DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2)

by Ben Patterson

  Stan held her close as his mind raced in search of a way out of this, but he found none. “Okay, baby girl. I’ll do my best.”

  “Promise?” Holding him tight, she was reluctant to let go.

  Finally focused on what was actually taking place, Stan pushed everything else from his mind and just held her, giving her all the time and attention she needed.

  After a long moment, she kissed his cheek and pulled away.

  His cheeks pulled into an honest smile all on their own. He kissed her forehead, crossed his heart, and said, “I promise, okay? I’ll do it for you.”

  As she nodded, Stan saw that the trust in her large, dark, eyes would hold him to his pledge. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “Ericca, I’m going to require payment though.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Okay.” She quickly pulled open the top drawer of her dresser, brought out a sock and from it dumped three coins into her hand. “I got lots of money. You can have it all, Daddy.” She then plopped three Providence pennies into his palm.

  Wide eyed, brows arched high; Stan looked at the coins and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is not nearly enough, honey. This won’t do at all.”

  She cocked her head. “I saved this from holiday. It’s all I have. I don’t have any more money, Daddy.”

  Stan gently took her hand, set the coins in it, and curled her fingers around them. “My price is two great big hugs. One now and one when I’ve finished. I know the amount is steep but—”

  Ericca threw her arms around his neck nearly strangling him in her embrace. “I love you, Daddy.” He was her hero, or was supposed to be anyway, and now he was committed to facing his old enemy, glue.

  He kissed her cheek and took the pieces to the small repair shop just off the cargo bay. Pushing his helmet aside, he set the figurine pieces on the counter. His helmet now had more than half the hashes poorly painted over with white.

  “I wish Carl were here. Lucky stiff, gallivanting around the ‘verse . . . saving folks. Oh, well. The kid makes a great Paladin; I just wonder how well he and glue get along.”

  “I hear he’s working on Atheron as we speak.”

  Stan turned to find DarkStar standing in the doorway. “I’m not going back there to hunt him down just to fix this.” He thought about it for a moment before shrugging off the notion.

  “DarkStar, do we have a proper adhesive for this?”

  “One moment, sir.”

  In another instant, a small door opened on a cabinet’s face. From inside Stan pulled out a small tube of glue. “Thanks, DarkStar.”

  A vision popped into his head niggling at his already heightened apprehension; a picture of himself, hands dripping with adhesive, and stuck fast to a cabinet door.

  From a retractable arm, a magnifying glass hung below an upper cabinet. Stan used it to see the glue tube’s label. “Oh, great. Even that mocks me.”

  DarkStar’s label read, “Adhesive for Stan.”

  With a tightened jaw, he faced this enemy with great deference.

  “Let’s see . . . Just unscrew the lid, and dab a drop here and here.” Stan replaced the lid and brought the figurine’s lower half carefully to the upper. “Perfect.”

  If not for a faint but visible seam, the joint was faultless. Nothing he couldn’t live with at any rate, but what would Lilia think?

  Careful to check for stray glue on his fingertips, Stan slid the little cake topper to the countertop’s back edge.

  From this distance the bride and groom looked perfect. No one would notice the groom’s flaw, no one but Stan that is. Stan pulled a bar stool close, sat on it, and leaned on the counter to admire his work, but something about the figurine made his brow stiffen. If it weren’t for the sentimental value he and Lilia held for it, he would have tossed it against the wall.

  He turned away, but the tightness in his forehead spread to his temples. Stan threw up his hands in resignation.

  Actually, what the figurine represented was most fitting; a flawed groom . . . a flawless bride . . . forever joined.

  He slammed a fist against the wall but was too furious to feel any pain.

  A nonchalant “Ouch,” came from the doorway. DarkStar, now leaning on the doorjamb, had her arms folded.

  “I’m sorry, DarkStar.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I’m sure your anger wasn’t aimed at me.” She slid a box of tissues his way.

  Stan gave the box a puzzled look. “What’s that for?” And then he noticed his cheeks were wet. Had he been crying? He must have been so riled up he hadn’t noticed that either.

