Star Marque Rising

by Shami Stovall

  “All the information you need is stored in your suit's files,” Endellion said to me over the personal comms.

  I switched away from vocalized communication and said, “Access stored files.” The enviro-suit brought up two pictures and a few notes. One was labeled: Emissary Barten. The superhuman looked remarkably similar to the others, and I wondered if they were designed to be homogeneous. I hadn't seen any that were fat, or extremely short, or pudgy, or even balding. Their whitish-silver hair even had the same shine.

  But I could see enough of a difference to tell him apart. He was my target.

  The last picture was a layout of the docking deck for Outpost Station. I could use it as a map, and already I felt more secure in my mission. Endellion and I headed for the diplomats and regulations offices.

  My notes explained Emissary Barten's visit. He was there to negotiate with representatives from the United-Earth faction. He resided in the diplomat's quarters, beyond a security gate. We wouldn't have weapons when we confronted him, and he might have guards of his own.

  Endellion said nothing.

  I took in the environment. Gray, chrome, rust, and exposed wires made up the walls. Grates—some dented, others open—made up the floors. My suit said the air had 20% oxygen and 78% nitrogen. The last 2%—rather high—was carbon dioxide, and my suit advised I shouldn't breathe it in. Didn't matter because I couldn't risk taking off my suit, but the air quality explained the myriad of coughs all around me. Some even struggled to breathe. The place might have been worse than Capital Station, especially given the number of hunchbacks and deformed defects mixed throughout the crowd.

  It didn't take long to reach the security gate. Two men in similar white enviro-suits stood waiting, rifles on their shoulders. The gate sat before the door, an obstacle meant to scan anyone who passed through it. Weapons would be detected damn near instantaneously, which was why Endellion and I had come with nothing. No plasma rifles, no lasers.

  The two men did and said nothing as Endellion strode forward.

  The gate flashed red the moment she stepped between the posts. Both men hefted their rifles and motioned her out.

  One guy glanced to the computer terminal and did a double-take.

  “What the…?” he asked aloud, his suit's comms crackling his voice.

  “What is it?” the other asked.

  “Says here she's a cyborg. Over 65% of her is artificial.”

  Both men returned their gaze to Endellion, glancing over her body. I didn't blame them. The cyborgs around here didn't compare to the level at which she had hidden her augmentations.

  “I'm sorry,” the first guard said. “But no one is allowed beyond this point with more than 20% alterations. You're gonna have to stand back.”

  Endellion complied with their demands. She stepped up next to me and said over our personal comms, “You need to go in. I'll play support from out here.”

  “You want me to go alone?” I asked.

  “It's the only way.”

  I didn't like it because I wasn't certain if I could handle a superhuman, but making a fuss about entering would draw unwanted attention. I had to go in alone.

  I walked through the security gate, and nothing happened. The two guards waved me on and pointed to the door. I strolled in, my heartrate high enough that my suit recommended taking a seat. My suit could go fuck itself. Not even a coma would quell my anxiety. First the fight, then the damage to the Star Marque. Now a solo assassination.

  Had Endellion known we would be split up? Was this her way of avoiding culpability? I wouldn't be surprised if it were, but it seemed impossible for her to have known they would've restricted cyborgs. Or maybe I had become paranoid. She did a few things with exact planning, and now I suspected every move she made must have been calculated. I shouldn't have doubted her. Not at a time like that. Not when we were so close to her final goal.

  She'd said this was the last corrupt move. I just had to make it through.

  The cramped diplomat's offices had tasteful décor, including potted plants, but I didn't admire them. I traveled down the long corridor, doors on either side of me. Some were the living quarters for specific individuals, while others were labeled Conference Room or Station Intercoms. A computer terminal lit up and asked the reason for my visit. I ignored the computer and headed forward. The map in my suit's stored files gave me Barten's personal room. It wasn't far.

