“Our c-commander said we weren't to sedate or restrain you,” she said, holding my arm for support.
I set her down, but kept my grip on her jumpsuit and mulled over the bizarre piece of information. “Your commander?”
“Endellion Voight.”
Endellion.
That was the name of the woman who'd caught me, the commander who'd shot my shin.
“It's Federation standard to sedate prisoners,” I said.
“I made that exact argument,” the girl replied, sardonic irritation replacing all fear. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into her. Maybe attack her the moment she enters a room, and then try the ‘I'm unstable’ argument.” She motioned to the grip on her clothing.
I smirked. She was a cheeky little shit.
Before I let her go, I slid my hands into her pockets. No weapons, just a pouch full of microtools used for fixing computer hardware. She grew red in the face and avoided making eye contact with me, staring up at the ceiling as much as possible.
“I'm not going to do anything,” I stated.
She cracked half a smile. “This is starting to remind me of a few disappointing dates.”
I snorted, taken aback by her blasé attitude.
Her PAD beeped, and a blue light flashed near her wrist. The screen displayed caller information, but the view window never opened. Audio communication rang from the edges.
“Sawyer,” a masculine voice from her PAD said. “What does the vat say? How much longer until our new guest wakes up?” His displeasure carried through the speakers. He sounded familiar. He'd been on Capital Station when I was captured.
Lysander. That was his name.
Sawyer met my gaze, her face still flushed. “Don't make this situation any worse than it already is. Calm down. We'll get you some clothes and pretend this never happened.”
Her PAD blinked blue, waiting for a reply.
Taking a hostage hadn't worked for me last time.
I released Sawyer and took a step back. I was half-tempted to fight the enforcers, but I knew that was a younger, stupider version of me talking. They had the advantage. Armor. Weapons. Security codes. Like my fight with Vorgo, it was best to wait for an opening, rather than start with aggression.
Sawyer tapped her PAD and said, “Our guest awoke, Lysander.” She examined me from head to toe, holding up a hand to block her view of my junk. “And the vat helped. He's up and kicking, if you catch my drift.”
“Why didn't you say so earlier?” Lysander replied. “I'll be there in a moment to escort him to Endellion. And don't engage with him! He's unpredictable and dangerous.”
“Oh, I'll certainly try.”
For reasons I couldn't articulate, her attitude amused me. I swore she snuck a look or two right before returning her gaze to the ceiling. She couldn't have been that afraid of me, or else I doubted she would've cracked so many jokes. Then again, people got weird in life-or-death situations. I had seen everything from anger, to tears, to that one time a guy was so uncomfortable he couldn't stop himself from whistling.
Sawyer stole one last glance at me before returning her attention to her PAD.
“Like what you see?” I asked.
Of course she did. I was a paragon of fitness, and unlike most, I had potent pheromones. What wasn't to like?
To my surprise, Sawyer rolled her eyes and kept her hand up to block her view. “Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you're amazing. Endellion does her research before taking people aboard, after all.”
Hm?
“What was that?” I asked.
The door slid open, and I tensed. A man walked through, dressed in his black enviro-suit, his helmet hanging like a hood on his back. He tossed a white jumpsuit to the floor and pulled his sidearm—a four-round plasma pistol—and though he didn't point it at me, he did keep it at the ready.
“Put on the jumpsuit,” he commanded.
I recognized his voice straight away. Lysander.
He glanced over at Sawyer and motioned for her to come closer. “Don't worry. He won't try anything with me around.”
The statement almost made me want to start something. Then again, the longer I looked at him, the more I realized Lysander wasn't just some chump. He had military training—I could see it in the way he held himself straight at all times.
Sawyer walked to his side and glued her eyes to her PAD. She poked at the screen, never bothering to look up while I dressed.
“What's your name?” Lysander asked.
“Kasey Dimes,” I replied.
“Don't try to pull any tricks. We know your chip is stolen.”
