THE SENTINEL
©2021 WALT ROBILLARD
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ALSO IN THE HUNTER’S MOON SERIES
THE MONGREL
THE REVENANT
THE SENTINEL
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Thank you for reading The Sentinel
ALSO IN THE HUNTER’S MOON SERIES
More In Sci-Fi
In a galaxy of brutality and blasters...
Balance the scales under a Hunter's Moon.
Beyond the Outer Boundary of the Core Worlds lies the Frontier. Colonies do what they can to survive far removed from civilized space. In the absence of law there are the Marshals. Acting as agents of the Athalon Temple, they use the mystic fire of the Crucible to serve as judge, jury, and executioner.
Seeking revenge for the death of his adoptive mother, Marshal Seladrial Ferrand, the mongrel, Orin Lashra cuts a brutal path through the Frontier. Tracked by the Order, he joins forces with the deposed crime lord Kel Durado, the fallen cyborg Katarina, and the freed android Fluffang Doomsnuggle. Following a trail of clues, they track their prey to the planet Doseidos in the midst of a diabolical plan.
As they engage hostiles and encounter mercenary forces arrayed against them, they learn the best laid plans rarely survive contact with the Crucible. Joining forces with the Dreadmarr warrior, Madame Tarot, they almost attain Orin's goal.
During a stalemate with their target, Stavros Kenner, Orin surrenders to buy his allies precious time to escape. In the battle that ensues, his friends decimate their enemies in a failed attempt to save Kel's life after a grievous injury. As the friends pick up the pieces of their shattered family, one question remains...
Where is Orin Lashra?
Prologue
HALIKOS MOON – PLANET CAMULON – CORE WORLDS ALLIANCE
Doctor Shindoa Kot risked a peek behind her shoulder at the two hulking troopers occupying the bulk of the real estate at the back of the elevator. They wore black mirrored visors that allowed for none of their features to be clear to the naked eye. In the center was a red upside-down triangle that moved slightly with the trooper's head movements. A noise in an atmosphere vent here, a tick in a support strut of the plate decking there, the triangle would zip in line with the noise. If she had to guess, their height and overall build would have to make them Vosi. Red-skinned giants from the world of Khamera, they were once the most aggressively expanding empire in the Alliance. A calamity on their world ended their reign, forcing them to chase their former glory ever since.
It was strange to be smaller than those she encountered. Kot was a Xoban, an insectile race typically over two-and-a-half meters tall. Her four arms were cupping an assortment of items she hustled together on her way out of the sky tram. Trying to keep hold of everything she was carrying gave her a hunched appearance that made her looks even smaller than her two guards.
“Would you mind?” Kot asked through the translator collar around her neck. She handed a case to one of the guards who took it in an outstretched hand. The doctor casually let a finger brush his hand, causing the triangle on its visor to shift position for a fraction of a second. She rearranged the bags over her shoulders, making better use of her frame, finally accepting the box from the guard her extra-sensory abilities hinted at being a bot.
Doctor Kot felt she'd present a more confident expression if her personal items weren't falling out around her. It wasn't every day a covert team in finely tailored suits and sunglasses came to your classroom to ask you for your assistance. That they worked for Triton Expeditionary wasn't lost on her either. She'd heard rumors that some of her colleagues had been scooped up by the covert agency's constantly hungry R&D department. Most would attend academic events and conferences to show off the heaps of money they were being paid to do the work she was doing as an educator. Kot was hoping this would be her chance to get into the big leagues or possibly even get a huge research grant.
The doors slid open, exposing her to a busy lab atmosphere of monitors, technicians, and working projects. Kot wafted from the lift, trying to figure out the amount of lifetimes she would have to work in order to have a lab this lavish. Standing at an observation window was a small gaggle of humans. Of them she recognized immediately. Kamden Haas, director of research and development for Koda Industries. He was wearing a lab coat over a set of pants that probably cost more than her monthly salary. And don't get her started on the shoes. Human clothes were so extravagant.
“Doctor Kot. A pleasure to meet you. Twenty-Four-Oh-Seven, please unburden the doctor so we may greet her properly.”
The massive mech took her belongings, looking utterly ridiculous carrying her two shoulder bags, even if they were all the rage in the CORAL this season.
