Star Dragon Box Set One

by Blaze Ward

  She leaned in close and languidly slid her hand inside his blazer, searching for his pocket for several seconds in the wrong places with a smile and a quiet, coquettish giggle. Finally, she dropped the card and withdrew her hand. Gareth’s breath was short.

  “Got something for me?” she purred, twisting her torso around a little to make it obvious where he might put such a thing.

  Inwardly, he said a small prayer of thanks to Constable Baker. Even accidentally.

  “My, uh, boss actually forbid me from carrying any tonight,” Gareth replied dejectedly, at least he hoped it sounded that way. “Under threat of extreme sanction. And she was serious.”

  “She?” Diệu Ahn looked interested in a potential rival to battle.

  “Complete and total hardass editor,” Gareth freelanced the relationship. It sounded close enough, from what he had seen of newspapers on the video tube. “If I wasn’t bound under a tight contract, I’d shop my services elsewhere.”

  Wrong thing to say. Her eyes perked right up.

  “Oh,” Diệu Ahn smiled. “Need a good lawyer to help you break a contract? I have several on staff.”

  Gareth blinked and remembered his manners.

  “It dawns on me that we’ve only talked about my life tonight,” he tried to deflect the statuesque woman. “What do you do, Diệu Ahn?”

  She grabbed her glass and sipped, telegraphing a shrug with her entire body in such a way that Gareth kept losing focus on her eyes.

  “I’m an art patron,” she said modestly. “I buy, I sell. I collect things that catch my eye.”

  That last in a purr that felt like a bear-trap closing.

  “I’ll have to remember to call you next week for an interview,” Gareth suggested.

  “Call?” Diệu Ahn smiled. “That, too. Nudge, perhaps?”

  Gareth smiled and sipped his wine, hoping that he wasn’t beet red right now.

  Pippa.

  She seemed to sense some of his discomfort and withdrew her fangs, just a little. She tugged at his arm, turning him to the right, where he could see a new gallery through a narrow archway.

  “We should enjoy the art,” Diệu Ahn announced in a quiet, authoritative voice. “Broaden our horizons.”

  Gareth nodded and read the name of the space over the door. His heart really wanted to stop beating right now. Just keel over and die, but it refused.

  Inter-Species Erotica it read in a lovely, Helvetica font. Small enough to be discrete.

  In a Grace museum. The sort of place where art exhibits were expected to be interactive.

  Gareth’s eyes refused to dwell on it. He was undercover, making contacts which he hoped would lead him to useful places in the underworld. Baker and Grodray had them. His job was start building his own network.

  However unsavory that task might turn out to be.

  Instead, his focus drifted back to the crowd below. The mad rush was over and people were settling into clusters and currents.

  Gareth stopped dead, dragging Diệu Ahn to a halt as well.

  “Hey,” he muttered absently.

  “What is it, Gareth?” she asked, leaning close and rubbing herself against his side.

  “I know those guys,” he said aloud.

  Down in the main hall. Morty looked up and locked eyes with him. The Yuudixtl said something that was covered by the noise in the auditorium, but that was okay. Gareth was pretty sure it would have gotten the lizardman’s mouth washed out with soap, were either of their mothers here right now.

  Morty turned and nudged Xiomber, the two them talking to a fat Elohynn with a couple of obvious bodyguards.

  The frozen tableau held for a moment, and then the two Yuudixtl bolted.

  The Chase

  “Hey, you two,” Gareth yelled, but Morty and Xiomber weren’t having any of it.

  He was still tangled up with Diệu Ahn, so he took the moment to set the wine glass down and smile up at her.

  “Fashion writer with a secretive past?” he said quickly. “Also secret agent. Those two are bad guys. My most profuse apologies, but I must give chase now,”

  She leaned in and quickly kissed him on the lips before he could react.

  “Call me,” she said, stepping back and letting go of his arm.

  Gareth threw caution to the wind and grabbed her to return the quick kiss, only the third woman he had ever done that to, and the second one taller than him.

