Wide-eyed, Lilia couldn’t hide her grin, nor did she try. “I was awesome!”
DarkStar’s soft voice filled the bridge. “We are being hailed by Capt. Andrews.”
Lilia squared her shoulders. “Open the com.”
With a stern expression, Captain Andrews appeared on the screen. “Change of plans, Captain Boyd. Go after the runner, and I’ll use the device on this straggler myself,” he said, having guessed the deceptive game Boyd was playing; inventing a mysterious weapon himself.
“Captain Andrews, you’re spoiling my fun. I was looking forward to my first triple capture, but by your command, sir. Boyd out.” With that the screen again went black.
Val Hilliard slowed to a stop and turned on its pursuer.
Finding itself now alone and sandwiched between two menacing ships, the remaining Galleass panicked and frantically veered to speed off in a different direction.
Once the Galleass was beyond scanner range, Stan dropped the Xebec’s energy readings. Andrews brought his ship back to Prize, and together the two returned to Star Sword, Boyd, and her crew. Nothing was left but the life-pods and metal debris.
“Looks like vultures will feast tonight, Lilia. I’m just glad it won’t be on us.”
“I’ve met my share of Salvage Jacks at the tavern, Stan. Unlike pirates, they’re nice people, hardworking, decent folk, really. They’re just looking to clean up space debris, especially if they can make a profit from what they salvage.”
Prize turned toward Praxis to escort the brigantine back to its home. Along the way, Stan and Lilia couldn’t help but notice the deafening silence. Andrews made no gesture of gratitude whatsoever, not that doing so was required, but considering all they’d just gone through . . . it was a bit odd.
As Praxis came into view, and at seeing no other trap to contend with, Stan and Lilia turned DarkStar back toward Providence.
“We’re being hailed,” DarkStar said.
“Do you think we’ll get that thank you after all?” Stan said.
“Somehow I doubt it, Stan. DarkStar, open the com, please.”
Captains Andrews and Boyd came on the screen. “Mr. Farnsworth, that’s some ship you have there. Prize is a remarkable craft.”
“Not really, Captain. Prize is just a common boat with high dollar tech. You can get similar upgrades for your ship on Parandi.”
“We could use a Captain and crew of your abilities,” Andrews added, “to help us bring Praxis back on the right path.”
Stan forced a polite smile. “What do you expect of me and my ship, Captain? Your government’s corrupt. Take care of that, and things will change.”
Andrews winced. Apparently Stan’s words, catching him off guard, struck a raw nerve. “We could simply seize your ship, Farnsworth. As I see it, the necessities of a whole planet outweigh your individual needs a thousand times over.”
“I think that’s an absurd argument for thievery, Captain, which makes my point. You need to change your own thinking about such matters before anything else.” The screen went black. DarkStar increased to half sub-light.
The ship jolted. “Sir, they’ve fired on us,” DarkStar said.
Stan brought Prize to a complete stop and turned to the screen in expectation. “You know what, Lilia? I’m thinking Praxis might be a good place to stop for the night.”
“Really? I’m not certain that’s such a bright idea.”
“Trust me. You’ll see.”
“We are being hailed, sir,” alerted DarkStar.
“Put’em on.”
When the screen came up, Stan sighed in clear disappointment. “Is this how you repay a kindness, Andrews; with treachery instead of a thank you? So you’re a pirate after all, are you?”
Andrews’ face was pinched in a harsh scowl. “You will alter course to Praxis, Trog. I’ve stated my case, and I will not debate it with the likes of you.” The com-line closed.
Stan scoffed. “Common.” Did Andrews really believe hanging that label on Stan would get him Prize? It was ironic, though, calling Stan a Trog.
With Val Hilliard closing behind him, more ships came up from the surface to encircle Prize and escort her in; but Prize increasingly faded.
Val Hilliard fired a shot, which passed unhindered through the vanishing ghost only to clip the lead escort.
Leaving Andrews with nothing but what he had initially come for—Gov Chact and the stolen funds—the invisible DarkStar headed down to Praxis’ surface to implement Stan’s next plan.
