Stark Surrender (7 page)

And since he didn’t know who he could trust, he had to stay off the satcom grid. Until he learned what was wrong with him, and who was responsible. Then he’d find a way to unleash on them the black hell that now lived inside him—this resolve was all that kept him moving through the pain.

He took a public airbus from the port. There were no recognizable landmarks in the dark morass in his mind. Instead, he sat in silence, ignoring the motley passengers clustered around him, while the huge transport slid ponderously thru the industrial area, then a shopping district, then neighborhoods filled with condo buildings towering up into the low hanging fog.

Beings disembarked, more got on. He stayed in his seat, waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Just for something—anything—to spark recognition, to remind him why he’d been drawn to this planet, to this place.

The airbus passed back into the inner city. A place of towering buildings, of flashing laser and gel-lights and holovid displays, where the streets were choked with layer upon layer of vehicles, from flashy cruisers to shabby wrecks that barely seemed able to jolt along above the wet, filthy streets. Where factories belched pollution, where the rank stench of shorelines at low tide battled with bitter smoke. Where spacecraft shot into the murky skies over the dark, windy bay. Where showers of cold rain splattered down, but did nothing to clear the air.

His gaze narrowed on the beings crowding the streets, passing in and out of the buildings. They ran the gamut from the homeless dragging rickety cartloads of their belongings to those strutting along in flashy apparel and glittering jewelry, demanding all others make way for them.

He couldn’t say he knew these streets, but like the space port, at gut level he understood them. He could survive here—he knew this, without understanding how he knew it. Rather than memory, he operated now on instinct, like a man in a dark place navigating with his sense of touch.

Chapter Six

Lode stepped off the lumbering airbus onto a wet street corner in the oldest section of the city. Although it was long after midnight, the thoroughfare still teemed with lights, noise, pedestrians and vehicles.

The damp air reeked of mildew and the bay blocks away, cooking odors from the kiosks still open along the sidewalks, cheap perfumes on the crowds of garishly clad partiers strolling, and rank body odor from the shabby street beings crouched in doorways of businesses closed for the night.

Lights were everywhere, gleaming from holomarquees, strobing from holoboards on building fronts and flashing from holovids floating above the streets, glossy models promising bliss with the use of their product.

A cacophony of noise assaulted his ears—music, the rumble of enhanced gliders and aircycles, and voices from across the galaxy, strident with the false joviality of alcohol and legals.

A dull boom sounded in the distance, shuddering the pavement under his feet, and light flickered through the low clouds overhead.

“Orra le wak?” squawked an alien voice behind him. His com translated. “What is that?”

“Riots on the docks, sweets,” answered a human voice. “Unions against scabs and the cops. Just stay west of the Astra Quadrant and you’ll be okay.”

On the side of the street, he stopped under the cover of an awning outside a drink shop. A sickly sweet, fruity smell drifted out to mingle with the stench of pollution and unwashed bodies.

The vendor, a Vulpean with a visage that resembled the rats skittering in the shadows, squawked indignantly. “Hey, human. You block my entrance. Either buy or move your ass.”

Lode’s com translated the words for him. He shot the Vulpean a look over his shoulder. 

The rotund little being froze, his whiskers quivering, his clawlike digits scrabbling nervously at his stained tunic. “Oh, sorry, sir,” he whined. “Er … stand as long as you like.  Just let me know if you want a drink. Yes, yes, anything.”

Lode ignored the offer, turning back to studying the street. After a time, he moved out into the stream of foot traffic and headed south, toward the bay.

“Buy my noodles,” a Pangaean called from a small kiosk emitting steam redolent of spices. “Very fresh veg, give health and energy.”

Lode’s stomach growled, and he paused. He’d last eaten on the voyage, a tube of vegprotein and the swill that passed for coffee on the ship. This kiosk smelled cleaner than most.

He exchanged credit for a steaming bowl, the contents sprinkled with tiny bits of green veg. Facing the street, he lifted the bowl and drank, slurping noodles along with the broth. It was tasteless but filling.

However, when his bowl was only half-empty, loud voices and a splintering crash were followed by piercing squawks of outrage. The kiosk beside the noodle shop exploded into the space where he stood, knocking his supper from his hands. Bowl, broth and noodles went flying, along with a shower of globead chains and fluffy boas in brilliant, acidgel hues.

Two young males in chartreuse jackets followed, laughing uproariously as they tussled. Behind them, a stout woman shook her fist at them from the wreckage of her business. “It’s all broken,” she screeched, “all ruined. Stupid gangers!”