  “Can you tell me what’s got you upset, sir.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s that stupid thing.” He shot a thumb over his shoulder toward the porcelain piece. It represents Lilia and me pretty well, don’t you think?”

  She pushed herself from the door jam, stepped forward, and took the piece in hand to study it more closely.

  “This is a cake decoration.” Her tone said she attributed no more to it than that.

  Stan rolled his head to loosen stiff neck muscles before letting out a long sigh.

  As the avatar admired the figurine, a smile began to lift her cheeks. “Ericca will be so happy that you fixed it.”

  Stan stood abruptly, snatched the small statue from her grasp, and threw it with all his might at the far wall.

  DarkStar, instantly there before it connected with the bulkhead, caught it with one hand.

  With a clamped jaw, Stan glared at her in exasperation. There was no beating someone who could disappear and reappear somewhere else in a heartbeat. And less of a chance with someone who could appear in two places at once. The blasted holographic avatar was there before it left his hand. He turned to leave, but that DarkStar blocked his way.

  “It’s a cake decoration, sir. Why are you portraying it as something beyond that?”

  He glanced away and shook his head. Why was he letting it affect him more than it should? It was just a keepsake, a little porcelain memory of a significant day, nothing more. He took a deep breath and released it hard.

  The second avatar, from behind him, held the statuette over his shoulder. “Here you go, sir. Ericca will be so happy to have it back.”

  Stan yanked it from her grasp, half glanced at it and then looked again. The groom was flawed—so what? Realistically the tiny crease was hardly noticeable across the once smooth, jet-black porcelain tuxedo.

  “DarkStar, I’m sure Ericca expected more from me. My hands only, she said. But that’s the best it’ll be. I’m no miracle worker.”

  “No, sir. You’re not. You are an imperfect human who has needs just like everyone else. No one expects you to be perfect—no one.”

  He checked it once more under the magnifier, but the crack remained. Oh, well . . . It wasn’t going to get any better. Lilia would notice, but maybe she would accept it anyway. She had accepted him with all his flaws, why wouldn’t she accept this?

  “May I ask you something, Captain?”

  “Sure, DarkStar.” He looked up at the Avatar’s expressionless face.

  “Do you think Lilia is without her faults . . . even with the Immortal Architect’s hand on her?” And with that, both avatars merged into one, then vanished.

  Stan ran his thumb over the porcelain. The seam felt deeper than it looked.

  Just then, Ericca burst in, panting hard. “Daddy! . . . Mommy’s . . . having . . . the baby.”

  Stan stuffed the porcelain figurine into a pocket, snatched up the three-year-old, and headed for the infirmary. Once in the hall just outside the med-room, he let Ericca down. “DarkStar?”

  The avatar appeared before them. “Sir?”

  “Take care of Ericca, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Stan knelt before Ericca, pulled the cake topper from his pocket, and handed it to her. “Ericca, take this and go with DarkStar.”

  Wide-eyed, she looked at the porcelain piece for only a brief moment before throwin
g her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Stan kissed her cheek, stood, then stepped into the room.

  Margery Barrett, a practiced midwife, had Lilia sitting erect on a birthing bed. Its back was mostly upright, as near chair-like as Margery could get it.

  Lilia, already red-faced with labor pains, motioned to Stan to come closer so she could take his hand.

  Thirteen hours later, Stan stepped from the room, and braced himself on a wall. The labor started poorly and had gotten worse with each passing minute despite Mrs. Barrett and the avatar’s best efforts.

  Approaching total exhaustion, and barely audible, Lilia called for her mother.

  DarkStar agreed with Mrs. Barrett’s assessment, this might be the last chance Lilia and her parents would have to see each other. Making that happen fell squarely on Stan’s shoulders.

  “DarkStar, turn us around and get us back to Atheron as fast as you can.”

  The avatar appeared before him. “Where would you like me to set down?”

  “Get us back to Seychelles and hide in the woods just north of the village. Hurry.”

