Inalienable: Book 7 of the Starstruck saga

by S E Anderson

  “Any idea what they want?” I asked. “Do they just want to kill for the sake of killing? And if they want to kill germs, they should be using a refreshing blast from Neodine Eterna-Gel! This multipurpose cream will kill any bacteria from any surface. Find it in your local bodega. Now available in space scent. Do you want your home to smell like an unending void? Use new space-scented Neodine! Neodine: It keeps you clean!”

  “What. The. Frash.” Sekai turned to Kork, and I wondered if I’d ever seen her slacken her posture before; it was almost imperceptible, but enough to make me jolt.

  “She has a faulty translator,” he mumbled.

  “I’ll say. And, no, I don’t know what the rebels want. They haven’t made any demands in here. I suppose they just want us all dead.”

  “And then what? Have they taken hostages? Do they have a way out?”

  “We don’t know,” said Kork, his eyes peeled on the dance floor. “And if this is a suicide mission, then they came here to die. Our retribution would only give them what they want.”

  “So, we need to capture them,” said Sekai, “and contain them until leadership arrives.”

  “Don’t you get it? Leadership is already here and littering the ballroom floor.” Kork ran his hands over his bald scalp, trailing sweat over what I sincerely hoped was just mud. “Not everyone who matters to the Alliance is here tonight, but almost. And now, there’s barely anyone left.”

  “Saints,” said Sekai, breathing in sharply. “Then what is the point in us doing anything? We’ve already lost. The Alliance is untethered.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Kork. “There are redundancies. Planetary mayors. Ministers who didn’t make it here. Backups after backups. The Alliance will recover; it always does. But the mere fact this could happen … well, we’ve seen the impossible.”

  “Good thing I know two impossible people here tonight,” I said. “They’ll do something. They’ll make this right.”

  “I don’t think they can,” said Kork.

  “Then what can we do?” asked Sekai. “I’m not going to die at the hands of some chaos-loving rebels. Retribution, my left nostril. We take down every one of these children of pond scum and feed them to their mothers.”

  Kork’s eyes lit up with a fire I had never seen before. “Why do I suddenly want to grab a sword, hop on a horse, and ride into battle behind you?”

  “I do not know what a horse is, but I would be honored to have you in battle beside me.”

  “So, that’s it?” I stammered, hating to interrupt such a cinematic moment. “We’re just going to revenge-kill the rebels without finding out who they are and what they want?”

  “Do you have a better idea?” asked Kork.

  “I’d rather neither of you die today,” I said. “So maybe we can tone it down with retribution, go instead for the surgical strike?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Firstly, we need to connect with Zander and Blayde,” I said, and he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, you know as well as I, they’re probably ten steps ahead of us. I don’t want us to fly in, guns a’blazing, and ruin whatever they’re planning. I’d rather be with them than in their way, you know?”

  “It sounds to me like you’re waiting for them to somehow save the day when day-saving is literally anyone’s game.”

  “Well, they do have millennia of experience.”

  “Fair point. But—”

  “But nothing. They have millennia of experience. This is probably not their first foray with terrorists, considering the Alliance thinks that’s what they are in the first place. Hell, it’s not even my first time being on the wrong end of a ball gone bad. Even Sekai was there for that!”

  She nodded. “It is true. They avoided a planet-wide massacre on Da-Duhui.”

  “If you three are done talking,” said a gruff voice, “we’d like the pleasure of your company.”

  I looked straight up into the arm of a man in a bright red Spandex suit.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he said and pressed something hard into the top of my head. “One false move, and the lady gets her brain liquified.”

  I rolled my eyes. I mean, what else do you do when you realize the situation is stupid? I winked at Kork then Sekai. Then Kork again. I must have looked like I was having a stroke. But it worked because the two of them drew their weapons and splattered the rebel to kingdom come. His weapon fell in my lap.

