by JC Cassels
THE BLACK WING CHRONICLES
Book Two:
HERO’S
END
JC CASSELS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidence.
Cover Art Designed by Tomomi Ink
Copyright © 2013 Jayne C. Hicks
BISAC: Fiction / Science Fiction / Space Opera
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, stored in any database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
http://JCCassels.com
Author’s Note
I’ve often found Author’s Notes to be a bit self-indulgent, but after all the blood, sweat, and tears of hammering out HERO’S END, I’m inclined to be a bit more understanding. Besides, reading them has always been a guilty pleasure of mine, so here goes!
Every writer has to have a support system. Living in relative isolation in rural Georgia, I couldn’t stay on task without my online network of writers, editors, artists, and friends. Thanks to the internet, I am able to work with an editor in the UK and a cover artist in Barbados, while getting pep talks and suggestions from writers in Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Oklahoma, Washington State and Kansas.
Of my far-flung support network, a few have really gone above and beyond to help bring HERO’S END to life.
As always, Laurel Kriegler held my hand through the entire process, reassuring me that I was not writing crap and ordering me to take much-needed breaks when the intricacies of the plot and overall story arc threatened to overwhelm me. During the editing process, her cheeky comments and spot-on edits always came with the admonition to rework it until we got it right.
Fellow author and the cover artist responsible for the look of HERO’S END and SOVRAN’S PAWN, TK Toppin could always be counted on to interject a sense of whimsy into the worst writing day, acting as my virtual drinking buddy and my biggest cheerleader when I felt bogged down and discouraged.
When I needed a name for a space station, I was so creatively exhausted that I had nothing. I turned to fellow authors Patrick Stutzman and TM Hunter for help. During the brainstorming session with them, we came up with “Rogue’s Cross,” which was just what the doctor ordered. Thanks, boys!
I’d also like to give a shout out to the best proofreader around, my longtime friend, former roommate and one-time secretary Jessica Kramer, whose review of SOVRAN’S PAWN remains my favorite. “I’m so glad your book didn’t suck, so I didn’t have to lie when I said I liked it.” Thanks, babe. Love you, too!
Closer to home, my dad, Monte “Bubba” Cassels and my husband, Dale Hicks not only provided unending financial and moral support, but they took a weekend, rolled up their sleeves, put on their tool belts and went to work. Just for me, my two heroes ran electrical conduit in the Haunted Hospital for overhead lighting and power outlets so I would have a sanctuary for writing. Without my office, the window unit air conditioner, the power outlet for my pink machine and the lights, I would no doubt still be struggling to finish the first draft of HERO’S END in the family room.
I’d also like to offer a thank-you to my cousin, Chris Cassels, the professional photographer and videographer who took my promo pictures. I’m comfortable behind a camera, not in front of it. Knowing my picture was being taken by someone who loves me without condition, and is a brilliant artist to boot, took all the sting out of the experience.
I have to acknowledge my three brothers, my eight male cousins, my dad, my uncles, my husband and all the extended family and friends whose campfire stories feed my imagination. I’m sure they’ll all recognize bits and pieces of their own tales of adventure and the best of themselves in the characters they’ve inspired.
Most of all, I have to thank a loving Creator, without whom none of this would be possible. Creating a religion, without compromising the values of my own, has been a challenge, and one I could not have accomplished without prayer and Divine inspiration. If Tahar’s words carry wisdom, he and I both credit a loving and forgiving Maker for them.
Happy reading!
This book is dedicated
to my real-life heroes:
My dad, Monte “Bubba” Cassels
who teaches by example
the importance of a life of
faith, integrity and courage.
My uncle, CMSgt G. Brooks Ellison, USAF Ret.
who taught me that
I could do anything,
be anything.
My husband, Dale, USN Ret.
my knight in shining armor
who was ridiculously pleased to learn
that at 6’4” he’s two inches taller than Blade.
PROLOGUE
Larianne Varo strode briskly down the wide promenade on the spacer’s level. Ignoring the admiring looks and lewd propositions thrown her way, she slipped through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone as she passed. Taller than most females, her height gave her an advantage in a crowd. A quick head turn and her chin-length black hair brushed her jaw. Still no sign of anyone following her. Her pace slowed as the battered flashing sign advertising Scarlett’s Pleasure Suites came into view just over the heads of the crowd. She glanced down at the chrono on her wrist.
Early is on time. On time is late. She was very late. Damn the Artelian freighter that had to bump the docking ring just as her transport was coming in! No one had been able to disembark from either vessel until the airlock seals and hull integrity could be certified safe. Damn bureaucracy! Nothing to be done about that now. She’d just have to deal with the censure when she got to the pleasure suite.
You could rent a pleasure suite on a space station by the hour and rest assured no one would eavesdrop, either electronically or otherwise. Sure, there were some that specialized in such, but Scarlett’s on Chiron Station wasn’t one of them. If it were, it would lose its license. The owners of Scarlett’s prided themselves on their discretion. That was one reason it was so popular with the swells.
