers. They wore similar decorations, but what alarmed him were their weapons. The Reapers carried serrated swords and axes made from the teeth of a Darguul. Each warrior possessed carved bones shaped as human guns were shaped.
Solaa hissed. She circled to his left and stopped. She crouched to show both of her claws as though she might attack. “There is much to eat since you began the Long Hunt. Solaa wears hands and skulls to frighten humans.”
She thrust her hips forward in a quick jerk that caused the skull on the chain to swing grotesquely, twisting forward as though the eye sockets wanted to look back at some unknowable terror.
Droon watched until the decoration stopped moving and then surveyed the site of the ship's destruction. There were not so many humans, he thought. A Reaper war party the size of Solaa's band would need many times as many victims to support the hunger a battle brought. He wondered what she meant when she said there was plenty to eat, even as he noticed dead Reapers. Three mangled females lay on the perimeter of the carnage.
Droon understood that Solaa had punished them for interrupting the feeding frenzy. He backed away from Solaa and her warriors and wondered what was happening on his home world. Reapers did not kill Reapers unless they were Mazz slaves. Droon had killed many such creatures. Now he wished he could gather them all to fight the Burning One.
He turned away from Solaa and stared across the plains. He knew that Kin-rol-an-da called this place the Red Plains of Sorrow. It was the season of the orange sun, a time that the Earth Fleet troopers had never known. They had invaded during the red time. Had Kin-rol-an-da and his people understood what it meant to be on Betaoin during the red time, they would not have come. But the orange sun was good. It promised the spring for Droon's kind. It promises the season for mating. He wondered how many children had been born across the land while he stood looking at this place and realizing that he was glad to be back.
“Solaa thinks you are a strange creature. What are you called?”
Droon faced her but moved no closer. He felt a gust of hot wind on his skin and realized that he'd been waiting to feel of biting pressure of the Clingers. The hateful things had tried to devour him many times, and to control him, but now he missed the protection their tough hide offered against dangerous things like Solaa and her clan.
Images of the Clingers flying at a strange man. Shrieks. Clingers being caught. Droon hated the memory. Loathed the darkness that followed. Droon hates Dog Rolston. Thoughts sounded too much like the ghosts of his parasite armor.
“Droon is not strange. Solaa and her human-head trinket is strange. Droon is the master of the Long Hunt. Droon found Kin-rol-an-da and took back the blood knowledge of the Kindred.”
Solaa hissed and moved closer to her warriors. She clicked her throat several times, and they looked up from their feeding.
Droon snarled, then wandered among the clan war chieftains. He looked down on the corpses they fed upon and saw that none of the bodies moved. He stopped. “If you take smaller bites, they live longer. Better to eat them as they scream.”
The Reapers stood and gathered around him but kept a safe distance. They were tall and strong. Droon wondered how so many warriors of such strength could be near each other without fighting for dominance. His followers never stayed together for long. Always he was gathering them to him to fight Earth Fleet and the Mazz and the Winged Humans. He stared at Solaa and wondered if she were truly the Queen of the Reapers. There had been a Queen of queens during a time Droon understood was the past but had believed was a future. He felt the time-confusion from before he won the Long Hunt and pushed the thoughts away. He did not like confusion. The time of the great Reaper Queen was both before and after Droon’s time — a memory for Droon. He possessed so many memories that now he understood the time-confusion had been a blessing.
Droon is old.
The Reaper warriors clicked and groaned in what Droon understood would soon be a challenge. He couldn't fight them all at once, but it was strange that he might have to, because a Reaper fighting for dominance fought alone. What good was dominance if it had to be shared?
He saw the broken Earth Fleet container that had held him prisoner and several others like it that remained intact. He moved toward them, saw words written upon their exterior and tried to decipher what they meant. When he was thinking as though he were still in the mind of Kin-rol-an-da, he could make the letters and symbols mean something, but it was difficult — just as speaking the words with his Reaper mouth was difficult. He tried to summon the voice that had spoken to him in his head, but it had not been real.
“Droon claims these boxes.”
Solaa moved gracefully to the crest of the hill and looked down on the scene. She spread her arms, revealing sinewy strength and many scars. “Solaa gives these boxes to Caga, Zykzym, and Muzd.”
