Rogue Stars

by C Gockel et al.

  Lights flicked on one by one down the cavernous length of the hold. The stark glow flooded over me. I couldn’t push back any farther into the hold’s wall. The doors hissed open and a dusky-haired man entered. He zipped up his jacket tight against his chin and blew into his cupped hands. Captain Caleb Shepperd. I’d seen his name on the umbilical docking station and had checked my existing internal databanks: Discharged from Fleet Command after three years of active duty for misconduct. A string of minor offenses, ranging from bar brawls to suspected trafficking. Wanted in three of the nine star systems for piracy and smuggling. Referred to as a “fixer” in intersystem chatter. Exactly the type of man who could be bought.

  He sauntered down the hold, checking the rigging holding down whatever cargo this ship carried. I had to move; when he turned to make his way back to the doors, I’d be in plain sight.

  He disappeared behind a mound of colored crates stamped with the yin-yang Chitec logo. I pushed out of my hiding space and moved around the pallets and crates, weaving my way toward the front of the hold.

  “Stop right there.”

  I froze and lifted my hands.

  “You’re good.” A slight lilt toward laughter lifted what would have otherwise been a dry voice. His combat experience accounted for the steady beat of his heart. I scanned through his bio again and decided on my angle of attack. Shivering and sniffling as though frightened was easy enough to feign.

  “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “Quiet too. I almost missed you. But I know this hold better than I know the back of my hand, and believe me, honey, my hand and I get personal on a regular basis.”

  “I just—” I sniffed. “Please, I just had to get away from my family.”

  “Drop your hood.”

  I scooped my hood back and gathered it against the back of my neck.

  “Easy.” He moved closer, boots scuffing against the grated floor. “I’m not gonna hurt you, but given how this day is determined to fuck me, I will be taking some precautions.”

  He took his final step. I spun and curled my fingers into a fist . My aim skewed sideways. He should never have been able to duck that blow, but he did. His eyes widened and then narrowed when he saw my face. I swung again, this time with my left, but even that went wide. I was better than this.

  He caught my fist, bent my arm back, and shoved me down to my knees. Eye level with his crotch, I punched him between his legs. He barked out a cry, but instead of backing off, he smacked his forehead into mine. My vision blurred, internal warnings sparking like fireworks, and I was sent sprawling. I twisted, hooked my fingers into the grated floor, and scrambled forward.

  He snagged my hood and yanked me back. “You’re a goddamn synth.”

  He punched my lower back. A band of pain lashed around my middle. I cried out and fell forward. His knee dug into my spine, and he tugged my short braid away from my neck, yanking my head back. Frigid air whispered across the yin-yang brand on my skin.

  “Chitec,” he snarled. “A Chitec synth. Now I gotta turn us around and take you in.” He shoved off and staggered back.

  “No, you don’t.” Errors blinked in my vision. I shut them out and pushed up into a crouch.

  He laughed, but the sound lacked any hint of humor. “Oh yes, I do. You’re too hot, even for me. I can’t be dealin’ with this shit. A Chitec synth—fuck.” He threw his hands up and laced his fingers into his dark hair.

  “I’ll pay.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “With what?”

  “I have money.”

  “You don’t even have a name.”

  “I’m Number One Thousand And One.”

  He groaned and rattled off a few curses, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs. “I’ve been hit in the balls by a few women, some men too, but never by a freakin’ synthetic.” When he lifted his gaze, I expected to see anger on his face and not the heavy weariness he was showing me. “I can’t even begin to figure this out.”

  “Just get me out of Calisto airspace. I won’t be any trouble.” I got to my feet and pulled my hood back up, hiding my face in shadow.

  “I don’t even know what to say. Just— Look, I need to do some repairs before we go anywhere. Will you just sit tight and not try to kill me? I can only handle one problem at a time.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Captain Shepperd.”

  His smile died. He looked at me hard and then shook his head. “I hate this fuckin’ port.” He tapped a button on his wrist. “Fran, I’ll be back up in fifteen. Grab me an ice pack.”

