The Last Stryker (Dark Universe Series Book 1)

by Alex Sheppard

  “Perhaps you’ll be married to your best friend’s beau.”

  A picture Isbet and Rownack dancing together flashed before Ramya’s eyes at his words and made her shudder. They, too, like every cadet at CAWStrat, would be swept away by galactic politics. The man was right. It was pointless. But Isbet was having the time of her life. Wasn’t that worth something?

  Sound of flutes rippled through the air and Ramya’s muscles tightened. It was time to get back inside; the Decosset would soon begin. She was about to excuse herself when the man turned around.

  “My apologies,” he said. The sadness of moments ago had vanished from his eyes. Instead, they twinkled roguishly. “My pessimism has no place in your rosy young world. The universe should feel like your plaything.”

  Not really. It was the other way round. She was the universe’s plaything.

  “You shouldn’t miss the last dance of the evening, Lady—” He stopped and shook his head in mock annoyance. “I haven’t even asked an introduction or offered one.”

  As if she cared to know him. Or tell him who she was.

  “CSA Stevan Helves,” he informed anyway.

  If she remembered correctly, CSA meant Chief Special Agent, quite a high rank at the GSO.

  “May I know your ladyship’s name?”

  “Isbet,” Ramya blurted.

  His eyes narrowed, a bit too much and far too quickly. “Oh,” he said. He bowed low. “May I have this dance?”

  Why did he give her that look? Did he suspect she was lying?

  “Lady Isbet?”

  Just carry on, Rami! No one suspects anything!

  “May I have this dance, m’lady?” CSA Stevan Helves asked again. An amused smile that rippled at the corner of his lips and crinkled his eyes suddenly made him look like a truant schoolboy.

  Why not? She was going to dance with someone anyway, and he’d be easier to shake off than a fawning cadet before the dance officially ended. Ten minutes—that’s what I have to steal from the last dance.

  “Yes. Yes, you may.”

  They walked back to the banquet hall when the first notes were playing for the Decosset. Ramya spotted Isbet across the room, in Rownack’s arms, laughing.

  Good-bye, Isbet. Stay happy, my friend. Perhaps, someday, we shall meet again.

  The music swelled and a whirling ocean of colors surged. Ramya glanced at the huge clock that hung over the gilded doors of the banquet hall. The long, jewel-studded hands had measured every second of the thirty-hour Confederacy clock precisely for centuries. Now it read 23:30. She would have to excuse herself exactly at 23:50. Until then . . . Ramya shut the world out and started her last dance, hoping to enjoy her final minutes at the CAWStrat.

  5

  The watch on Ramya’s wrist flashed 24:05 in iridescent blue. Outside the balcony of her suite, the expansive gardens were quiet and dark except for the banquet hall and its vicinity. A breeze blew once in a while, cooling Ramya’s sweaty forehead with a soft caress. The sky was inky; all three of Nikoor’s moons—Alle, Rus, and the tiny Zieg—were yet to show up above the horizon.

  Ramya slipped into a light jacket and adjusted her visor. With a quick glance at the mirror to check her plain street attire, Ramya riffled through her travel pack one last time. She had everything. She had tucked away her real identity cards far inside the travel pack and her visor was wide enough to shield her face and prevent security-cameras from identifying her. All she needed to do now was play the part of a commoner. If she could do that right, no one would ever figure out who she was.

  “I can do this,” Ramya whispered as she treaded lightly out of her room and peered into the long corridor outside. There was no one in sight.

  She walked briskly toward the back staircase of the women’s lodging unit the attendants used. Those staircases had to be monitored less than the main ones, she figured. The stairs were deserted, just like she had expected, and within a minute, she was outside.

  Ramya moved closer to the shadows on reaching the grounds. On a moonless night like tonight, creeping out would be easy. She tapped the buttons on her watch to bring up a holo-map of the grounds. She activated the route to her destination, then broke into a run. She sprinted from the shadow of one tree to another, glancing back and forth for sentries each time she left the cover of the trees.

