DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) (2 page)

He shook his head in disgust, and then looked up to find Swift
staring at him.

“The question is simple, Carl. With whom do your true
loyalties lie? With the Confederation proletariat, or with the gentry?”

With the people, or with the aristocracy? Carl’s roots were
well founded in the people, the commoners. But he had sworn allegiance to the
gentry.

“The question may be simple, Swift, but the answer . . .
Well . . . Not so easy.”

Swift’s tone changed from grave to grim. “Now you see what I
struggle with daily.”

“Off the record, Swift?”

“Just between you and me, Carl.”

“Looks like I’m going to take a bullet on this one, sir. Our
motto speaks my heart.”

Swift looked at Carl in utter dismay. The
Wolverine
Squad’s motto was
Die with Honor
. Two years back, Swift himself had
chosen the motto to show the spirit of his first and newly commissioned squad.

“Are you really willing to let Troglodyte leaders make landfall,
Carl? The contamination would spread exponentially. Is there honor in letting
that happen?”

A mission. This is just another mission, Stan told himself
to calm growing doubts, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t square the downing of a
luxury liner on the mere suspicion that Trogs might be aboard her.

Had he retired a week ago, Stan thought, or even a day ago,
this headache would have belonged to someone else . . . if it existed
at all.

He released a long held breath. This was his responsibility
and, like it or not, it was his place to make a good showing.

With his men lined up behind him, Stan started down the
metal catwalk that crossed the spines of the
Darts
, all of his men
displaying a stiff military bearing, but all the pomp and ceremony in the world
couldn’t mask what he and his
Wolverines
, were about to do.

As the march continued, each man stopped at his own ship.
When, last of all, Stan stopped at his, every man turned in unison toward the
nose of his own
Dart
and walked toward his cockpit. Once there, each man
turned to face his ship with a singular snap.

“Wolverines,” Stan shouted. “Mount up!”

Each man climbed down into his craft.

In unison every canopy slid into place, the bay lights went
dark, and the huge launch door slid down, out of the way of the eight
Dart
fighters, to reveal the sun cresting Atheron. Between Atheron and their
transport sat the
Emperor’s Princess
.

Sitting black against the dark backdrop of Atheron, the
luxury liner was defined only by the light of her portholes, like strings of
tiny pearls lining each of her fifty-two decks. Hulking and yet elegant, the
sheer size of the vessel was spectacular.

She moved slowly as if to enjoy the sunrise, completely
unaware of what awaited her.

Opening his torpedo tubes, Stan took a deep breath. “Show’s
on, soldiers. Slow and steady as you go.” He jetted out of the bay with Carl at
his wing, and targeted the
Princess
’ engines.

Glancing back and to his right, toward Carl, Stan got a
glimpse of his past. Looking to his left, he saw Troy, an image of a future
that sickened him. He felt his face drain of color.

“Are you okay, Cap,” Carl asked, still on Stan’s personal
secure line. “You don’t look—”

“We needn’t drag this out, men,” Stan said, ignoring Carl’s
question. “Let’s wrap this up before breakfast.”

With sweaty palms, he rested a gloved hand on the button and
pressed, launching the first torpedo. Seen only by its flame, the torpedo
slowly arched to follow its target. Stan held his breath. The distant, tiny
fire of the projectile briefly snuffed out when it connected with the
Princess
.

Then at the contact point explosions billowed and grew with
fire. The fuel and flame, ripping the luxury liner’s engines apart, violently
found its way into the oxygen rich environment of the
Princess’
interior, and burst from the portholes. Stan knew the fire that followed the
corridors through the ship would instantly char anyone in its path.

Maydays came from the liner’s bridge as the crew tried to
grasp what was happening.

Stan nosed his ship toward the conning tower and released
two more torpedoes, bringing the calls for help to an abrupt end.

The other pilots peeled away to target the escape pod
chambers. Pods that managed to eject from the cruiser before the
Darts
reached their targets were shot down before they got far.

Stan turned, zeroing in on a pod as well.
This isn’t a
military operation
, he thought.
It’s cold, callous slaughter
. He
followed it down, but finding himself unable to squeeze the trigger, pulled up
and away from the pod just in time to see the
Princess
, now unable to
maneuver, kiss Atheron’s atmosphere, tumbled once, then fall toward the planet
as if sucked into a hole, burning as she went down.

