Son of Orlan (The Chronicles of Kin Roland Book 2) (6 page)

KIN threw himself down the hill,
barely able to keep his legs and feet under his body. His FSPAA armor crushed
saplings and bushes as he blundered forward. Twice, he bounced from the side of
a boulder half-buried in the steep slope.

A ledge jutted over empty air, blocking his downhill rush.
He jumped. The suit computer beeped warnings until he crashed feet first on the
valley floor, tumbling on impact. Rather than roll to his feet, he smashed end
over end, curling into a ball as best he could. When he reached his arms
forward to stop the wreck, the path of destruction made his landing seem a
meteor strike.

He looked toward the Imperial positions two kilometers in
the distance, unable to decide whether they detected his artless charge. Blood
trickled from his nose. The armor reduced impact, but didn’t eliminate damage
caused by a foolish pilot.

Pause. Scan. Now go. Don’t let Orlan kill another
innocent. Not his son
.

The FSPAA computer beeped, listed a dozen of his recent
maneuvers exceeding recommended unit tolerances, and sternly advised him to
decrease stride length and cycle rate. Kin knew the warnings word for word.
FSPAA units never loved him.

I’m not going to make it
.

His last image of William the Reaper provided just enough
hope to continue. The boy fled into a narrow crevasse, almost a cave. Orlan
pushed into the small space, but didn’t seemed free to maneuver.

Claustrophobia wasn’t a weakness of Orlan. Only the size of
his armor slowed his advance. Kin sent him into Reaper holes on Hellsbreach to
check for survivors. The man cursed him, but went every time. Orlan didn’t fear
enclosed spaces. Orlan didn’t fear anything.

And that troubled Kin, even during the fast and hot battles
when no one believed they would survive. Kin hid his fear—turned his mind away
from it and did his job. On a hostile planet, running wasn’t an option, though
some tried. There was only retreat, rally, and fight on. Fear meant death.
Orlan enjoyed fighting amid terror and hopeless odds. He was a force of nature
without concern for life.

Kin slowed his movement, searching for William and Orlan.
The crevasse was empty. During Kin’s mad rush to intervene, he lost sight of
them. Now they were gone—not far—but he would have to search for them.

He moved away from his route and studied the terrain.
Imperials scoured the area methodically. Two companies advanced toward Maiden’s
Keep. He saw them stalled on the ridge deciding which way to go. Not that it
mattered. Eventually, Maiden’s Keep would be surrounded.

Let’s check how I’m doing. I’ve lost Rickson, Ogre, Raien
and her troopers, Orlan, and William
.

I should have stayed on Westwood’s ship
.

Kin sat. His armor, despite the computer’s protestations,
wasn’t tired. It had ninety five percent of its original charge, regardless of
the punishment he inflicted during the last day. He, however, was tired. Muscle
soreness and fatigue didn’t faze him, not after everything he had endured since
Earth Fleet and Droon arrived. But his heart was beaten. He’d even misplaced
Becca. For all he knew, she had died in a valiant last stand to buy time for
the fleeing refugees of Crater Town.

And I rushed off to save a boy I don’t know from his
murderous father.

Kin crouched as low as possible in the FSPAA and hurried
through Crashdown evergreens, finding a trail Bear had shown him. He tried not
to think about Bear. The big hermit had been a good man; rough and spiteful,
but steady and loyal all his years on Crashdown.

Then the Clingers ate him. Kin left his body to be eaten by
the monsters. What were friends for?

After three close calls with the Imperial search parties, he
paused to look across the valley. The setting sun cast an orange glow on the
sides of the mountains. The wormhole loitered high in the sky. He wondered
whether Clavender had closed it for good or if she had been killed by a
mysterious Imperial trap. He counted the moons and sipped from a water tube
inside his helmet. Answers eluded him.

Crossing the valley to reach
Maiden’s keep was now impossible. Additional companies of Imperials marshaled
and set up a base camp. He would have to go around the danger. Calmed by the
scenic overlook, he turned away and went in search of Orlan and William. If the
boy was as resilient as Orlan claimed, there might still be hope.

THE alarm in Kin’s armor chimed. He
opened his eyes, scanned the area of his hiding place without moving, and
turned off the persistent alert. Maybe a good trooper didn’t need technology to
keep him from oversleeping, but Kin had already made too many mistakes.

