Dark Runner: LodeStar 3.5

by Cathryn Cade

  Kiri shrugged. “Millions of females have done worse for love—or what they thought was love. Anyway, we’re going to show the galaxy you’re not that girl anymore.”

  “Right. And get me that pardon you mentioned.” Yeah, that would happen—maybe by the time she was one hundred and eighty or so.

  Kiri ignored her scowl. She leaned closer. “It can work, I know it. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  * * *

  Scala stared at the massive doors before her. They were very large, official doors, with the grand seal of the IBI, and probably nuclear charge proof. They were also shut, with two armed, helmeted guards stood before them, laser weapons at the ready.

  She couldn't breathe. It was partly the restraint collar squeezing her neck, standard wear for dangerous prisoners in court, but it was also fear. Her whole future hung on making whoever was beyond those doors believe that she would cooperate in whatever scheme they placed before her.

  And these were no scruffy space rabble, these were highly placed officials of the IBI, honed by years of experience with criminals much worse than her. Suits who would no doubt sneer down their long probosces at her, while she was strapped into this chair, unable to so much as lift a hand to shield her face.

  And she’d thought being arrested and tagged was humiliating … this brought that experience flooding back, with the added threat that this was literally her last chance.

  She reached deep within herself, searching for the calm she’d learned in her guard training. Still the mind, listen to the body, let it tell you when to act.

  Right. Don’t think about the fact that if this didn’t work, she’d be back on the Horal, or worse, for the rest of her miserable life.

  Until she was desperate enough to join the fools who settled the outlying planets, the only ones that allowed tagged criminals like her. Say Tanthra or Narghil, both known for their ferocious wildlife and extremely nasty climates.

  Or until she gave in and started spending all her pay on drink and drugs to help her forget how far she’d fallen, like so many of the beings she met on board the succession of freighters and smuggling caravans she’d worked.

  She shifted in the seat of the transport hoviecart, wincing as the restraint collar tightened even at this slight movement. Not much chance a prisoner would try to make a break for it, not when the slightest abrupt movement choked off all breath. She was already dizzy from lack of oxygen.

  And she wasn’t sure how Kiri had talked her into this stunt. But if it worked, oh, if it worked … she’d walk out of here with at least the hope of a better future. That hope beckoned like a distant star. She’d be able to follow it, anywhere in the galaxy she chose to travel, work or play. She’d be free.

  But if the plan didn’t work, she’d be back where she’d been for the last two years—not incarcerated, just working her way around the galaxy on a succession of old, dirty freighters with crews that were either undesirables like her, or unable to hold a regular job because of mental illness, stupidity or general rebelliousness.

  Not in hell, but close. In a dark, dirty limbo.

  She wasn’t sure, right at this sec, that freedom was worth her current utter abasement. One of the curses of being Serpentian, after all, was a fierce pride. Arrogance, many called it. Whatever, it was bred in the bones. She’d fight and die to avoid being displayed like this, if she thought for a moment it would work. A dark fury edged her vision, hissing at her to escape, no matter the cost.

  The massive doors began to open. Scala froze as a woman appeared in the opening. A slim blonde, she wore a neat business suit, small earrings and minimal cosmetics. She flicked a cool look over Scala, as if to say she was sure Scala wasn’t worth all this trouble. But then she nodded to one of the guards. “Bring the prisoner in.”

  The prisoner. She had a name, why couldn’t the bitch use it? With a mighty effort, Scala held herself still and silent as her prison cart glided into the room between the two helmeted guards. She’d show this woman and whoever else waited to judge her, if it was the last thing she did.

  The room they entered was large, and well lit. In the center sat a large, ornate table.

  Scala’s cart stopped facing the table.

  Then she concentrated once again on breathing, not on the utter humiliation of being confined while she was examined with three pitiless gazes. She clenched her teeth, lifted her chin and stared right back.

  She recognized the man lounging at one end of the table—he had Logan Stark’s hawk face and pale, piercing gaze. But though Joran Stark wasn’t smiling, there were smile lines on his tanned face. With his long hair falling around his shoulders, he looked like the kind of guy Scala would, under ordinary circumstances, try to get into bed. He’d know what to do with those big hands, and that long, lean body.