“Doctor Kot, did I say your name correctly?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Haas. In Trade-2, it's pronounced like the garment, coat. Since humans don't use the ultrasonic clicks or pheromones of my race, saying it like this is good enough.”
“Excellent. How was your trip?”
Shindoa adjusted her translation collar, trying to affect the mannerism of a human adjusting their ti
e. She had seen that having these minor tics put some humans at ease, and she tried to implement them whenever she could. “My trip was exciting. I'd never been on a military transport before. The accommodations were somewhat scant, but I didn't mind as I got to look around the vessel.”
Both Haas and the associate who had joined him seemed genuinely pleased at her enjoyment of things they most likely took for granted. She placed her top two hands across her chest, a Xoban symbol for a smile to those cultures that couldn't detect their strange emotional cues.
“May I introduce my friend, Malachi Norris?” Haas said. “He's here representing the Triton Expeditionary Service.”
“I've read your paper on translocation among Second Sight enabled species,” Norris told her. “It was inspirational how members of the Kursaadi were able to use the Unseen to cure members of the Zheegan suffering from Dageedon's disease. That level of control over the universe is amazing.”
Shindoa clasped both sets of hands, a signal for joy. “It brightens my eyes to hear this. I didn't think that paper would find any traction outside academia.”
Haas interjected: “That paper and your research into psychic phenomenon is why you're here, Doctor. I would ask you if you needed a moment to freshen up, but you seem eager to dive right into what we have for you.”
“Please,” Kot said with delight through her collar. She followed Haas' gesture to the observation window. The closer she got, the deeper she felt a strong undercurrent in the Second Sight. It was like watching a tornado from a distance, safe within a bunker, only to venture out and feel the force of the wind the closer one got to it. Approaching the cermaclear screen, Shindoa started to fumble for her balance.
Malachi caught her before it failed completely. “Are you alright, Doctor?”
“Whatever you have down there is barely restrained. You are going to have to do a lot more to secure it. Wait… Not it. Him.”
“Your people are strong Seconders, psychics,” Malachi said, more of a question than a statement.
The doctor steadied herself, finding balance in the Unseen of the Second Sight. She erected mental barriers, psychic armor to withstand the power she was feeling. It would be essential if she wanted to be any closer to the tornado. The humans were all staring, unable to perceive the maelstrom of power she was witnessing beyond the screen. Making her way to the glass, Doctor Kot got her first look at him.
A tall humanoid was encased in a clear vat of translucent gel. He was wearing nothing save for a set of myoprene from his waist to his knees. A harness clamped around his hips kept him in the center of the tube. Long hoses descended from the top of the structure into a mask that allowed him to breathe while in the tank.
“Mr. Haas, sir. He's fighting through it again. If we hit him with another round of meds, it could stop his heart!” a tech called.
Shindoa studied the scene below, eventually noticing four people surrounding the vat, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They were hooked into a halo of wires and resicarbon leading away into the shadows of the space. Technicians on the floor were moving about their work stations, following whatever commands the project leader was feeding them. A two-person team ran to the opposite side of the vat, pulling one of the sitting operatives away from the configuration. A replacement slid in to fill the vacated spot, like a switch made for a fresh player in a murderball match.
“Who is that in the cylinder?” the doctor asked.
“His name is Orin Lashra,” Malachi said, flatly.
“The fugitive on the news feed?”
“Yes, Doctor.” Malachi pointed to one of the displays, showing his face beside a video of what was transpiring in the lab below. “There was a tribal incident on the planet Tythian involving a land dispute. They killed his commander. He took revenge on the tribe responsible for her death by using some of our proprietary technology. He altered it using his religion, a variation on the Second Sight concept. The thing he produced changed the tech in unpredictable ways which we feel we may capitalize on for the betterment of the Alliance.”
Kot turned back to the window to watch the science team work. “Is it true he murdered two thousand people?”
“More than that now. He blames the Seven Seats Cartel for her death. He's been making them pay steadily for their perceived crimes”
“The commander was his mother,” Shindoa said in a faraway voice. Normally, the barriers she put in place were enough to shield her from any psychic projections, but this man, the mongrel, Orin Lashra, seemed well beyond her ability to do so.
Haas rolled his hand in the air. “After a fashion. Doctor, you're the foremost expert in hyper-physics and power-field phenomenon. We want to use Lashra as a key to our control over this alien technology. After which time we can turn him over to the Marshals Templar for trial. Can you help us with this?”