  He turned and spotted the two runners. They were making their way to the front door, with the fat Elohynn lumbering along in their wake. Given the nature of things, Gareth assumed another bad guy with a guilty conscience.

  Considering what Morty and Xiomber did, he wondered if the man was another crime boss, like Marc. One way to find out.

  The stairs were too flat and wide to take them more than two at a time, and there were people on them that were too fragile for him to brush against. Especially with a forty foot drop off the side.

  He ran anyway, weaving like a wingback that had made it through the defensive line and was facing open field and a goal line. He had always been athletic and a jock. As a Vanir, he was even better than he had been then, moving like a ballerina.

  At the bottom of the stairs, two of the fat person’s bodyguards had decided to fight a rear-guard action of some sort. One was a Vanir like him. The other a burly Grace. Gareth smiled.

  The Accord of Souls was a peaceful place, by design. Team sports were all about skill and athleticism, but they had nothing like rugby or American football.

  Too violent.

  Too bad.

  Neither of the goons had a weapon in hand, so Gareth didn’t bother trying to pull his stunner from his knee. Instead, he transformed on the fly into a halfback, punching a hole in the defensive line for his tailback to streak to glory. He lowered a shoulder and pulled in his right arm close to his body, just like the old days.

  The Vanir facing him was awkwardly balanced and had obviously never faced a blocker coming through the line. You had to get under the runner in order to stop him. Gareth had been a defensive end in school, faster and smaller than the monsters in the interior, and taller than the linebackers.

  Now he was bigger and faster than any player he had ever faced. And running full tilt. He smashed into the Vanir and bounced the poor man onto his ass while stiff-arming the Grace to the face in a way that would have been good for a fifteen-yard penalty and a stern talking-to from Coach, if the man were around to witness it.

  Needs must.

  Both villains were down and Gareth was in the backfield, with the safeties still trailing their receivers and their backs to the play. He put on a burst of speed towards the front door and the goal line.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Baker and Grodray suddenly wake up to the situation, but he was moving as fast as his upgraded legs could carry him, and not even Eveth Baker could run him down now, as much as she might want to dispute that in other circumstances.

  From the top of the entry stairwell, he saw the trio exit through the front door, the glass thrust open hard enough to ring when the metal frame slammed against another door. Neither broke, but that just meant they were reinforced.

  And the Elohynn was in the lead now, with the two lizardmen trailing him as fast as those stubby legs could churn.

  These steps were so wide that Gareth had to take them individually so he didn’t trip and face-plant going down. It slowed him some, but not enough. He could see a plain van land outside and the trio enter through the back. It wasn’t an auto-car, so there was probably no way that the Constables behind him could override the controls. At best, they would have to call for backup pursuit, which may and may not arrive fast enough to corner them.

  Gareth hit the closing door hard enough that it did shatter this time. Or at least spiderweb into a million pieces held in place by a film of clear plastic. The panel van was just taking off and he had only a split second to make a decision.

  He jumped onto side of the vehicle by the
driver’s door as it leapt into the air, the ground falling away quickly behind him.

  Now was when it would probably get ugly.

  Paparazzi

  Morty had to admit it. He looked good tonight. Purple tights tucked into low, pull-on boots in a black suede. Lavender tunic almost to his knees, with a white belt and lots of showy pockets embroidered in white.

  Even if the night was a bust, he could get into the nicest restaurants and parties in this rig. That dude must have really owed Omerlon a big favor. Even Xiomber was presentable, though he looked more like a banker, or a mortician, in severe black pants and blazer over a black shirt and black tie. Seriously, that lizard was a hole in the night, standing next to a supernova of awesome.

  It wasn’t Omerlon’s champagne, but the house stuff was still damned good, as the three of them chatted about nothing and sipped. Omerlon was wearing a white toga tonight that made him look like how the Chaa were always portrayed on television. Even down to the purple stripe around the edge.