  “Yes, sir. Ericca’s awake. I’ll take her with me to the bridge.”

  “Please. Just don’t alarm her.”

  “I’ll let her pretend she’s the pilot.”

  Stan nodded and watched the avatar head away. DarkStar had played ‘little girl pilot’ with his daughter before. Good, Ericca would be occupied with matters other than her mother’s condition. He turned his attention back to his wife.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Short, green grass, a few low lying shrubs, rays of sunbeams filtering through the aspen trees would have made for a tranquil scene if it weren’t for the knot in the pit of Stan’s stomach.

  He checked his personal holo-emitter, a three-inch disk clipped to his belt that hid his identity under his latest disguise, that of an elderly nondescript man. As far as anyone could tell, he could have been anything from a schoolteacher to a used skitter salesman. He chose this face mainly because it appeared kind and harmless whether he smiled or scowled.

  He stepped next to the last aspen at the edge of the woods. Behind him, DarkStar was well hidden in a tight grove. The forest he was in and Seychelles village in the valley below were separated by an easy rolling hill. One lone sentinel, a tall, broad oak stood at the hill’s crest to mark the dirt trail for his return.

  Beyond Seychelles, in the middle of a farmer’s field, the mammoth, raggedy-edge remains of the Emperor’s Princess jutted fifteen stories into the sky. For more than a moment, Stan recalled his following the burning hulk in his Dart all the way to the planet’ surface.

  As he followed the dirt path that meandered down the slope to the village, he noted that it was well traveled. Still, it didn’t lead straight to the ship, and DarkStar knew how to protect herself, anyway.

  A myriad of things could go wrong. Atheron continued to be on high alert with increased patrols combing every street. Lilia’s shooting an officer in their escape didn’t help matters either.

  But still, he believed his disguise was perfect. Who’d suspect an old man enjoying a morning stroll through the streets of Seychelles? He entered the village. Lilia’s folks, now five years past her abduction by a rogue Enforcer, should no longer be on the Confederate’s ‘Suspects’ list, or so he hoped.

  The streets were clean for the most part, belying the suffocating oppression Stan knew everyone lived under. He found the Slone’s family home on a pristine side street amid similar picket fenced houses.

  Down the road another three blocks, sat the tavern where Lilia had worked, and Stan could now feel his heart pulse in his throat as memories of his first visit pressed to the forefront of his thoughts.

  He considered her folks’ home, a small Government Issue Cape Cod. Atheron law allowed folks to fix them up somewhat, but . . .

  Lilia’s folks had pushed right up to approved limits with fresh paint and plant life.

  Standing at the head of the walkway to the front door of the Slone’s house, Stan went over the speech he had prepared, but it now seemed rather stupid.

  He ducked under the vine-covered trellised archway and cautiously headed up the walk to their front door. Heart pounding, he wanted to rush in shouting . . . but to call out what exactly?

  “Hello,” he heard a voice call, and looked up to see a dark-haired woman in her late forties standing in the house’s open door. She looked very much like Lilia. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked with a kind smile.

  Stan felt himself freeze as a torrent of conflicting emotions flooded his mind. He glanced back up the street toward the hill and its distant lone oak. So much stood in the way of the mission he had set for himself. Did the Slone’s still love their daughter? They had to, he assured himself. How could they not? Would their love for Lilia be strong enough to bridge the five-year gap without an explanation? Would they trust him enough to come? Their daughter was now in far more danger than she had ever been. They simply must come.

  “Sir, are you all right?” She took a step down her stoop and beckoned with a quick jerk of her head just as Lilia would have done, “Got a hot pot brewed and some apple crumb cake aching to be sliced.”

  He stepped closer but didn’t take her outstretched hand. “I would like that. Thank you.”

  She led him into the kitchen where an aroma of coffee and fresh baked cake greeted him. An older man wearing wire framed glasses, sitting at the table put down his Seychelles’ Sentinel news pad. “And you are, sir?”

  The woman turned away to pull a cup and small plate from a cupboard.

