Dark Space- The Complete Series

by Jasper T. Scott

  Ethan sighed. There was only one way to find out. “When do we make the switch?”

  Atton smiled. “Come with me.”

  Ethan followed him to the door, and both of them turned their holoskins back on before leaving the office. From there they proceeded to the lift tubes and down through the ship until they reached the overlord’s quarters. Inside, there was already a med bot waiting with a syringe full of anesthetic.

  Ethan noted that with a snort of laughter. “Seems like you were one step ahead of me.”

  “I knew you’d accept,” Atton said, already undoing the gold buttons of his white uniform.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I accepted, and a son’s zeal doesn’t stray far from his father’s ideals.”

  “An old Rokan proverb. I wasn’t sure I had any ideals, Atton.”

  “Come now, Dad. We both know Destra Ortane wasn’t a stupid woman. She wouldn’t have agreed to marry just any outlaw.”

  “I suppose not,” Ethan replied, stripping out of his uniform and then rolling up the sleeve of his undershirt to present his wrist to the med bot. He winced as the needle went in and then he shook his head. “And my wrist was just starting to feel better . . .”

  Atton laughed. “Maybe you’ll want to have the blood sample taken from your other arm.”

  “More needles?”

  “I need to alter the Imperial records so that what’s on file for the overlord matches your actual DNA, blood type, and other markers. We’ll need to update the database over the ‘net as soon as we get back to Dark Space, and out here in Sythian Space we’ll have to send the updates to each of our ships individually, by messenger, since there is no commnet.”

  “Sounds like you have everything covered.”

  “The only thing we can’t fake with altered records is your approximate age, which can be determined from a sample of your blood. I’ll restrict access to those tests, but if someone gets suspicious they can always conduct the tests by hand.”

  Ethan nodded. “Well, hopefully no one gets suspicious.” He winced again as another needle went into his arm to take a blood sample. Ethan eyed the hovering med bot. “You like poking me, you blood-sucking little kakard, don’t you?”

  The bot gave no reply, but whirred away on its grav lifts to deposit the sample and pick up a scalpel. The bot returned to his side, apparently waiting for something.

  Atton nodded to him and then pointed to a nearby chair. “You’d better sit down over there. If your arm isn’t steady while he works, he might cut the wrong thing.”

  Ethan headed to the indicated armchair. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, Pokey?”

  The bot elicited an indecipherable beep, and Ethan grinned up at it as he sat down in the chair. “So you do speak.”

  Another beep.

  “His vocals are damaged,” Atton explained. “I like bots better that way.”

  Ethan frowned and looked away. The bot set to work, tying a tourniquet around his arm, disinfecting his skin, and laying down surgical sheets before bringing the scalpel into line. Ethan turned back to watch the bot cut a bloody line across his wrist. Seeing the med bot expose dark red muscle and bone white tendons, Ethan’s head swam dizzily. He grimaced and laid his head back against the chair, silently counting backward from 100 to distract himself until it was over.

  100 . . . 99 . . . 98 . . .

  * * *

  —THE YEAR 0 AE—

  Destra walked through the forest. Leaves, needles, and snow crunched underfoot. Here the snow was a thin patina on the colorful autumn leaves and old brown needles. The forest arced out over their heads in splashes of color, leaving shady patterns on the ground. It was as though winter hadn’t fully come here yet. Up ahead, Digger led the way, while Lessie and Dean kept pace beside her.

  “What are we doing here?” Dean asked in a small, whiny voice. “I want to go home.” He was tired from all the walking, and Destra was willing to bet he hadn’t had enough sleep.

  She turned to him with a smile. He couldn’t have been much older than her own son, Atton. “We’re going to play hide and seek.”

  Dean shot her a suspicious look. “My mom says I can’t talk to strangers.”

  Lessie shushed him with a tousle of his blond hair. “She’s not a stranger, Dean. She’s a friend. She and Digger are going to keep us safe.”

  “Safe?” Dean asked, looking up at his mom with squinty eyes. “Safe from what?”

  Destra smiled. “Safe from the people looking for us. We can’t let them find us, because then we’ll lose.”