“Then I assume you already know my real name. Why bother asking?”
“To see if you would be upfront.” He narrowed his dark eyes and sneered. “But I guess I should've known better.”
The guy even had a military crewcut. No wonder he disapproved. I was sure assholes like him thought they were above people like me.
“Lysander?” Sawyer asked. “The readouts from—”
“Later,” he snapped. “I have to take this thug to Endellion first.”
Sawyer let out a strained exhale and returned her full attention to the PAD.
I pulled the jumpsuit up and slipped one arm into a long sleeve. As I went to do the same with the other, Lysander lifted his sidearm and planted it into my solar plexus, pressing the barrel against my torso.
“C'mon,” he said. “You can finish on the way.”
I grabbed his wrist and jerked it to the side. He attempted to break free, but I ripped the pistol from his grasp, and he tensed, panicked.
“If you're going to pull a gun on me,” I said through clenched teeth, “you'd better be fuckin' ready to use it.”
Lysander attempted to wrench his arm free, but my strength was greater. It must have grated at his pride, because all hints of fear were replaced by hot shame. He reached up to his chest and tapped along a seam.
His enviro-suit pulsed with electricity powerful enough to knock Vorgo on his ass. I hit the steel floor, my muscles tensed and unresponsive, my heart convulsing like it was beating out of rhythm. Searing pain filled me for a few moments before fading into a dull ache.
Goddammit. I didn't know their enviro-suits had anti-grappling shock defenses. Why didn't the kid use it on Capital Station? He could have downed me in an instant the moment I took him hostage.
“I told you he was dangerous,” Lysander said as he snatched his pistol off the floor.
Sawyer shrugged. “I didn't have nearly as much trouble. This might be a self-fulfilling prophesy.”
“He deserves it for what he did to Noah.”
I rolled to my side, still hurting, but that didn't stop Lysander. He stepped over me and torqued my arms behind my back. I didn't resist as he secured my wrists with some sort of corded metal ties. Once finished, he dragged me to my feet.
“Sawyer, stand back.”
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, poking at her PAD.
With a stiff push, Lysander directed me out of the infirmary. We stepped into a wide corridor, perfect for accommodating movement of heavy crates and cargo. Lysander held my elbow, his grip tight as he shoved me along.
What a bitch. He should hope we both didn't end up in a dark alley somewhere.
“If you so much as stumble out of line,” Lysander said, terse, “I'll shock you again.”
“Do all your suits have that capacity?”
“Of course. Star Marque standard.”
Hm. It was still a mystery why the kid didn't use it.
The halls of the Star Marque hinted at its long history. Military ships hadn't been built since the United-Earth War. The weapon mounts by each door, along with the prevalence of escape hatches, told me the Star Marque was a vanguard-class starship. The type of ship that took on all the dangerous missions. A ship for the ambitious and foolhardy.
This ship had been modified, of course. Instead of escape pods, there seemed to be starfighter ships—small, highly-maneuverable crafts carrying
hyperweapons, perfect for deep-space combat. However, should the Star Marque fail, the lack of escape pods could leave half the crew dead in the water.
That kind of choice spoke volumes about the captain. Either he didn't give a fuck about his crew, or he was just confident he'd never fail.
Enforcers walked the halls in their enviro-suits, though most kept their helmets down. The easily-collapsible nature of the enviro-suit helmet allowed for a quick transition from casual to combat without the hassle of changing, but I would've been too worried to ever wear it down.
I stopped in the middle of the hall to twist in my jumpsuit. It was half-on, and with my hands cuffed behind my back, it was awkward and falling out of place.
Lysander pressed his pistol into my spine.
I glanced over my shoulder and glared at the man. I was already heading for Ucova… what was one more body?
Lysander must have picked up on my animosity, because he took a moment and examined my jumpsuit. He straightened the sleeve over my shoulder.
“I should've let you finish dressing,” he said, strained. “My apologies.”
