Protector (The Vigilante Chronicles Book 7) Read online

  Protector

  The Vigilante Chronicles™ Book Seven

  Natalie Grey

  Michael Anderle

  Protector (this book) is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2018 Natalie Grey and Michael Anderle

  Cover by Jeff Brown, http://jeffbrowngraphics.com/

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, December 2018

  The Kurtherian Gambit (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2015-2018 by Michael T. Anderle and LMBPN Publishing.

  Contents

  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

  Author Notes - Natalie Grey

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Books by Natalie Grey

  Books by Michael Anderle

  Connect with the authors

  The Protector Team

  Thanks to our JIT Readers

  Jed Moulton

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  John Ashmore

  Keith Verret

  Diane L. Smith

  Angel LaVey

  Paul Westman

  If We’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  The Skyhunter Editing Team

  From Natalie

  For M and T

  From Michael

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  To Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  To Live The Life We Are

  Called.

  Chapter One

  “We’re close!” Kelnamon scrambled up the rocky incline and took a deep breath of fresh air. Happiness was brimming in his chest, and he could not keep back his smile—or the tears that were gathering in his eyes. He had come out here twice since he’d returned, but walking on his homeworld again was still unusual enough to provoke strong emotions in him.

  It had been years since he had seen the gray and ochre rocks of Kordinev, his homeworld. He had spent eight of those serving on one of the big cargo freighters, saving up for the ship he now owned—the Srisa. He’d been its captain for over a decade now.

  It had taken a tragedy and incredible danger for him to consider coming back to Kordinev. As much as he loved his homeworld, there was very little opportunity here. It lay far from any trade routes, and he was the seventh child. Had he stayed, he would have just been another mouth to feed. Rather than be a burden on his family, he had left to find work elsewhere.

  But he had missed this place, and he had missed his family. He’d been so busy he hadn’t realized how much.

  He turned to look behind him now, and gave a wondering shake of his head as his companion clambered up the slope after him. Ferqar was a captain in the Jotun Navy. He had been born, as far as Kelnamon could tell, into incredible privilege, but had given up everything to become a ship’s captain.

  Then, due to political machinations, he had been demoted and sent to work on the Jotuns’ border patrols—where he’d stumbled on the same conspiracy Kelnamon had become embroiled in.

  Kelnamon was trying not to be bitter about that. Ferqar had found out that a fellow Jotun captain, Huword, was abducting and torturing alien civilians. Disgusted, Ferqar had helped arrange for Huword’s assassination...aboard Kelnamon’s ship.

  The problem was, Huword had been part of something far bigger than Ferqar knew, and the Srisa had nearly been destroyed by a Jotun black ops team that was trying to cover up Huword’s misdeeds. When they showed up, Kelnamon had taken the Srisa and fled to Kordinev.

  Now he, along with the Brakalon government, was trying to figure out what to do about the angry civilians who had been on board his ship. Kelnamon was hoping that no one was going to come after them here, but every passenger had witnessed far too much. He was sure that the Jotun government wanted his ship destroyed, as well as everyone who had been aboard.

  As much as the civilians hated it, they had to stay here until the coast was clear. He didn’t know when that would be, though, and they were getting increasingly angry. After a long morning of arguing with a cloth merchant who was threatening to involve his guild, Kelnamon had gone out for a walk to clear his head, and Ferqar had come with him.

  Which was when they’d seen a strange object hurtling out of the atmosphere to land nearby, firing thrusters as it went.

  “We should probably have called for a hopper,” Ferqar said when he reached Kelnamon. He wasn’t winded, of course, since he was using his biosuit to move, but it was clear that the rough terrain of Kordinev was difficult for the Jotun to navigate.

  “The point of a walk is that you walk,” Kelnamon remarked. He still wasn’t quite sure if Ferqar understood that. They had gone for walks several times recently, and Ferqar tended to ask where they had been going and what the point was.

  “Yes,” Ferqar agreed, somehow managing to imply that Kelnamon was completely insane, “but now we’re searching for something, and a search is best done with technology—like scanners.”

  He did have a point, as much as Kelnamon hated to admit it. “Your suit has scanners, right? Have you been using them?”

