Star Marque Rising

by Shami Stovall

  Damn. I already loved being on the Star Marque, and I had been there for less than a week.

  “Hey,” someone said. “Aren't you the guy from last night? Demarco?”

  I glanced over and spotted Mara, rinsing herself off with the showerhead next to mine. She was three decimeters shorter, and probably half my weight, but that didn't mean she wasn't cut. I returned my attention to the much-less-interesting bulkhead in front of me, counting the droplets of water to keep myself from thinking of anything else.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “What do you want?”

  “Quinn said you're the newest starfighter.”

  “So?”

  “We'll be working together.” She waited a moment before adding, “Have you ever flown a fighter before?”

  “Listen,” I said. “If we're going to talk, I'm going to stare. Otherwise, let me take my damn shower.”

  Mara's giggle was made of cuteness. “You're a lot different than I thought you would be.”

  I turned and stared down, not bothering to avert my gaze. I'd warned her. She had made her decision. To my surprise, she didn't seem embarrassed or disturbed by our nakedness. On the contrary, she continued as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. Washing her hair. Smiling. She had an unusual happiness about her I found as alluring as her flesh.

  “Lysander said you have an extensive criminal record,” Mara said as she reached up to adjust the showerhead. “And Quinn says you've been genetically modified. I figured someone like that would be extra aggressive or a giant or something.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I thought superhumans only modified humans for specific purposes. Maybe you were made to be a brute.”

  I hadn't been made for anybody.

  Then again, genetic modification to humans had become rarer and rarer, so I didn't blame her for assuming. Maybe a few centuries back, it had been more common, but that was when everyone was attempting to “break the ceiling” of human potential, back when superhumans didn't exist, and everyone wanted to create the first.

  Once superhumans could reproduce with viable offspring—children who couldn't breed with humans because they were a different species altogether—fewer and fewer humans were in charge of medical research. They lost those roles to their superior creations.

  And superhumans valued improving superhumans. Not the obsolete.

  “Are you okay?” Mara asked.

  She shut off her water and wrung out her short hair, giving me an odd look with a tilt of her head.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I don't know of any other genetically-modified people, so it's hard to compare myself to them.”

  I'd thought Endellion was the first. I still couldn't believe she was a cyborg.

  “There's only one other on the ship,” Mara said. “You guys are pretty rare.”

  There was another on the ship?

  A loud cough broke our conversation. I glanced over my shoulder, and then turned around, unable to restrain a smile.

  “Sawyer,” I said. “You're… fully dressed.”

  She stood outside the water, her gaze forever glued to the PAD on her arm. The other enforcers regarded her with chortles, a few nudging their buddies and pointing her out.

  “It's time for your evaluation,” Sawyer said, not looking at me. “I tried to reach you from your suit, but you weren't wearing it.”

  “Hello, Sawyer,” Mara said.

  “Hm.”

  “I never see you outside the control room. Your hair is adorable.” Mara stroked Sawyer's red locks. “Why don't you wander around the ship more often? I'd love to talk to you in person from time to time.”

  Sawyer rolled her eyes. “I'm good.” Then she motioned for me to follow. “Let's go. Your evaluation should've started already.”

  I turned off my showerhead and gave Mara a quick nod. She waved—seemed childish, but I wasn't going to complain—and then joined a group of enforcers chatting near the back of the room.

  Sawyer thrust a towel into my gut, and I took it.

  “I'm starting to think you want to see me naked,” I said.

  She got red in the face, but I admired her willpower. She still didn't look up from her PAD.

  I patted myself dry. “Admit it. You didn't have to come get me in person. I'm sure this ship has comms.”

  “I don't like using the ship's shower comms.”

  With a few quick motions, I slipped into my jumpsuit and zipped it into place. “Mara's spunky. I think we'll get along.”

  “Hurray.”

  “I've got good credits she wants in my pants.”

  Sawyer snorted. “Yeah. I bet that's what she'll tell her girlfriend after her shift today.”

