DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2)

by Ben Patterson

  The Enforcer, hand on his holster, nodded.

  Stan walked to the door he’d indicated and took the knob and jostled it. It was locked.

  “Blasted thing gets stuck sometimes.” He smiled nervously at the Enforcers, and jostled the knob again. “Come on, not now.”

  “Show your papers. Identify yourself.”

  Stan hesitated. DarkStar had long ago removed the ident-chip that had been imbedded in the back of his hand. He hoped the one now glued to his palm in his clenched fist would fool the scanner.

  Palm down, he held out his hand. The Enforcer stepped forward, scanned it, then checked the reading. “You’re clear. Now get inside before I arrest you.”

  Stan tugged at the door again and then forcefully rattled it, but it didn’t open. “Must’ve locked myself out. Sorry, gents.”

  Just then the door swung inward and a lady stood in the threshold blocking his path.

  “Locked myself out again, honey,” he said as he tried to step past her, but she barred his way.

  “I don’t know you, Mister,” she said firmly with a hand on his chest.

  “Ah, come on, honey bunches. I said I was sorry. Please, let me in before these fine gentlemen think ill of me. You don’t want me to spend another night in jail, do you?”

  Looking past him to the Enforcer, she refused to let him in. “Officers, I don’t know this man.”

  Glancing at the Enforcers, Stan released a nervous chuckle. “Hildagard has got a powerful grudge brewin’, boys. Oh, well, seems my bed and a square is at your house tonight.”

  “Hildegard?” she bellowed. “Name’s Letti . . . Letti Graves. You can check that yourself, officer.” She held out her hand to be scanned.

  Suddenly, Stan bolted past her, pushing her out of harm’s way into the apartment, spun and fired at the Enforcers. Two dropped where they stood, stunned by Stan’s zithion-charged rubber bullets.

  The other two Enforcers fired as Stan ducked for cover behind a couch, but an errant bullet caught him in the hip. He reeled and writhed at the sudden jolt, but found enough presence to attack.

  He popped up and fired twice, but the Enforcers, still outside, had little reason to show themselves. Help . . . their help, would soon be on its way.

  Just then, both men collapsed, crumpling to the ground. Someone peeked in but, backlit by the bright noonday sun, Stan couldn’t make out who it might be.

  “Hello,” the newcomer called into the house. “You okay?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Tennyson, Tony Tennyson.”

  Stan got to his feet and headed for the door, brushing past the woman who now stood motionless, clearly paralyzed by all the gun-play. “For your own sake, lady, you best forget this day completely.”

  With brows arched high, she gave her head a rapid nervous jerk, and then locked the door behind him as Stan stepped out into the daylight.

  Carlton Ogier, wearing a full beard, checked both ends of the alley with a gun at the ready then glanced at Stan. “That’s not much of a disguise, Captain Star.”

  Stan looked down; his holographic disguise was gone. He was unharmed by the Enforcer’s bullet, but the holo-emitter sputtered random sparks before dying completely, having given its life to save his.

  “Yeah, well, I hadn’t time to grow a beard, Mr. Tennyson.” Stan said. “Glad you made it.”

  “I’ve got your wing, Cap. I always have.”

  Carl’s just in the nick of time arrival surprised Stan, but he had no time to think about it. He patted Carl’s shoulder, brushed past him, and then went to the dumpster to bring out Mr. and Mrs. Slone. “Let’s go.”

  Mr. Slone jerked back. Wide eyed, he fumed, “I recognize you, you murdering piece of filth. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Stan turned and scowled at the man. “We don’t have time for this. For Lilia’s sake, as well as your own, you have to come with me.” Stan grabbed his arm.

  The old man recoiled and wrenched from Stan’s grasp.

  Carl stepped forward. “You’ve got to trust us, Mr. Slone. There’s no other choice.”

  “Back off! I’m not goi—”

  Stan caught the older man’s jaw with a clenched fist. He crumpled. Stan hoisted him over his shoulder as Carl took hold of Mrs. Slone’s arm. Together, they hurried across the street and headed for the Princess.

