Starfire, A Red Peace

by Spencer Ellsworth

  “Sympathizer or no, the owner was one of them,” Terracor says.

  “Bluebloods?”

  “Humans.”

  I can’t think what to say to that. Who cares whether a mark is human?

  “The next mission is going to be a nice break for you, Araskar. I’m taking fifty of your division, you, and me after Formoz’s children. Three kids, on the run. Word has it that they are connected to the intel. Should be a simple snatch-and-grab.”

  I stand up. “Why do you care about children? Who would pass along high-level intel to children? This all stinks, stinks worse than I do right now.”

  Terracor stands up, too, faces me. Sadly, given the leg replacement, I am now unnaturally shorter than my template here, so I have to glare up. “You won’t ask any more questions about this mission, Secondblade.” He turns to walk out the door, and pauses, to look back at me. The smoky light catches his vat-grown eye, turns it white. “Araskar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever heard the expression ‘nits will make lice’?”

  “No.”

  He gives a little half laugh, and walks out. I sit back down.

  Did my slugs die today for the sake of intel, or just for the sake of some crazing crusade against humans? It can’t be. It can’t be that the Resistance, after all this time, after all we fought for, is wasting us. Not after I won a war for the Resistance. Not after my friends, and my little slugs, died.

  It can’t be.

  I hardly realize I have the handful of pills out, until they’re in my mouth. I know I just came down, but sometimes there’s only one place to go.

  -5-

  Jaqi

  GUNS TO MY BACK, Necro-Things. No tomatoes. This is a day. “All right,” I say. “I’m going to turn around, evil slow.”

  “Do not move,” the boy says.

  Palthaz snorts. “Quinn, don’t waste a shard on this one. Jaqi, what in the Dark are you doing?”

  “Thought you were protecting a big score,” I say. No point in hiding it. Palthaz gives some long rumble that is probably his people’s moan of despair. Or he’s got gas.

  The barrel unsticks itself from my ribs and I turn around. I get a good look at this Quinn. Handsome kid, though he shows some signs of being soft. Got some serious bags under his eyes for seventeen. He’s muddy and hasn’t seen a shower in longer than I have (long, aiya, much too long, in case you need to know). He’s shaking. Nervous, and en’t handling life without food or sleep well.

  The girl and the little boy behind him huddle together. They too en’t slept proper, by the look of them. I’m used to that, but that’s how they make crosses, built to take a lot of punishment. Normal humans can’t take more than a few days without shutting their eyes.

  I eyeball the gun he’s still holding on me, his hand shaking on the handle and trigger. More Keil quickies; probably cost him twenty at most. “Here.” I hold up Cade’s shotgun, by the barrel. “I’ll give you this for some real matter. Produce. Coffee?” Not a move. “Come on now, you’ll get more life, and more shots out of that. It isn’t some quick-cranked synth steel heap.” I hold up the extra shard-charges I took off Cade’s body. “This beauty is all analog. Just levers and locks. For a piece of bacon?”

  Not a word to me, not a word to Palthaz; he just clutches that crap gun. I’m starting to think this kid will really shoot. Well, once he realizes he left the safety on.

  “Hell of a deal.”

  “You’re a cross,” he says. “We can’t trust a word you say.”

  “Quinn,” Palthaz says. “This one en’t smart enough to join the Resistance.”

  “Walk out the airlock, Palthaz,” I say.

  “You en’t,” Palthaz said. “Galaxy’s full of truth, don’t make any sense to ignore it. You want to make catch, Jaqi? Stay here and keep that antique primed. I need a point man. I was out trying to find my burning contact when you stumbled in.” He looks at Quinn. “She’s harmless. Don’t know a thing about the Resistance. And she’ll do anything for coin or food.”

  “Thanks for the recommendation,” I say.

  “Say a word, leave your post, steal any food, and you go right out Swiney’s airlock,” Palthaz says. He fingers that eye patch and heads out.

  Quinn’s staring after Palthaz like he’s just lost his puppy.

  “You bluebloods?” I ask Quinn. “Ai, Quinn? You can put the gun down.”

  He looks at his gun, back at me. “You’re a cross.”

  “Yes. Nice of you to notice. You ever fired that gun?”