Dressed in the cheap, revealing jumpsuit of a Skyhopper, no one gave her more than a passing look as she entered the main door. Larianne scanned the room for any potential threat that may be lying in wait for her. Finding nothing more threatening than the occasional lewd smile or lascivious leer, she headed for the reception terminal at one end of the lobby before anyone worked up the nerve to proposition her. Unlike a brothel, patrons arrived at the pleasure suites with their partner(s) in tow. That didn’t mean some degenerate wouldn’t invite an unescorted Joy Babe or Skyhopper to join them for a little sport.
Playing off the name, the dominant color in the establishment was red. It looked as though the whole place had been the victim of a bloody crime. The red upholstery showed signs of wear with dark stains and worn spots. She didn’t even want to think about what had caused them. At least two patrons, inclined to exhibitionism, were working on leaving more stains on the overstuffed tufted banquette, much to the enjoyment of the patrons inclined to voyeurism.
Neither option held any interest for Larianne. Focusing on the business at hand, her long, manicured fingers flew over the terminal input keys as she checked in. Without conscious thought, she angled her body away from the room at large. After so many years as an Inner Circle field agent, caution was second nature. While she waited for her suite confirmation, her dark eyes flicked around the room, taking in the debauchery with a jaded eye.
Males in Second Avenue suits and females in designer clothing r
ubbed shoulders (and other body parts) with common spacers as all waited for an available suite and a willing partner, usually a Skyhopper or Joy Babe, or two.
Situated on the main shipping lanes in the Third Sector, Chiron thrived as a respectable way station at the galactic crossroads. Along with the regular spacer traffic that gave stations their seedy reputation, Chiron also catered to an upscale, even aristocratic, clientele. That’s what made it such a popular Sub-socia meeting place. There weren’t many other places in the Commonwealth where nobles and other swells could descend into the spacer’s levels, hire out their dirty work, and still be back in time for a dinner party with the latest celebrity to capture the public eye.
The terminal beeped and whirred, drawing her attention once more. It spat a clear plastic key card at her and the display showed her the way to her suite. Taking the card, Larianne cast one final look around before slipping through the doorway leading to the suites. A display on the card counted down the time left in her reservation.
Larianne easily found the suite. Her hand closed around the palm blaster she carried in her hip pocket. With her free hand, she waved the key card at the locking panel and the door slid open. A quick glance around the suite assured her that the man standing near the bed was alone. She stepped into the dimly lit room but stopped a few steps from the door.
General Gad Rameus stepped from the shadows. His face looked like it had been carved from flawed fuseform, hard and craggy, and oddly asymmetrical. He was of medium height, middle-aged with a bit of a paunch.
Larianne’s tension increased as she took in who had called the meeting, but she was too well-trained to show it. Turning, she secured the door and leaned against the doorframe. Her lips twisted again. If he thought the non-descript spacer’s clothes were a disguise, he was sadly mistaken. She easily recognized Lord Marin’s second-in-command and the Director of the Inner Circle from the holo that greeted visitors to IC headquarters on Trisdos. She knew better than to call him by name or acknowledge his rank.
“Agent Varo, what I’m about to tell you is to go no further than this room,” he said, without preamble.
Larianne nodded. “Of course.”
That was always the story. No one ever called Predators to clandestine meetings to give them intel that could be broadcast on the Commonwealth News Service. Fewer still ever bothered with the standard greetings and pleasantries.
“An agent has gone rogue,” he said. He tossed a portfolio on a table to the side of the door. “We have to handle this carefully. He’s become a threat to the security of the Commonwealth and to Lord Marin. We have evidence that he’s become involved with the New Front. Intel suggests that he’s using his position to prepare for an attempt on Lord Marin. He needs to be taken out quickly and it has to look like an accident. It’s also off the books. If word of this gets out, the agency will deny all knowledge. You’re on your own once you leave here.”
Larianne pushed away from the doorframe and picked up the portfolio. Keeping one eye on him, she pulled the flimsy from the folder and held it up to the meager light. The face of the man hovering in front of her was the last one she’d expected to see.
“You want me to kill Blade Devon?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Discreetly,” he said, “outside of standard operating protocols.”
“He’s hard to kill. Sending someone after him is a suicide mission.”
“That’s why I’m giving this assignment to you. You know him. You can get close to him.”
Larianne’s sharp eyes studied his face for a long moment. “He enjoys Lord Marin’s favor. He’s untouchable.”
“Leave Lord Marin to me,” he said with a smug smile. “No one is untouchable for a Predator. You’re supposed to be one of the best.”
“So is he.”
“He’s a high profile agent with very dangerous hobbies. I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty making it look like an accident. This sanction cannot be traced back to the agency, or to me.”
