Star Crossed

by C. Gockel

  The Stacian could not move as quickly as she. He began to reach for her, but another bolt of shocking green fire burst forth, hitting him directly in the chest. Miala heard him scream, a curiously high-pitched sound for someone so huge, and then she felt him crumple, landing on her outstretched legs. The impact was so painful and unexpected that for a few seconds she could only lie there, wondering if he had managed to break both her limbs in his fall. Then she gave a cautious little wiggle of her right leg. It hurt, but not enough to have been broken. Probably she’d be covered in bruises tomorrow—if she ever managed to get him off her.

  Somewhere off to the right she heard the distinctive whine of turbos, followed by a wave of hot air hitting her cheek. Metallic footsteps clattered against the pavement, and then the appalling pressure of Korvan’s dead body on her lower half suddenly eased.

  A gloved hand appeared in front of her face. “You all right?”

  She reached out and wrapped her fingers around Thorn’s, letting him haul her upright. The Fury sat a few meters off to the right, looking completely out of place in the amusement park setting. It was only his voice that told her who he was, because somehow he’d gotten his hands on a suit of GDF power armor, and it covered him from head to toe.

  No time to ask him where the hell he’d gotten it, or whether he’d had it stashed in the Fury all along, so she said only, “As usual, your timing is impeccable, Thorn.” Once she was standing—and to her surprise, Miala found she could stand upright, even though her knees shook and every muscle from her hips downward told her that they didn’t much care for the way they’d been treated—she gasped, “Jerem’s up there. One of them is still after him.” And she pointed up toward the gantry, where, thank all the gods ever dreamed of by sentient species, their son still clung to the heavy steel framework.

  His helmeted head swiveled upward. “Got it.” And Eryk Thorn took off at a run, moving more swiftly than she would have thought possible, until her addled brain suddenly realized that he was airborne, a jet pack on the back of his armor lifting him up and away from her, up to rescue his son.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, Jerem thought. ’Cause now they’ve found me, there’s no place to go.

  He clung grimly to the weathered gantry, legs dangling a good hundred meters above the pavement. Sure, he could say he wasn’t afraid of heights, but it felt a lot different when there wasn’t much separating you from a particularly nasty death. He wondered if he slipped and fell whether he’d die on the way down, or whether he’d have to wait until he hit the bottom to meet his end. Either way, it didn’t promise to be too much fun.

  How they’d managed to find him so quickly, Jerem couldn’t be sure, although maybe they had some sort of scanning device that would track a living being among all the steel structures. Not that it really mattered at this point, he supposed. What really mattered was how he was going to get out of this.

  He didn’t recognize the man who crawled along the gantry toward him—it wasn’t the rat-faced kidnapper who had brought him his meals, or the tall dark-haired one who was scary in a quiet way. And of course Korvan couldn’t have hauled his big Stacian butt all the way up here. Still, it didn’t really matter—Jerem could tell from the look of angry determination on the man’s face that he wasn’t exactly thrilled with having to scramble up here to chase after a kid, especially one who was supposed to sit in his cell like a good little boy and wait to be killed.

  About a meter separated Jerem from his current perch and the absolute endpoint of the gantry. He inched backward a bit, not because he thought it would do any good, but just because he felt like he ought to be doing something.

  “Where do you think you’re going, kid?” the man called out, sounding breathless and annoyed. “Gonna dive off the end into the bay?”

  That would have been a spectacular stunt, but even if he could have survived such a fall, the waters off Rendarlin Point were too far away to offer even a hint of escape. No, the only way Jerem was getting off this thing was either the way he came, or by going ker-splat on the pavement below.

  “Maybe,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so weak and trembly. “What about you?”

  The man muttered something. Jerem couldn’t be exactly sure, but it almost sounded like he said, “I’m not getting paid enough for this...”