Anger flaring at the wrestlers’ careless destruction and their interruption of his meal, Lode thrust out his leg and booted the two wrestlers out into the street, where they thudded against the side of a parked cruiser and fell to the wet, filthy pavement. One of them lay still. His bright jacket now streaked with filth, the other scrambled to his feet and scowled toward the sidewalk.

“You better go,” the Pangaean urged behind Lode. “You don’t want to deal with the GloJacs. Very bad news.”

“So am I.” He stood where he was just long enough for the tough to spot him and realize it was he who had shoved them, not the Pangaean. As the ganger aimed a menacing fist at him, Lode smiled.

The ganger backed up a step. Then, as if realizing he’d shown fear, he sneered, gaze malevolent in his tattooed face.

“You don’t mess with us, fool,” he called. “Better watch yo’ back—sooner or later we’ll be there—and you’ll be dead.”

Those who had paused to ogle backed away, gazes falling. Some frankly bolted for cover.

“Go now,” the Pangaean begged. “I don’t need their attention—please.”

“Sorry,” Lode murmured. He watched the ganger bend and hoist his companion over his shoulder. Then Lode moved on up the street.

Exhaustion dragged at him, exacerbated by the constant pain in his head. He needed gesics, sleep and a safe place to hole up.

“Hey, there, mister!” called a cracked, reedy voice from the shadows of an old church. A holovid of a golden cross on the façade sputtered and flickered like a flame in the wind. “A few credits for an old soldier?”

Lode paused, and focused through the pain on the ragged pair huddled under the church portico with synthetic blankets. Both were thin and wrinkled, one with a deeply scarred face and eye-patch, the other missing an arm. An empty wine bottle lay at their feet, the recyclable fabric crumpled to get the last drops. As useless as the pair of them.

As one of them held up a com, Lode shook his head. “I can’t …” he paused, closing his eyes as a shaft of pain radiated behind his temples. He needed to keep his resources for himself. But they were veterans. He stared at them, trying to decide what to do.

“P’raps y’ better join us, cap’n,” the other veteran quipped. “Churches is for them that’s lost.”

The two cackled together. The soldier missing an arm got slowly to her feet. “Maybe you’re the one who needs help.”

“No. Keep your distance.” He reached inside his bag and found the fancy laser. Pretty, but useless. He tossed it to her. “Here. Sell this.”

She caught it, mouth agape, then squinted up at him. “Thanks. But you got any more like this in yer bag, be careful. Me and Joe here, we’re ex-Space Forces. The others on these streets? They’ll kill you for it.”

“I can handle myself.”

She backed up a few steps. “Easy, easy. ‘Course you can. But whatcha doin’ down in the streets?”

“Looking for ... someone,” he said.

Eye-patch grinned widely, revealing gaps in his teeth. “Good luck to ya.”

The female soldier was squinting up at him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Seen you before, I have.”

Lode was already moving away into the night. “No. You don’t know me. No one does.”

Least of all himself.

Chapter Seven

Kiri talked herself out of going with Joran a half dozen times.

What was she thinking, running after Logan again? She’d spent her whole life chasing a string of never-ending losses. First her parents had died, and her brother was stolen. Her business was undermined by a crooked ganger and she’d even been kidnapped.

When she’d tried to start a new life, Logan Stark had broken her heart and taken the one thing that had always sustained her—hope for a better future. Then, when she’d finally sworn off of him for good, he’d given her back a huge piece of that future by returning Kai to her. Was it any wonder she was confused about her feelings for him?

She had to be very careful. Kai had said she was naïve, but she didn’t fool herself thinking that she could survive another heartbreak.

But she’d promised to help, and anyway, how was she to get on with her life when she’d only be worrying about Logan? This was only a day or so, and she’d be back to her shop. Back to her safe, sunny life, where she had her brother at her side. Where heartbreak was something she was busy putting in her past, not courting by letting Logan back in.

However, when Kiri arrived at the F City space port that afternoon with Kai, who had, as he reminded her, nothing else to do, she received an unpleasant shock.

Joran Stark wasn’t waiting beside a small cruiser, and he wasn’t alone. A petite, lovely woman with long, light brown hair and blue eyes stood at his side. On his other side ranged a tall, blond man with a hard face and darker blue eyes. He had one arm around a slender Serpentian woman with platinum blonde hair and a glowing smile. To one side loomed Bronc Berenson.

