STAR MARQUE RISING
By Shami Stovall
Published by
CS BOOKS, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely fictional.
Star Marque Rising
Copyright © 2018 Shami Stovall
All rights reserved.
https://sastovallauthor.com/
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and where permitted by law.
Cover Design: Darko Paganus
Editor: Erin Grey, Abigail Stefaniak
IF YOU WANT TO BE NOTIFIED WHEN SHAMI STOVALL'S NEXT BOOK RELEASES, PLEASE CONTACT HER DIRECTLY AT [email protected]
ISBN: 978-0-9980452-1-4
ebooks created by ebookconversion.com
To John, for being the first to see.
To Beka, for making this possible.
To Gail and Big John, for all the support.
To Robert A. Heinlein, for all the books.
To Erin Grey and Abigail Stefaniak, for being amazing editors.
To all my writing buddies, this couldn't happen without you.
And finally, to everyone unnamed, thank you for everything.
CHAPTER ONE
AMBITION
The dregs of Capital Station gathered for their blood sport, and I was more than happy to give them a show.
Section Six, the armpit of our massive space station, was the only section to condone violence, so long as it was kept to competitions. Thousands squeezed themselves into makeshift stands built atop gas lines and water pipes. The foul odor of sweat and vomit lingered like fog, but that didn't deter the crowds. I doubted anyone would miss a battle royale.
“We have ten participants, ladies and gentlemen,” the game announcer said through a voice amplifier strapped over his mouth. Damn thing looked like a black surgical mask, but it sent his statement over all the speakers, blanketing the massive maintenance room with the declaration.
“Place your wagers while you still have a chance,” he continued. “Perhaps you, too, can be lucky enough to win big!”
I stood among the competitors, but I kept my gaze fixed on the audience. The oil-stained jumpsuits of the crowd blended together in a sea of gray and blue. The physically deformed sat in the far back, right alongside the sick. I recognized no one, which was for the best. I didn't want my old “friends” from Section Two interfering. I refused to be their gunrunning hatchet man. I was done with that life.
“We have plenty of ambitious fighters this year. It's bound to be quite a show!”
I smiled after the comment. Ambition killed fools who overestimated their own pathetic abilities. But I wasn't one of them. My aspirations wouldn't be snuffed out by the likes of mouth-breathers and petty convicts. I had talent to back up my ambitions.
All I wanted was to step foot on a planet—any planet—at least once in my life. And I'd get there, even if I had to carve up all of Capital Station in the process.
The other combatants sized each other up. A few glowered in my direction, and one offered a lopsided smirk.
“You're too clean for this fight,” the guy said. He tapped a piece of cyborg machinery protruding from the flesh of his shoulder, and out between poorly-fitted pieces of body armor. He flexed to show off his artificial strength.
I crossed my arms and ignored him. I was the only competitor without cyborg implants, and that gave all the fools a false sense of security. Worked for me. I loved capitalizing on stupidity.
The announcer, a gaunt man dressed in heavy boots, a blue jumpsuit, and gloves, was less shabby than the audience, but not by much. He walked along the outside of a metal stage, waving his hands to encourage the crowd. The cheering grew so intense, I swear it could be heard from the anchor planet our station circled.
The electric energy of a death fight got my blood going. Excitement spread through the crowd. Each competitor stepped onto the stage—a square loading platform devoid of siding—and I took my place at the corner.
“Remember, today's fights are brought to you by the Maccarus Felseven Grain Corporation! Eat like you live planetside with MF Grain!”
The announcer jumped onto the platform, and the lights dimmed over the crowd, putting the ring in the spotlight. The other fighters shifted their weight from one foot to another, sweat pouring from them like leaky pipes. Only schmoes entered a death fight without hardening themselves to the reality of dying. They must have been more desperate than I originally thought.
I shouldn't judge. I didn't have a credit to my name, and I had burned all my bridges before I arrived. I needed the money to pay for a carrier off this insufferable island in space. I couldn't go another sleepless night thinking every little creak might be one of my old associates come to put a plasma bolt through my head.
The prize awarded to the last man standing was half a million—twenty-five years of work for a typical sad sack of Capital Station.
One of the other competitors walked up to me, his body armor two sizes too big, and his shoulders slumped. The stiff vest, cracked helmet, and gloves wouldn't save him. I gave him a sideways glance and he flinched backward, but not far.
“This is really happening,” he said. A normal man might not have heard his weak voice over the audience's commotion, but I picked up the words with little trouble.
He stared at the other fighters, a picture of uncertainty. “Pull it together, Darryl,” he muttered to himself. “Pull it together. This is the only way…”
I had a feeling that if Darryl were at one end of a “remarkable persons” list, it wouldn't be the top. He was the type of man ambition killed on a regular basis.
“Forfeit,” I told him, my voice strong enough to pierce the cheers.
Darryl shook his head. “I… I have a family. They need the money.”
“Yet, here you are, saddling them with a funeral bill.”
“Oh? What's this?” the announcer asked. “Here comes the man we've all been waiting for!”
Lights swiveled and shone onto the beast stepping up to the platform. I recognized him straightaway. He was hard to miss.