  Without warning, shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off the road near their feet. Stan turned to see an armored troop transport barrel down the street toward them and then abruptly skid to a stop. They fired again, but their bullets now bounced off something invisible; a barrier between them and Stan.

  Under cover of Level-A Stealth, DarkStar had come to bar the truck’s advance opposite her, and then lowered a welcoming ramp.

  Chapter Thirty

  A sharp whine in Tobin Slone’s ears tugged him from unconsciousness. He jerked awake, nearly toppling from his bed, but steadying hands caught him.

  “Easy, Mr. Slone.” The masculine voice sounded familiar.

  He opened his eyes and tried to focus. Someone handed him his glasses. He put them on, blinked, and saw the blond, bearded man from the alley.

  “You!”

  “Name’s Carl, sir. I mean you no harm.”

  Tobin raised his head to see he was in a medical room of some sort. A computer-generated display on one wall flashed with indicator lights, showing labels, readings, and graphs, all moving in rhythm. “What’s all that?”

  “Your vitals.”

  He could see his pulse and read his blood pressure in real time. This was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It was beyond modern, beyond anything the Confederates could contrive.

  He sat up and dropped his legs from the bed, and with that his head nearly exploded.

  “Take it slow, sir. Stan hit you pretty hard.”

  “Stan?” He looked up at Carl’s concern filled face. “Stan Archer?”

  Carl focused on him. “You know Stan?”

  Tobin rubbed his forehead. “Got anything for pain?”

  “DarkStar, can you help this man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tobin heard a high-pitched tone, then his ears popped and his head cleared.

  “Ouch, what was that?”

  “Mr. Slone,” Carl said, ignoring Tobin’s question, “how do you know Stan Archer?”

  Tobin spoke without looking up. “After Lilia’s disappearance—after her abduction—the man’s picture was all over the news. Killed by pirates while on maneuvers, they said. He was a fallen hero, they said. Yeah, some hero. He was credited with putting down a Follower infiltration on the Emperor’s Princess; Trog terrorists trying to make landfall, so said those lying . . .”

  Tobin peered at Carl over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Five years . . . for five years I believed my daughter was dead . . . or worse. Stolen away by that scum and later taken by pirates maybe. Now to find she lives? Where is she? Where’s my daughter?”

  “Her condition is serious, sir. She’s giving birth, or trying to. There is a very real chance that she won’t make it. The labor has been difficult. That’s why we brought you here.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  “She has a skilled midwife attending her. Your wife is there. Just seeing her mother has helped—to see you will even more so.”

  Tobin jumped to his feet and nearly toppled with a sudden dizzy spell. Carl steadied him.

  Like a tornado pushing everything else aside, Tobin’s mind forced a single thought to the forefront—to demand an answer. Was his daughter Archer’s slave or—” he gulped “—his wife? Tobin couldn’t bring himself to ask. In either case, the news was sure to twist the knot in his stomach tighter than it already was.

  “Did you say she might not make it? If she’s having that butcher’s child, maybe her death would be a good thing.”

  “What? How could you possibly say that? She’s your daughter.”

  “Do you have any children, Carl?

  “No, I ha
ven’t been so blessed.”

  “Then you couldn’t possibly understand a father’s concern. I know my daughter would want nothing to do with an Enforcer, especially that murderer.”

  “There is so much you don’t get. It’s not like that. Lilia loves him.”

  “If that’s true then I can’t understand any of this. Why didn’t she contact us during these last five years? What happened to the ideals her mother and I taught her? How could she love someone like that? Did he do something to her mind? None of this is right.”

  “Nothing like that happened. Mr. Slone, I can truthfully tell you Lilia missed you deeply.”

  “And I her, Carl.” All of this seemed like a horrible nightmare.

  Just then a little girl came into the room, saw he was up, and ran to hug him. “Granpa, you’re awake.”

  Granpa? Tobin thought as he glanced at Carl, then back to the child as his gut twisted a notch. The very idea that his little girl had willingly married a mass murderer sickened him. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, all the while automatically embracing the child in his arms.