“Why are all of Stark’s family here?” Kai asked as their hovie slowed to a stop. “Berenson I get, since he’s LodeStar security. But Joran Stark has Zaë—I mean, Lady Ellianne with him. And looks like your friend Taara has her husband too.”

“Yes, Creed Forth, Joran and Logan’s adopted brother,” Kiri explained automatically, her mind racing.

“But why are they all here? I thought this was just you and the sheriff.”

“Because someone didn’t quite share the whole truth,” she replied, glaring at Joran, who gazed back calmly. “Quick trip, my ass.”

She stepped out of the hovie, anger snapping her back straight. “Hello, everyone. You all know my brother, Kai. Does someone want to tell us what’s really going on here?”

She waved a hand at the long, sleek, silver space cruiser behind them, the pilot visible in the cockpit. “You didn’t power up Logan’s Arcturus for a day trip on Frontiera. Where are you really going?”

“You didn’t tell her?” Taara and Ellianne chorused, turning identical frowns on Joran Stark.

“No,” the former pirate said, his heavy brows lowering. “I didn’t. And I’m not sharing why out here where anyone can listen in.”

“Spybots,” Kai muttered, glancing around them.

“Among other tech.” Joran indicated the gangplank of the cruiser, waiting open behind him. “Kiri, please come aboard. And don’t worry, we won’t take off without your permission. But you need to know a few things before you decide to stay here and brew coffee.”

She glared at his tone, but he again ignored this.

“Kai’s welcome aboard too,” Bronc said.

“Quarking right I’m coming with her.” Kai moved closer to Kiri.

She gave him a grateful look. “All right. We’ll come aboard, just for a moment.”

And that was all. Because cruising around on planet? She could do that.

But by contrast, flying off into deep space—for which the Arcturus was built—meant surrendering control to someone else, trusting not only that they would do everything correctly to get her safely to the next planet, but that there’d be no outside disasters on the way.

Space was endless, and so was the list of things that could go wrong out there—asteroids, meteor showers, black holes, solar storms, pirates, mechanical malfunctions. And if something went wrong with a ship, there was no air. Space was an endless, frigid, tumbling black void that threatened all life–forms who ventured out into it. And from which many never returned.

She drew a deep breath, remembering the panic of huddling in a cramped, dirty sleep cubby as the ventilation system of an old ship labored around her, afraid if she let herself doze off, it would quit altogether and she’d wake to suffocation for lack of oxygen.

And that was in between worrying about being raped by one or more of the scurrilous crew—which had nearly happened. Crap, she was having a flashback, sweat prickling her armpits and groin, her heart pounding.

Taara rushed to give her a hug. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry about all this—especially that Joran tricked you to get you here. But you totally need to hear what we’ve learned.”

Her best friend gave Kiri a speaking look, one that sent a new chill racing through her despite the heat of the afternoon. Things were clearly much worse for Logan even than she’d imagined. Was he in trouble? Had he been shanghaied this time?

Lady Ellianne then astonished her by greeting them with a glowing smile. “Kai, it’s so good to see you free. And reunited with your sister. I’m so happy for you.”

Kiri looked between the two. “You know each other?”

Ellianne was nodding. “Your brother went out of his way to help me when I was captured by the slavers. He was my light in the darkness.”

Joran Stark moved to take her arm and urge her toward the waiting gangplank. He gave Kai a hard look. “He also placed you in mortal danger.”

“Oh, Joran.” Ellianne frowned up at him. “You need to get over that. I certainly have. It all worked out for the best.”

“There’s a story I want to hear,” Kiri murmured.

“Later,” Kai agreed.

She walked with him up into the cruiser. Furnished in typical, understated LodeStar luxury, the seats were gray and blue leather, the fitments of rare woods and gleaming cerametal, with plush carpet under their feet.

A woman in a flight suit of pale gray stood inside the hatch, her short, silvery hair framing a tanned face. “Ms. te Nawa,” she greeted Kiri without expression.

“Hello, Opal,” Kiri responded. Logan’s flight attendant had never approved of her.

She peered beyond the woman into the cockpit, and waved at the pilot, equally tanned and silver-haired. “Hi, Rak.”

He gave her a wink, and she felt a little better. The ex-Space Forces pilot had been her bodyguard and pilot while she’d been with Logan in New Seattle, and although he’d begun their association with suspicion similar to Opal’s, he’d thawed to become a friend and ally. She’d missed him. “Where’s Giles?” she asked. He was Logan’s usual pilot, with Rak often in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Retired,” Rak said. “Off growing veg on Pangaea, if you can believe it.”