Fog receded from his brain. He pushed back the nightmares of
Droon, who bit him over and over as Clingers mounted themselves on legions of
Reapers.

Yes, that was a nightmare, but a bit too close to reality.

He scarcely believed Droon spared him and returned Becca
unharmed. The Reaper changed during the last day before Westwood fled the
planet with his fleet. He promised other Reapers would take up the pursuit of
Kin-rol-an-da. He also swore to hunt only Cla-ven-da. A sudden wave of fear
spread through Kin.

Clavender’s warlike people surrounded her. They could
protect her. Sure they could.

Kin’s unease increased.

He caught himself thinking in the Reaper language and stood,
shaking off images that came with the words. He checked the FSPAA systems,
ensured sufficient ammunition had been transferred to his weapons from the
central vault, and moved toward a maze of chasms.

Here Orlan, Orlan, Orlan. Come out, come out, wherever
you are
.

He moved into the shadows, still feeling the effects of deep—if
troubled—sleep. His armored boots crunched fragments of rock. He knelt and
examined the floor of the narrow passage. Above him, stars glimmered in the
night. In places the walls of stone narrowed and he felt as though he were in a
cave with a celestial ceiling.

One of the large chips fit neatly into the wall. Orlan had
been this way, and had opened fire on his shape-changing son. Kin pondered the
question that had disturbed his sleep. Why didn’t William change back? Surely
Orlan would scoop him up and whisk him away to safety if he recognized his son.

Shortly after Kin emerged from the narrow passage, he
learned the fantasy of happily-ever-after hadn’t been realized. Gunfire boomed
from the bend in the trail. Kin approached and watched as Orlan lobbed rounds
at a pathetic Reaper trapped on a ledge.

The Reaper hunkered against the cliff wall as high velocity
bullets struck one at a time. Orlan didn’t have the angle for a kill shot. He
fired, checked for results, moved and fired again. A good trooper conserved
ammunition and Orlan was one of the best.

Kin activated his FSPAA direct radio, then spoke. “Roland to
Orland, I’m coming up behind you. Cease fire.”

“Hero of Man to the Enemy of Man, kiss my ass. I’ve got a
Reaper here.”

“It’s not a Reaper.”

“The hell you say.”

Before Kin could argue, William jumped from the ledge and
fled, taking advantage of Orlan’s momentary distraction. Orlan, who had seemed
rooted to the ground in the heavy armor, sprinted after the Reaper. His boots
churned up dirt and rocks, spitting the debris behind his sudden acceleration.

“Orlan!” Kin chased the trooper, fighting for speed. Orlan’s
suit was more advanced and better maintained than Kin’s unit. Yet Kin’s FSPAA
piloting skill remained superior, even after years without training and
practice. Catching the filicidal trooper proved difficult. He closed the
distance with effort and concentration.

Orlan looked back. “What the hell are you doing Kin?”

Kin surged forward, straining the gears of his armor, and
tackled Orlan.

Together, they slammed face first.

Kin recognized a good idea when he saw one. How had tackling
Orlan—the biggest, strongest, craziest man Kin had ever met—qualify for
consideration? Sleeping late: good idea. Carrying a backup weapon: good idea.
Fighting Sergeant Orlan, Class III weapons master and veteran killer: not a
good idea.

Advantage came with surprise. Kin pinned the man’s arms to
his waist, taking his weapons out of the fight. But Orlan rolled on his back,
crushing Kin beneath him.

Sprawled on the rocky ground, Kin held on. The weight
pressing him against the sharp soil wasn’t an issue. Armor protected him. The
problem was his inability to move. He couldn’t attack. He couldn’t retreat. He
couldn’t squirm from under the trooper pinning him.

Orlan lashed his head backward, striking Kin’s face plate.
Digital alerts scrolled across Kin’s visor. A sidebar graph rated the reverse
headbutt equivalent to a bullet strike.

Still facing the Crashdown sky, as was his victim, Orlan
lifted his feet toward his head, displaying not only his surprising flexibility
but that of his advanced FSPAA unit as well. He paused, reached his legs back
father until his feet were near his helmet, and thrust them forward and down. The
momentum pulled him into a standing position, dragging Kin up with him.

Kin tightened his grip. “Orlan, listen to me.”