While the smaller debris disintegrated in the atmosphere,
the
Darts
followed this, the largest section, all the way to the ground.
The
Princess
hit a farmer’s field just south of Seychelles, burying
itself halfway into the tilled soil, a massive clump of twisted metal and
ceramic alloy. In all, from first assault to
this
, only a mere fifteen
minutes had passed.

A plume of smoke trailing from space to here was all that
marked a once majestic ship’s closing moments and final destination.

Consul Dais had his kill.

Trogs
, thought Stan,
even Trog leaders, were they
really so dangerous as to warrant this?

Stan’s gut soured and lurched.

Suddenly a hardened decision flared in his mind. Enough! He
was done.

As the
Dart
pilots landed nearby and got out to
confirm the results of their handiwork, Stan followed in reluctance. He must
have stood there stunned for ten minutes before glancing back over his
shoulder.

Townsfolk were already starting to gather. Like him, they
were shocked to immobility, they stared in silence.

Numb and moving on autopilot, Stan turned to the crowd. He
wanted to say “Move along, nothing to see here,” the standard Enforcer tripe
said after each killing, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Three
thousand twenty three . . .
dead
, never knowing that their
government’s sole reason for targeting them was based on nothing more than a
rumor.

Nothing to see here?
thought Stan.
Someone should
credit Consul Dais with what was due him. The decision to down the greatest
civilian ship ever constructed was his alone, and he should get his lumps in
the next election.

Moving in barely bridled anger, Stan spoke loudly. “Ladies
and gentlemen, the dead carcass of the
Emperor’s Princess
’ is given to
you by Consul Dais.”

An abrupt corporate gasp faded into whispers intermingled
with weeping.

“Any complaints should be directed to Consul Dais, himself.”
There! He’d said it, fully aware that his words had just strained his
friendship with Troy to the breaking point, greatly disadvantaging himself.

Now he needed to vanish, and quickly. Before he could make a
subtle escape though, he had to “
feed the animals
,” as he liked to say;
get his men settled into a filling—hopefully relaxing—meal. Like himself, Stan
knew that his men had skipped breakfast, a usual occurrence for an early
morning mission like this. He counted on them being hungry. And so, Stan
reminded himself, disadvantage brings to light the more clever captain.

He headed back to where his men had congregated, and scanned
the crowd. Ah, yes, just what he needed. Nearby he spotted a heavyset man
dressed in a local diner’s obligatory fry cook’s uniform, a formerly white,
grease stained t-shirt and matching apron.

Stan stepped forward, wrapped a friendly, but intimidating
arm around the man and turned him toward the village.

“That’s kind of you, sir,” Stan said in a jovial tone loud
enough for his men to hear. “Your offer to buy breakfast for me and my men is
much appreciated. Lead on.”

Without a word, the nervous man led them to a nearby tavern,
the
Bush and Quail
.

As Stan and his men approached, patrons inside who were
standing at the window staring in disbelief, moved away to resume their seats.

Even before they entered Stan recognized the fragrance of
bacon, eggs, pancakes and . . . what? He inhaled deeply and smiled . . .
toasted breakfast muffins, Troy’s favorite. Good deal.

The door jingled as they entered. The place abuzz, suddenly
fell silent at the sight of the pilots.

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t just some hole in the wall—
well,
it actually was
—but at least the owner had made an effort to bring in a
little class. With mahogany bar rail and matching wall panels, newly
upholstered booths and barstools, and paintings by some local artist hanging on
the walls, the place seemed cozy, albeit just this side of obnoxious. This
seemed as good a place as any.

Entering eagerly, his men brushed passed him to take seats
at a large round table for eight tucked in a back corner.

Stepping into the room, Stan stopped to look around. A
waitress standing at the counter caught and held his attention. “Lilia,” her
nametag read. At first glance she appeared to be an ordinary girl and he would
have overlooked her if not for her petite, trim figure and brunette curls
cascading to her lower back.

Lilia had just taken breakfast orders, and was looking them
over before handing them to a beanpole of a waitress behind the counter. She
looked up to see what had silenced the crowd. Then the young woman glanced at
the pilots seated at the round table. But when her gaze turned to fall on Stan
standing just inside the door, she frowned at him, and her unfriendly, dark,
penetrating eyes revealed an unexpected depth of personality that riveted his
attention.