  “I don’t care!” Dean said. “I want to go home.”

  “You can’t go home,” Lessie replied, her voice cracking on that last word.

  “Why not?” Dean insisted.

  Lessie abruptly stopped walking. “Because home is gone! It’s blown up! That’s why!” She stood there panting and staring at her son while he stared back at her with wide eyes and a trembling lip.

  Destra frowned. She turned and bent to one knee in front of the boy. “Look, I can see there’s no fooling you, Dean. You’re a smart kid, so I’m going to be honest with you. It’s time for you to grow up now; it’s time for you to be a man. Do you understand?”

  Dean hesitated before nodding his head.

  “Good. Then here’s the truth: everyone’s homes are gone, Dean. There’s nothing left. Everyone who hasn’t already left Roka in a spaceship is being hunted by very bad things, and they’ll kill us unless we hide from them.”

  Dean’s face paled again, and back was the shell-shocked look Destra had seen in the hover, but all things considered, he seemed to be holding it together better than his mother. “What things?” the boy asked.

  “Hoi! You three coming? We’re here!”

  Destra turned to see Digger waiting for them at the top of a short hill; the sun shone down through the trees to silhouette him in an angelic gold light.

  “We’ll be there in a minute!” Destra called back. Speaking to Dean once more, she said, “Come on, be brave little man. Your mother needs you to be.”

  Dean bobbed his head once and then turned to his mother, who was still standing where she’d stopped, watching them with a faraway look in her wide, staring eyes. “Come on, Mommy,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I’ll protect you.”

  Something rose up inside of Lessie and shook her out of it when her son’s hand touched hers. Her expression softened, and she looked suddenly immensely relieved, as though the burden of lying to her son had been just more than she could bear. She turned to Destra with a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

  Destra shook her head. “Don’t mention it. We’d better go.”

  They hurried to catch up with Digger, and he greeted them with a frown to show his displeasure. “No more unscheduled stops, or I’ll leave you all out in the cold.”

  There was something about the petulant twist to Digger’s lips that Destra didn’t like, but she ignored it and nodded to the unremarkable stretch of forest which lay before them, sprawling down the other side of the small knoll which they had climbed.

  “Where’s your hidey hole, Digger? I just see more trees.”

  The man smiled and his face stretched enough to provoke a trickle of blood from the gash running down the side of his cheek. “Exactly.” He turned and nodded to the tree which they were all standing beside. It was a particularly large burnished oakal. The bole was a smooth grayish purple, covered in places with stringy blue moss. Digger began walking around the base of the tree, and Destra followed, her hand drifting to the sidearm she’d acquired from the hover before they’d left it at the side of the road. Unfortunately, she’d been unable to come up with a good reason to keep Digger from taking a weapon, too, so she hoped he wasn’t leading them into a trap.

  As they rounded the base of the tree, Destra saw that the tree was actually a growing-together of two separate oakals, and the hollow in between somewhat resembled a cave. Digger walked into that hollow space and bent to
one knee, as if to pick something off the ground. She heard a hiss of escaping air and saw a square of leaves and dirt begin to rise—it was a hatchway. Bits of moss trickled from the leading edge of it.

  Destra nodded. “I’m impressed.”

  Digger turned to them with a smile while taking a few steps back toward the open hole.

  Destra raised a hand to warn him. “Digger, look out be—”

  He fell soundlessly into the hole. Destra rushed up to the open hatch and gazed down into a deep, dark space which smelled like peat moss and old mushrooms.

  “Digger?” she called, and her voice echoed back to her.

  “Jump in!” he called back, his voice echoing, too. “It’s perfectly safe!”

  Destra frowned, and turned to look at Lessie and Dean as they appeared to one side of her. Both of them gazed uncertainly into the dark hole now, too. Abruptly they saw it illuminated and Digger peering up at them, holding a glow lantern in one hand.

  “Hmmm,” Destra mused.

  “Spectral!” Dean said. “Can I go next?”

  “I’ll go first,” Destra said, and with that, she jumped into the abyss.

