Chronicles of Kin Roland 1: Enemy of Man (21 page)

THE forced isolation finally broke when the Fleet doctor came. The door opened and he realized how loud the thunder was. He covered his ears and rushed to the door to see what must be battleships exploding or the heavens falling, knowing that if the guards outside thought he was trying to escape he would be shot.

The doctor ducked in the small door and closed the hatch, dampening the sound. What Kin saw before the opening closed was a storm. Wind ripped tile shingles off a nearby home and drove sand in twisting gusts. The doctor leaned on the door for a moment and closed her eyes.

Something made the doctor risk her life to come alone. A Fleet trooper wearing armor could endure such a tempest, but as a civilian, she wouldn’t know how to pilot a suit even if one were issued to her.

“It looks like the wormhole swallowed Crater Town,” Kin said
, as the doctor set down a bag.

The woman unwrapped the scarf protecting her face and removed a coat of thin but durable civilian armor. Sand matted her short, gray hair despite the protection of the scarf. Her movements were not graceful, but confident, despite the long, awkward appearance of her limbs.

“Tendrils of the wormhole have been attacking the coast for two days.” She opened the bag and removed her tools, laying them neatly on a small table that folded down from the wall.

“Can a wormhole attack? That makes it sound like a living enemy,” Kin said.

She didn’t look at him. “It feels like an attack. What it is cannot be known with our current data.”

She arranged
scalpels from smallest to largest. Kin suspected the examination wouldn’t be routine. Without a word, she cleaned his right forearm with antiseptic, picked up a blade and began poking the muscle delicately. Something struck the quarantine pod, shaking it violently.

The doctor swayed on her feet, but didn’t let go of his wrist. She frowned as she poised the blade in the air. “I don’t have time for this. She never gives me enough time.”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself or at least explain what you are doing?” Kin asked. “I’m a dangerous man after all. Imprisoned and treated like a criminal.”

“You will be executed as a criminal if you don’t hold still,” she said. “I’m going to upgrade your identification plate. Commander Westwood will be suspicious of the incision and will confront you about it. He will appear angry, but will accept your explanation of a recent inju
ry at the hands of the Reaper.”

She stared at the Reaper injury and swallowed. Black corruption caused the wound to bulge, but Kin felt no pain and the stink had diminished.

Kin’s mind raced. Commander Westwood must know who he was and was allowing his identity to be concealed. But who was the woman the doctor referred to? Could it be Becca or was it Captain Raien? What would Commander Westwood say when Orlan started making accusations?

“Did Rebecca send you?” Kin asked.

“Be quiet,” the doctor said. She cut into his arm without anesthetic and removed a computer plate the size of a fingernail. She smiled without much humor and said, “Look, I have cut out your life. Unfortunately, this old model I am putting in will malfunction. It will need to be replaced. In the future it will appear as though today was your birthday.”

“The one you are holding has been altered by the best identity thieves in three quadrants,” Kin said.

“That might be sufficient to fool a corporate inspector, who does not really care what is on it, but it will not pass Fleet inspection. I believe you understand this.”

“I need to know who sent you if I’m to be interrogated. I wouldn’t want to expose my benefactor inadvertently,” Kin said.

The door of the quarantine pod opened as the doctor finished packing her tools. A Fleet trooper looked inside and beckoned Kin with gauntleted hand. He was too big to come in and grab Kin, but it seemed he wanted to. Kin made eye contact with the doctor. She stood passively and revealed nothing. He went outside.

“Come with me,” the trooper said, the same trooper who had escorted him to Clavender’s home and met him on the perimeter when he returned to Crater Town. Kin stepped into the storm. He could barely breathe because of the wind pushing against his face.
He shielded his eyes and turned away from the gale. The trooper took him by the arm.

“I don’t want you to blow away.” The voice was mechanical.

“What’s your name, trooper,” Kin asked. No response. “Are you a man or a woman? I can’t tell. Your voice amplifier is dry.”

“This way. Best if we hurry. I’m required to deliver you to Commander Westwood. Flying debris and meteors will smash you if you linger.”

“What about the doctor?” Kin asked.

“She will shelter in place until a Stryker can come for her.”

“She didn’t come in a Stryker,” Kin said. The trooper didn’t look at him. Twice he was nearly blown away, but the trooper pulled him close and sheltered him against the wind. Something large struck the trooper’s armor and bounced off. Kin admired the trooper’s solid stance.

“Do I need to carry you?” the trooper asked.

Kin ducked his head and pressed into the wind, pushing toward the town meeting hall. The trooper steered him in another direction.

“We’re going to the Flagship. Native structures are no longer safe. The storm and the wormhole have destroyed much of the town. The Reaper and other creatures have been seen moving through the streets. If you run from me, you’ll die.”

Kin allowed himself to be led to the Flagship, which had been moved to the edge of town. Other Fleet vessels were lined up in precise military formation. They had been hastily repaired and Kin saw several Strykers returning from the foothills towing fuel containers to a refinery building that used to be an armored vehicle transport craft. Preparations for liftoff had been made. Two-thirds of the Fleet vessels that had survived the landing were visible in the distance, abandoned and stripped of useful parts.

“If those vehicles lift off from there, the town will be incinerated,” Kin said.

“Correct,” the trooper said. A pause. “You thought I was a man.”

Kin looked up. He detected something in the trooper’s statement. The trooper didn’t face him or turn the helmet toward him. Whoever was inside had chosen the darkest possible visor setting. Anyone could be behind that convenient mask. Several famous Fleet commanders had the custom of mingling with the
troops wearing second-rate armor. Much could be learned this way. Kin started to respond, but the wormhole opened and launched three battlecruisers toward the planet. Kin watched the ships burst into flame and sail over the mountains. A battle raged beyond the wormhole and Earth Fleet was losing.