  Another guard waited outside his door, but this guy wasn't like the schlubs by the security gate. He was like me. Modified. He had a plasma rifle, not to mention a sleek enviro-suit much like the kind we had on the Star Marque. We regarded each other for a moment—I needed to get past him, and my mind spun through a million possibilities—and then he broke the silence between us.

  “What're you doing here?” he asked.

  “I'm running errands,” I said over the suit's external speaker. “You know how it goes. Everyone thinks they're hot shit. Too important to deliver their own messages.”

  The guy chuckled. “Messages, huh?”

  “For the emissary. Hush-hush bullshit. I thought I had left this stuff behind me when I escaped Vectin-14. Now I'm running on an hour of sleep. Everyone's so high-strung about this meeting.”

  “Right. I feel that.” He motioned to the door. “The emissary should be in the middle of a meal. Don't take long or he'll get pissy.”

  I smirked and tapped the door console. It slid open, and I stepped inside, but I was taken aback by the surroundings. I'd thought it would be a study, or an office. Instead, there was a couch, and a screen for entertainment vids, and another door that led deeper into the office. It was a small living space, but clean and crisp compared to the docks.

  With a deep breath, I crossed the room and opened the next door. I was greeted by a sparse kitchen, complete with a table and a couple of chairs. Another door sat across the room—I assumed it to be a bedroom. But my gaze fell on the single superhuman sitting at the table, his posture stiff, his clothing open and flowing, unsuited for space. Like the attire superhumans wore on Vectin-14.

  It was Emissary Barten.

  “What're you doing here?” he asked as he stood. “What have I said about interrupting mealtime?”

  There was no one else there. No guards. No other witnesses.

  This was where I needed to do it.

  “I came to deliver a message,” I said. “Sorry about the interruption.”

  Barten exhaled and retook his seat, though he glowered. “Very well. Have the final delegates of the United-Earth faction arrived yet? Or are you here to relay a personal correspondence?”

  He didn't touch his food—vegetables and bread, fancy shit for a space station—but I could tell it was nothing compared to the food on Vectin-14. Barten held his bowl close, however, and never took his eyes from me. He had cutlery on the table, the steel knife and a fork caught the fluorescent lighting.

  I stepped forward, and Barten tensed in anticipation, like he knew something wasn't right. I was reminded of my time with Ontwenty and how she'd explained that superhumans were designed to be superior to humans in every way. Perhaps Barten could sense my coiled muscles with his weird, electroreceptor organ—the ampullae of Lorenzini.

  “Well?” Barten asked. “What have you come to say?”

  Normally words came quick for me, but with each new breath, my throat grew tighter.

  Barten stood, and I knew from his wide stance that it was a fight.

  I grabbed a knife from the table in a split-second. His eyes tracked me—he even took a step back, before I turned to strike—but he wasn't as fast as he should have been. I lunged, putting everything I had into that one attack. I slammed Barten to the floor, mounted him, and stabbed the knife between his ribs.

  I knew how fucking painful that could be.

  But he didn't react. Instead, he damn near coldcocked me in the side of the head, his corded muscles capable of exerting a tremendous amount of force, even from a prone position. But I still had the adv
antage, and I stabbed again, ready to pepper the guy with a million open holes.

  He wasn't wearing an enviro-suit. He didn't have a weapon. I didn't even think he had trained a day in his life for this. But he still had an immense amount of raw capability. When he thrashed, he almost sent me flying. Plus, he was larger than me—his legs long enough to lift his body off the floor when he arched his back—and it took all my concentration to maintain my position over him.

  Barten slammed a chair and a table leg, sending his food and bowl to the floor. It echoed, but the duralumin walls and dense construction of the station prevented sound from carrying far. This wasn't like Vectin-14, where sound travelled long distances with little effort—we could have been playing the drums, and I doubted anyone would have heard a damn thing.

  Barten punched my gut, and I grimaced. When he did it again, I coiled in on the bruised area, but after two more stabs, the guy finally bit back a yell.