Chapter Fourteen
The now invisible DarkStar settled into a remote wooded grove on Praxis. Stan switched to Level B stealth mode, changing the ship’s color to match the foliage, then followed Lilia to the ship’s lounge, where she pulled her Bible from a drawer and, with great tenderness, ran her fingers across its face before setting it on the coffee table.
“DarkStar,” Stan said. “Print a copy of this book for me, will ya? I’d like to see why that idiot thought I was a Trog.”
“Right away, sir,” the ship answered.
“The nerve of that guy, huh, Stan,” Lilia said sarcastically.
“Well, yeah. What could I have done to get Andrews to think I was a—”
“Don’t you dare!” Lilia snapped.
“A follower. I was going to say follower.”
Lilia turned to pour each of them a glass of water. “Maybe it had something to do with our self sacrifice, our sense of justice . . .”
“Or our butting in without being asked,” Stan teased.
Lilia giggled. Taking the seat next to Stan, she set a glass of water in front of him. “Are we comfy?”
We? Stan thought. Tiny word ‘we.’ Truth be told, from the start he had pushed to the back of his mind the very possibility of the word ‘we’ as it applied to him and her—together. Her saying it out loud seemed to . . .
“There are things we need to bring out into the open,” she said, “. . . things we need to discuss.”
“What kind of things,” he said as his heart skipped a beat. It seemed to do that every time she uttered that simple two-letter word. Why did it gallop like a spooked stallion now? Nuts!
“The Immortal Architect is good, Stan. When people see us do right by them, whether they understand it or not, whether you understand it or not, they see Him in what we do. We rack up witnesses every time we involve ourselves in the lives of others.”
Oh, so she’s back to that topic. Stan sighed in resignation. “You’re right. We should stop butting in while we’re ahead.”
“That’s not what I meant. Whether we like it or not, some people will see Him in the good things we do. I think that’s why Andrews called you a Trog. You feel insulted by that tag, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Stan said in clear irritation.
“I hate the word, too, but that never stopped you from calling me that.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked squarely into her dark, almost black eyes and saw the hurt there. “Sorry, Lilia. I’ve been mean, haven’t I?”
Chapter Fifteen
Billy sat up abruptly. A noisy clank at the door said old fuzz-buckets was bringing dinner. What would it be tonight? Perhaps a thick, juicy Porterhouse cooked through and through with just a touch of pink inside, or maybe Lobster Florentine with a nice white sauce, or better yet . . .
The door swung open and in stepped the pirate. With a cruel smirk, he dropped a bowl in front of Billy, splattering some of its contents on the floor.
. . . Gruel. Yummy.
“Eat up, Cop. Want ya fit for farmin’.”
“I felt the ship shake and jostle a bit. Get yourself into a scrape, did you?”
“Took on some fresh stock, we did. Twenty head or so.”
“My . . . You’re quite the entrepreneurs, aren’t you? Everyone get a room to himself?”
“Oh, no, Enforcers is special.” The pirate’s deep blue eyes were loaded with hate and set to kill. “Most folks got a huge hankerin’ to gut yer type in the middle of th
e night, and that greatly cuts down on our profits. Most folks in the trade jus’ as soon set your types t’drift and call it square, but Cap turns a profit in spite of the problems y’all makes fer him.”
“You don’t sound like you agree with your Captain.”
“I says, behave yersef and live; don’t and you die. It’s jus’ that simple.” The pirate tossed a wood bit to the mattress.
Billy picked up the well-chewed stick and wondered how many mouths had clamped down on it. Had to be chock full of germs. “Do we have to test this collar every day? I’m so getting tired of this routine.”
“Bite or break yer teeth, boy. Yer choice.”
Billy bit down on the stick, and the pirate touched his wristlet. Billy bolted back and writhed as if the collar sent pain through his neck until the pirate released the trigger.
“Behave yersef, boy, and I’ll let ya git some fresh air later t’day.”
Breathing hard, Billy pulled the bit from his mouth, tossed it to the pirate without looking, gathered his strength, and then strained to sit upright.