  “Beautiful,” I said. It was easier to say the words than to believe them. I was shaking like a leaf, my mind replaying the sound of the man’s last small gasp as he was killed above me. I staggered forward, away from his body that was now flung on the bar.

  And, above him, three rebels in red tight suits rushed at us, the source of the only noise in the entire hall.

  “Right,” said Kork, “I suppose this is where we make our stand.”

  “Three against three,” said Sekai. “I do like those odds.”

  I raised my weapon, pictured the president there, and I fired.

  My gun released a burst of concentrated plasma, hitting the first rebel square in the chest. He staggered but drew himself up like a zombie, advancing again. I pictured the sand monstrosity in the vent and fired again.

  I hit him square in the head.

  There’s an uncomfortable disconnect that comes from doing the wrong thing for all the right reasons. Killing a man because he was about to kill you. Killing a man because he’d already killed countless people and would undoubtedly kill others, including you. You have all the right reasons to pull the trigger, and yet when you see him collapse on the floor, lifeless, a visceral scream leaves your lips, like you’ve broken a law so intrinsic and primitive, you know the universe will demand retribution.

  Except today, you are the retribution.

  And I really need to stop dissociating.

  A burst of plasma erupted near my ear, shattering one of the remaining bottles and sending glass showering over us. That had been too close, close enough to almost touch Sekai, and I couldn’t let anything happen to her. Oh no, not on my watch. I flung myself forward, leaping over the bar and raising my weapon once more. I was off-balance as I fired, bursts of heat tearing from my gun and ripping into the men in red suits.

  Screaming from behind me—a war cry from planet Kili, mingling with a scream from Earth—Sekai and Kork burst out after me with their weapons drawn. We spun out, points of a deadly triangle, landing in a formation that was as natural as breathing, defending each other’s backs as we swept the room for more killers.

  Four down, countless more to go.

  So, of course, the stained windows behind the presidential podium chose that minute to explode, raining glass down upon us all.

  A cold wind blew through the blood-soaked hall, bringing with it the crisp scent of car fumes and distant sea. Smell wasn’t all it brought. Beings dressed head to toe in black, soaring through the air, jet packs on their feet and bug-like masks covering their faces. They swarmed the hall like flies buzzing around the jeweled ceiling, some landing on the catwalk and punching out the rebels in red.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” I stammered. “Shit, they’re going to think we—”

  “No, those are not Alliance soldiers,” said Kork, struggling to get the words out. “Their uniforms. That’s not Alliance-issued body armor.”

  “Who are they?” hissed Sekai. “Do I shoot?”

  “Lower your weapons,” said one of the bug-eyed men, holding his position three meters up and away from us. “You are now hostages of the First Pact.”

  “The who?” I stammered.

  “Trash,” spat Sekai. “You let your men turn this place into a death pond. For what?”

  “Oh, them?” He pointed up at the catwalk where a raging fight was taking place between red and black. Not allies, after all. “They call themselves rebels, but they’re just scum. We’re the real threat, and we’ve come here with—”

  “Can’t you see it’s already over?” I asked, stepp
ing forward. I was a nobody to the Alliance, but Kork, he was their literal poster boy. I couldn’t let him fall into their hands. “Those rebels you call scum have already killed everyone here. There’s nothing left for you. No point left to be made.”

  “The mere fact that people are left alive means we have what those idiots could never understand,” he said. “Leverage.”

  “Leverage this, douche canoe. Run!”

  I shouted as I leaped into the air, grabbing one of the badass jet-boots firmly and letting gravity do the rest. It slipped off the foot, and the second-wave rebel swore as he tumbled forward, giving Kork and Sekai the split-second distraction they needed to get out of the man’s way.

  The boot kept flying, soaring through the empty ballroom like a child on fairy dust, taking me with it. Admittedly, I could have just let go, but this was a flying boot, and I’d be damned if I just let it fly away without me.