But that was the end of that. He shoved me forward, and we continued on our way. I returned my gaze to the surroundings, taking in as much information as possible.
The Star Marque wasn't meant for human comfort, that was for sure. With each room we passed, I got a better picture of the guts of the starship. The spaces were designed for military personnel and squads of starfighters. Capsule bunk beds. Small lockers for storage. Shared bathing areas.
The decks were few but long, and I was willing to bet this ship could hold a company of 250 soldiers with few problems.
“This is it,” Lysander said. He stepped up to a door on the far end of the craft, right at the end of a massive corridor. “This is the conference room. Endellion wants to speak with you before we place you in the brig.”
Lysander opened the sliding door and ushered me in. A gigantic viewing window made up the entire wall on the far end of the room, from floor to ceiling. The sight took my breath away. The black void of space, dotted with the stars of a billion galaxies. I didn't consider myself poetic, but even Capital Station was beautiful among the black tides that surrounded us. It reminded me I was a small fleck of matter in an otherwise cold and empty universe. It was humbling.
It took me a moment to register everything else. A long conference table, a few chairs, a computer terminal, and a hydration station. Endellion stood by the window, her back to the room. She was the sole occupant.
Lysander straightened his posture more than before, if that was even possible.
“I brought the criminal,” he said.
“I told you not to restrain him,” Endellion replied, her gaze fixed on the outside. I wasn't even entirely sure how she knew I was restrained, considering she wasn't looking in my direction.
“He's dangerous. He attacked me and could have attacked Sawyer, and—”
“That's quite enough,” she stated. “Undo his restraints. He's no danger while I'm around.”
Everyone on this ship underestimated me, it seemed. It reminded me of Section Six all over again. When people thought I was a failure, they ignored everything I had to offer. I got so angry to prove myself, I did whatever they wanted—ten times better than they could have hoped—but that was a losing game when I worked with losers themselves.
But still… I wouldn't be talked down to ever again.
Lysander didn't speak as he undid my restraints. Once free, I rubbed my wrists and waited. Lysander stared at Endellion for a moment before muttering some sort of apology and stepping out the door.
I rotated my shoulder and pulled on the last half of my jumpsuit, irritated by the sticky, clingy feeling left over by the vat fluid.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Endellion beat me to it.
“Clevon Demarco.”
Her statement caught me off-guard. I zipped up and waited, knowing she had more to say. Why bring me here? If I was her bounty and prisoner, what was there to gain by speaking with me? I should have been in the brig, floating up to my eyes in tranquilizers.
Endellion turned around, and I was struck by her silhouette, backlit by the system's star. The reflective properties of the viewing window prevented the glare from burning my eyes, but it still hurt enough to squint. She walked toward me, casual yet confident. I found myself straightening my own posture as she drew near.
“You have a long criminal record,” she said, stopping a meter away, the light still highlighting her from behind. “Vandalism. Petty theft. Grand theft. Extortion. Money laundering. Obstruction of justice. Assault. Battery. Murder.”
“Are you sure that's my rap sheet?” I quipped. “That could describe any random schlub from Capital Station.”
“Why are you wasting your gifts, Clevon?” Endellion asked, ignoring my levity.
I snorted. “Are you trying to lecture me? Is that why you called me here?”
Her silence made me uneasy.
Actually, everything about her made me uneasy.
Like the rest of the crew, Endellion wore a black enviro-suit with the helmet back. Her long, auburn hair was tied in a braid and hung over her shoulder, not a strand out of place. She was tall—damn near my height—and her gaze pierced my core. It was the same gaze she'd had on Capital Station. Calculating and severe. Not a hint of hesitation.
When the silence persisted, I chanced a glance at the rest of her. I could see the skin of her face, blemish-free and smooth. Her curves were prominent, her stance powerful.