  I didn't care if superhumans had three extra kidneys, and a cheat code to resurrect themselves written into their DNA. The guy was dead. Each beat of his heart sent his blood gushing from the puncture wounds I riddled down his side. He tried to speak, and while most men would have drowned in their own vital fluid, Barten breathed through the tiny holes in his body, getting air, and sustaining his life much longer than a human could have. Too bad it wouldn't save him.

  I stopped stabbing.

  Barten spit a line of blood onto the floor and wheezed. His legs gave out. He crumpled underneath me, his body trembling.

  Not bad for a defenseless guy in the middle of a meal. I'd thought it would have been difficult to kill a superhuman, but Barten had held himself like a scholar. I should have realized he wouldn't have been too hard to handle. And maybe he'd been designed better. Maybe he'd been smarter and faster. But in the end, he'd still had limitations. He was just a guy.

  Superhumans still had some of humanity's flaws.

  Barten stared up at me, fear etched into every line of his face. “Don't—” he choked out.

  I kept him pinned to the floor, and I was ready to end it. No point in making him suffer.

  “—don't hurt her,” he murmured. “Anything but… anything but that.”

  His last request shook me. Her? Who was he talking about? I didn't come for any girl. But I couldn't inquire. Barten went limp, the back of his head hitting the kitchen floor. He was still breathing, and his blood continued to gush out with every beat of his overworked heart, but there was nothing anyone could do for him now.

  I stood. I had no desire to see his final moments.

  “Dad?”

  I stopped breathing. My mind locked. It was the voice of a child. A little girl.

  After a long second, I glanced over my shoulder. A child stood in the frame of the open bedroom door, her hands on the wall, and her gaze set to her father. I didn't know superhuman ages—because I had never seen a happy family, and I hadn't grown up interacting with any—but I knew the child hadn't yet hit puberty. She was short, her cheeks still puffy with residual baby fat, and her glittering silver hair fell to her waist.

  She stared, unblinking, and it took me a second to regain my breath.

  The girl didn't run. She backed away and hit the opposite side of the doorframe, her arms wrapped tight across her chest. I hadn't noticed before, but she wore a planetside outfit. A long dress and leggings.

  Her abject terror wasn't something I was used to. I walked over with no energy in my step. The girl didn't say anything.

  Then she looked up at me.

  Endellion would've wanted her dead. She would have insisted I kill the girl—to avoid a disaster.

  I still had the knife. I could make it quick.

  The girl didn't blink, and I waited for my anxiety to wane, but nothing changed. I had never killed a child before. I wished she would try to escape, but perhaps she knew it was futile. My mouth tasted of cotton and dust.

  I backhanded her harder than I should've, but I wasn't in any condition to control myself. The girl hit the floor hard, and unmoving. I threw the knife down and left it.

  I could have taken her life, but I settled for her consciousness.

  I didn't care what Endellion would've done. I couldn't do it. Maybe I didn't have the same kind of ambition Endellion did—maybe I was weaker for it, maybe this was why I needed her to push me to do something with myself—but there were certain lines I couldn't bring myself to cross. Again, all I yearned for was the company aboard the Star Marque.

  I had done this all for them. Myself included, but still. Once Endellion had her dream, everyone else would have theirs.

  I needed to get out of here as fast as possible, but crimson splatters marked my white enviro-suit. I wouldn't be able to leave without questions.

  I walked to the sink and splashed some water over my body. To my surprise, the blood washed away without trouble. A disturbing fact I would no doubt remember forever. Enviro-suits made cleaning up after a cold-blooded murder a simple task.

  Once free of any damning evidence, I exited the kitchen, crossed the front room, and walked back into the diplomat's corridor.

  “Was he pissy?”

  I turned to the guard, my thoughts frayed. “What?”

  “Was he pissy?” the guard repeated. “I told you, he hates being interrupted.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He was upset.”