  Oh, goddammit. Just my luck.

  Sawyer ignored the world around her as she ambled for the door. I followed, irritated for unreasonable reasons. “Is everyone on this rig in a quaint little monogamous pairing?”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Endellion isn't worried about suspect loyalties?”

  “People get removed from the Star Marque if they can't perform their duties.”

  Sawyer yawned as she rounded a corner. Passing enforcers greeted her, but she only returned the gesture one out of every five times. She was slow compared to my normal walking speed, but when I glanced down, I saw she was typing at a furious rate. Looked like code for a starship, the kind of complex code they used for the ship's main operating system. I had seen it dozens of times at the docks. A lot of ships went through updates while they resupplied, making sure they were up to Federation standards.

  I was impressed. I didn't know anything about shit like that. It required a formal education and training. There hadn't been an abundance of schooling on Capital Station.

  “You don't have any family, Demarco?” Sawyer asked, somehow still typing her code while maintaining a conversation. “Or maybe you're leaving friends behind on Capital Station?”

  “I had my mother. My mother died. I knew this one guy who had my back. He died, too. That's about it.”

  “Hm. A man with your amazing charisma, I'm surprised you don't have a bucket of friends, mourning your departure.”

  “I had a few friends. I'd say they were ‘special,’ but that could have a positive interpretation, so I'm going to describe them as ‘fucked-up.’ They aren't going to mourn my loss, and I'm not going to mourn theirs.”

  “Do you have a problem forming meaningful relationships?”

  “What is this? A psych test?” I snapped. “From the sound of things, you're a space hermit. I don't think you can give me shit for this.”

  “Oh, I'm no psychologist,” Sawyer said. “I'm just curious.”

  We reached a large, rectangular room, and I wished the place had a few port windows. I missed seeing the vastness of space. Well, the part with stars, anyway. Instead, the room was some sort of training facility, but it was the one guy milling around in the corner I took note of first.

  “Thank you, Noah,” Sawyer said. “I'm glad I didn't have to track you down as well.”

  Noah nodded, his shoulders and posture slumped, like a man cowed. I ignored him—he was no threat—and I examined my surroundings. Ten person-sized pods lined the back wall, and four stalls meant for holographic simulation sat in the center of the room. Sawyer grabbed a few wire headsets, then handed one to me and one to Noah.

  “Put this on behind your ears,” she commanded. “They monitor brain function. It'll help me evaluate your capabilities.”

  I did as she said, wrapping the thin wires around the back of my neck and hooking them to the shell of my ear. Noah watched me the entire time, and I shot him a glare. “Do I know you?”

  “We met last night,” he said.

  Ah. Right. He'd been sitting at Lee's table.

  “We also met on Capital Station,” Noah continued. “I was… well, you took me hostage. When you were attempting to escape.”

  I laughed, amused by his sheepish tone. “Oh, you're that guy.
”

  “Yeah. That guy.”

  “Which reminds me—why didn't you shock me with your enviro-suit's anti-grappling measures?”

  “I…” Noah took a breath, and then exhaled. “I forgot it was an option.”

  “Heh. That's what they'll carve onto your tombstone, kid.”

  Noah looked away. From the side, he had the same hard edges to his features that Lysander had, but Noah had longer hair, not a military crewcut.

  “You're Lysander's brother,” I said, more accusatory than I'd intended.

  “Yeah,” Noah replied. “But we're nothing alike.”

  Sure, they weren't.

  Sawyer motioned to a steel cabinet filled with training rifles. They were lasers—low power, non-lethal, but enough to register an impact—and I picked one up, surprised by how light it was. Noah took another, and I saw the way he hefted it. No enthusiasm. His lack of energy made me think he was sick.

  “This is a competition,” Sawyer said. “You both stand in those stalls and shoot all target prompts. The one with the highest score wins.”

  Noah narrowed his eyes. “Why is it a competition? Can't we be evaluated separately?”