“Inside the Flagship,” the trooper said.

Kin pulled away and watched the horizon until three mushroom clouds reached above the line of mountains. The ships had struck hard and were lost with all hands. More ships sprayed from the wormhole in all directions, even as two long tendrils reached into the sea and began sucking up millions of gallons of water. A third tendril grabbed the beach a mile away, but instead of pulling up sand, it blasted a deep hole. Waves rushed in, filling it with chaos. Small meteorites began to fall by the thousands, trailing smoke and flames like deadly rockets.

The trooper grabbed Kin and flung him inside the Flagship loading bay. He landed hard—left hand, elbow, face, and finally pitching onto his back. When he stood, the trooper hit a button to close the door before lowering th
e helmet assembly of the armor.

Kin saw the back of her head before she turned.

“Becca,” he said.

“What kind of idiot stands like a raw recruit watching a meteor storm? Do you have any idea how little time we have?” she said.

A scar crossed her face from her forehead to her jaw. One of her eyes was probably synthetic and she bore the distinctive tattoos of a Shock Troop Brigade on both sides of her neck. The black and red tattoos were not large, but the fact she possessed both of them meant she had completed the training and seen combat.

Kin tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. Becca had been training to be a navigator when he last saw her. What happened to make her a member of the Fleet Trooper Elite Forces?

Kin wanted to run to her and gather her in his arms, but the bulky armor would make such a gesture ridiculous. Shock Troopers normally piloted Mechanized Units, which were similar to FSPAA units but larger, more heavily armored, and loaded with Devastation Class weapons including high capacity plasma rifles. The Shock Troops on Hellsbreach had laid waste to hordes of Reapers, but had been used recklessly by command staff. None of them survived. Becca couldn’t have been on Hellsbreach, unless the Fleet had initiated a second campaign to wipe them out. He wanted to say something, but her eyes stopped him.

“The Commander is waiting for you,” Becca said. She signaled two loading bay guards and they hustled Kin into a hallway.

Commander Westwood waited in the Tactical Planning Room with all his captains and senior lieutenants. Raien was there.

Zelig looked up from the table and glared at Kin.
He obviously resented the intrusion. His anger burned bright, causing his skin to flush red, which accentuated his facial scar. Despite the expression, Kin doubted the man recognized him as the Traitor of Hellsbreach. Other officers seemed equally upset about his presence for similar reasons. Only Commander Westwood met his gaze and held it. He was unreadable.

“Kin
Roland, good of you to join us,” Commander Westwood said. “It would have been nice had you sent word the Reaper bonded with Clingers and leads a pack of Crashdown wolves. We lost seven troopers in its first attack.”

“I was unable to send messages. It nearly killed me twice,” Kin said. He looked for Laura Keen and found her near the Commander, keeping quiet for once. She stared at him. Kin didn’t know if she had betrayed him, but understood this interview was dangerous for both of them. If the officers of the Fleet learned she had failed to report him, she would be executed as well.

Commander Westwood frowned and ordered him to come closer. Kin obeyed.

“I need to know if this Reaper can manipulate technology. Will he be able to reconstruct and pilot a spacecraft, should we leave functioning parts behind? The wormhole storm has made destruction efforts difficult,” Commander Westwood said.

Kin thought about Droon before answering. “He adapted to Sergeant Orlan’s patrol tactics and foiled every trap I laid for him. I think his use of the Clingers as armor was an accident. The wolves were probably subdued out of necessity. I led the Reaper into their territory hoping they would destroy him.”

“You utilized a dangerous enemy to attack your greater enemy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Interesting.” Commander Westwood moved to another table and discussed something with his captains. Kin tried to listen, but they were talking about other issues. He saw evidence of plans for
a hasty withdrawal. Situation reports were given by junior officers. Supply reports were updated.

Kin walked toward Laura and sat in a chair. Becca watched him from across the room.

“Don’t get too familiar, Kin. I think that woman wants to kill me,” Laura said.

“Where’s Orlan?” Kin asked.

“He’s hunting the Reaper. For a sergeant, he receives significant respect from Commander Westwood.”

“Fleet sergeants are a special breed. Even commanders listen to their reports,” Kin said. “We need to talk.”

“No, we need to
not
talk. Westwood is the smartest man I’ve ever met. His handling of intrigue scares me.”

Kin laughed. “The two of you should get along well. Did you send the doctor?”

“Westwood is coming back. Do what he says if you want to live.”

“What’s going to happen to the people of Crater Town?” Kin asked.

“I don’t know,” Laura said. She shifted her eyes to Westwood and smiled. “Commander.”

“Laura, I need you to take a walk. Attend to that matter we discussed,” Westwood said.

Laura nodded and left the room. A guard followed her.

“I received a report from Doctor Gold. She claims you have no contagions that concern the Fleet, unlike your friend Clavender. She also stated that your identity plate is damaged and unable to send information to a scanner,” Westwood said.

“I didn’t think I would need my identity plate. Crashdown is a one-way stop. No one has ever left.”

“A good place to hide.”

Kin searched his expression but found no hints at what he meant by the words. Someone had sent the doctor, but no one had admitted it. He divided his attention between the Commander and thoughts of Clavender. If she were considered infected with a local contagion, then it was unlikely she would be allowed to leave the planet. In a best-case scenario, she would be confined to a quarantine ship. There were always provisions for such a vessel, though they were never used. Most people who became contaminated with anything that could endanger the Fleet mission were exiled to the first rock that would sustain life. Most killed themselves before being marooned on lost planets.

“How long have you been here, Roland?” Westwood asked.