  The big man hulking next to him, square-jawed and cool eyed, wore khaki tailored to his muscular frame, but he looked as if he’d be more at home with a weapon in his hand. Ex-military. Stark’s security, Scala guessed. The man, or one of the men, who was responsible for letting Stark get kidnapped, or whatever. His job was no doubt on the line. Well, too bad for him—at least if he got fired, he’d still have his freedom.

  The blond seated herself at the far end of the table.

  Scala’s guards ranged themselves behind her, one of them so close she could hear him breathing through the helmet.

  Joran Stark gave them a wry look. “I think we can defend ourselves if Ms. Raj tries to attack,” he said. “Seeing that she’s unarmed and wearing a stun collar. Why don’t you two back off a bit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scala heard the men step back, but she didn’t bother to watch. She held her head high and waited, her hands flat on the arms of the hoverchair, as if her heart wasn’t racing with adrenaline and fear

  Logan Stark’s brother gave her a lift of his chin and a measuring look.

  “Scala Raj,” he said in his deep, smooth voice. “Before we get to the purpose for this meeting, I’m Joran Stark. This is Bronc Berenson from LodeStar and Agent Farr from the IBI.”

  She nodded, wincing as the collar squeezed her throat again.

  “I’d like to talk about your history,” Joran Stark went on. “You’ve been tagged a criminal, for life. Do you deserve it?”

  And so it began. Scala met his gaze, her eyes as wide and earnest as she could get them. It wasn’t easy with the slightly slanted, heavy-lidded eyes of a Serpentian.

  “I know I did wrong,” she said, her voice thin as the collar squeezed at the movement of her throat. “I was young and stupid. I believed the smooth talk of a seducer.”

  “It’s only been two years,” snapped Agent Farr.

  “You’d be surprised how long two years can last,” Scala said dryly. “I’ve had lots of time to think. Now, I’d do things differently.”

  Joran Stark raised his heavy, arching brows. “How?”

  She started to raise her own and quelled the urge. Humble. Be humble. “I’ve learned not to trust as easily. Now I wouldn’t believe his lies in the first place. I’d incapacitate him somehow and warn the guard captains, let them take charge of the situation. That’s what I should’ve done then. Guess I thought I was so smart, if I couldn’t handle it, no one else could either.” Actually, she’d kill the slithering bastard—slowly, with the maximum amount of pain—but it wouldn’t do to sound violent now. She was here to show them she was a meek, model prisoner who’d learned her lesson.

  He nodded. “You might have escaped at the last, though. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I wasn’t going to let him rape Tessa Alligon. He wanted to hurt her, humiliate her and Captain Craig. He liked hurting women.” She knew this firsthand. Once Ssaar had her in his power, he’d enjoyed trying to break her. She had the scars to prove it.

  “And recently, on another voyage, you helped Kiri te Nawa,” Joran Stark added.

  Her heart gave a pleased little leap. He was listing her good deeds, that was a good sign, ri
ght?

  “She also didn’t deserve what those two miscreants were gonna do to her.”

  A smile lurked in his silver eyes, amusement. Like they were conspirators. Yeah, only he was free, and she was the one in the collar.

  “Ms. te Nawa tells us you’d like to be able to change your life,” the big man next to him said, his voice deep and quiet. “Have a chance to start over.”

  “Yeah. I would. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” Depending on what that was. Did they think they had themselves a pet assassin?

  Berenson’s wide mouth quirked. “Relax, we don’t want you to kill anyone. At least, not unless it’s necessary.”

  Were they ever going to get to the point? “I know this has something to do with Logan Stark disappearing. But I don’t get it, what is it that you do want me to do?”

  “This will never work,” the blond said, tapping her nails on the table. “She has reason to hate Mr. Stark, why should she help him?”

  Joran Stark held up one hand. “You’ve made your protests known, Agent Farr. Ms. Raj may have no love for Logan, but she does want to help Kiri. Don’t you, Scala?”