Droon hissed. Caga was taller than Droon. Thick cords of muscle crawled from his shoulders to his ears, although Droon suspected the warrior could extend the thick neck as well as any Reaper. Zykzym was taller than Caga and covered with more scars than Solaa, but not so many as Droon, who had been chewed by Clingers, slashed by Wingers, and shot with weapons. Muzd was shorter than Droon, but his legs were so thick and powerful that Droon wondered if he could jump and touch the sun. None possessed the grace of Solaa, but all were savage. All hated Droon.
Droon made the sound that Kin-rol-an-da called laughing. “Solaa and these weaklings do not understand what is inside the boxes.”
Solaa looked at him — eyes narrow and searching — then flicked her hand toward the wreckage. Caga, Zykzym, and Muzd broke open the crates to reveal Clingers and Crashdown wolves. The monsters flopped, wet and delirious, on the red dirt of Droon's home.
Solaa screeched at her warriors until they drew back. She turned around — calm, dangerous, and focused. “Droon will kill these things that came from his hunt.”
Hesitation burned through Droon's bones and he could not breathe. Of course he would kill the Clingers and the wolves. He didn't hate the wolves as he hated the crawling things, but he would kill them. The wolves didn't show fear, and for that reason, he had never made them a meal.
“Droon will not kill the Clingers.”
“Is Droon afraid?” Solaa asked.
“Droon will wear Clingers as armor. Droon is the Master of Clingers.” His words were surprising, opposite of what he thought was necessary. This was Betaoin, not Crashdown. Things were different.
Things are the same!
Caga hopped up and down and screeched. “Droon is afraid. Droon knows fear. Weak. Weak. Weak!”
Solaa leapt and landed on top of Caga, driving him to the ground. She bounded and landed between Zykzym and Muzd, whirled on them, and then faced Droon. “Droon will kill these things, or Solaa will see his fear.”
She sees Droon. She sees the weakness in Droon.
Time passed as Solaa edged closer, clicking her throat muscles and flashing her claws counterpoint to the rhythm of her steps. She remained in an attack crouch, leaning forward, never taking her eyes from Droon. “Solaa has Droon; weak, fearful Droon. Only the kiss of Solaa will take fear from Droon. Give Solaa what Solaa wants. Give Solaa a reason to mate Droon or eat Droon.”
“Solaa,” Droon said. No clicks came with his quiet reply. How could she see what had happened to him on the Battle of the Bleeding Grounds? How could she know his fear? “What does Solaa want? Droon will give it.”
His body ached from the battling the Burning One in the Ror-Rea and on Betaoin. Inside, there was pain and confusion, too much blood knowledge and too many nightmares of
Kin-Rol-an-da. He longed for Cla-ven-da, who held a link to him when it should be reversed.
Where is Cla-ven-da?
The warriors gathered and sat on their haunches to watch, ripping flesh from dead humans and animals with extended teeth and sharp claws. Some of the wolves had already become meals for warriors. Droon wondered if Solaa’s slaves liked the fearless taste of the Crashdown monsters.
“Solaa wants the Daughter of the Wormhole,” Solaa said. “Droon stinks of her, but not of her blood and bowels. Droon has not feasted on her flesh. Could Droon fear the winged girl as Droon fears simple animals?”
“Droon smells of many creatures,” he said.
Solaa laughed, sounding almost like a human woman. “Has Droon’s venom mingled with the winged girl’s blood? Does Droon have the link?”
Without thinking, Droon dropped his head, knowing she would see the lie and kill him. “No link. Droon failed to put venom in her blood.”
Solaa howled and jumped backward.
Droon looked up. She believed him? Solaa is not queen. The Queen of the Kindred would not be fooled.
But he feared her. He wanted to run. Terror stilled his movements. The Burning One remained in the night and could not be destroyed.
Droon was not worthy of Solaa Queen, but the lie was told and consumed.
“Weak, stupid Droon,” he said, then battered his face with his hands.
Solaa looked over her shoulder, then slunk toward him. “What did Droon say?”
Droon stared at the ground, the savage soil of his home, and poured fuel on the fire of his hate to drive away the fear. He could not resist her. Droon was afraid. Droon wasn’t fit to live.
“Kill the wolves. Show your strength. Kill the other things before they finish their mind songs.”
Droon heard the keening wail of the Clingers. He knew what it meant, and he knew how to dominate them. It was harder than killing the monsters, but a coward like Droon needed armor.