  “No,” the little girl says from behind him.

  “Kalia!”

  “It’s true,” she says. “It’s not a lie. I think she’s okay, Quinn. If Palthaz trusts her, we should.”

  “Trust” is a strong word for how Palthaz feels about me, but I smile for the kid. “Kalia, you’re called?”

  “This is Toq.” She points to the five-year-old who is nestled in her arms, his eyes never leaving me. “I’m Kalia. We’re from Keil. Our dad owns Keil Quality Vats.”

  “We aren’t bluebloods,” Quinn says. “We were helping the Resistance.”

  “But my dad said that the Vanguard was coming, and we were better off-planet,” she said. “I don’t know why. He helped the Vanguard. He sent off all those crosses last year. They were the ones that go all rebellious. Aberrations.” She’s practiced that word.

  “It’s more complicated than that, Kalia,” Quinn says.

  “I know,” she says, emphasizing the words, “but since you won’t tell me anything, I have to only say what I know.” She glares shard-fire at him.

  “So,” I say. “Your pater was on the right side of the Resistance, and now they’ve got the galaxy by the balls, he’s suddenly on the wrong side?”

  Quinn looks at his brother and sister. “We had an agreement with the Resistance. They broke the agreement, and then Dad said we had to get out.”

  “Out of mid-galaxy? Is that why you’re on the edge of wild space?”

  “Out of known space,” Quinn said. “He said there wasn’t any hope for us here. In the entire galaxy.”

  I whistle. “You’re not going to have much luck in the wild worlds. Unless you’re planning to go to the Dark Zone.”

  “No!” the little boy says.

  “He’s afraid of the Dark Zone,” the girl says. “We had a nanny who used to tell us stories about it.”

  “Good sense, to be afraid of the devil,” I say.

  “Dad fired her,” Quinn says, ignoring me. He laughs, that kind of bitter angry laugh when the universe’s riddles have just become obvious. “Of course, what did it matter? It’s not the Dark Zone we’re in trouble from, it’s the Resistance.”

  “Did you say you’re hungry, Jaqi?” Kalia says. “We have bread and sausage. I can make you a sandwich.”

  Now there is something to be made of this day. “You’re the sweetest thing since strawberries,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time someone made me a sandwich.”

  “No more food, Kalia,” Quinn says. “We’ve already eaten half of it.”

  “Toq is hungry, too, so we might as well make sandwiches for everyone,” Kalia says, and points at me. “She looks like she hasn’t eaten in a week.” That’s about right. “Where are you from, Jaqi?”

  Nice gets you in a lot of trouble in the wild worlds, but not where she’s from. Sure sign of money—they had a real catch back home, I bet. “I’m from all over,” I say. Can’t decide whether to be my usual cagey or honest, given the circumstances. “I en’t vat-grown. My folks were. They escaped and became farmworkers.”

  “Oh,” Kalia says. “You like, picked crops?”

  “Right,” I said. “Good stuff, sometimes, like tomatoes and strawberries. Other times we just packed corn and seed germ of every kind imaginable. The stuff the big places turn into protein packs.”

  “I know,” Kalia said. “Dad owned a protein plant for a while. He took us there.” She looks to be pondering for something important to s
ay on the subject of a protein plant. She settles for, “It smelled funny.”

  “I want a sandwich,” the five-year-old, Toq, says. “And I want you to read me a story.”

  “Where is Palthaz?” Quinn says. “How big is this ecosphere? How hard can it be to find who he’s looking for?” He’s trying, by those squirms, to keep from glaring at me. “I read the entry for this place. It’s tiny, as ecospheres go. I thought everyone would know each other.”

  “Whole galaxy’s in a fuss,” I say. “Might be you could tell me more about it?”

  “You haven’t read the news?” Kalia asks.

  “I’ve been out in the wild,” I say. “Tell me.” Sure would be nice not to have to do this. Why does every filthy scab in the galaxy know how to read except me?

  “The Resistance took Irithessa a month ago,” Quinn says.

  “And the Empire didn’t burn them to bits?”

  “They seized control of the Imperial nodes,” Quinn says. I nod along. You can’t travel faster than light without a working node, established by the old Jorians who knew how to make doors into pure space and wire them up to node-engines, to jump other ships.