  Scala shrugged, then winced as the collar choked her at the sudden movement. “Sure,” she managed, gagging as the collar squeezed more tightly. “I like ... Kiri, a lot.”

  The big man next to Joran Stark scowled. “Ease up on the collar. She’s no threat.”

  “Not until we have reached an agreement,” the blond said, her eyes narrowed on Scala. “I don’t trust her.”

  “Then we’re even,” Scala said through her teeth. “Because I don’t trust you either.” Officious bitch. She could take her down in a heartbeat. Mess that prim suit, and tear some of that blonde hair out while she was at it. Then she wheezed, her lungs straining for air as the collar squeezed again, hard. Guess that showed who had the collar controls.

  “Loosen the damned thing,” Berenson demanded. “Or I’ll do it.”

  Farr sighed. “All right.”

  The collar eased its grip, and Scala sucked in a deep, grateful breath, refraining with great difficulty from glaring at the blonde.

  Joran Stark cleared his throat. “Let’s stay on track. Scala, you ready to hear our offer?”

  “Yes. Please.” Please set me free so I can do your dirty work, and gain my freedom, then come back and kill blondie … slowly.

  He began to speak. Several moments later she sat, staring at him, revenge forgotten as her mind raced with the magnitude of what they wanted her to do.

  “Oh, and we should probably mention,” Joran Stark drawled. “Tal Darkrunner is dangerous. Very dangerous.”

  “No kidding,” she said dryly. “I kind of figured, or he wouldn’t have a gang of his very own.”

  She moved, the collar squeezed, and she froze. The blonde IBI agent smirked at her.

  Scala ignored her, eyes on Stark. “I’ll do it. Now get this thing off of me.”

  “Certainly not—” the blonde began, but Berenson was already on his feet. He strode around the table to Scala, determination in every step.

  “Mr. Berenson,” the blonde was on her feet too, glaring at Scala and the big man. “This is not IBI procedure. This woman is a dangerous criminal.”

  “I don’t give a pile of skrog shit about IBI procedure,” the deep voice said over Scala’s head. “I care about getting Mr. Stark back in one piece, without holes shot in him by Darkrunner. And this woman is going to help us do that, so back the fuck off.”

  Scala, her head bent forward where he’d tipped it, smiled to herself. Then the collar loosened with a click, and she drew a deep breath, sucking air into her lungs and letting it out. She wouldn’t be taking another breath for granted for a while.

  But she was still strapped into the hovercart, still a prisoner, so she couldn’t afford to relax. She concentrated on looking meek and cooperative.

  “Ms. Raj, do you have any questions?” Joran Stark asked.

  A chill ran down Scala’s spine. He spoke as if the whole thing hinged on her agreement, not their approval.

  “Yeah, I do. Why me? Why not one of your own operatives?” They must have a thousand or more attractive women or men who could do this job.

  The blonde smirked.

  “Oh,” Scala realized. “It’s because I’m expendable, isn’t it? Because you don’t care what happens to me. Or you don’t think I’ll come back alive at all.”

  The beings on the other side of the table gazed back at her, the truth in their eyes … and their silence.

  “Well, hells,” she said with a shrug. “In that case, may as well get started.”

  Chapter Four

  Quol-Ray space station, just off Serpentia

  The gleaming Star-class cruiser was long and sleek, pure black except for the jagged silver ghost flames that shimmered along the sides when one approached the craft under the lights of the private spaceport bay. Scala gave a silent hiss of appreciation. Luxe, very luxe. Crime obviously paid well on Earth II. Of course Tal Darkrunner was reputed to be one of the top crime lords in New Seattle, one of the planet’s largest cities.

  Too bad she was headed back for respectability when this was over, or she’d be tempted to try and get one of these for herself.

  A huge Mau in leather studded with metal sat outside the cruiser, cleaning a big knife that already looked spotless to Scala. But maybe that was the point. The glittering blade certainly drew attention, along with the dangerous glower on the Mau’s slab-like purple face.