Good,
he thought. His men would expect him to smile,
turn on the old Archer charm and—even if she was dating someone, or even
married . . .

But the unveiled hate in her face hid no part of her
feelings toward him or his men.
Okay,
he thought,
I’ll spend this
night by myself, but if I’m to get away clean, I’ll have to lead my men to
believe otherwise.

Then he considered his options: Miss Thick-glasses Beanpole
on the other side of the counter, a woman sitting alone in a booth—he shook
himself. No, not a chance. His men wouldn’t buy either choice.

He refocused on Lilia.
Well,
he thought,
my
ability to melt through ice hasn’t failed me yet. This might be a challenge.
I’ll have to get her thoughts beyond what I just did.

Stan stepped to Lilia’s side, propped an elbow on the bar
nonchalantly, and said, “So—”

But she abruptly turned aside to take the breakfast orders
of his men.

A sudden crash and clamor of pots in the kitchen said the
cook was still nervous. The hushed, tentative conversations of the other
patrons were beginning to rise again, but didn’t hide their unease at the
Enforcers’ presence.

He needed a good distraction to cover his escape, but
manipulating either waitress into helping him wasn’t going to be easy. Lilia’s
quick exit managed to make Stan look, above all else, inept.

The officers in the back corner laughed and joked in an
ill-advised attempt to make Lilia smile, ignoring the effect their obnoxious
behavior had on those already here.

Stan could have left then, but for the longest moment he
couldn’t peel his eyes from her.

The waitress turned and noticed his stare, but made every
effort to pay no attention to him. It was clear that she, in fact, found it
difficult to hide her disgust.

Lilia handed the pilots’ orders to the lady behind the
counter, who shot a nervous smile at the captain before handing it to the cook.
She knows,
Stan thought.
Everyone knows. How could they not?
The
Princess
’
crash must have shaken the place to its foundation. Who else but he and his men
could be responsible?

Determined to steal the waitress’ aid, Stan leaned on the
counter beside Lilia to make small talk, but before he could speak, DuMass from
the table offered an ill-timed compliment.

“Slick shooting, Swift. Bet they never saw your torpedo
coming.”

Without warning Lilia looked up at Stan, shot a thumb over
her shoulder toward the pillar of smoke rising from the field just outside
town.

“I thought that was your doing.”

“That’s the
Emperor’s Princess
,” DuMass said from the
table. “It was full of Trogs . . . but not anymore.” He, and the men
with him, laughed; all that is but Carl who dropped his eyes to the table.

Without taking her eyes off Stan, Lilia’s icy tone didn’t
hide her revulsion at all. “That was an unarmed cruise ship.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Through its smoke you want me to see you as a nice guy,
maybe go out and have a few laughs; take your mind off your job? Maybe even bed
you?”

“Well, I—”

The cook slid a plate of eggs across the counter. Lilia
grabbed it and swung it at Stan’s face; its contents splattering all over him.

“You murdering pile of filth.” She glared at him, then at
the men around the table. “Take your business elsewhere,” she said, as she
stormed to the door. Swinging it open, she held it as if to send them on their
way.

“Get out.”

“They were just Trogs,” Troy said.

“TROGS?” Her eyes shot knives at Troy. “They were passengers
on a cruise ship; no threat to you or the government, fool!”

“They were Trogs,” Troy said flatly, totally disinterested
in any opinion to the contrary.

“Stop calling us Trogs!” At hearing her own words, Lilia’s
eyes widened in surprise.

Perfect. What Lilia had just blurted in front of the
soldiers was beyond reason. If she had screamed “Shoot me! I’m a follower too,”
she couldn’t have implicated herself more. Unwittingly she had given Stan an
opportunity he could easily leverage into an escape.

The whole room, tense from the start, fell gravely silent
again.

Turning to the men, Stan saw that her words had struck each
like a hard slap in the face.

Troy rose from his seat and slowly pulled his handgun.

Stan pushed himself from the bar rail to step between the
waitress and his XO’s gun, and pointed to Troy’s seat. “Sit down,” Stan said
coldly. “This Trog’s mine.”

Spinning on his heel, he grabbed a fist full of Lilia’s hair
to force her into the street.

“Swift, this I gotta see,” said DuMass.

Stan brutally yanked Lilia back, and thrust a stiff
forefinger in the lieutenant’s direction. “Sit Down! I don’t need an audience.
You think I want to kill her right away?”