  It was hard to tell, but the faint movements in Ferqar’s suit suggested that he was faintly embarrassed. “Well, yes. But I haven’t found anything.”

  Kelnamon rolled his eyes. “So...using technology hasn’t been any better than being on foot, then.” He looked at the horizon and squinted as he slowly swung his head side to side.

  This part of Kordinev, just outside the capital city of Herod, was hilly and weathered by the constant winds. The soft sandstone had been shaped beautifully, and the only vegetation was hardy scrub that nestled in the alcoves and cracks of the rocks where it was protected from the wind.

  “I’m amazed that life ever took hold here,” Ferqar stated, after a moment.

  “Why?” Kelnamon felt almost offended.

  “There’s no water.”

  Kelnamon laughed. “Of course, there’s water. Come, I’ll show you.” He kne
lt near a long crack in the top of the rock. “See those plants, how their leaves are so thick? They hold water inside. When it rains, the water pools here in the crack and the plant sucks it up through the roots, which are under the ground. If you’re lost out here, you pull the plants up one by one and eat them for the water inside.”

  “And if you’re an aquatic life form?” Ferqar asked, somewhat prickly.

  “Well...” Kelnamon scratched his head. “No, there’s no water like that, I suppose.”

  “Mmm.”

  Kelnamon stood up and brushed the dust off his knees, then realized something. “One of the trees over there has been knocked over.”

  “Those,” Ferqar said, “do not count as trees. They are much too sad and small.”

  “No, just pay attention—there were five trees there yesterday. I remember seeing them. Now one of them has fallen over.” Kelnamon waited for Ferqar to understand, then rolled his eyes. “Like it was hit by something.”

  “Oh!” Ferqar concentrated on the horizon. “Yes, I just got a burst of radio static.”

  “Come with me.” Kelnamon was already running toward the hill, which was about a quarter of a mile away. “I’ll show you the path!”

  “This would be easier in a hopper!” Ferqar called after him, but he followed, each of his footsteps accompanied by a clank.

  They were about halfway up the hill when a bolt of energy whizzed over their heads and both of them ducked. Kelnamon lost his footing and tumbled down the hill while Ferqar yelled something.

  “Just get to cover!” Kelnamon called. He wedged himself behind a nearby boulder and peeked out. He didn’t see anything—

  Another burst of shots came from the trees nearby, and when the smoke cleared, he was able to make out a spidery shape. It was a turret of some sort.

  “Ferqar?”

  “I’m all right,” Ferqar called back. “I said, it’s not sentient—and it’s of Jotun make.”

  “What?” More shots sounded, and Kelnamon looked around to see that the thing was advancing. “Get ready, it’s coming our way! I don’t suppose you have a gun in that suit?”

  “Not one that can take that out!” There was muttered untranslatable swearing in Jotun, then Ferqar said. “Look, if I draw its fire, can you take it down?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice. Just tell me when to go!” As more shots zoomed by, one taking a chip off the boulder Kelnamon was hiding behind, the Brakalon yelled, “Go now!”

  “Going!” There was a resounding clank as Ferqar leapt into action.

  Kelnamon launched out from behind cover and charged at the turret. It must have had a proximity sensor, because as soon as he got close, its turret swung to point straight at him. He could see its laser sight staring at him like a baleful red eye.

  There was no time to duck. With a roar, as much to keep himself brave as anything, Kelnamon grabbed the turret by the legs, whirled it over his head, and bashed it on the rocks. He kept slamming it on the ground, and was just starting to become satisfied that it was properly dead when something large and metal slammed him sideways.

  He went tumbling down a nearby hill toward a drop off of a few feet and scrabbled for purchase on the rocks.

  “No!” Ferqar yelled. “Drop! Do it now!”

  Kelnamon obeyed, for which he was grateful a moment later when the remains of the Jotun bot exploded. From the boom, it had been a very high-grade explosive. If Kelnamon had been standing there—

  He looked at Ferqar gravely. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Ferqar admitted. “It can’t have been meant as part of an invasion or there would be hundreds of them, wouldn’t there?”

  Kelnamon wasn’t willing to bet on that. “Come on. We need to get back to the capital and tell them about this. And...”

  “And?” Ferqar asked.

  “I think we should call on that human,” Kelnamon said. “He’s good at finding out secrets. If anyone can figure out what this is, he can.”