  He rose to confront her at the bottom of the open gangplank. “What you want?” he demanded in a deep rumble that sounded like rocks grating.

  “Just came to see how Trix is doing. This is her ship, right? She looked real sick last night when she left the bar. Is she okay?”

  He grunted something, not moving from his guarded stance.

  A compact blond man appeared at the top of the gangplank. Hands braced on the edge of the open hatch over his head, he leaned out to look her over, his brown eyes sly under his long bangs. “Looking for Trix? You slip her something so you could win at holodice, Serp girl?”

  “Didn’t need to—we weren’t playing for credit. I guess she’s okay if she mentioned me.”

  “She did, but she forgot to say how starry you are.”

  The Mau shook his massive head and moved away from the walkway. “Since you’re so negly, you link Trix for her,” he said to the other man, and went back to his task.

  ‘Negly’, Scala’s com translated in her ear. ‘Mauritian for ‘sexually attracted.’ Not that Scala needed a translator for the gleam in the blond man’s eyes. He was negly, all right. She was used to that—any reasonably attractive female was out here. She just hadn’t expected the zing of returned attraction. He was cute, and that twinkle in his eye said he knew how to have fun.

  “I’m Darry,” he said, straightening in a manner that was clearly designed to show off his physique. “Who’re you?”

  “Scala.” She smiled at him. “No need to bother Trix, just wanted to check on her.”

  “You here for long?” he asked.

  “Hells, no,” she retorted. “Wouldn’t stay on this piece of floating space junk if they paid me in solid iridium. Just here until I get on with another ship.”

  “Ah,” Darry flipped something in the air with one hand. Then he straightened. “Hold on, I’ll see if she’s awake.”

  He disappeared inside the cruiser, and Scala canted one hip and waited, as if she’d nothing better to do. Which was the truth. She’d been bored as all seven hells hanging around on this floating rust raft, waiting for Darkrunner’s ship to dock.

  The windows of the bay groaned with pressure as a new arrival whined to a stop just outside, the thruster wash boiling forward around the craft. A J-class cruiser, big enough to carry a sizeable crew.

  The pilot, just visible in the cockpit, brought the vessel in a little too fast. Scala winced as one of the wings scraped the armorglass window between the bays. The vessel shu
ddered in protest, then settled to the pad. One of the station crew zipped out to the ship on a hoverpad, gesturing furiously at the gelpaint streaked window of the bay. That pilot was going to have to pay a damage fee before refueling.

  Outside, an IGSF fighter squadron patrol screamed by, headed for Serpentia. An eerie flash lit the blackness of space, pale light streaking across the void in jagged waves, then receding. Another solar storm revving up.

  “Hey!” Darry beckoned her with a grin. “Come on up, Serp girl. Trix is asleep, but the boss wants to meet you.”

  Yess. Scala swallowed a hiss of triumph as she climbed the gangplank.

  She’d admired the exterior of the craft, but when she stepped on board the cruiser, she walked into luxury. All leather, cerametal and faux woods in dark tones, every inch gleaming and plush. The seats were skrog leather, smooth and soft. The craft smelled of some exotic spice as if she’d walked into a Serpentian bazaar, not onto the private cruiser of a ganger lord.

  And waiting for her in the center of it all was the man she’d come to find. He did not look happy to see her. Well, he wouldn’t be. No one was happy, who had to spend more than a few secs here on Quol-Ray. It was a desolate spot at best. In the wee hours of a Serpentian night, with a solar storm already howling outside, it was a level of hell. The storm would only get worse when the sun rose, gaining in force, waves of heat and energy buffeting every planet, ship and station in their path.

  Darkrunner had docked here at the busy fuel hub for fuel and information. She’d watched from a careful distance as he, Darry and Trix walked into the bar, and then split up, the two men heading out to the spaceport area.

  They could have made it out before the storm, had Trix not succumbed temporarily to a bad case of dysentery. Scala knew exactly why the diminutive redhead had gone pale, and then dashed for the nearest lav, because she’d been the one to introduce the dose of bacteria into the woman’s drink at the Quol-Ray Bar and Grill.