  Jerem didn’t have time to think about that, though, because all of a sudden a bolt of green pulse fire shot past him, right toward the kidnapper. The man cursed, and reached for the holster at his hip—not an easy maneuver when clinging to a gantry some hundred meters off the ground. And while the man scrabbled for his sidearm, another bolt whizzed past Jerem’s other ear, this time hitting the kidnapper square in the chest and knocking him backward. He screamed, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the steel structure, before his body went limp, and he slipped, tumbling away into the cool sea-scented air. It seemed as if an awful lot of seconds went by before Jerem heard the man’s body finally hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

  And then he looked up, to see Eryk Thorn—his father—hovering in the air a meter away from him, jet pack holding the mercenary up in defiance of Nova Angeles’ gravity, just like the shock troops Jerem had read about in his graphic novels. It was only the coolest thing ever.

  “Ready to get down from there?” his father asked.

  Trying to look nonchalant, Jerem said, “Yeah.”

  Of course the helmet hid Eryk Thorn’s expression, but Jerem got the impression his father smiled behind the helmet’s smoked-plastic visor. “Okay. Wait there.”

  He sailed closer, then extended a hand. Jerem reached out to take it. There was one heart-stopping second where it seemed as if he were free-falling, just like the ride advertised, but then he felt his father’s strong arms close around him, holding him tightly as they swept downward toward the ground. Even with all the times Jerem had tried to think what flying might feel like, he had never imagined it could be this much fun.

  They settled on the ground in an open area between all the high-rise attractions. Jerem saw his mother waiting for him there, her face white with worry. At her feet lay the bodies of Korvan, the dark-haired kidnapper, and two other men. He guessed that his father must have gotten to them first and then come after him. Maybe it should have scared him a little to see dead bodies like that, but Jerem could only feel a rush of satisfaction that Eryk Thorn had killed them all.

  His father released him once they stood on solid ground again. Jerem sort of wished they could have kept flying around, but he supposed his mother might not have been exactly thrilled with them for leaving her behind while she waited on the ground. Still, he couldn’t help exclaiming, “That was fun! I want to do it again!”

  For a second his mother just stared at him. Then she gave a sort of hiccuping laugh, and rushed forward and pulled him into her arms. Her body shook, and Jerem realized she was laughing and crying at the same time.

  Grown-ups, he thought, with a mental shrug. He didn’t see what the big deal was.

  After all, he’d always known his father would come rescue him.

  29

  The supply room where the thugs had unceremoniously shoved Creel and Jessa was dark and smelled of mildew and stale lubricants. From the sounds of gunfire that he could barely make out through the door, a major pile of crap must have hit the air circulator. Almost immediately after the one man had contacted his boss on his handheld, a commotion erupted from the other side of the park, and Creel had found himself getting pushed in here without the goons even bothering to tie him and Jessa up.

  Not that having his hands free helped much. The door had been locked from the outside, and since the cramped little compartment didn’t have any windows, there was no way he could tell exactly what was going on. Jessa, ever resourceful, had gone to the lock mechanism and had begun the tedious work of prying off the faceplate using the edge of her belt buckle as a crude lever. It wasn’t much and would probably take her forever, but a quick s
urvey of the supply room had shown that it was swept bare of everything except a few discarded containers, which appeared to be the source of the stale lubricant smell.

  “What do you think’s going on out there?” he asked, after sidling closer to watch Jessa struggle with the lock. He knew better than to offer to help.

  “Don’t know,” she gritted. The belt buckle slipped, and she swore under her breath. “But it was pretty obvious that our guys weren’t happy about it.”

  True, Creel thought, smiling a little to himself. It was maddening not to know what might be going down in the park outside, but anything that brought a little grief into those goons’ lives had to be a positive.

  Metal scraped against metal, and he gave an involuntary wince. Still, at least it seemed this time as if Jessa had gotten a better angle to shove the buckle under the edge of the faceplate. Maybe it would actually work. If they got out, maybe they could sneak up on the perps, take them from behind...