Larianne slipped the flimsy back into the portfolio and tucked the whole away into a pocket. She fought the urge to touch the scar on her arm. Two years later and the injury no longer pained her, but she’d kept the scar to remind her of the night she’d gotten sloppy…the night her erstwhile lover, the selfsame Blade Devon, had turned on her. Her lips twisted in self-mockery. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. He had warned her, after all.
“Anything in the orders against making him suffer a bit first? I owe him.”
“I see we understand one another,” he said. A chilling smile curved his lips and he started for the door. “Just make sure you kill him. Publicly, if possible.”
Larianne stepped away from the door to let him pass.
“With pleasure,” she said.
CHAPTER ONE
“Wait! I’m not finished with your hair!”
Ignoring her cousin Tese’s protests, Bo Barron snatched the high-heeled shoes from beside the packing container she’d been sitting on and dashed out of the ship’s cargo hold. Reaching up, she tapped the com-implant behind her left ear.
“Shut off the alarm, Sundance,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
The hooting alarms cut off, leaving only the sound of the ship’s engines rumbling through the craft, and her blood pumping through her ears.
Her pounding heart had nothing to do with the alarms, the imminent threat of crashing, or the exertion of running. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night for her excitement. Not too long now!
Barefoot, she raced along the deck plates. She didn’t slow when she reached the steep steps leading up from the cargo hold. Using the handrails, she hauled herself up towards the main deck. Without breaking stride, she swung herself onto the upper deck and skipped past her cousin Gena, who let out a squawk followed by a throaty laugh as she passed.
“Where’s the emergency, Bo?” Gena called.
“Dead ahead.” Bo danced in a neat pirouette without slowing down. “We’re coming up on Catarrh and if I don’t slow this bird, we’re going to crash.”
“I thought Edge said this ship could fly itself?”
Bo glanced back over her shoulder to find Gena following her at a slightly more sedate pace, dictated by her own ankle-breaking high-heels. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Grinning, Bo mounted the steps to the flight deck and slid sideways into the pilot’s seat. She dropped her shoes underneath the nav console where they would be out of the way. “Okay, Sundance, I’m here. What do you have for me?”
Bo buckled herself into the g-locks and switched over to manual control as she scanned the readouts, quickly orienting herself to the situation.
“Commander, we are entering Catarrh airspace at an illegal rate of speed,” her shipboard computer said. Her brother had chosen a deep, male voice. He’d thought she’d pay more attention to masculine vocal patterns rather than the traditional female shipboard computer. “Planetary authorities have ordered us to reduce speed and enter the approach corridor.”
Bo nodded. She was already on it. She keyed the braking thrusters and adjusted the ship’s course.
“Understood. Tell them we’ll comply. Transmit our landing codes.”
With a swish of fabric and a click of her impractical shoes, Gena Kiara stepped through the hatch onto the flight deck. “I’ve never seen a planetfall from a flight deck before,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
Bo glanced up at her cousin. Gena’s glossy, black curls framed an exotic face that was nothing short of perfection with flawless brown skin, high cheekbones and a stubborn chin. Large, almond-shaped brown eyes studied the controls. Beauty was the Kiara gift. Bo’s cousins made the most of it.
Bo nodded towards the empty seat to her right. “Be my guest,” she said. “Strap in and don’t touch anything.”
The legendary Kiara beauty was little more than a tool as far as Bo was concerned. The gift she valued came from her Barron father, and she’d spent her life mastering it. In his absence, she was T
he Barron, the top-rated pilot in the Commonwealth. She was about to have herself a little fun with it.
“I don’t get many opportunities like this,” Bo said, unable to contain her smirk.
“Like what?”
“For the endurance rally, the port authority relaxes a lot of their regs,” she said. “Edge managed to wrangle permission to land near the rally site with the VIPs. There’s only a landing beacon and no traffic control to talk you in.”
Her brother Edge ran a shadowy organization called Redmaster Blue, which specialized in making people and information disappear. There wasn’t much connected to the Central Com-Net that he couldn’t access and arrange. Working for him since her exile had its perks.
“You’re not serious?” Gena looked both horrified and excited. “That sounds like chaos!”
Bo nodded. “Yep,” she said gleefully. “I haven’t been able to buzz a crowd since I left the Academy. This should be fun.”
Gena struggled with the g-locks, rushing to get them secured around her.
“What’s the big idea of running off like that?” Tese panted slightly with the exertion of following Bo all the way from the cargo hold.
“Bo’s going to buzz the crowd, and I get to watch,” Gena said.
“Please, Marissa, don’t kill us,” Tese said.
Bo grinned. Tese, a Kiara Joy Babe like Gena, refused to call her by her preferred name. Following their Aunt Misou’s lead, Tese used her middle name. It was a safer form of address for all of them to use. Bo Barron, Chief of Barron Clan, was the Commonwealth’s Most Wanted. A slip of the tongue could lead to Bo’s arrest. Back in the Second Sector was a firing squad on standby, just for her.
“I don’t intend to die today, Tese,” she said. “My man’s down there and I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
