DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2)

by Ben Patterson

  “No, sir. She does not,” DarkStar said in its usual soft, feminine voice. “She’s just not a battle scene and carnage kind of girl, sir.”

  “Yeah, sure. So what does she think happens to soldiers in space? Chances of survival are slim at best. Zilch if everyone thought as she did.”

  “She just wasn’t thinking, sir.”

  “Never a truer statement said, DarkStar. I’m just glad to get her off my bridge.”

  As expected, when the smoke of the explosion cleared, the Darts spotted the pirate ships, and vice versa.

  Stan could almost sense his former men wanting revenge against the pirates. He, as their commander, had betrayed their trust, and in an instant the pirates had snatched their vengeance from them, or so Stan had made it seem. He imagined the angry thoughts of his men. We’ll have our revenge all right. One way or another we will settle the score.

  The pirates, on the other hand, would have nothing of these soldier boys stealing their prey. Stan had dealt with their kind before, having worked undercover among such men. He knew, more or less, how they would see things.

  Two Corsairs against seven small Darts? Why not? Bring it on! he pictured them boasting. Maybe we can salvage a Confederate cannon or two, or even an engine core reactor. If nothing else, we can sell the pilots into slavery. Skilled at survival, pirates were no fools in battle, and Stan’s men shouldn’t take them lightly.

  Well versed in battle tactics, Stan and his men had learned the pirate’s secrets well—sly Lt. Troy Younger was the best among them—but despite that, his ship was the first to get hit. Spinning out of control, his Dart scattered across 10 acres of the moon’s surface.

  Knowing he could do nothing to prevent it, Stan felt his chest tighten. Only moments ago, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with the man. Truly, the loss of Troy’s life was senseless. Then he remembered Coalfire’s warning, “This may be the last chance to get it right.” He felt a chill steal down his back. Troy had made the wrong choice.

  The Darts swarmed the Corsair that had taken out their chief, ignoring the other one altogether. They hit it hard, and harder still, before turning their attention back to the second ship. Stan approved, but at the same time hoped his men would call off the attack. Except for revenge, there was nothing to be gained.

  With no attention paid him by the Darts, the second Corsair moved in close to his partner to cover his buddy’s vulnerable areas. Even so, the swift and agile Wolverines gave the pirates’ gunnery a good showing.

  As the battle raged, from a safe distance Stan sat in silence watching each of his friends fall in turn. His heart sank.

  This would prove to be a costly battle for both sides, leaving no clear winner. After all was said and done, after the last gun had cooled, only one Corsair limped away from this bloody battle. For the heavy price it had paid, it bought only wounds to lick in secret.

  The Wolverines, on the other hand, now reduced to chunks of metal and bits of debris, wouldn’t leave at all; accept for two well-timed escape pods.

  Finding his way through the scuffle without being detected was no easy task, but Stan managed somehow to get there and rescue the adrift pods before the pirates could salvage them and enslave the survivors. The pilots Stan had rescued he dealt with first. DarkStar rendered both men unconscious before having them brought aboard. Although Stan wanted to make himself known to them, he figured doing so was too risky. They had seen DarkStar explode and to them Stan was dead. Best leave it that way, he thought. If the pilots knew he had survived, DarkStar was right, he’d be a hunted man.

  For the time being, each was given his own small, Spartan room disguised holographicly to look like any prison cell on a pirate ship. This was better than either cramped escape pod, but only just.

  Once Stan had time to catch up on his rest, he would look in on both men to see to their needs. But for now he’d have to consider the best way to make his presence known to them, if at all. This was probably the most complicated circumstance he’d ever been in.

  The tough job was recovering the bodies of his onetime friends, the men who hadn’t survived this clash. Troy’s was the only body he couldn’t get to, and so he left Chagwa’s moon heartsick he couldn’t lay to rest his longtime friend.

  Distraught that he even let his men die without raising a finger to help, or fight alongside them, he somberly gathered the bodies of Wolverine Squad into the cargo bay, tearfully spoke words of regret over each man, and from there, sent them, one at a time, into Chagwa’s sun.