But her eyes… I kept returning my attention to her eyes. Without the tinted visor of the helmet, I could see they were a deep, emerald green. Unnaturally so.
Endellion smiled. “My subcommander is disappointed. He thought you were one of the genetic elite. He thought you were a superhuman.”
“Not quite,” I said.
“I know. You're a genetically-modified human.”
“That's right.” That was the secret to all my power and advantage. Genetic modifications could turn even the simplest of fuck-ups into a talented specimen of mankind. Increased strength. Increased speed. I would outlive the standard schmoe any day.
“From the records I found,” Endellion said, “your mother was one of the lucky few Homo sapiens who got to live on Vectin-14. She worked planetside as a housekeeper for one of the Homo superior, did she not?”
I held my tongue, both amazed that she knew so much and angry that my information had been that easy to find.
Homo superior…
That was the fancy scientific term for superhumans. They were genetically separate from humans—the two couldn't interbreed—and there was a reason some pompous asshole gave them the species name of “superior.” They were better. Stronger, faster, smarter. More so than genetically-modified humans, like myself. Wild stories of their accomplishments could be heard in every back alley on Capital Station. They were a thing of legend, but real.
Endellion continued, “Your mother had fetal modifications on her unborn child right before being removed from Vectin-14. The geneticist improved your reflexes, strength, and mental capacity, but from what I can tell, you've done nothing worthwhile with your talents.”
“What do you know?” I said. “My mother was deported to Capital Station. No one makes it on Capital Station. No one.”
“You're not on Capital Station anymore.”
“Yeah. Now I'm on an enforcer ship, heading straight for my prolonged death.”
Endellion tossed her long braid over her shoulder. “Your record was a fascinating read. You always managed to worm yourself out of any given situation. If you really think you're being sent to Ucova for the rest of your days, how do you plan to worm your way out of this?”
“I'll think of something.”
She smiled. “Did you know that the Star Marque is registered with the Vectin Quadrant Naval Fleet? I hold the title of commodore.”
What kind of tangent was this? I crossed my a
rms and narrowed my eyes. “Prissy titles handed out to the superhumans' dogs don't impress me.”
“It means,” she said, amusement in her unwavering stare, “I can pardon crimes within my jurisdiction and recruit whomever I deem fit to serve as a member of my enforcers.”
I opened my mouth to make another quip but stopped myself before I took a breath.
She meant to recruit me? Was that what this was all about? Why? She knew of my criminal background. Felons didn't make for good law enforcement, or so I'd heard. I knew I was talented, but surely someone with some formal training would be better than a guy with raw capabilities.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“Genetically-modified humans make the best starfighters. Outside of superhuman starfighters, that is. And I'm in need of a few good pilots.”
“I don't know jack shit about piloting a starfighter.”
“You can learn. I prefer high-quality individuals who need training, rather than men who have hit the boundaries of their limits and will never improve.”
I glanced around the conference room, taking note of how spacious and empty the place felt. Or maybe the view from the window distorted my perception.
“You're that hard-up for pilots?” I asked. “So much so that you'll take on a criminal?”
Endellion turned her back to me and returned to the viewing window. Her long legs captured my attention. Those enviro-suits hugged the skin tight.
“I deal with the worst of the worst,” she said. “Corsairs, smugglers, Capital Station… but bigger problems are on the horizon. Problems that will require skilled individuals at my beck and call. I'm willing to take anyone on if they'll give me an advantage.”
“So, let me get this straight. It's either join you or get shipped off to Ucova. Is that right?”
“Very astute,” Endellion replied, a hint of mocking in her tone. “Truly, you live up to the high intellectual standards set by genetically-modified humans.”
“What if I don't like either option?”
“I suppose I could execute you, if you'd rather.”
Her casual threat got under my skin. I was half-tempted to play out our fight right there in the conference room. I had been injured on Capital Station and taken off-guard by her abilities. It wouldn't be that way this time.
Star Marque Rising Page 3