  There’s supposed to be no way to travel the galaxy without the Imperial nodes. Of course, nodes have been reordered and discarded a billion times over in the long history of the Empire, and there’s plenty of those doors that should be shut, but they got hacked and maintained by the sorts who hang out in places like Swiney Niney. In the deep black, a pirate node means business, a private route. And you can either get a Suit, one of the mechanical men, to hack it for you, and give you the codes to open it, or you can find a cross who can move you in and out of pure space by finding the nodes herself.

  That’s me.

  “So what’d the Resistance do once they got the network?”

  “John Starfire shut the military nodes,” Quinn says, “and left the Navy in the Dark Zone. Only a couple of ships escaped. A hundred million Marines were left there.” He clears his throat. “Without resupply, the Shir in the Dark Zone will eat them alive.”

  “Shh,” I hiss, afore he even finishes. “I got enough bad luck, Quinn, I don’t need you naming the devil.”

  He turns and fixes me with a look somewhere between a glare and some kind of hope. “You’re a criminal, aren’t you?”

  I hold my hands up. “I have to eat.”

  “I’m sure you don’t do anything evil,” Kalia says.

  The pay was evil big. “Running guns. Got them through a pirate and sold them through Kurgul nests. The Resistance was a big customer, truth.”

  They don’t know what to say to that.

  Kalia hands me a sandwich. The kids complain that the bread is soggy and the meat—more of that slimy thing—tastes funny and I have no idea what they mean, because as I chomp it down, I figure this sandwich is about the greatest thing in the whole galaxy and I would have joined the Resistance for this sandwich, woulda stabbed Emperor Turka my own self for this thing made of real grain grown in real ground and real animals eating real grass.

  Once I finish the sandwich, which happens much too quick, I have to admit that perhaps Palthaz has been distracted. Going by Cade, there’s a whole lot of sleazy business going down here on Swiney Niney, and the fallout from the Empire’s, um, fallout is going to make it worse.

  Quinn, as if he’s guessed what we’re thinking, says, “Palthaz will be back. We have an agreement.”

  This fella. “I hate to tell you, but Palthaz makes a good living ripping folk off.”

  “He’s bound to keep it,” Quinn says, half as if to convince himself. “He’s got to.”

  I’m guessing, by the delay, that Palthaz’s contact en’t shown, and en’t going to show. The well thing to do would be to take the kids back to his ship, keep them hidden till he can reroute.

  I don’t trust Palthaz to do the well thing.

  I also reckon that whoever popped Cade’s brainpan is roaming around, looking for these kids. This is good hiding, but it won’t last. Next scheduled rain will drown them, for one.

  “Might be he keeps his promises,” I say, “but there en’t no reason to sit here rotting in this hole much longer, waiting for destiny. You’re better off waiting back on his ship.” I crawl out of the main tunnel and look down the path. Not much to see but the green of Niney, stretching down to the empty square.

  “Come on out,” I say. “I can take you to Palthaz’s ship. You can wait for him there. I reckon the port authority en’t paying much attention, on a day like today.”

  They don’t fight me. It occurs to me that they might not be worth the trouble, but I like these little humans. Can’t help but like someone who gives you that food. Suppose I’ll take one more big risk before I head off into normal life.

  Kalia is carrying a funny black square, no visible circuits or buttons. “That your scrambler?” I ask.

  “As long as we carry it, no Jorian should be able to sense us,” she says.

  “Not from afar,” I say. “You get close enough to a cross, those things en’t worth a shit in space.” That might be a bit rough for these fancies. “I mean . . .”

  Kalia giggles. “I never heard that before. A shit in space!”

  Quinn’s face is blanched. “They can sense you, even with a scrambler field?”

  “Never heard of a field that could mask you if a cross comes aside.” Still, the kids are protected as long as we stay away from crosses . . .

  So we sneak down the path. I get a good look at the packs they’re carrying. More real food? Lots of the bulging, familiar squares of protein packs. I ought to throw my lot in with some chefs one of these days.