“Have we landed? Where are we?”
“We’ve made groundfall, but where abouts don’t concern you none. We’ll be leaving soon enough. Now eat yer meal fer it gets cold.” With that the pirate turned and closed the door behind him.
Old fuzz-buckets, thought Billy. Carlton Ogier coined the name for Captain Archer, and yet it somehow fit this old pirate to a tee as well. Billy chuckled at the thought of Archer going rogue and becoming a pirate, had he lived. He tried to picture Archer dressed as this old coot. Nah, he thought. Never happen.
After visiting Billy, Stan went to the galley where Lilia was waiting.
She carefully set a plate of what actually looked like real scrambled eggs on the breakfast bar for him. “So how is our guest?”
“Billy? He’s a ham. Every time I make believe I’m triggering the dog collar, he pretends it works. His thrashing about like he’s being shocked is almost comical, but I must say he’s quite the actor. His overacting might fool a real pirate, but I think it’s a little over the top to froth at the mouth like he does.”
“So, is everything set?” Lilia said.
Stan glanced at the ceiling. “DarkStar?”
“Yes, sir. The holographic slaves will seem real to him, but are you sure Praxis is the right place to set him free?”
“It’s as good a place as any. Billy’s a credible witness and will testify of what he’s seen. He thinks Lilia and I are dead, as well as the others. Ogier included.”
“Now see,” Lilia said, “that concerns me. What if Carl Ogier makes his way back to the Confederation of Planets? Won’t that short-circuit Billy Taft’s testimony . . . and our alibi?”
“Honestly, Lilia, I think Carl wants no part of his past life. And besides, it’s a big ‘verse. What are the chances of those two ever running into each other again?”
“I hope you’re right.”
He and Lilia ate quietly; he trying to hide his own worry, and she, intent on working out her own issues, was lost in thought.
As Stan leaned back and glanced out the large portal, a new thought popped into his head. Killing all those folks on the Princess was, all in itself, clearly wrong, and he had known it even before he let that first torpedo fly, but where did that belief originally come from? Was his own feelings or intellect trustworthy enough to weigh the value of human life? Was anyone’s? Did there even exist a reliable gage to trust a man’s life to? He shuddered.
Carl seemed to share his regrets, but Billy . . . he was a different story altogether. Like Troy, that young pilot seemed to take delight in killing; even looking forward to future events.
Stan stretched but didn’t take his eyes from the window.
And then there was DarkStar. Was she right in calling for Troy and Jessup’s deaths? Could that same mindset be applied to Billy? Should it be? In light of the blood on his own hands, why was Stan excluded from her judgment? None of this made sense.
Beyond the window, and through the stand of trees at a distance, Stan saw a few deer grazing. At any given moment, at least one had its head up, alert to its surroundings.
Was it like that with DarkStar? Was her head up, alert to dangers he couldn’t see, protecting him?
But was the ship itself a threat? She, DarkStar, had asked him to kill. Asked? No . . . the ship was quite insistent. That dark side of DarkStar had never been resolved in Stan’s mind, and he didn’t know what to do with it. One thing was certain; although he wanted to ask her about it, he was afraid of what he might learn.
After breakfast he and Lilia headed to the cargo bay. DarkStar had filled it with holo-graphic crates, boxes, and canisters such as would be found on a pirate ship. The wide bay door was open and formed a ramp to the grass-covered ground. Holographic people, “slaves” milling about, “guards” watching them, looked very real; real enough to fool Billy, at any rate. His focus would be on his escape, not on the others.
As Stan went down the hallway to fetch Billy, DarkStar holographicly dressed him in pirate garb. Rapping once, he shouted, “Step back from the door.”
Inside, Billy sat upright on the mattress with his back to the wall.
“Time to stretch yer legs, boy.”
Billy scrambled to his feet, hesitated, and then cautiously passed the pirate to head out.
Stan followed Billy to the ramp and the younger man stepped out into the sun with a hand cupped above his eyes until they adjusted to the day’s light. The others there glanced up at him but otherwise paid him no attention.