  * * *

  Destra’s stomach leapt into her throat as she fell. Her long, dark hair whipped up around her ears, and she saw the ground rushing up beneath her feet. She had just enough time to suspect she’d been tricked into leaping to her doom before the grav field caught her and carried her to a soft landing atop a pile of leaves.

  “Krakkin’ ride, huh?” Digger asked, beaming at her from the base of the pile of leaves.

  Destra spat a piece of a red oakal leaf out of her mouth and shook her head. “Real krakking.”

  They heard screaming then and looked up to see Lessie and Dean plummeting down the hole. Destra scrambled to her feet before they could land on top of her. They hit the leaf pile with a soft crunch, and Destra looked up through the hole they’d fallen through. Bits of dirt and leaves tumbled down after them only to hover to a near stop above their heads. Lessie and Dean stood up and picked the leaves out of their hair, while Digger walked to one side of the hollow chamber and opened a moss-covered panel in the rooty wall. He threw a lever and typed in a numbered code; then the hatch at the top of the chamber swung shut with a distant thud, plunging the ceiling into darkness. Now they could hear the dirt and leaves trickling down from the ceiling to pitter patter on the ground, and Destra realized that the grav field was off.

  She turned to Digger then. “Please tell me this isn’t the extent of your lair.”

  Digger let out a bark of laughter and half turned to her. “Ha ha ha!” he said, his eyes flashing manically. “No—” He walked to the other end of the dirty chamber. “Follow me,” he said, now shining his lantern over the root-invaded wall nearest to him. He peered intently at the wall, searching, while his lantern cast a shaky glow. Destra studied Digger’s shaking arm with a frown. His excuse had been the adrenaline, but it had been hours since their harrowing escape, so what was his excuse now?

  Stims, Destra thought.

  “This used to be an old rictan lair,” Digger mentioned, still scanning the wall.

  Destra suppressed a shiver at that. Rictans were lithe, hairless creatures with six legs, barbed, whip-like tails, and a broad mouth full of dagger-sized teeth. Their long claws could just as easily dig through flesh and bone as they could through dirt and roots. “We had to smoke them out and then seed the entrance with gossam dung to keep them from digging a way back in,” Digger prattled on. “Then we had to do some digging of our own to make this place more livable.”

  “Is that how you got the name Digger?” Destra asked, watching as he apparently found what he was looking for. His free hand shot out and disappeared up to the elbow in the dirty wall, and she realized a holofield was projected there to hide whatever he was reaching for. Destra heard a click and then there came a hiss of escaping air. A section of the dirt wall cracked open before them, and bright yellow light spilled out. As soon as their eyes adjusted to the brightness, they found themselves peering into a comfortable, modern living room. “There we are!” Digger said, and strode across the threshold to traipse dirt onto the polished duranium floors.

  Destra waited on the other side, her hand hovering close by her sidearm. Her eyes were flicking around the space. It was lavish with comfortable black couches and thick red rugs. A gigantic holoscreen hung on a stone wall opposite the couches, and in the base of the wall an artificial fireplace flickered with blue flames licking over glittering glass logs. The roof of the lab was lined with what looked like thick red oakal beams, and to one side, raised above the level of the living room, lay a gleaming kitchen with all the most modern appliances. This was not the rathole stim lab Destra had been expecting; it was a well-appointed home.

  Digger was still traipsing dirt into it. “Doc! Petra! I’m home!”

  Destra waited for a reply before she stepped inside.

  Then there came a scratching of claws scrambling for purchase on the shiny floors, accompanied by a vicious snarling and yipping which Destra recognized with a shiver of apprehension. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the sound and to a darkened hall leading away from the living room. There she spotted a trademark pair of red eyes glowing in the dark, bobbing as the creature ran toward them. Those eyes were immediately joined by another identical pair and more snarling.

  Destra shrank away from the entrance to the stim lab. “Stay behind me!” she warned Lessie and Dean as she drew her plasma pistol and steadied her aim with both hands on a point between the first set of glowing red eyes.

  Then that creature burst into the light, and Destra saw it for what it was—but she had already known what to expect.