  We sneak around the edges of the market, by the stone moss-and-ivy-eaten buildings that hold goods. En’t much to be seen, but I swear I hear scabs talking. “Palthaz’s ship is in port Q-36,” Quinn says.

  “It’ll take a minute to get through the port tunnels and find one ship,” I say. I eyeball the black honeycomb of tunnels, dotting the fake sky of Swiney’s walls. Easy enough to get out of here, I think.

  “Jaqi, look . . .” Quinn says.

  I turn around and who is there but Zaragathora, Eater of Flesh, all seven feet and tattoos of him. “Where’s the money?” His hand lashes out, catches me by the neck. “What do you have?”

  -6-

  Jaqi

  IT’S HARD TO SAY anything when a big Zarra is clutching your throat and lifting you off the ground, you know? I wish he would have thought about that, because he keeps yelling “Money!” like he expects me to respond.

  Quinn shoves his piece into Z’s back. The Zarra seems entirely unconcerned by this business. “Money!”

  “She doesn’t have any money!” the girl, Kalia, yells. “Please!”

  He twists his head, which gives me time to kick him good beneath the ribs. He doesn’t let go, but I get my fingers inside his grip, pull it away from my neck, enough to croak out, “En’t no money!”

  He snarls and tosses me. Good toss, that. I fly halfway across the square and bounce along on my tailbone, rattling my teeth. Then I come to rest on a sharp rock, right in my ribs.

  I look up and see a lady watching me. She’s got her face wrapped up in gray cloth, hiding her mouth. A couple of springs of red hair escape that cloth. Her green eyes are locked on mine, and she’s got her hand inside her cloak, massaging some kind of piece. And she’s making my brain buzz even harder than the pain from Z’s mighty toss.

  A Jorian cross.

  If I had any doubt, she yanks out a soulsword, right there. The black blade sucks in the light, at least until she slashes her hand like she’s cutting bread, and the blood jumps up the blade, springing a white kind of flame. She must be the one killed Cade.

  I get up and fall down again. “Aiya, nice sword, now go run off—”

  And Quinn, his mind gone to space, runs out into the square—to protect me? To protect his brother and sister? Can’t say, but he yells, “Leave her alone! It’s not her you want!”
<
br />   Oh, Dark Stars. “No,” I say, sounding space-gone myself, “it is definitely me you want, uh, ignore him . . .” I get up. Then I fall down, because my legs just give out.

  This gray-clad Jorian has whirled on Quinn. He’s standing there staring at her.

  He raises his piece-of-shit Keil gun and fires. She catches the shards on her soulsword, splits them, sends them flying overhead, spinning through the air like feathers. He tries to fire again, but the gun jams.

  Can’t even think such a thing—a sixteen-year-old kid, a rich kid with not a moment in his life to compare to this shithole at the end of space, never a time he’s been in this kind of danger, staring down his own death, realizing it’s his own death, realizing he can’t do anything about it. His face goes all pale, and sweat pours down his forehead and a couple of damn tears run down his face. His mouth opens like he’s trying to say something.

  I jump to my feet—finally—and run. “Get out, Quinn!” I don’t know what I’m thinking. I en’t thinking I can take a trained Jorian with her soulsword primed, but maybe I can yank Quinn away.

  I en’t gone five steps before she runs Quinn through.

  I scream—something—might be a curse, might be crying. I leap at that cross, while she still has her blade in Quinn, sucking his memories. I carry her to the ground, scratching and biting and every dirty blow I ever learned in the spaceways. My tackle pulls her soulsword out of Quinn’s body.

  I scramble up, and she’s readying that soulsword, but I drive a good knuckle-cracker right into her teeth, knock her on her ass.

  I grab Quinn’s body and scramble backward, and for the first time this day, my luck turns well, because a dozen voices shout in the Kurgul tongue, and shard-fire starts flying thicker than the mosquitoes, and this gray woman cross has to duck and cover.

  Quinn’s mind is only half gone, that soulsword not having been in his meat long enough to take the memories. But it did plenty of damage. Blood bubbles up Quinn’s throat. He tries to speak as I drag him away from the fight. He’s in a real bad place, and he’s whispering a name—his sister’s. He looks at me, and I realize he’s trying to ask me something, then he’s dead.