  * * *

  “How are things progressing?” Grisor entered the room with a nod to each of the analysts, and a deeper nod—although he hated to do so—for the other Committee members present.

  Grisor was developing a very, very low opinion of the Committee members. The aides, analysts, and soldiers who supported their objective, however, had so far shown themselves to be exceedingly competent.

  His vacation home on Jotuna D had been made over into a base of operations to advance the Committee’s newest goals. A group of scientists and engineers was interpreting the schematics sent from the laboratories, and building conversion facilities. They would need equipment both here and to send to the Brakalon homeworld as soon as the invasion was complete.

  Another group was assessing the homeworld. The Jotun government had preliminary data, of course—atmosphere, gravity, and a basic map. The information had not been collected with a small, targeted invasion in mind, however.

  The Committee needed to know where it would be easiest to land near the capital city of Herod in order to take the government buildings and set up their conversion laboratory. The data they collected in the next few days would help them develop their plan.

  Would they, perhaps, take over a specific building and convert everyone inside? Would they take the opportunity to accost a high-ranking Brakalon official on vacation and use that connection to lure others into the trap?

  There was no way to know yet what the optimal plan might be.

  Grisor was interested in the process. He went to the desk that held the newest maps.

  “The probes are, by and large, surviving their descent,” one of the junior analysts told him.

  There was a round of hastily-cut-off hisses for her to be quiet. Grisor, intrigued by this, fixed her with a look.

  “What does that mean?”

  She faltered, but it was clear from her next words that she was answering him honestly. “One or two were destroyed upon landing. The terrain is very harsh. Another reported conflict and was summarily destroyed. I assume that was either hostile wildlife or that it was actually damaged during landing. It detonated, however, so anything nearby was destroyed.” She paused, then added, “A certain number of losses are to be expected upon landing. We have had a very high success rate this time.”

  “So there was no reason to be worried, then?” Grisor asked. “About me knowing, I mean. You are all performing better than could be expected.”

  She nodded hesitantly.

  Grisor looked around the room. “Remember that. I will hold you accountable for those things within your control. I will expect you to perform within the parameters you give me. If I find out you have lied, either about those parameters or about your performance, it will go badly for you. This will be your only warning.”

  They all gave terrified nods.

  He left, one of the other Committee members dogging his heels. “You scared them.”

  “Good,” Grisor replied. “They should respect us.”

  “There is a fine line between respect and—”

  Grisor turned silently to observe the Committee member, who stammered and whispered an apology.

  “I will not tolerate disrespect,” Grisor warned him.

  “You are only one member of this Committee,” the senator blurted in a moment of rare defiance.

  “Of course,” Grisor agreed, lying with a flutter of a Jotun smile. “I seek only the respect one Committee member gives another. Our underlings, however, should understand that their honesty with us is required. Is that not so?”

  “Oh. Oh, of course.”

  “Good. Now, let us go take some refreshment.”

  It would be poisoned, of course. This senator had shown his true colors, and they had reached the point in their plan where any weak link could be fatal.

  It was time to begin culling the group.

  Chapter Two

  “Barnabas?” Elisa’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

  “Up here,” Barnabas c
alled back. “I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m coming up.”

  “Don’t do that.” Worried, Barnabas dropped his tools and hurried down the stairs, nearly colliding with her on the landing.

  She laughed at him, one hand cupping the very faint curve of her belly. Her pregnancy was just beginning to show, and she found it hilarious that everyone kept trying to do things for her. “You don’t need to worry, you know. I’m fully capable of handling the exertion of stairs.

  “Er...” Barnabas refrained from asking if she was sure about that.

  Elisa held up a hand, palm out. “I solemnly swear that when I get too pregnant to walk up the stairs, I will admit it and have you all wait on me hand and foot.”

  “Ah. Good.” Barnabas could work with that.

  “What are you working on?” Elisa asked him.

  “Hmm.” Barnabas scratched his head. “Well, it’s not that the stairs aren’t structurally sound, you understand—”

  “Say no more.” Elisa was chuckling. “Can I look?” She peered around Barnabas and gave a gasp. “You’re redoing all of them! Don’t you have...I don’t know, criminals to be hunting down?”