  “What's the matter?” I asked. “Afraid you're going to lose to me again?”

  “There's that charisma I was talking about,” Sawyer muttered.

  She walked over to the holographic stalls and typed a few commands into the terminal. I stepped into one stall—it was open, no walls, just a ring of metal above and below me, held up by two posts—and Noah got into the next. The rings produced holograms. To someone standing in the stall, it appeared lifelike, but I had been outside them before. Everything from the outside looked flat. It was a trick of perspective.

  I guessed the Star Marque used them for shooting practice. Guys on Capital Station used them for faux lap dances.

  Noah regarded me with a quick glance. We were in competition with each other? This would be simple.

  “Shoot the targets,” Sawyer commanded.

  Semi-transparent holograms appeared in 360 directions, and our laser fire got canceled by the refraction veil that accompanied the stall. No need to worry about shooting all around the room.

  I fired.

  Easy pickings.

  The holographic images appeared to be far-off—making for small hit boxes—but they were the silhouettes of people, my most common target on Capital Station. And laser rifles had no kick. Hell, they didn't have any bullets or gas cartridges, so I could fire as fast as I could pull the trigger without losing any accuracy.

  Only a schlub would have problems shooting with this weaponry.

  “Time,” Sawyer said, once 60 seconds had elapsed.

  The holograms faded, and I lowered my weapon. On the post, written in bright-red LED letters, was my score. Shots fired: 67. Targets hit: 67.

  I glanced over at Noah's. Shots fired: 52. Targets hit: 25.

  He caught me staring at his score and glared.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Looks about right,” I said. “For a guy of your caliber.”

  Noah tightened his grip on his rifle, and there was a part of me that wondered if he would turn it against me. I wouldn't have minded. It might have spiced things up. But the kid would have regretted it.

  “Let's do it again,” Noah said.

  Sawyer, her hand over the computer terminal, gave us both a half-lidded, irritated stare. “We have other tests to run.”

  “I want to try this one again. I wasn't focused.”

  She sighed. “All right. One more time.”

  Kid thought he could beat me? Clearly he hadn't been paying attention.

  The holograms shimmered into existence, and I whipped my rifle around to point it in Noah's direction. He flinched back, almost stumbling out of his stall.

  I returned to my shooting, half-smiling. Noah was easily rattled. That was why he'd fucked up on Capital Station. That was why he'd forgotten his own suit's capabilities. Some men crumpled under pressure, broken by the weight of disastrous hypotheticals.

  And that was why I was always going to win this challenge. Noah could practice ‘til he was blue in the face, and while his aim might improve, it wouldn't toughen up his spine.

  The kid wasn't suited for competition. He didn't have the ambition for it.

  After 60 seconds, Sawyer called time.

  I glanced at my score. Shots fired: 60. Targets hit: 60. Fucking with Noah had cost me my overall total, but my accuracy had remained at 100%.

  Noah never recovered from my feint. His score got me chuckling. Shots fired: 54. Targets hit: 19. More shots. Fewer hits. And this time he didn't even bother making eye contact with me. He stared at the ground, a blank expression across his face.

  “Put your rifles away and get into the pods,” Sawyer said, motioning to the back of the room. “I'm going to run you through some basic starfighter-training runs.”

  “Finally,” I said as I sauntered out of the holographic stall and tossed my rifle back onto the rack. “Let's get this started. I'm going to be the best damn starfighter on this ship.”

  “The best?”

  “You heard me.”

  Noah placed his rifle among the others. “Endellion is the best,” he muttered.

  I gave him a sidelong glance before catching sight of Sawyer. She had the quirk of a smile on her face, like she'd enjoyed that comment.

  “Endellion's also a starfighter?” I asked. What didn't she do?

  “She has to be,” Sawyer replied. “We're woefully lacking in pilots. Counting you and Noah, we have eight. And you and Noah aren't trained.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Learning to pilot a starfighter is hard work. And most individuals can't handle the G-force. You'll be lucky if you don't pass out the first time you fly one.”