Stan shoved him forward. “Stretch yer legs some, then git back aboard quick-like when I says. Got that?”
Billy stumbled, caught himself, and then nodded once. “I hear you.”
With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Billy walked casually through the crowd, nodding to some, ignoring others, but all the while working his way toward the tree line.
Stan let Billy get close enough to the trees so that he would have a reasonable chance to make his escape. “All right, scum,” shouted Stan. “Back inside.”
Billy bolted, ducked through the trees, and ran as fast as his sore legs could carry him. Chased by a few ‘guards,’ Billy stumbled, slid, and rolled into a bush-covered hole—panicked that he was trapped. Then he realized the luck he’d fallen into. The guards passed right over him. He heard them calling to one another until their voices faded into the distance.
He stayed put until he saw the ship lift off without him, then waited in that hole the entire day, just to slink away under the cover of night.
Stupid moons. Both were full.
Chapter Sixteen
DarkStar arose from the forest to head for the sky. From the bridge Stan watched the treetops descend below the windows and vanish from view. Taking the ship a few hundred miles west, well clear of Billy Taft, he’d repeat the same ruse with Carlton Ogier. Not believing Carl enjoyed his enslavement, it was important to Stan to discover Carl’s real intentions.
The ship landed amid the trees once again, lowered the cargo bay door/ramp and set the holographic people in place.
Stan led Carl out to give him an opportunity to run, but unlike William Taft, Carl turned to face his foe, uncoupled the collar, pulled it from his neck, and tossed it to his captor’s feet.
“Day one I disabled that collar. It hasn’t worked since.”
Surprised, Stan studied Carl. “Seein’ that collar is useless, ain’t you goina run?”
“You promised passage to Providence. Why would I throw that away?”
Stan narrowed on Carl’s face. “Life as a slave appeals to you, does it, boy?”
“Three squares and honest work on a farm appeals to me just fine. It’s a step up from what I’ve been doin’. It’s a good deal; you get paid for my passage, and I get a new start.”
Stan glanced at Lilia, and, even through her holographic disguise saw the puzzled look in her eyes. What was Stan going to do now? What could he do with that?<
br />
“DarkStar, kill the slaves.”
Carl stumbled back in surprise. “No! Wait! Give me a chance to—”
But before he could do more, the slaves that surrounded him vanished. That is, all but one young woman who stood to one side of the ramp.
Carl spun, looking all around, then turned back to the Brig’s chief guard.
“DarkStar, kill the guards as well,” Stan said. And they, too, disappeared.
Now thoroughly bewildered, Carl, with mouth agape, stared at the pirate. “What’s going on? Who are you people?”
Stan glanced at Lilia.
She nodded.
“Reliant, kill our covers.”
“Are you certain, Captain?”
Stan shot a fleeting look at Lilia once more. “Reliant . . . please.”
“Aye, sir.”
Their holographic overlays faded to leave nothing behind but Stan and Lilia as Carl had known them.
Stunned, the elation written across Carl’s face was instantly recognizable.
“I can’t believe this. Is it really you, Swift? You’re alive?”
He rushed forward to clasp his former Captain’s hand. As he clapped Stan’s shoulder, clear, excited eyes above a broad smile said he was genuinely grateful Stan and Lilia had survived.
Lilia stepped forward as he turned to her.
“And you . . .” Carl reached out a friendly hand.
Brushing it aside, Lilia embraced the young officer. “Welcome aboard Reliant, Ensign.”
Carl pushed back a little to consider her face. “You’re the waitress from the Bush and Quail. I never caught your name, miss, but I am so glad to see you alive.”
“Lilia. And thank you, Ensign, it’s good to see you alive as well. So, my faith is all right with you?”
“I’d rather be a farmer than to have to enforce such stupid anti-religion laws, Lilia.”
“You really want to be a farmer, Carl?” Stan said.
Carl shrugged. “I got a choice?”
“Join us.”
Barely able to contain his excitement, Carl hesitated in surprise. “What? Are you serious?”
DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) Page 9