  Without another word, I walked away, my gaze set to the floor. I hustled out the security gate and made my way back to the docks, inconspicuous but dreading the passage of time. I had almost gotten away with everything. No one knew yet. If Endellion and I left in our starfighters before any alarms went off, we would make it.

  “Well?” Endellion said over our personal comms. “Did you find him?”

  I switched to her frequency and continued forward. “It's done.”

  “And there were no witnesses?”

  It was almost like she knew.

  “No witnesses,” I said.

  But she didn't protest my confirmation. It was better that way. I didn't care if the kid saw me. I had been covered by an enviro-suit, anyway.

  Endellion met me at the entrance to the docks. I walked over to her and flinched the moment red lights flooded the area. An alarm sounded, and station enforcers rushed from their posts.

  “Someone must've found the body,” Endellion murmured. “We need to get back to our ships.”

  “Will they even let us leave?”

  “We'll find a way.”

  The crowd on the docks stirred, agitated under the harsh, red security lights. They yelled and shoved and pushed, fighting to stay clear of the enforcers. I glanced over my shoulder and watched the security walls slam down, preventing anyone from leaving the diplomat's area. Perhaps they thought they would trap the assassin inside. But it was too late. I was already at the docks.

  We reached our starfighters, but the docking ports had been locked down thanks to the alarm. The dockhands fought with the captains about schedules and order, but Endellion went straight for the guy who'd signed us in.

  “We're heading out,” she said. Not a question, but a statement.

  “Not right now,” the dockhand replied, motioning to the horror-show lighting. “We've got to go through procedures first.”

  “What're you going to do? Search my cargo?”

  Starfighters had a single compartment, at most. Even the dockhand got a chuckle out of the comment.

  “We were here five minutes ago,” Endellion said. “We have a rendezvous to make, I told you that. We don't have time for station drama.”

  The dockhand rolled his eyes and pointed to our fighters. “Fine. Get in the cockpit, and I'll see you two out. I need the space anyway.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LOST TO THE BLACK TIDE

  The flight back to the Star Marque left me drowning in darkness. Space. My thoughts. I was still anxious about getting caught, even though we'd made it from Outpost Station without a hold-up. I wished the Star Marqu
e would've flown closer to meet us, but the distance between the station and the ship served to hide our destination from the dockmasters. The space stations only tracked ships out to a certain distance before their scanners cut off and recorded other trivial details.

  When the Star Marque showed up on my screen, I breathed easy. Once we were in range of communications, Endellion activated the comms. “Sawyer,” she said. “Report.”

  “The Star Marque took structural damage to the starboard side,” Sawyer replied, “but nothing that will prevent us from returning to Vectin-14.”

  “Good. Clevon and I will dock portside.”

  “I've already made space.”

  The navigation on my screen sprang to life, showing me the path to my new docking port. I allowed Sawyer to control the fighter, uninterested in where or when I docked.

  “What were the causalities?” I asked.

  “44 dead, 30 injured.”

  So cold. I knew Sawyer wasn't the most emotional person I had ever met, but there was something off about her.

  “What about the starfighters?” I asked. “Who didn't make it?”

  “Yuan and Advik. Noah is in the infirmary.”

  I gritted my teeth, my blood hot all over again. “Will Noah be all right?”

  “Dr. Clay says he'll be back on his feet in no time,” Sawyer said, softer than before.

  Then the communications cut out. I rested my head back, my eyes scrunched shut. I would've given anything for a drink. Several drinks. A whole week of drinking.

  “You're upset,” Endellion said to me over a private channel.

  Of course. How could everyone else be so calm? I was an adjusted individual, but the lack of reaction made me feel unstable.

  “It's because of you that everything was a success,” she continued. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Just don't let the crew down,” I said.

  Our starfighters pulled into their docks, and I took in deep breaths the entire time. Once situated, I jumped out and hesitated, wondering whether I should head for my capsule or go to see the other starfighters. I wasn't sure what would soothe the parade of terrible thoughts marching through my mind.