  Noah's shoulders bunched around his neck. I got a little uneasy myself, but I recovered the moment I imagined the look on Endellion's face if she had to rescue me from fainting in a starfighter. That wouldn't happen. I would master the starfighter.

  “Again, I want you both to treat this like a competition,” Sawyer said.

  She walked over to the pods in the back—slightly smaller than my sleeping capsule—and opened two hatches. The insides were pitch black with a single reclined seat. No doubt they were some sort of simulation pods.

  “I think I need a better opponent,” I said.

  Noah didn't offer an objection. He walked over to a pod and stepped in. Once he took his seat, the hatch closed, sealing him inside with a whoosh akin to a long sigh.

  I had already won. Whatever we were doing, he had given up. I'd broken that spirit pretty quick. Probably not the right move. This wasn't Capital Station—this was a working enforcer unit. I wasn't about to be killed by my own gang brothers. And I might have to rely on Noah in the future.

  Once I was certain he wouldn't hear me, I turned to Sawyer.

  “Why the competition?” I asked as I walked over to my pod. “The kid isn't up for it.”

  “I need to monitor his hormone levels under stress,” she said, disinterested. “Lysander believes he has a chemical imbalance. He wants to control the situation through injections and cybernetics.”

  “So, you had him compete with me?”

  “He expressed anxiety about training with you.”

  “Me?” I blurt out. “Why? We hung out last night. I didn't fuck with him.”

  Sawyer stopped poking at her PAD and motioned to the pod. “Get in. We don't have all day.”

  I stepped inside, but my question still stood. Sawyer forced a quick sigh.

  “I'm sure Lysander used colorful words to describe you,” she said. “Just play along and allow me to monitor Noah's stress and hormone levels.”

  Feh. Lysander.

  I figured Noah would be just like him, which was why I'd opted for total destruction in our competition, rather than playing nice, but perhaps I should've been easier on the kid.

  “Don't be f
rustrated if you fail the first time,” Sawyer said as I took a seat in the pod. “It's difficult.”

  “I got it,” I snapped. “Worry more about the kid.”

  The hatch closed, leaving me to drown in darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRAINING

  I didn't like to admit it, but the bleakness of space unnerved me. Not the part twinkling with stars, but the dead blackness that filled the void between them. The port windows on Capital Station occasionally faced a patch of open space, lacking all light. It had given me nightmares as a child.

  The darkness of my pod reminded me of those nightmares.

  When a bead of sweat trickled down my forehead, I smiled. Was this what would break me? No. Definitely not. I had dealt with worse on Capital Station. I was ready for whatever bullshit this training required.

  The pod condensed. It squeezed my lower legs, trapping them in place, and the chair fitted around my bulky frame, molding to hug every curve. I had never been claustrophobic—but I had never been in whatever this was, either.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I yelled.

  I attempted to jerk my legs out of the restraints, but there was no room left for me to move. The pod had a complete grip from my knees to my feet, applying pressure without causing me harm.

  “Calm down,” Sawyer said through the pod's comms. “This is standard undocking procedure for starfighters.”

  “Why?” was all I could ask.

  “To regulate your blood flow. Extreme G-force causes your blood to pool in your extremities. The starfighter cockpit will prevent that from happening.”

  “This… is normal?”

  Sawyer chuckled. “And here I thought someone with your bravado couldn't be shaken.”

  “I'm fine,” I snapped.

  “What the fuck is going on?” said a recording of my voice over the comms.

  I gritted my teeth. “Get your quips out now. We have training to do.”

  “Hm. Suddenly all business.”

  Lights filled the inside of the pod—bright, sharp red-and-blue—and my heartrate kicked into high gear. There was a sophistication to the layout that drew my attention to the two side-stick control handles in front of me. I rested my hands on them before going any further.

  “What is all this?” I asked as I tilted my head back and stared at the lit screens.