  A woman replied through the comm, “Did you break something, Captain?” Her sardonic drawl didn’t sound concerned.

  He cut the link and sighed. “Come with me, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Chapter Four: Caleb

  I had a hard time focusing on the motherboard array while my balls throbbed, my gut heaved, and a cold slab of artificially reincarnated woman stood behind me. The second I’d gotten a good look at her face, I’d known what she was; synths all looked the same, with skin too smooth and eyes too bright to be real. As for what she was doing in my cargo hold, that was a mystery. If Chitec caught me with her, I’d be waving goodbye to my ship, my work, and maybe even my life. Add to that the crates of illegal Chitec weaponry I happened to be hoarding, and I’d definitely be put into the ground for good.

  “Check the reserve fuse.”

  And apparently she’s a mechanic too.

  “It’s not the reserve fuse.” I gripped a penlight between my teeth and wedged my hand inside the mangled wires.

  Built in 2350, Starscream’s rewire service was long overdue. The bounty on the synth’s head—there had to be one since synth’s were all bought and paid for by someone—would pay for a rewire, a two-week vacation to Lyra, and fuck, maybe even a complete overhaul. The trick would be collecting the bounty without Chitec hanging me out to dry. Fran could make the trade, if I trusted her not to fuck me over—which I didn’t, since I’d fuck her over in a heartbeat.

  The penlight slipped free and clattered on the floor. The synth scooped it up, looming to my right in that ridiculous, hooded cloak. She aimed the light’s beam over my shoulder at the motherboard, though she was just as likely to crack me over the head with it. Her hood concealed most of her face in shadow. I could make out a fine, almost perfect nose, and lips tinged a little blue. Synths were all copies, right down to the pert lips and mildly intrigued expression: five hundred male, five hundred female, and apparently one extra. People actually paid good credit to sign up for that life-ever-after shit. Somewhere inside her synth body, a human being long past their expiration date was supposed to dwell. Very little gets under my skin, but she—One Thousand And One—made my skin crawl.

  “Your heart rate is increasing.”

  No shit.

  “That’s what happens when you get hit in the balls.” I braced an arm against the panel and frowned at the array. “You wanna use those fancy diagnostics of yours to tell me that I also feel like I’m gonna throw up?”

  “I can’t tell you what you’re feeling, only the outward symptoms.”

  “Because it’d be weird if you could,” I mumbled and wormed my hand through the bird’s nest of wires to pluck the reserve fuse free. Sure enough, it had blown. I replaced it with another and drilled the panel closed.

  “I can see you’re going to be as much fun as my second-in-command.” I tapped my wrist-comm. “Fran, we’re good to go. Take Starscream out far enough to give the authority the slip, and then idle her in shadow. Don’t leave the system yet.” A deep, resonating engine growl rumbled through the ship. “Meet me in my cabin. I got something you’ll wanna see.”

  “Cale, there isn’t anything of yours I want to see.”

  Ha. Ha.

  The synth’s slightly blue lips twitched as though she could actually recognize sarcasm. A synth with a sense of humor—that would be new.

  “Leave your guest in the rec bay,” I told Fran
and cut the link. She might be a bitch, but she followed orders. Mostly. When it suited her.

  I nodded toward the exit. “After you, and no sudden movements. You hit a guy in the balls and all bets are off. Fuck with me, and I’ll carve out that synth power core of yours and use it for spare parts.”

  She headed for the exit, her boots almost silent on the grated floor. “I doubt I am compatible with your ship.”

  I grinned at her back. She was right about not being compatible. The sooner I ditched her, the sooner I could get away from Calisto and to a jump gate. In a day, I’d be half way across the nine systems, with my credit account looking all the better for it.

  Fran entered my cramped cabin, handed me a cool pack, and leaned against the wall beside the door. She looked at the synth seated on my bunk, cocked her head, slid her gaze over to me, and said calmly, “A synthetic?”