  I stuffed my hand deep into it, hoping to Iron Man this thing, but I ended up gagging at the sweaty foot smell and feel, retracting my now sopping wet hand so fast that the boot spun on its side, dropping me squarely on my ass. I pulled out my pistol and whipped it around, trying to find the man who had taunted us, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  I screamed as I was ripped upward, betrayed by my own elegantly-knotted hair, more out of shock than actual pain. I was flying, soaring upward, dragged by my follicles onto the catwalk where a battle raged.

  Well, we started on the bottom, and now we are here.

  And here just plain sucks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The buffet, and other things I should have been paying attention to

  Zander

  It’s not fun when you do someone’s job for them then they take all the credit, especially when you just saved the world. Trust me, I’m the guy who supposedly ruined half the planets I actually saved, letting the guy who literally just got himself killed get lifted on all the praise I was well owed.

  Those victory statues are rather unflattering when they have someone else squashing your face under their boot. I’ve got at least five of those that I know of, and did I want a single one? No, thank you.

  I’m not sour. Well, not entirely. A little bitter maybe. A grape that’s just beginning to turn.

  “Do you have a visual?” I asked, trying to push all thoughts of grapes out of my head. You never want to go up against rebels on an empty stomach, and I had avoided the hors d’oeuvres like an idiot, thinking I would need to look lean and trim while saving the president. You never know what kind of reaction you’ll have to alien food; the bloat is real, people.

  Blayde had been smart. She’d tackled a mini puff tray on her way to safety. Her pockets—because, of course, her uniform would have pockets; how did her dress have pockets but my tuniclad didn’t? —brimmed with snacks, but she wasn’t sharing. She pushed herself flush with the wall, one hand clasping her laser pointer, the other furiously shoving assorted green balls into her mouth as if her life depended on it. She let only the barest sliver of her eye out over into the bottleneck, then turned back, seemingly relieved, trotting to our hiding place in the secondary coat check with the rest of our small pocket of survivors.

  “I’ve counted just four on this side of the hall,” she said between mouthfuls. “These are really good. My compliments to the chef. They haven’t moved downstairs yet. They’ve infiltrated the upper levels, including the security catwalk, and seem to be waiting for us to do something stupid so they can gun us down.”

  “So, they should all be fine sitting it out down here,” I said, turning my head away from the others as I slid the metal cheekbone from out under my skin. Stars above, it felt so much better not having it poke into my nose.

  “Until the rebels come down for their final sweep,” said Blayde. “I don’t know yet if they’re taking hostages. It doesn’t look like they left anyone out there alive.”

  I pulled the other false cheekbone out, tossing it to the floor. “Any sign of Sally?”

  “No, but if she knows what’s best for herself, she’d be lying low,” Blayde replied. She reached into her pocket, and, finding it empty, heaved a heavy sigh. “We don’t know how long this mess will last.”

  “You!” The old man in the corner jumped to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. He was, of course, pointing at me. Because why fit in even for a second?

  “What, you?” You get good at faking confusion after lifetimes of practice. “You mean me?”

  “You’re” —the man dropped his trembling finger—“the Sand. Which means … “

  “The Sand is a terrible moniker. Yeah, I know, right?”

  Now that had gotten the attention of the others. At least they had already finished their screaming in the earlier throng. I hear sore throats made it hard to express terror.

  “You! You did this!” shouted the older man in a jittery warble. “You brought the rebels down upon us! They’re with you!”

  “Believe it or not, we’re on your side,” said Blayde. She had stripped her prosthetics out so quickly that I hadn’t even seen her do it. “We didn’t know anything about this attack.”

  “Trust me,” I added, hand out to show I was no threat, “I want to get out alive as much as any of you.”

  The man could barely refrain from laughing.

  “What the frash do you mean?” he spat. “Get out alive? You can’t die!”

  “Language,” muttered one of the young girls in the corner.

  “Just trust me, okay?” said Zander. “None of us want to be here right now.”