Orlan flipped forward on to his back, slamming Kin with a
suicide throw hard enough to rattle his teeth inside the FSPAA helmet. Jumping
off the cliff had been worse, but not by much. He hadn’t felt the force of an
extra three-hundred pounds during that particular crash landing.

Kin hooked his legs around the trooper’s knees to prevent a
repeat of the stand-and-slam tactic. “The Reaper is a shape changer, Orlan.
He’s your son.”

“What?” Orlan broke the hold and scrambled to his feet.

Kin retreated, holding both hands up, palms toward the
trooper, who paced and clenched his fists.

Anger and frustration trembled through Orlan’s armored
gauntlets as he began to stride near Kin. “Are you drunk? Never thought you
were an alcoholic, but you’ve got to be drunk or stupid. William can’t change.
That’s why Tabitha abandoned him.”

“What kind of Reaper hides on a ledge? You’re calling me
stupid? I saw the Reaper’s total lack of aggression from a half mile.”

Orlan grunted. He searched for the Reaper and saw nothing.
“Well, he got away thanks to you. That’s your style, Reaper lover.”

Kin lunged forward and punched Orlan’s helmet. Like a hammer
on an anvil, the strike echoed through the valley.

The trooper staggered, caught his balance, and charged.
Orlan drove him over the edge of the steep trail and rode him like a sled for
ten meters. As they slid to a stop, Orlan rose and struck hard. Kin’s helmet
monitor scrambled for a second, enhanced optics blurring, audio inputs
overloading.

Kin rolled sideways, scrambling to his feet. He took the
high ground and looked down on Orlan. “Are we done? I came to warn you, and I
warned you. You want to kill your son? Go ahead. He’s probably the only person
in the universe who might love you.”

He braced for an attack, but Orlan stood from his fighting
stance and stared. Then he turned away.

Kin followed, wondering if he had gone too far. Orlan didn’t
feel physical wounds, but the words stunned him. His scrunched shoulders and
lowered head told a tale of misery. During the campaigns before Hellsbreach,
Kin and Orlan had been comrades if not friends. Kin had never seen the man
without a profane rejoinder.

“The Imperials were closing in on us when Westwood appeared
out of nowhere and led them away.”

Orlan glanced back, then turned his attention forward as he
descended the trail. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m telling you I didn’t know William was among the Crater
Town refugees. He turned into Commander Westwood to distract our pursuers. When
they had him cornered, he changed into Reaper form and escaped.”

Orlan led the way in silence.

A pack of Crashdown wolves howled in the distance. The
nightmarish chorus ended abruptly. Kin shuddered, staring into the night and
wondering if Reapers or something worse had silenced the monsters.

Orlan either didn’t hear the wolves or ignored them. He
seemed to analyze Kin’s explanation before pausing to stare. “Then I caught
him.”

Kin took a moment to understand Orlan’s words. “You almost
caught him. You told me he was a tough kid—survived living on the street. Now
all we have to do is find him and get to Maiden’s Keep.”

“You were taking the refugees to Maiden’s Keep?”

Kin thought about Laura and the others. The keep wouldn’t
protect them long. “Yeah.”

“I can’t say that’s a great idea, Kin. You were always the
smart one. Couldn’t you think of a better hideout? Someplace the Imperials
won’t find in a day of standard patrolling.”

“Our options are limited. Crashdown is full of Reapers and
Imperials. Unless we can find the Ror-Rea, I doubt there is a safe place.”

Orlan shook his head as Kin moved beside him. “I spoke to
some of the Wingers. They spent a year coming from the Ror-Rea, and they had
boats. This world has a lot of ocean, but you wouldn’t know that.”

Commander Westwood had told Kin something of the geography
of the planet. The Fleet surveillance satellite had made one pass before
crashing into the temperamental wormhole. The Fleet’s maps of Crashdown weren’t
perfect, but they were superior to Kin’s crude things. His exploration had been
thwarted by the barrier Clavender erected to protect Crater Town.

“I think I have his trail,” Orlan said. “Thought I taught
him better than this. Course, it was mostly book learning and videos. The boy
has never been planet-side.”

“Never?”

“The whorehouse was on a space station. When they kicked him
out, he lived on a second station in a nearby orbiting pattern. Every shining
city needs slums. In space they build dumping grounds for the unwanted.”