  About halfway across the ground, Ramya stopped to take stock of the situation. It was 24:18. She had to get across to the gate closest to the banquet hall; that was where the shuttles waited for the hired help. The gate was five minutes away. And the next shuttle—the one she had to catch before someone noticed she was gone—was at 24:30. Ramya checked the time again: 24:19. Things were going well. She adjusted the visor over her eyes and resumed her jog across the grounds.

  She had not taken more than twenty steps when she heard the telltale beep of the sentry’s comm unit. God of the stars! Ramya took a step back and then another, until she was well hidden behind a tree trunk. She could see his silhouette. Even in the dark his armor glinted menacingly. The sentry stopped a moment and looked around, then he started walking slowly in Ramya’s direction.

  Damn! Of all the directions he could go . . .

  As noiselessly as she could, Ramya ducked behind some bushes. Twigs and leaves clawed at her; something moved under her feet. Holding her breath, Ramya waited. The sentry ambled along the pathway, but to Ramya’s relief, he was soon gone. She checked the time: 24:24.

  She pulled herself out of the bushes and brushed off some stubborn foliage clinging to her. Then Ramya broke into a swift walk along the shadows once more. Within fifty steps, she saw her destination—the shuttle gate. People—the hired help for the banquet—walked in a steady stream toward it. All she had to do was mingle in. Ramya’s heart fluttered wildly with joy, and she had to struggle to compose herself.

  It was 24:26 when she joined the line leading up to the clearance booth. Beyond the booth, about ten sentries stood observing the people who were leaving the CAWStrat. And beyond them, five shuttles were waiting, each for a different destination. Ramya had to take the one to the spaceport. Once there, she had to catch a ship off Nikoor.

  Freedom! It was so near she could almost smell it.

  “Miss,” the booth attendant’s sharp voice made Ramya’s hands tremble. “Your pass please.”

  Keep your cool. Don’t let your nerves show. Ramya pulled Isbet’s fake pass out of her pocket while the attendant watched with a bored expression on his face. He flipped the card over a few times, and then passed it through the scanner. His brows knotted right away.

  “I don’t see you on the entry log for today,” he said, eyeing Ramya suspiciously.

  You’re doing fine, Ramya reminded herself. “The pass I used to get in didn’t have any credits left on it,” she explained, keeping her voice as calm as she could. “This is an old pass. I’ve used it before—you could check your logs if you want.”

  The attendant looked at the pass and looked Ramya over once more. “Do you have any ID on you?”

  Breathe! You’ll think of a way out of this!

  “I have a valid pass. Why do you need my ID? No one has asked for my ID before.”

  The attendant’s brows knotted some more. “Do you have an ID or not?”

  “Of course I do,” Ramya said, throwing a quick look around. The line had grown long behind her—people frowning, shifting restlessly on their feet. She stole a glance at her watch: 24:29. Flashing an apologetic smile at the scowling attendant, she slipped an arm into her travel pack and pretended to fish for her wallet. “I’m sorry,” she said, and raising her voice enough to attract the sentries’ attention, “that damned wallet always hides when you need it. Give me a sec, I’ll find it.”

  Just as Ramya had hoped, an armed sentry walked over within a few seconds.

  “What’s the holdup, Sett?” he asked. “Is her pass no good?”

  “Umm . . . it’s fine.”

  “There’s a long line to clear,” the sentry said i
n a snappy voice. “The shuttles leave in minute, so unless her pass is invalid you better—”

  “Got it, got it,” Sett replied hastily. He handed Ramya her pass and glowered at her. “Here, you’re clear. Move on.”

  With a hasty nod at the attendant and the sentries, Ramya hurried out of the CAWStrat’s gate. The shuttle to the spaceport was right up front and fairly empty. Ramya found a seat toward the back, pulled down the visor over her eyes some more, and waited for the vehicle to leave.

  The shuttle’s last stop was some distance away from the entrance of the spaceport. It dropped off Ramya and two other passengers on the side of a quiet roadway and drove away. The area was likely a souk—a market that was more of a trading post for space travelers passing through. The shops were somewhat empty so late at night, as were the streets. In a distance, a bright light shone like a halo over the buildings. That was the spaceport, Ramya deduced.