  Stan hesitated, and then nervously blurted, “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Slone?” With that, and the startled look of the couple, his mind went blank.

  With knit brow, Mr. Slone leaned toward the stranger in his home. “Who are you?”

  Just then, DarkStar’s voice whispered in Stan’s earpiece, “Say nothing, sir. You’re being monitored. There’s a truck down the block loaded with high-tech equipment. But I believe it’s audio only.”

  “Arch. . . Arch. . . Archway. Tom Archway, sir,” Stan stuttered, as he took a seat.

  “What do you want, Mr. Archway?”

  “I bring word of . . .” Stan thought quickly “. . . the parcel of land you were interested in. It’s now on the market,”

  Stan put a finger to his lips, and then knocked the sugar bowl spilling some of its contents on the table. Apologizing for his clumsiness, he wrote “Lilia” in the spilled sugar, and then wiped the writing away.

  “She lives?” Mr. Slone mouthed silently.

  Stan nodded, and glanced at Mrs. Slone who now covered her mouth with a trembling hand. The message in the sugar must have been bittersweet for her.

  “Well, uh, Jean and I are interested in that parcel, if it’s the one we think it is. When can we see it again?”

  “I’ve got a little time right now,” Stan said. “What say we take a look?”

  “Men approach,” whispered DarkStar. “Go out the back way now.”

  Stan sprang to his feet, and gestured that someone was coming in the front entrance. Heading for the back door, he motioned that the older couple should follow him. The Slones quickly obeyed his non-verbal instructions.

  DarkStar’s voice guided him through back alleyways, side streets, and even a storm drain culvert, past patrols, to the edge of town.

  Now for the most dangerous leg back to the ship. Stan gazed up at the lone oak, the dirt trail to it, and noted the meadow. No cover at all, he thought. Now what?

  “DarkStar, we can’t get to you without being seen. Any advice?”

  “I have an idea, Daddy.” Ericca’s voice was confident. “One moment please.”

  As they hunkered down behind some thick bushes, a troop transport came around the corner and passed right by them.

  “DarkStar, we’re cut off. The terrain’s too open between us and you.”

  “There’s less traffic south of you, Daddy. If you can make i
t to the Princess, we can pick you up there.”

  “Roger, Ericca. On our way.”

  Stan, with DarkStar’s help, guided the older couple through the less used streets and back alleys until they reached the tavern.

  Mr. Slone caught hold of Stan’s arm to get his attention, and gestured toward the buildings. “This is where it all began, sir. This is where our daughter was . . .”

  Studying the old man’s eyes for a brief moment, Stan patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, I know,” he said, then took them around the back toward the downed cruise liner, before stopping at the alley’s end.

  This was the very path he followed to lead Lilia to safety and, indeed, five years hadn’t changed the landscape much, that is, until he came around the last building. The last time around, the Emperor’s Princess lay smoldering under smoke so thick it choked out the sun.

  But on this bright and beautiful day, vine, tree, and bush cloaked the ruins in soft shades of green. Even at this distance, another three hundred yards or so, small flowers of yellow, white, and pink, polka dotting the bushes, painted a surreal scene. It seemed as though the Immortal Architect, with nature, was reclaiming His own.

  DarkStar’s tone was urgent. “Men ahead, sir.”

  Stan turned back.

  “The alley’s blocked from behind as well,” she added.

  “Reliant, you’re not making this easy,” Stan scolded.

  “Sorry, sir. Something’s interfering with my scanners. I didn’t see them.”

  Stan motioned the Frenches to take cover, and as they hurried to crouch behind a dumpster, he checked his gun, tucked it back into and under the holo-camouflage and braced himself for a shootout.

  Just then, two Enforcers rounded the corner cutting off his path to safety. Behind him, two more blocked his escape.

  “You there!” said one. “There’s a curfew. What are you doing out here?”

  “Sorry, sir. Just taking out the trash.” Stan stepped away from the dumpster, dusted off his hands, and motioned to a building’s back door.