  Turning to head to the galley, Stan nearly tripped over his helmet. He picked it up. Stupid hash marks had yet to be dealt with.

  “DarkStar, I need some white paint and a small brush.”

  “You’ll find those things in the repair shop, sir.”

  Chapter Ten

  The wall opened to the galley and Stan stepped through from the cargo bay.

  Lilia sat at the breakfast bar and slid a plate toward an open seat across from her.

  Still feeling stiff, Stan poured himself a drink, eased gingerly into the chair, suppressing the urge to groan, releasing an uncomfortable breath, then took a bite of the sandwich, half expecting to taste a chemically synthesized over-processed meat-vegetable substitute wedged between two pieces of cardboard like that served by the military. But this . . . this was heaven. He rolled his eyes in ecstasy and swallowed. His appetite suddenly put in an appearance, and Stan consumed half his sandwich in short order. He gestured toward the uneaten half.

  “This is great. What is it?”

  “Just a little something DarkStar came up with. It was made to meet your nutritional needs as well as excite your pallet. Go figure.”

  “My compliments, DarkStar. You did a wonderful job.” He took another bite, rolled his eyes in contentment, and tackled the second half of the sandwich.

  “Thank you, Captain Archer,” that soft voice said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Nothing more, thank you.” He popped the last bite into his mouth, washed it down with his drink, and leaned back.

  Lilia eyed him with curiosity. “I see you’ve come in from the cargo bay instead of from the bridge.”

  Her pleasant attitude suggested she had forgotten his ‘Trog’ comment on the bridge. Happy to let it lie, he forced a sly smile, but remained quiet.

  “Not going to say, hmm? A man with a secret.”

  His smile fell away.

  Yes, he had a secret he’d just as soon keep to himself; the fact that he now regretted his past deeds bothered him considerably. He didn’t like being nagged by a . . . by a conscience. Burying such emotions, pushing them to the back of his mind was no longer as easy as it once was.

  She caught his blank stare, which seemed to make her self-conscious. “What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

  He shook himself from his morose thoughts. “Oh, I was thinking, Miss Slone, just this morning you were minding your own business waiting tables.”

  “Mr. Archer, for somebody who wants to be Captain, you can’t even keep track of time.”

  Stan glanced at the ship’s chronometer, which now displayed the real reason for his fatigue, Six A.M. He had been awake for twenty-six hours straight. “I’m the one who’s made space my home. That more than qualifies me to captain DarkStar. The only question I have is; what am I to do with you?”

  She leaned across the breakfast bar and gave him a stern look. “What are you to do with me? What am I to do with you, Captain Archer, when you still think you’re in charge?”

  “Oh, are we back to that?”

  “I’m not yours to do with as you please. I am a free woman.”

  “Hmm, so you are.”

  “And you are a free man. How does it feel?”

  Was he? Did any of his actions really make him a free man? He considered the ache that still wracked his body. Was it recompense for the Emperor’s Princess? If so, then what was Lilia’s pain payment for? Perhaps a bit of sleep would help him figure things ou
t.

  “I’m tired. It’s been a long day, woman. We have a long trip ahead of us. With all these pirates and patrols about, if we ever return, there’s certainly going to be a trouble ahead. This ship has to be reliant.”

  “That’s it!” Lilia’s sudden outburst nearly jolted Stan out of his chair.

  “What? What did I say?”

  The woman’s eyes brightened, beaming with enthusiasm. “I’ve been wracking my brain for an appropriate name for this ship. What do you think of Reliant?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Reliant. Look, she’s jet black with no markings. We can’t continue like this can we? We need a disguise, and I was thinking . . . how about that of an old freighter? We could name it Reliant, right?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “With your help, sure. You know best what is least likely to attract attention. Give me a hand with some input, will you?”