  Ramya tapped her holo-map to life just to be sure. It was a fifteen-minute walk at most to the terminus where the spaceships gathered. Adjusting the straps of her travel pack, Ramya took off in a steady stride across the souk. A few people passed her by, none sparing her a second glance. Her mingling skills were surely good, Ramya thought happily.

  Ramya stopped midway through her hike at a spot that was lit less spectacularly than where she had started from. Even fewer shops were open in this section, but one attracted Ramya’s eye right away. It was just the thing she was looking for—an arms and ammunitions store. While Ramya always carried a baton that she could wield in her sleep, she didn’t personally own a firearm. She had been trained to use them quite well at the CAWStrat. She simply hadn’t needed one until now, but running off into the unknown with only a baton in hand seemed a little unwise. No one planned a trip to the outer colonies and beyond without having at least a quick and dirty mag-gun on them. She couldn’t leave Nikoor without one. Ramya adjusted her visor, and with a quick look around, she walked into the store.

  The Norgoran proprietor of the arms shop was as efficient as he was aloof, much to Ramya’s relief. He only raised his purple brows once when he saw the 1000 Liere note Ramya brought out to pay before quickly shifting back to a stance of disinterest. He was obviously used to transacting with shady people, and that suited Ramya fine. She was done with her purchase within minutes. Her new state-of-the-art M-gun was secure in a holster that was partially hidden by her jacket. Ramya was sauntering out of the shop when the front doors fell open with an airy swoosh.

  Two people walked in, a woman followed by a man. Ramya wouldn’t have looked at them twice but for the oddness of the pair and the conversation she overheard.

  The woman was tiny—short and slender—and reminded Ramya of a garden fairy who could be blown away by a summer breeze. Nothing else about her was frail though. She wore a dark shirt with rolled-up sleeves, her bare arms covered with intricate tattoos of thorny vines, skulls, and bones in shades of black and blue. She stomped through the door like a raging pit-bull on the loose, veins throbbing at her temples, fists clenched, and nostrils flaring. The regular-looking male companion with close-cropped hair and a stubby nose trailed behind her like a chastised pet.

  “Iffin mess we’re in now,” the woman hissed at her companion on her way in. “What were you thinking, Flux? That man and that iffin cargo is our only way out of this shit, and you let him go?” She finished with a glare, and if glares could kill, this one would’ve toasted the man to crisp in a heartbeat.

  “I was just trying to get a bite to eat,” the man, Flux, said plaintively. “Haven’t set foot on a prime planet in a year. Just wanted some hot grub. Didn’t think he’d sneak away.”

  The woman lifted a finger to her head and drew some invisible circles in the air. “Didn’t you get how loopy he is? If we can’t find him, Flux, that’ll be the last hot grub you ever lay your hands on. You hear me?”

  “Calm down, Fenny,” Flux said. “We’ll find him. How far could he have gone in that condition anyway?”

  The duo strode past Ramya, oblivious of her wide-eyed presence. No wonder the Norgoran didn’t show any interest in her. Compared to characters as colorful as these, she was as interesting as a loaf of bread. With another look at the foul-mouthed, tattooed woman, Ramya walked out of the shop. Once outside, she rechecked her holo-map. The spaceport was right ahead. So close to freedom. Ramya’s heart beat slightly faster, and she could’ve sworn the air was lighter and easier to breathe. She wanted to hop and skip the rest of her way but forced her feet to keep a steady, normal gait.

  This spaceport, like most others in Confederacy space, had two docks: the passenger and the commercial. Space ferries, as well as ultramodern personal space jets, plied in the passenger section. The commercial half teemed with freighters big and small that carried anything from milk to ores to smuggled wildlife.

  They’ll check for me in the passenger jets first, Ramya reasoned. That a Kiroff heiress could venture into a freighter craft would come last to anyone’s mind. She headed toward the commercial dock with resolute steps; her feet picked up pace at the thought of anyone coming to look for her.

  They would start looking the moment she went missing at the banquet, and that, she deduced with a quick look at her watch, was twenty minutes ago. By now they could’ve stumbled on a motion capture of her slipping out of her room. She didn’t have much time; she had to find a freighter to sneak into and get out of Nikoor or they’d find her and take her back to the CAWStrat and her father. That would be the end of her hope of being free, forever.