  I sat sprawled in my chair and applied the pack to my jewels with a sigh. Fran’s gaze skipped between the synth and where I’d placed the pack. She worked her lips around a smile.

  “Say one fuckin’ word and I’m leaving you at the next port.”

  She pushed off the wall and stopped close in front of the synth. She admired her for a few seconds and then crouched down to get a closer look.

  From my slumped position, I could see right into the synth’s eyes. People reckon that the eyes are the windows to the soul. #1001’s eyes sparkled. I had no idea if all synths looked as real up close as this one. The authority tended to keep expensive tech away from smugglers and outlaws. Flawless skin unmarked by age or UV exposure, she could have been popped from the mould yesterday, or five years ago when they first started producing synthetic “people,” or more correctly, started recycling them. She’d been made to look as though she was in her early twenties, but up close, the airbrushed quality of her skin made her look younger still.

  “They’re almost perfect up close,” Fran said softly, reaching a hand out. The synth dropped her gaze and blinked rapidly as Fran pressed a finger into her cheek. “Cold.”

  “I’m cold”—Fran jumped back and I snorted—“because I was in the hold.”

  Fran backed up and crossed her arms. “Why our ship?”

  The synth blinked, but otherwise her perfect face barely cracked a smile. “I saw the captain’s name and, given his past, considered the Starscream to be my best route out of the system.”

  She had a cultured voice, like one of those girls whose daddy owned a fleet of tugs; those girls loved to spend a few wild nights in port towns, no strings attached. “You don’t know my past.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Her dark pupils dilated, just a little. “You were born in twenty-three-forty-nine. Youngest to graduate from Vancouver Fleet Academy. You excelled—”

  “I wouldn’t go there, sweetheart,” Fran said. “He’s screwed up enough without you needing to bring his past into the cabin with us.”

  #1001 focused her sparkling gaze through me. Her pupils widened again, drawing knowledge from the datacloud like a black hole sucking in light. She was internally rifling through her data files and would soon know all about me in that head of hers—everything on public record anyhow. Her sharp gaze cut deep, seeing into parts I didn’t let any bitch see, and stripped me bare. I fought the urge to fidget in my seat and glared right back at her. She wouldn’t know me. Nobody did. Most of the time I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Her pupils contracted and she was back in the room.

  “You know more about me now than my own mother did. Should I feel dirty?” I tacked on a smile, hoping to hide my discomfort.

  She was still looking right at me; I wasn’t even sure whether she’d blinked. She’d probably read the skip in my heart rate though. I could hide a lot, but not everything, and not from a lie detector on legs.

  “What happened in twenty-three-sixty-eight?” she asked.

  Fuck. How did she—? It didn’t matter. I ignored Fran’s enquiring glance, removed the cool pack, and leaned forward in my chair. “If you know me so well, then you know you’ve picked the wrong ship if what you’re looking for is charity.”

  “That’s something of a moot point,” she deadpanned.

  Was that sarcasm? From a synth? I frowned and pushed awkwardly from the chair. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything. Fran, with me.” Fran followed me out. I pulled the cabin door closed and locked it. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Five: #1001

  Captain Caleb Shepperd is hiding something.

  The lock clicked, sealing me inside his cabin. As the muffled voices and footfalls faded away, I stood and absorbed the room. A single photo, pinned to a message board, caught my eye—the captain and a man I assumed was his older brother, both in fleet uniforms. The smile on Shepperd’s enthusiastic face bore little resemblance to the wry smiles he wore today. The younger Shepperd in the photograph was a typically polished and refined example of a fleet recruit and seemed to have little in common with the disheveled man he’d become. I flicked my attention elsewhere, over the prerequisite calendar depicting a busty female. Red crosses marked several upcoming dates, but no notes identified the events. I moved on, trailing my fingers over a few dog-eared paperbacks. He liked romance? That didn’t fit my impression of Captain Shepperd. I picked up one of the books and flicked through the tattered pages. They were antiques and probably should have been in a museum, not sitting on the shelf of a smuggler next to a box of tissues and an empty glass. I picked up the glass and sniffed—whiskey, with a metallic undertone, cheap and stale. The toe of my boot snagged on a stack of pornographic magazines. Predictable.