  The shake of his head was slight, but its meaning should be clear to her. “I’m pretty tired, girl. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Stan, have you considered the complexity of this ship?” Lilia turned and looked toward the living room and then turned back to study the galley cabinets, fixtures, and utilities. “She’s an unusual, unique spaceship, but there’s more to DarkStar than meets the eye. She belongs to both of us so I believe we ought to work on things like this together.”

  “Sure, Miss Slone. Tomorrow?”

  “Well yeah, but—”

  “Look. She’s not a freighter by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, she’s a yacht.”

  “A yacht, huh? Then how do you explain that huge cargo bay at her center? Three stories high, eighty feet long of what, exactly?”

  Stan shrugged. “Okay. So this yacht has a very . . . very big . . . luggage compartment.”

  Lilia leaned forward, her eyes, cool and determined. “So, what are you saying?”

  “Just that getting her to look like an old freighter will take some doing, and I need to crash for a few, catch up on my rest before I tackle a project this big.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Look. While I snooze, you can work up some preliminaries, okay.”

  Lilia dropped her gaze in disappointment before looking back up. “See you after?”

  He gently took her hand. “Or during?”

  She snapped her hand back. “Good night, Mr. Archer.”

  “Trogs,” Stan said coldly as he got to his feet. “You people ever have fun?” Without waiting for an answer, he headed to his room.

  “When you had the chance, DarkStar,” Lilia asked, “why, didn’t you remove his ‘Vulgar’ gene?”

  “Lilia,” DarkStar said, “do you know why he stayed to the end of this last battle?”

  “I suppose it was that same stupid gene. Like I said, why didn’t you remove it when you had the chance?”

  “Stan Archer isn’t without his faults, ma’am, but he has a good heart.”

  “And you derive that farfetched idea from where, exactly?”

  “You have two rescued men on board. At great risk to himself, he recovered two life pods, ma’am. That was the real reason he stayed, not because of some gruesome interest in battle. He also wanted to bury his friends; those that didn’t make it.”

  “Oh.” Lilia dropped her eyes. “I haven’t given the man much of a chance, have I? Some believer I’ve been.”

  “So, you’re not without your faults, either?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “All Captain Archer wants is to discover who you really are. He may be crude at times, but you can trust him to respect your virtue. How did you get to your bed, Capt. Slone, when you were unconscious?”

  Lilia speared fingers through her hair to scratch her head. “He did that?”

  “Despite the tremendous pain he was in, he displayed remarkable compassion toward you, someone he thinks he should hate.”

  “When I think back, in the short time I’ve known him, he has done nothing but save me, hasn’t he? He spared my life when he should have taken it, gotten me off planet at his own expense, and twice put himself between me and a bullet. Why would he do that? And why does he keep calling me ‘Trog?’”

  There was a moment of silence before DarkStar answered. “Although he himself doesn’t yet know, I’m certain you do.”

  DarkStar had given Stan’s memories to Lilia and hers to him. Seeing herself as he had, Lilia envisioned his approaching her at the tavern yesterday morning, and felt the mix of emotions that had flooded his mind. Yes, she knew just how he had felt, and understood what had raged in his heart . . . although he did not.

  But given what she now knew to be true . . . what should she do with that?

  Before long she found herself in the hallway heading to his room. Once there, she peeked in.

  Exhausted atop the bed, he lay flat on his back fully clothed, his broad chest rising and falling softly.

  Lilia stepped in to sit on his bed, and took his hand in hers. “Thank you, soldier,” she whispered, “for rescuing me.” After taking a moment to study his chiseled face, she rose and stepped from the room.

  “It wasn’t as if I could do less, Lilia,” he answered softly, then drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  William Robert Taft awoke once again in the dank little room. By a dim ceiling luminary he saw dingy walls, a floor seldom mopped, and an iron door blocking his only exit. And the odor . . . well . . . a well-worn, never-washed tube sock lost and forgotten in the bottom of Bubba McGirk’s gym locker would have smelled as good as a cheeseburger if compared to what now assaulted him. He thought he’d get used to it at some point. No such luck.