“The bookies favor him to win, and I can see why!”
Vorgo Dilucca—part-machine, part-flesh—towered over the other combatants the moment he stepped into the ring. Metal jutted from all parts of his body, the shoddy craftsmanship a signature of the Capital Station “doctors.” The machines enhanced his strength beyond human capacity, sure, but those low-quality parts must have cut his life expectancy in half.
Vorgo probably thought he only needed a few minutes to win this fight, but he had picked the wrong battle royale.
“I've seen Vorgo throw a punch,” the game announcer said, prancing across the ring. “He's got a mean left hook, like my ex!”
Laughter mixed with the cheering. Vorgo held up his massive, steel-girder arms and garbled something indecipherable. Those piece-of-shit cyborg implants messed with a person's insides—with each breath he sounded like he was swallowing his own tongue, and his head was shaped like a cinderblock. Too bad those surgeons couldn't give the man some common sense while they were tinkering with his noggin.
The whooping and hollering reached new levels. I bet people put
a lot of money on a certain someone to win.
“Uh-oh! Looks like a few competitors are getting cold feet!”
Boos washed down from the crowd as six men stepped off the platform, forfeiting their participation. They ducked away with their heads hung and their hands shaking.
Ringside bouncers hit the fleeing men with electric prods, much to the delight of the audience. Those damn prods had enough amperage to burn skin on contact, and that would be coupled with a bruise left from the strike.
The announcer stared at me with a cocked eyebrow. “What do we have here? A brave fighter without any enhancements? He's got moxie, ladies and gentlemen!” He walked over and patted my bare shoulder. “No armor?” He examined my black tank top and Federation-standard cargo pants. “Maybe I misspoke. An idiotic fighter without any enhancements!”
More laughter. More cheering.
I had grown bored with the charade.
“Start the fight,” I said.
“Heh. You're so… succinct. But first, what's your name, pal?”
“Clevon Demarco.”
I shouldn't have used my real name, but would it really matter? I doubted anyone was going to verify my off-the-cuff statement. They wanted blood, not fact-checking.
“Demarco? I like your style.” The announcer held up his hands, calling for silence. “And now, it's time! Will our plucky underdog, Demarco, last more than thirty seconds? I sure hope so! Let's find out!”
He leapt from the platform, and a metallic ring heralded the start of the competition. There were four of us. It was me versus a man-turned-metal-abomination, versus Darryl, of all people, versus a barely-enhanced schlub. The entertainment wouldn't last long.
Before things got interesting, the ringside bouncers tossed us a handful of melee weapons—a duralumin pipe, three seven-inch, military-grade knives, and one of those damn electric prods.
Darryl dove for the prod, and the schlub scrambled for the pipe. I leaned down and picked up a knife.
Vorgo charged forward.
With superhuman strength, Vorgo swung his heavy fist into the side of the pipe-wielder's small head, smashing teeth and cascading blood across the spectators sitting in the front row. People snatched up molars for souvenirs, and hundreds took pictures and vids.
“Oh!” the announcer said. “Brutal!”
The crowd roared as Vorgo continued his assault on the unmoving man, pummeling his opponent without a hint of remorse. He bashed him until his skull caved in and his eyes ruptured.
Darryl stood, frozen, his gaze glued to the gore and his grip loose on his electric prod. My pulse quickened with the exuberant cheering, and I probably should've killed Darryl while he was rattled, but my attention snapped to a pair of off-station enforcers, watching from the edge of the ring.
I hated off-station enforcers.
They were basically bounty hunters and starfighters hired by the Capital Station overseer to keep the peace by suppressing anything that looked like trouble. They wore high-quality, black enviro-suits—skin-tight armor mesh from their necks down to their toes—and they stood out like blood on white linen compared to the denizens of Section Six.
They couldn't possibly be here for me. I had taken precautions to avoid any trouble with the authorities.
The game announcer lifted his hands in the air, conducting the audience like an orchestra of clapping and shouting.
“There's no kill like overkill!”
Vorgo stood straight, gulping down air, a twisted smile on his misshapen face. The guy gave Frankenstein's monster a run for his money, and the blood-stained pants and ripped knuckles added an air of psychopath to his overall look.
Darryl turned to me. I stood motionless as he ran, full-tilt, in my direction, his weapon at the ready. At the moment of his swing, I shifted to the side, precision in my movement as I avoided the strike. I met his gaze with an unblinking focus, living the second as though in slow motion. I could've ended it with minimal effort, but I waited. There was little thrill in beating someone so far beneath me, and a part of me still hoped Darryl would throw in the towel.
Darryl caught his breath when I leapt around him, his eyes struggling to follow my movements. The shock didn't surprise me. Only a rare educated few knew the secret to my speed.
Vorgo lumbered over and entered the brawl, yelling. He swung, striking Darryl with bone-shattering intensity, breaking the prod—and Darryl's face—in a single blow. The patchwork body armor didn't protect Darryl from Vorgo's next two punches to the gut.
I doubted Darryl could see, not with his eye sockets bashed in—the name “Meatloaf Face” would have been more accurate at that point.