“He’s pushing power levels the likes of which I’ve never seen in a single lifeform but you're using human psychics to attempt control. Something outside of this facility is feeding him tremendous amounts of energy. Have you located a source?” Kot asked.
Norris handed her a data slate. “We believe it’s the planet Tythian.”
“Local psychics projecting this far?”
“No, Doctor, we believe it’s the planet itself.” Norris said.
“Interesting. You’re going to need a foil for that.”
“What do you recommend?” Norris took out his cell-com, making ready to fulfill any of Doctor Kot's requests.
“If I had my choice, I would suggest two things that aren't supposed to exist.”
Norris leaned closer. “I'm intrigued to hear this, Doctor. Please, continue.”
“If we could find one, I would suggest a Psi-field Dispersion Unit. Because of various laws enacted by the...”
“We have one, Doctor.” Haas interrupted. “But we didn’t want to activate it and risk damaging the subject in the event the connection to Tythian was sustaining him in some way.”
The doctor continued her musing while scrolling through the slate. “We could do a graduated activation to test your theory but I find it unlikely it would damage him.”
“What is the other thing, Doctor?” Norris asked.
“You'll need a powerful non-human psychic as a buffer to your controllers.”
Norris' smile verged on predatory. “Are you volunteering?”
“You would need someone far beyond my ability. A male named Arkus was one of the most powerful psychics my people ever produced, but he disappeared years ago. If the rumors are true, he became a Ramgeist.”
“While I would love to go on an expedition for ghosts, Doctor, we don't have that kind of time.” Haas said in a cool boardroom voice.
“Then, if you can find one, a member of the Justicar would do nicely.”
One
PLANET SADOSIA – FRONTIER SPACE
It was hot. The kind of hot that made you sorry you had skin because every exposed inch was burnt or sticking to other parts of you. The rugged man pulled off a wide-brimmed hat to brush his brow with a wet shemagh. He replaced the hat and contemplated spitting, but thought better of it to not waste the water.
Papa Marco swung the ax again, splitting the wood down the middle like he was born to it. He swept the fragments off the block, swinging the ax back into another piece waiting to be cut. Hoisting the wood up, the head pivoted to clear itself from the bark. Another swing, another split.
Holding it above his head, the cutter spun on his heel. Looking back over the hill, he could see the faintest movement in the grasses. He couldn't tell if it was from the breeze that made it feel like he was standing directly in front of a heater, or if something was sneaking through. The chopper rested on his shoulder, freeing his other hand to scratch his shaggy beard as if doing so would give up the secrets of the universe. A good scratch and the hidden knowledge living beside the bit of soup still there from lunch would come tumbling out for him to shake the galaxy. Not detecting anything, he went back to work, crac
king split logs into smaller split logs.
He wrung out the scarf, watching the thirsty ground steal his salt-encrusted water away from him. Letting the brim of his hat take the brunt of the sun gave him room to wipe the sweaty haze from his glasses.
“Enhance to forty, trim glare and magnify.”
The glasses obeyed, bringing the image of a tired-looking duo trudging up the mountain path. The large one in the cloak was an easy tell. Those types never really went for subtle. Probably keeping the cloak in all this heat to hide a shaved head from the sun. He could never really fathom what the allure was. A little bit of hair on top kept your skull from burning. Shave it down and you have to do the whole hat thing all the time. Giving it a second thought, he had a mop of shaggy gray hair and he was still wearing a hat. Nothing like a double standard to start the afternoon.
The little one was also wrapped in a cloak. Judging by how she bounced along the path, she had to be young. Older folks complained about this kind of heat, not to mention walking around in it on mountains lead them to shamble along. This had to be a kid, or at least someone under the age of full adulthood. Probably Nikko's age.
He whirled back to the grasses. The swaying was closer now, at least a meter or more than it had been. Papa Marco didn't have time for strangers today if the grass was shifting like this, but it wasn't like he had any place he could go to escape them on this side of the mountain. This was the only flat part before it got all pointy and difficult to scale. He could try to hide in the grass, which he'd done one time before and nearly took a blaster bolt to the buttocks. Still, if the grasses were shifting on their own that only meant one thing, which was a fine reason to get rid of these two, whoever they were, so he wouldn't miss it.
The Sentinel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 3) Page 1