  It was a rictan, bounding toward them with slavering jaws already gaping in anticipation of the kill.

  Chapter 4

  —THE YEAR 10 AE—

  Angel sat in the mess hall, eyeing the pair of strangers who had just sat down across the table from her. Her usually wide violet eyes were narrowed and flicking from side to side as she studied first one and then the other. They looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember their names.

  The old man smiled wanly. His bony face made the smile look painful. “Sweetheart . . .” he said, but trailed off as if he couldn’t bring himself to broach the topic he had in mind.

  Angel had plenty of experience with this. He was a reluctant client. Everyone had some sort of inhibitions fighting against their baser instincts, but some clients were stodgier than others and needed to be coaxed more gently. They were the goody goodies, the married men, and the shy virgins. They all had something holding them back, but Angel knew how to draw them out. Her gaze flicked sideways to the woman sitting beside the old man, and her elaborate rationalizations began to crumble. If this man was a client, she was dealing with a very open-minded couple.

  “Hello, there,” she said, her eyes coming back to the man’s face. “What’s your name?”

  He shook his head, his eyes growing moist. “You really don’t remember me?”

  Angel watched the old woman sitting beside him reach out to squeeze his hand. Her eyes were moist, too. They were the same rare violet color as Angel’s own eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Angel purred. “You look familiar, but I don’t remember your names.” She reached across the table to touch the couple’s hands. “I might remember better in a more . . . intimate setting. What do you say we—”

  “Stop!” the old man bellowed, his eyes flashing with hurt and something else—revulsion? Angel wondered. She noticed he looked angry now, and the woman beside him was affronted, too. Angel retracted her hand with a shrug. Maybe the man was putting on a show for his wife. Classic, she thought and picked up her fork to begin digging through a pile of pancakes covered in treacle. She had to remember not to eat too much. Clients didn’t want to be with a chubby girl.

  “She doesn’t even remember us!” Angel heard the old woman whisper. She sounded hurt.

  Well I can’t r
emember everyone, now can I? Angel thought, feeling defensive.

  “The medic said this would happen,” The man replied. “We need to be patient. It’s just a temporary regression.”

  Regression? Angel wondered. She looked up from her food with a frown. She was beginning to suspect these two weren’t clients at all, and if that were the case, then there was no point in her being polite with them. “You know I’m still here, right?” Angel said. “You don’t have to talk about me as though I were deaf.”

  “Look,” the man began, his eyes hard now, “listen to me carefully. Your real name is Alara Vastra. You are our daughter, but you’ve been chipped, and now you think you’re a playgirl named Angel. You are not that person, Alara! You have to fight it!”

  Angel went on frowning. If this was some type of elaborate role-play, it was a twisted one, and even she had her limits. “Aren’t you too old to be my parents?”

  The man’s cadaverous face broke into a precarious smile. “We didn’t think we could have children. . . . until you surprised us.”

  Alara wasn’t buying the story. “I’m going to go get some juice,” she said, setting down her fork and pushing her chair out on the retractable arm which bolted it to the deck. She hadn’t even touched her breakfast.

  The old couple watched her leave the table with pained expressions, but they said nothing. Angel felt her irritation with them growing. They’d been with her all morning and they were still playing games. They were wasting her time! She reached the serving line and waited behind a tall man with thinning black hair and a slowly pulsing blue tattoo crawling down his left forearm. Angel absently studied that tattoo. The wavy lines of it were suggestive of blue flames leaping down from his sleeve. Now that she was paying attention, she saw that the tattoo wasn’t pulsing at all, it was slowly flickering, heightening the flame effect. Angel followed the tattoo up his arm until her eyes settled on his bulging biceps. Well, you’re a big boy, aren’t you? she thought with a lascivious grin. The man’s black pants were striped white, marking him a combat veteran, and his uniform jacket, which was slung over one shoulder, was gleaming with the four silver chevrons of a first lieutenant. Angel felt a warm stirring which she recognized as desire. Not every job had to be work. The difference, she realized, is whether or not you enjoy what you’re doing. . . .