  “Enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?” Omerlon asked, looking like a cat with the best cream in town.

  “Indeed,” Xiomber replied with a nod. “Ravishing.”

  Morty expected his egg-brother to click his heels together or something. What had come over the boy?

  “This is a mark of my control of Orgoth Vortai,” Omerlon swept a hand out and nearly whacked a goon in the face.

  Both bodyguards took a step back in unison, so Morty presumed that the man gestured a lot when he spoke. Useful to know.

  “We’re convinced,” Xiomber said. “Right now, we’re down to brass tacks. Retirement plans and profit sharing.”

  “Is that how Maximus did it?” Omerlon half-sneered and looked half-interested in the information.

  “Among other things,” Morty heard Xiomber reply.

  Morty’s attention was suddenly riveted onto a figure up on the balcony. Huge, even for a Vanir, if the Borren next to him was a good measure of size. The blond hair was long enough that it would get shaggy soon, and the beard was a pretty good disguise, but Morty had helped Talyarkinash with the basic upgrade designs.

  That was Gareth. As a Vanir. Here. At this party.

  Looking this way.

  Their eyes met. Locked.

  “Fardel,” Morty ejaculated before he could contain it.

  “What?” Xiomber turned towards him, but Morty nudged him and gestured to the balcony with his chin.

  Even Omerlon grew interested enough to glance over his shoulder.

  “Oh, shit,” Xiomber muttered under his breath before raising his voice just enough for Omerlon to hear. “We’re blown.”

  Morty was gone as soon as Xiomber said the word. If Gareth was here, there would be others.

  There. The crazy Vanir cop chick from Hurquar. The other guy was probably her partner, the two them in dress uniforms tonight while Gareth had been in mufti.

  Definitely time to skedaddle.

  He could hear Xiomber right behind him, those mortician shoes slapping angrily at the marble with every step, while Morty’s boots squeaked.

  A heavier tread close behind was Omerlon, trusting their instincts and joining them in flight.

  Across the hall and past the giant head of the crazy Grace. Morty cursed whatever damned Grace architect had decided that stairs should slow you down to enjoy the art. Gareth was running after them with Vanir legs, and Morty couldn’t just throw himself forward if he wanted to make it to the bottom without any broken limbs.

  And that fat bastard Omerlon cheated. Hit the top of the steps and stuck his wings out sideways to glide to the ground floor while Morty and his egg-brother were only halfway down.

  At least he opened the door for them, hard enough that the catch hadn’t swung it back in their faces by the time they got there.

  Morty heard the crime boss calling for his car on a comm, so maybe they had a chance to get out of this, if they stayed close to the guy. He had been planning to hit the door and bolt sideways, making the cops pick who to chase down in the darkness, but a personal vehicle just might get away.

  The truck landed. It looked like something a plumber might own, minus only the name and comm number on the side, but the back sprang open and the fat angel waddled up the steps inside.

  Morty was right on his ass when he cleared the doorway, and Xiomber slammed it shut with all his might as he got in.

  “Go.” Morty yelled at the driver, a head visible through a window to the cab.

  Omerlon had landed himself in a throne, gasping for air like a grounded whale shark. Morty grabbed Xiomber and pushed him into a pair of seats at the front, backs to the driver and facing the fat man as the engines surged with power.

  He took the moment to hook his seatbelt, laughing to himself while Xiomber did the same. They had both picked that up from Gareth, the very man chasing them.

  The driver had slammed the throttle to the stops. The whole vehicle seemed to squat for a moment on its haunches, before it leapt into the night sky like a jaguar pouncing on a bird in a tree.

  Morty and Xiomber shared a secret grin as Omerlon was nearly dumped on his ass before he managed to grab onto the arms of his seat. The truck was pulling something like two G’s, more or less straight up. Hopefully enough to get some distance before a local cop car could start after them.

  After that, it was a matter of getting underground and hiding before the Constables brought in everybody in town down here to chase them.