  I pushed back my hood and stood in the center of the cabin. If I reached out my hands, I could touch the walls. This cabin was his life, his home, but something wasn’t right. I listened: Engines hummed. Fans cycled the air. But something felt off, like the captain himself.

  I crouched and scanned the cabin again. His bunk stretched almost from wall to wall. A tiny shower cubicle butted up against the end of the bunk. A desk and drawers made up the opposite wall. I shoved the chair aside, and leaning in under the desk, I immediately saw the switch. He’d been blocking my view of it. By chance or deliberately? I pressed the switch. Motors whirred and above his desk two panels opened, revealing a display of pistols and automatic rifles; military and civilian; some old, most new; and some not even available on the open market.

  This is … unexpected.

  I flicked my gaze from the guns, to the calendar, to the books, then closed the panels and returned the chair to its original place.

  Isn’t Shepperd interesting?

  Something had happened to him in 2368, five years ago. He’d have been nineteen at the time. The year had been struck from his personal dataprint. It wasn’t unusual to find dud years in people’s records—people went off the grid while ill or imprisoned—but Captain Shepperd’s year had been scrubbed clean. Every movement, every port-of-call, every transaction left a print. Dataprints made up every year of a life. In 2368, his dataprint was a data hole, which was impossible, especially for a man like him who left an impression wherever he went.

  I returned to his bunk, pulled my cloak around me, and waited. In the hold, when I’d struck him, a fault warning had derailed my intention. I made a mental note to flag the fault during my next rest period and waited for Shepperd to return.

  “I am #1001, and I follow orders.”

  Chapter Six: Caleb

  Keeping secrets on a small trading tug like Starscream had its challenges. 99% of the ship’s bulk was made up of space designed to carry cargo, leaving little room for living quarters and privacy. This wasn’t usually a problem, but now I had a synth locked in my cabin and a paying guest in the rec bay. The only space allowing for a private chat was the narrow galley kitchen, and even then, the door didn’t shut properly, not since we nudged a freighter near Europa.

  “You gonna sell her out?” Fran asked.

  I shrugged out of my thermal jacket and tossed it on the countertop. Sell her out? I
had to. What else was I supposed to do with a fucking synth?

  “She’s Chitec property.” I pulled off the upper half of my flight suit, letting it hang from my waist, and rolled up my sleeves. We should have been half way across the system by now. The longer we lingered, the higher our chances were of getting tagged by nosey fleet patrols. Ruffling my hair, I leaned against the countertop with a sigh.

  Fran nudged the galley door closed, or tried to. It stuck but would probably pop open in a few minutes. She pulled a band from her flight suit pocket and reached back to tie her hair into a tight ponytail. Her black tank top left little to the imagination, which was fortuitous, given that I didn’t have one.

  “Why’s she here?” she asked, yanking the band tight enough to make me wince. Her Celtic dragon tattoo, wrapped around her upper arm, flexed with the tension in her bicep. Fran knew exactly how to use her looks to her advantage, and it worked on me every damn time as though I were one of those rats trapped in a maze, touching the electrodes over and over until it died, never learning a fuckin’ thing.

  “Fuck knows,” I grumbled.

  “Don’t you think we should find out before we do anything?”

  “Why? We already have enough shit to deal with. No, I don’t care why she’s here or why she thinks she has to get out of the system, or that she’s thinking on her own two feet. You know why I don’t care? Because I have a fuck load of Chitec guns in the hold and a bounty on my head.”

  Fran planted a hand on her hip. “If she’s missing, news like that would travel fast. I haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Their PR people are keeping it quiet. They’ll be looking though. I’d much prefer we make a trade on our terms over getting caught with her and getting accused of smuggling priceless Chitec property.”