  Tobin pulled back from the little girl and set her on her feet to get a better look at the youngster. “And who might you be?”

  The girl beamed and spoke with pride. “I’m your granddaughter, Ericca Adrianna Archer.”

  He surged to his feet. “And the child she bares now, also his?” he asked of no one in particular.

  He stepped past Ericca and Carl without another word and headed down the hallway only to find himself standing at the entrance to a huge room. It was full of cots and luggage, and dozens, no, hundreds of people in small groups on their knees.

  “Who are all these people? More victims?”

  “Refugees, Mr. Slone,” Carl said from behind him. “It’s what the Archers’ do; rescue people. It’s what your son-in-law lives for.”

  Tobin turned to face the bearded blond. “He torpedoed the Princess into oblivion, killing thousands of innocents—my own sister among them, . . . her husband, . . . my nephew.” Tobin glowered at Carl. “And now, out of the blue, you ask me to accept my daughter’s kidnapper as my son? Well, isn’t that something? You might as well rip my heart from my chest. There’s no way in this lifetime or in the next will I accept that monster as my son.”

  Carl stepped forward and for a long moment said nothing. When he finally spoke, his tone was a calm, sober whisper. “She chose him for reasons you don’t yet understand. I know. I was there. You have to forgive him, Mr. Slone. He is Lilia’s husband.”

  “I have to do nothing of the sort! For five years she was dead to me. Maybe it should’ve stayed that way.” Tobin glared at Carl meaning every word.

  Carl straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. “You have no right to . . .”

  Turning away, tears blurred Tobin’s eyes. “I prayed I’d see her again, hoping beyond hope that somehow my daughter had survived. And now, I can’t stand the thought of being with her knowing she married that . . . that . . .”

  “Oh, this is real peachy,” Carl said. “I suppose you can’t pick your relatives, can you? Sometimes you wind up with real slime bags.”

  Tobin turned to Carl. The youngish, blond’s eyes were now filled with disgust. With arms folded, Carl stood straight and defiant.

  Tobin turned to face Carl straight on. “I may have issues with my daughter, but I’ll not have you speaking of her like that.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t taking about her; it’s you I have concerns with. I’m forever surprised with just how mean a man can be. But you? You have got to be the world champ.”

  “Who are you to judge? The man she married is a—”

  “Kind and generous soul. Yeah, I know him, but obviously you don’t.”

  “I was about to say—”

  “Your ignorance was about to spout trash. Ask me and I’ll tell you about Stan . . . the Stan you don’t know. But before you speak, know this, if you ever butcher your daughter’s reputation in front of me again, I’ll hurt you . . . and you can take that to the bank. She lies in the infirmary, in trouble, needing you, and you can’t get beyond your own prejudices.”

  With that, Carl turned and headed away.

  “No! Wait!” Tobin hurried to his side, but Carl kept walking. “Tell me then; who is Stan Archer? How do you know him?”

  Ignoring his question, Carl went to a closed door. “Mr. Slone, there’s no telling how well she’s fairing. Do you really want your feelings for Stan to bar you from your daughter now?”

  “Answer my questions!” Tobin snapped.

  Carl glared at him. “Questions? There’s no time for questions. Go to your daughter!”

  Tobin glanced away and released a sigh. “I can’t believe my daughter married . . . him.”

  Carl rested a reassuring hand on Tobin’s shoulder. “The questions can wait. Lilia needs her father now. You may never get another chance to do right by her, so don’t blow this . . . this answer to your prayers.”

  Tobin dropped his gaze.

  “When you’re ready,” Carl said, “pass a hand over that sensor. The door will slide open.” Carl turned away and headed down the hall.

  Tobin fell against the door jam, tears falling like rain. He didn’t know her story, not yet anyway, but maybe it was . . . He steeled himself to be strong; to be strong for Lilia’s sake. Maybe her story was actually . . . the Immortal Architect’s.

  Wiping his eyes with a sleeve, he squared his shoulders, and waved a hand across the sensor.