  A thump on the outside hull beside Morty sounded an awful lot like a big Vanir landing on the running boards next to the driver. A moment later, a thump that sounded like a fist hitting the window.

  Knowing Omerlon, they were bullet-proof, but the crime boss had only been expecting a normal cop. That sort of thing might not stop Gareth, if Talyarkinash had actually pulled it off.

  This was about to get ugly.

  “Boss, we got a passenger on the outside,” the driver yelled as the vehicle kept surging upwards into the night sky.

  “Dump him off,” Omerlon called back.

  “Hang on,” the driver replied.

  Morty and Xiomber were already buckled in. Omerlon managed to do the same just in time as the vehicle turned almost fifty degrees to the left.

  It was like being on a ride at a carnival.

  Another thump on the side of the panel truck. Louder.

  Angrier, if Morty had to put a better adjective to it.

  Yeah, that sounded like a modified human losing his temper out there.

  “Who is this guy?” Omerlon fixed them with a hard stare.

  “Constable,” Xiomber offered. “We’ve run into him a few times. Mean SOB. Even worse than Grodray and Baker.”

  “And he just happened to recognize you at the Ball?” Omerlon sneered.

  Morty just shrugged. No way to explain that without getting himself killed.

  Outside the vehicle pitched again. The thumps on the driver’s window got louder.

  Suddenly, the glass shattered, letting a ripping wind into the interior of the van.

  The vehicle leveled off some, as the driver was suddenly too busy wresting with Gareth to try to shake him loose.

  Omerlon reached inside his toga as the noise grew worse. He came out with a pistol and Morty felt all the blood pool in his stomach.

  “Since you know the guy, I’ll let you die with him,” Omerlon snarled.

  Before Morty could react, Omerlon shot the flight console twice. In a flash, the fat man moved to the rear door, pushed it open and stepped out into the night.

  “See you in hell,” trailed back into the cabin with the wind.

  The words were quiet, but Morty could still hear them clearly. All the engines had gone silent as the craft slowed to a halt, paused, and began to free-fall.

  Relentless

  Gareth felt his upgraded muscles strain to hold onto the side of the truck as it pitched over until his back was parallel with the ground. He had a boarding rail in one hand, where the dr
iver could reach up when climbing in, and a running board under his feet.

  And about three thousand feet of warm night sky below him.

  He managed to swing his right foot loose and get it under the running board, using that and the rail as a pair of anchor points to hold himself up.

  Gareth punched the driver’s window with an angry fist, but it bounced off. Safety glass, he presumed.

  The truck righted itself for a moment, and then rolled again hard, like an angry gator with fresh prey.

  Now he was losing his temper. They could manage to dump him, but Gareth wouldn’t be killed, unlike any other officer in the service. That still made this attempted murder.

  He snarled.

  One thing Gareth had learned about his new form was the ability to trigger it in pieces, for lack of a better term. He didn’t have to fully transform his body, but could instead just dramatically escalate his strength beyond anything an unmodified Vanir could do. It helped that rage just fueled him right now.

  He leaned into a minor transformation, even as the vehicle righted itself a second time. Instead of just punching the glass, the Star Dragon put all his might into annihilating it.

  Nothing was capable of resisting that might. And it did not.

  Even the most bullet-proof glass wasn’t dragon-proof,

  Gareth reached in with a hand that had started to turn scaly and green. The driver grappled with him, trying to do something. Knock him loose, perhaps? Force his hands away from the controls?

  Gareth would never know. A raygun suddenly blasted the entire console in front of the driver and the truck’s engines died.

  “See you in hell,” a sour voice rang clear in the sudden silence, and then the vehicle’s upward trajectory abruptly slowed as it discovered gravity.

  Gareth snarled.

  Now, attempted murder of a Constable had moved up to mass murder. At least four people, including himself, Morty, Xiomber, and the driver, plus whoever else might be in back, plus anyone who would be killed when an out-of-control panel van slammed into the ground at terminal velocity.