  “In this coat check?” asked the girl. “We must stay calm. Coats get scared, too, you know. If we make too much noise, who knows what they’ll do.”

  “Oh lordy,” Blayde muttered. “A coat enthusiast.”

  “Or out of this situation,” I said, talking over her. I think she just had a momentary mental snap because she froze, staring at the girl with all the confusion I wanted to share. “And we’re going to get out of here. There are—”

  “Seven of them,” said Blayde. “Against two of us. So, hey! You see? Clear majority. Safe and sound.”

  “I meant there are nine of us and who knows how many rebels out there.” At what point would she shut up and let me do all the talking? “We need to stick together if we have any hope of getting out of this. Of the coat check and the situation.”

  “And why should we trust you?” asked the senior. “You’re criminals with nothing to lose. All we have is your word that you’re not involved with the others. What are the odds of having two separate bands of rebels at the same event at the same time?”

  “He’s got you there, Zan,” said Blayde. “The odds are absolutely, hilariously low. Is it more likely—gasp! —that maybe we’re not terrorists at all?”

  “Right. Do we need the civies to take down the rebels?” I asked her.

  “Negatory.”

  “Where’s the president?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. You’re sure?”

  “Yes, brother-of-mine, I’m pretty sure no pulse and no breathing in his case means dead. He’s as dead as a doornail.”

  Some whispering rose from the girls who were huddled in the back corner. None of the four seemed in the least bit scared. Their tone was gossipy rather than frightened. They all seemed the same age, probably in their late teens, each with their hair done up in fashionable curls and wearing vibrant-colored dresses. I caught the gaze of the girl who swore the coats would attack, and she went a sapphire blue.

  “Weapons?” I asked Blayde, peeling my gaze from them. Were they planning something? Hard to tell.

  “I’ve got my laser. Do you have a gun?”

  “And my bag of teeth.”

  “Perfect. Anybody else?”

  They all shook their heads. The old man raised his hand.

  “I’ve got an antique Falerian revolver,” he said.

  “You any good with it?”

  “I can defend
myself.”

  “Okay, good.” Blayde rubbed her hands together. “Zander, plans?”

  “None yet. And you hate my plans. Why don’t you ever come up with something?”

  She rose to her feet, taking off the torturous shoes, wiggling her toes to help her concentration. She looked over the strange assembly of guests who only wanted a way out. There were the four girls in their own corner, talking rather loudly about what to do if the coats came alive. It was hard to tell if they would be useful: all children of the rich and powerful, so some of their parents had prepared them for life in political office, while others for a life defending estates on the rim. Their hands—those who had hands, one had long, green tentacles—were manicured. Perfect, but that told me nothing about the technology they could afford. A callous could be hidden easier than a mole these days. While ages of maturity varied on their different worlds, they seemed to be on the cusp of adulthood. Probably strong in a fight if they had to be, but a real loss to the Alliance if they were to fall.

  I shook the thought from my head. I wasn’t putting anyone in harm’s way. Everyone in my care was getting out of here alive.

  A young human woman stared intently at all the happenings, her eyes locked on me. They were wide, trying to capture everything that was going on, her blinks infrequent and slow, a strange thing to notice but impossible to ignore once you did. Her gown was not a perfect fit, the makeup done in haste, and although her clothes were expensive, she didn’t seem the rich type. She wasn’t meant to be here any more than I was.

  The last man with them was probably the most terrified. A young man in his twenties, wearing an old-fashioned apron, making him, without a doubt, a member of the staff since bedazzled aprons had been out at least three seasons now. His eyes darted left and right, his body quivering, teeth chattering—the whole set.

  The old man near the door, however, was still a mystery. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, old-fashioned yet not outdated. His wrinkled face conveyed age, yet the spotless skin showed just how much money could add more years to one’s life. He glanced back and forth, jumpy, which was predictable, as for any man in a near-death situation. A sash marking him as part of the presidential entourage hung limply from his shoulder.