But that wasn't as interesting as Vorgo's fighting style. His stubby legs, strained from the additional weight of machinery, didn't move as fast as they should have for a brawl. He planted himself in a stance and only changed when necessary.
It would be his downfall.
Meatloaf Face attempted to jump off the platform to surrender, but bouncers prodded him back on, encouraging him to finish what he'd started. What bullshit. They'd let the others tap out, why not him? Their jeers and laughter betrayed their sadism, and that didn't surprise me either. Section Six was filled with fucked-up individuals.
Vorgo stomped over to Darryl, winded, and pity got the better of me. I whistled, harsh enough to pierce the cheers, until I got Vorgo's attention.
“Deal with him after,” I said. “I'm the only thing standing in your way to victory.”
“And Demarco has the balls to taunt his competitor,” the announcer shouted with a laugh. “I knew there was a reason I liked this guy!”
Although Vorgo gulped down air with ragged breaths, he faced me with a glower.
The announcer continued, “It's the eleventh hour! Demarco versus Vorgo! Who will end up a bloodstain across the floor?”
Best to wait for Vorgo to come to me—the more energy he wasted, the better.
I gripped my knife tight.
Sure enough, Vorgo charged, his heavy fist balled for a glorious Hail Mary. His punch whistled through the air past me as I sidestepped away, and it only stopped once it collided with the solid platform. The clang of metal-on-metal echoed throughout Section Six.
I stepped away when Vorgo swung with his other arm, dancing around the dangerous blows. Vorgo inhaled deep, sucking in pink, blood-laced sweat that misted from his overclocked machinery. He grunted, but I was in no hurry. All I needed was an opening.
The bouncers pushed Darryl until he fell over, chanting for his death. Vorgo must have needed a confidence booster, because he faced the half-beaten man and lumbered toward him.
Good enough for me.
In that instant, I went in low and slashed. I sliced Vorgo's femoral artery, right where the leg meets the body, and then darted away, avoiding a slow, third swing. Vorgo's death wouldn't come all at once, but now, it was set.
While Vorgo grabbed at the stream of blood gushing from his body, I jogged over to Darryl and kicked him off the edge. The bouncers booed, but I ignored them.
“Looks like another fighter is officially out of the running!”
As I turned back around, the machines deep within Vorgo strained and twitched into movement. He swung wide. Trapped between Vorgo and the edge of the ring, I didn't have space to escape. He clipped me with a second powerful strike. The glancing blow to my left shoulder sent me tumbling back across the hot, unforgiving platform, dislocating my arm and cracking my collarbone.
Goddammit. That was what I got for sticking my neck out for someone. I should've learned my lesson years ago—the Darryls of the world would never be worth it.
I got back to my feet before the announcer could make a quip, hiding the grimace of agony as I faced Vorgo. Fighting, in part, was psychological. Every stab—either to the opponent's body or confidence—brought me one step closer to victory. My olive skin hid bruising well, and I returned to my combat stance, my knife still in hand.
Bits of food and boos rained do
wn from the stands.
“What's this? Demarco's still in the fight? Unreal, ladies and gentlemen! Unreal!”
Vorgo grabbed at his injury, his fat lips quavering, sweat rolling off the grooves of his face.
“Vorgo's struggling! What a fight!”
With undeniable desperation, Vorgo lunged forward, overheating his cyborg implants for a slight increase in speed and power.
As graceful as any matador, I stepped aside.
In the split-second that Vorgo passed by, I slammed my blade deep into his neck, cutting both wires and veins. Choking on his own blood, Vorgo half-stumbled and half-ran off the edge of the platform, heedless of the bouncers and their prods. He crashed onto the walkway, twitching and convulsing as the machines ran through their power reserves.
“Demarco's the winner! What an upset!”
Cheers and violence erupted from the audience. The announcer tried to calm them, but it was to no avail. Instead, he grabbed my good arm and held it high. The bouncers kept the rabble away—thanks to their unpleasant weaponry—but my attention was once again drawn to the off-station enforcers.
The enforcers pointed and talked before disappearing into the agitated crowd, their gaze set on me until they were gone.
I pulled my hand from the announcer's and turned to leave the platform. My arm and shoulder pulsed with pain, but I knew the fight wasn't over. I couldn't show weakness. No one won half a million credits on Capital Station without attracting unwanted attention. The eyes of scavengers followed me all the way to the winner's terminal.
The screen on the computer station displayed the vice-overseer of Section Six—some old, bald guy with surgery scars from a botched facelift.
“Congratulations on your victory,” the vice-overseer said. “Please, hold your arm up to the terminal to receive your prize winnings.”
I pocketed my souvenir knife, and then held up my right arm. Buried deep between the ulna and radius sat a small identification chip that contained personal information, such as bank accounts and criminal records. I held my breath as I ran my arm over the scanner.
The chip wasn't my own. I had purchased a stolen one from my old gangbanger associates. Felons weren't allowed to hold decent jobs or receive prize money, after all. A stolen chip was my only option. How else would I get off the godforsaken space station?
Star Marque Rising Page 1