  With no weapons, and outnumbered two to one, Creel told himself, shaking his head. I think you read too many comic books growing up...

  Suddenly the door slid into the jamb with a whine of miniature servos. Creel opened his mouth to say, “Good work, Jessa,” then realized she hadn’t even begun to lift the faceplate from the lock mechanism. The door had to have been opened from the outside.

  Outlined against the gray-white early morning light stood a stocky figure in armor, the distinctive shape of the GDF shock-troop helmet he wore clear even in silhouette. Behind him Creel could see the slighter frame of Mia Felaris, who had her arm around a boy of eight or nine standard years. The kid’s eyes were shining, and he looked as if he were trying to maintain a serious expression, but a little smile kept lifting at the corners of his mouth. Creel got the impression that the boy was having a great time but was under strict orders to behave himself.

  For a second Creel just stood there and stared at the odd trio, ignoring the shocked intake of breath that came from Jessa’s direction. So I was right, he thought. Still, he knew he’d have to play this very, very carefully.

  “Good morning...Captain Marr,” he said.

  The helmet tilted the smallest fraction of a centimeter. “Morning, detective. Thought you might want to get out of there.”

  “That’s for sure,” Creel replied.

  Eryk Thorn stepped back out of the doorway, allowing Creel and Jessa to exit. Her lifted eyebrow indicated that she had all sorts of things she would like to say but wouldn’t...at least not until later.

  Creel glanced over at Mia Felaris, at the boy she held so close. The kid was swarthy and dark, and didn’t look much like her. He did seem oddly familiar, though, as if Creel had seen his face somewhere before.

  Even though he had had his suspicions, this sudden confirmation of his theory hit him with as much force as a blow to the gut. He glanced back at Eryk Thorn, who reached up to remove his helmet. Creel supposed the mercenary had nothing to hide at this point—after all, both he and Jessa had seen Thorn’s face back at the docking bay, when the man had been dressed in simple civilian clothing. But it was still a little shocking to watch him lift off the helmet and then tuck it under his left arm.

  Looking from the mercenary to the boy who stood next to Mia Felaris was like watching one of those time-lapse vids where you see a flower sprout from a bud to full bloom in the space of a second. So it was true. Eryk Thorn really was Jerem Felaris’ father.

  “You see, then,” Thorn said, and Creel nodded.

  “They took him,” Mia Felaris put in. For the first time Creel noticed she held a battered-looking synth-hide satchel in her free hand. “We had to get him back.”

  And her simple words allowed the last of the puzzle pieces to fall into place. The criminals who had taken over the Stony Point amusement park had kidnapped Jerem, hoping to hold him for a fat ransom. Creel wondered briefly how much cash Mia Felaris and Thorn had taken away from Iradia all those years ago and then decided it didn’t really matter at this point. Obviously the kidnappers had thought it was a great deal.

  But now they must all be dead. Creel knew too much about Thorn’s reputation to think that he would have allowed any of them to live. Either they hadn’t known of Mia Felaris’ connection to the mercenary, or they’d thought they could match him.

  Well, there’s your first mistake, kids, he thought, and couldn’t help smiling a little.

  “So what now?” Jessa asked. She had abandoned her work on the locking mechanism’s faceplate and had come to stand next to Creel.

  “You let us go,” Thorn said simply.

  That would be a violation of about fifty line items in Nova Angeles’ penal code, but Creel knew protests were useless. “And then what?” he asked.

  Thorn and Mia Felaris exchanged a glance, and then the mercenary’s gaze moved to the boy who stood at his mother’s side. Something about the hard lines of Thorn’s mouth softened almost imperceptibly. “We leave,” he said. “You won’t need to worry about us mucking up your nice, tidy little world anymore. And you get to take all the credit for eliminating a band of dangerous criminals.”

  He couldn’t ask for much more than that, Creel knew. Any attempt to stop Thorn from simply walking out of here would at best end up with him and Jessa locked back in the supply room.