  She was about three crossroads away from the entrance of the commercial docks when she heard muffled shouts coming from the alleyway she had just passed. Ramya stopped. Was someone in trouble? She turned to look and then hesitated. Perhaps just a drunken tramp having a nightmare.

  She heard a moan just when she had started to walk away. Her steps slowed as if by instinct. Ramya weighed her options. Time was running out fast. Her window of opportunity was closing. She had to ignore the sound and keep going. But her feet stayed rooted. Another moan reached her ears. Ramya gritted her teeth as she pondered her choices—none of them promising—one more time. Just go, she told herself. But . . . what good was she if she couldn’t help a person in need? She couldn’t just leave. She had to help.

  Heart thrashing wildly against her ribs, Ramya managed five shaky steps to the mouth of the darkened alley. She could barely see, but she saw enough. Two men, their silhouettes large and imposing, were raining blows on a large mound heaped up against the wall. The mound didn’t have to moan again for Ramya to understand that it was another man. Her sinking heart started to beat like drums at the pinnacle of a Decosset.

  “This is none of my business,” Ramya muttered. She knew it was more than likely a drunkards’ brawl, yet her hand inched closer to the baton at her hips by instinct.

  The more Ramya wanted to leave, the more her feet stayed stuck. Instead of running away like her brain told her to, Ramya did something else altogether—she analyzed the situation and evaluated her strategy. This was clearly not a situation for close-range combat. Even though she was more comfortable with her baton, the gun would be a better choice, Ramya deduced. Pulling the new M-gun out of its holster, she yelled in the loudest voice she could muster, “Stop, or I’ll blow your heads off.”

  The duo spun around to look at her. The beaten man moaned and crumpled some more. There was a moment of silence before a cackle, harsh and boisterous, rang out.

  “Hear that, Roden?” one of the men said, laughing. “A girl’s gonna blow our heads off. Funniest thing I’ve heard in a while.”

  “Let’s get her too,” replied the other ruffian, emitting chuckles that reminded Ramya of a braying donkey. Then the man lurched toward her, and Ramya simply stood there, frozen. Then, just like a thunderstorm breaking suddenly, she snapped into focus and waved her M-gun at the man.

  “Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” she said, trying to pull off the bluff of a lifetime. There was no
way she could shoot. Her hand shook like a feather drifting in the wind, so she propped it up with the other. It didn’t help the shaking any and the man kept on coming.

  You can do it, Rami. You’ve shot plenty of targets at the CAWStrat.

  But this was not just a target. It was a living, walking, talking person. A despicable one at that, one who was beating a helpless guy to death.

  Come on, shoot, Rami!

  The man was no more than five steps away when Ramya’s trembling fingers managed to pull the trigger. All she felt was a shudder as the gun recoiled. Terror of being attacked by the ruffians, the bright flash of the M-gun, and a loud crash of a wall collapsing stunned her enough to feel nothing else. In the next second Ramya realized that she had missed her mark and both the assailants were still alive and standing.

  Now they’re going to kill me. Ramya’s tense fingers curled around the M-gun as she waited for the men to charge. Instead, the two men fell back and tore off through the other end of the alley.

  It took Ramya a few more seconds to walk over to the man the goons had been beating up. She turned the flashlight mode on her watch to look. The man—his clothes ripped and spattered with blood—had rolled up into a cocoon. A leather bag with a broken strap lay next to him. He groaned and mumbled in an incomprehensible stream.

  Ramya pulled off her visor and ran her fingers through her hair. She had saved him from the ruffians. What now? What in the stars was she going to do with a wounded man?

  “Hey,” a voice shouted from the mouth of the alley. “Everything all right in there? Need help?”

  Framed by the streetlight was the unmistakable silhouette of the tattooed woman and her companion from the arms shop. Perhaps they could take him off her hands.

  “Yes,” Ramya yelled back. “A man needs help.”

  They were next to her in a heartbeat.

  “It’s him,” the woman said. “Is he dead?” She turned toward Ramya. “What happened here, kid?”