  He sat up and, after a moment of trying to settle the spasms in his gut, got to his feet. His bed was a sheetless mattress tucked in the corner. One of the pirate ships must have retrieved his lifepod from the battle scene. Soon he’d be sold into slavery. His head dropped, and that’s when he noticed a shock-collar had rubbed his neck raw. By feel, he could tell it was a T-1 Bradshaw, a rather old model used by dog owners to control their pets.

  Good. At least that’s a plus. Training he thought he’d never use would finally come in handy. Shortly, the collar was rendered useless.

  From outside the room came a metallic clank and what sounded like a jangle of keys. “Back away from the door,” came a shout from beyond it.

  Taft stepped back. A screech of metal on metal and the door slid into its wall pocket.

  An old man hesitated in the entry. Dressed oddly in clean, bright colors, his garb was a mismatched array of dark leather calf-high boots, a white shirt decorated with frilly lace, a red denim vest, and a black, heavy, high-collared coat trimmed in gold. Had the man a sword dangling on his hip, the pirate costume would have been complete. With tray in hand, he stepped in. “Back away now,” he chortled in a friendly voice. “I got yer grub, and if’n you want it you’ll back yersef up some.”

  Billy stepped back and knelt to retake the mattress. “Where am I, old man?”

  “Old man?” the codger cackled, “I ain’t old by no account. Tain’t more’n fifty-five says I, so you jus’ mind yersef or I’ll set ya straight on that account right quick.”

  When the pirate stooped to set the tray on the floor in front of the young Enforcer, Billy sprang up, caught the pirate by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Where am I, old man? How do I get off this ship?”

  With one hand, the pirate took hold of Billy’s heavy leather dog collar, nearly strangling him with his fat knuckles pressed hard against Billy’s Adam’s apple. The pirate slowly lifted him from the floor.

  Thoroughly amused, the pirate cackled again as Billy’s feet dangled midair.

  “Son, I’m in charge of this here brig. You behave and take holt o’ what I’m sayin,’ and you’ll save yersef a boatload o’ grief. You get me?”

  Billy coughed and tried to speak, but the best he could manage was a faint, raspy whisper. “Yes, sir. I get you clear enough.”r />
  “That’s it? That’s the bes’ you got in a ‘pology?”

  Billy was certain his whole head was turning blue. The room was growing dark.

  “Sorry . . .” he said weakly.

  The pirate let him down and shoved him back onto the bare mattress.

  Billy coughed, and looked up at the old pirate in disbelief, wondering where so much strength hid in such a feeble frame.

  “What are your plans for me?” he managed to croak.

  The pirate cocked his head. “Captain says they’s a farmer in Providence territory lookin’ for good stock. Pay top dollar for the likes of you—young, learnable—not so strong as he wants, but that’ll change.” He chortled again. “Yes indeedy, that will change onest ya start toten hay, that’s for sure. Build you up strong, quick, toten hay will.”

  “Farmer?” Billy frowned. “Not if I can help it!” He pulled himself up on an elbow. “Look. I got money saved back on Parandi. Tell your Captain I’ll buy myself from him at twice what that farmer will pay. Just drop me off anywhere this side of the border, and I’ll wire the money into any account you want, and say no more.”

  The pirate snorted. “You talk funny, boy. Wut kind of accent is that anyways?”

  “Just tell your Captain, will you?”

  “Eat cha grub ‘fore I forces it down yer fool throat,” the pirate snarled before stepping back out into the hallway. The door closed behind him. The pirate stepped up to Lilia. His holographic camouflage disappeared.

  With arms casually folded, Lilia leaned against the wall.

  Stan glanced back at the closed door. “DarkStar, thanks for the added strength. Your energy beams made me seem stronger than even I could’ve imagined.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I was glad to be of assistance.”

  “So, now what?” Lilia said, turning to head for the galley.

  Stan followed at a casual distance. “We drop him somewhere this side of the border. He’ll go back and report that everyone was killed by pirates.”

  “You think he bought it, huh?”

  “What? You don’t think I’m a convincing buccaneer?”