  Tilted forward in a near sitting position, Lilia, pale and sweating profusely, strained in labor. Next to her, Stan Archer clutched her hand, a mix of concern and encouragement on his face. Two women, one standing between Lilia’s feet, the other standing behind the first, encouraged Lilia to push. Jean, Lilia’s mother, stood next to Lilia, opposite Stan.

  With an abrupt hiss, the door closed behind Tobin. He stepped in and took a place by his wife’s side to take his daughter’s free hand. “Lilia? I’m here, honey.”

  Now sixteen hours into labor, Lilia was running out of energy. She met his eyes with a tiny smile of delight, but her tired expression told the real story.

  Tobin leaned close. “You can do this, honey. The Immortal Architect is with you.”

  “I see the top of his head, Lilia,” the midwife said. “Push, girl, push.”

  “I’ll try, Margery.” Lilia strained, her face flushing red as she bore down, and then she fell back, too weak to do more.

  “Don’t give up, my wife,” Stan insisted. “Reach down and find the strength you need. Push!”

  Lilia gritted her teeth and bore down.

  The baby’s head appeared.

  Lilia collapsed.

  Stan embraced her, desperate to lend his strength to hers. “I love you, honey.”

  Stan truly loved Lilia. Tobin could see that, but there was more to their relationship. Stan shared a connection to his wife that few men enjoy with their own. Most don’t even know such things can exist. At Stan’s touch strength seemed to flow into Lilia.

  Tobin marveled at what he saw; words failing to describe what he now knew to be true. His mind awakened to a reality he had never before encountered—the presence of an intense Someone who, like mortar joining bricks, cemented this young couple together.

  As Lilia looked up into her husband’s eyes, renewed power and purpose brought color to her cheeks.

  She pushed again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tobin stepped from the room.

  Carl lay stretched out on a cushioned bench in the hallway, but sat up when Tobin came out. “How is she, Mr. Slone?”

  Tobin glanced back at the closed door. “It was a hard labor—healthy baby boy—but she may not . . .” The words caught in his throat. No, he’d not give voice to doubt, not now. “Lilia just needs to rest, that’s all. She’ll be fine.”

  Carl forced a smile. “Sure she will. I’m convinced of it.”

  “About Stan . . . You say you kno
w him?”

  “For five years now.” Carl got to his feet and gestured toward the far end of the hall to a side room, a repair shop off the cargo bay. He picked up a helmet that sat on a corner of the counter-top and handed it to Tobin.

  “What’s this?” the older man asked, not understanding Carl’s action. Someone had done a poor job painting over more than half the black marks with white paint. “You must have known Archer before the Princess was destroyed.”

  “I did. That helmet, those hashes are the reason Stan was the way he was.” Carl looked away and rubbed his face with a firm hand before looking back at Tobin. “Yeah, I knew him. He was my squadron leader.”

  “No wonder you’re defending him. You’re as bad as—”

  “There were times when I couldn’t stand looking into the man’s eyes either. But that’s only because in them I saw my future; I saw my eyes in five years time, devoid of life. I suppose that’s what I hated the most; the thought of winding up like that. But I was with him on that mission. I flew his wing, Mr. Slone.”

  Tobin couldn’t hide his disappointment in Carl. “Oh, I see,” he said, at once discounting anything else the man might say.

  “No, sir, you don’t see. In each Dart fighter there is a small screen dedicated to your partner’s face. As I watched Stan, I saw a change take place that surprised me. To handle the tight turns and such, a pilot has to have a concentrated focus and strong stomach, but as we dove on the Princess, before we launched that first torpedo or fired the first shot, I saw Stan turn pale. He looked as though he was about to pass out.”

  “So?”

  “Look at those hashes. At one time there were better than five hundred, each representing a kill. Though he was a seasoned soldier, it was all he could do to follow his orders this time.”

  “He could have disobeyed them. He had a choice.”

  “He could have . . .” Carl’s gaze was intense as he considered Tobin “. . . but he would have died in the attempt, and the attack would have continued anyway.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s the way strikes are set up. His Dart was in Lt. Troy Younger’s crosshairs.”

  “Excuse me?”