  “All right,” Creel said. Beside him Jessa shifted, as if she wanted to make some further protest but realized that wouldn’t be very smart.

  Thorn’s dark eyes looked almost amused. Then he turned to Mia Felaris and his son. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And, simple as that, it was over. Creel stood in the entrance to the supply shed and watched the three of them walk away, off toward a sort of courtyard area where he could see the arrowhead-shaped outline of Thorn’s ship waiting. The hatch opened at an unseen signal, and then the mercenary’s unexpected family disappeared from view. A moment later, Creel heard the engines warming up, and finally the ship lifted into the air and sped away to the east until it at last disappeared in the sun.

  For a few seconds he could only remain where he was, gazing off into the hazy morning sky. Then he became aware of Jessa staring up at him, a half-amused expression on her face.

  “You look like a kid who just found out his birthday present was a new school uniform,” she remarked.

  Creel shook his head and forced himself to smile. “That bad, huh?”

  “Only to someone who knows you.” Then she laughed. “Cheer up, Rafe. It’s not that bad.”

  “It isn’t?” he asked. God only knew what sort of mess the mercenary had left behind, and what kind of lies Creel and Jessa would be forced to invent to cover it up.

  “No,” she said, and again he saw that trace of a dimple in her cheek. “Remember, you owe me a dinner date.” And she actually reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze before she stepped away, striding purposefully toward the open area Thorn’s ship had just vacated.

  It’s a mess, all right, Creel thought, as he followed along after her and then paused to catch his first glimpse of the carnage the mercenary had left behind. Then he saw Jessa turn and shoot a wicked smile in his direction, a smile that brought a sudden flush of heat to his face.

  Suddenly, the aftermath didn’t seem all that important. They’d get it ironed out eventually. In fact, he welcomed this particular mess, if it had somehow brought him and Jessa closer together.

  Besides, he thought cheerfully, I could probably make a pretty good case for all this being self-defense, considering the kidnappers instigated the whole thing by taking the boy.

  “So,” he said to Jessa, who stood a few paces away and surveyed the bloody aftermath of Thorn’s own particular form of justice with a look of bemused respect on her face, “you ready to test the outer limits of plausible deniability?”

  They didn’t bother to stop for anything, because there was nothing left to take. All of Miala’s and Jerem’s belongings had burned with the house, and of course Thorn had everything he needed right here i
n the Fury. The ship’s cockpit would only accommodate two; Miala had given up the copilot’s seat so her son could take his place there next to his father. She found she didn’t mind too much—after all, the two of them had eight years of catching up to do. However, the only other chamber in the ship that could house a living being during the acceleration of takeoff was Thorn’s holding cell. Miala had lain down on the cot there, trying not to think of all the hapless souls who might once have been kept in the cramped compartment, and attempting to ignore the restraints that had probably been used on its previous residents—save for the one chest strap that would hold her in place while the ship was breaking free of Nova Angeles’ gravity well. Of course, Thorn hadn’t locked the cell, and once they were in space she could get up and move about the ship, but it still was unsettling to lie there and wonder if anyone had died on that cot, and if so, whether their uneasy spirit hovered about the place.

  The second the ship leveled off, she undid the strap and pushed herself off the cot, then headed forward to the cockpit. She could hear Jerem inquiring in enthusiastic tones as to which button did what and how many guns the ship had, but he subsided once he heard his mother approach.

  “Do you think they’ll come after us?” Miala asked.

  Jerem shot her a scornful look, but Thorn appeared to carefully consider her question. “No,” he said. “After all, we did them a favor, getting rid of that scum.”

  Well, that was true, but she had lived on Nova Angeles long enough to know how much its inhabitants loved order and the rule of an intricate legal system. It had taken some getting used to, accustomed as she was to Iradia’s rough frontier justice. She found it difficult to believe that RilSec wouldn’t mount some sort of pursuit.