DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) (19 page)

Short, green grass, a few low lying shrubs, rays of sunbeams
filtering through the aspen trees would have made for a tranquil scene if it
weren’t for the knot in the pit of Stan’s stomach.

He checked his personal holo-emitter, a three-inch disk
clipped to his belt that hid his identity under his latest disguise, that of an
elderly nondescript man. As far as anyone could tell, he could have been
anything from a schoolteacher to a used skitter salesman. He chose this face
mainly because it appeared kind and harmless whether he smiled or scowled.

He stepped next to the last aspen at the edge of the woods.
Behind him,
DarkStar
was well hidden in a tight grove. The forest he was
in and Seychelles village in the valley below were separated by an easy rolling
hill. One lone sentinel, a tall, broad oak stood at the hill’s crest to mark
the dirt trail for his return.

Beyond Seychelles, in the middle of a farmer’s field, the
mammoth, raggedy-edge remains of the
Emperor’s Princess
jutted fifteen
stories into the sky. For more than a moment, Stan recalled his following the
burning hulk in his Dart all the way to the planet’ surface.

As he followed the dirt path that meandered down the slope
to the village, he noted that it was well traveled. Still, it didn’t lead
straight to the ship, and
DarkStar
knew how to protect herself, anyway.

A myriad of things could go wrong. Atheron continued to be
on high alert with increased patrols combing every street. Lilia’s shooting an
officer in their escape didn’t help matters either.

But still, he believed his disguise was perfect. Who’d
suspect an old man enjoying a morning stroll through the streets of Seychelles?
He entered the village. Lilia’s folks, now five years past her abduction by a
rogue Enforcer, should no longer be on the Confederate’s ‘Suspects’ list, or so
he hoped.

The streets were clean for the most part, belying the
suffocating oppression Stan knew everyone lived under. He found the Slone’s
family home on a pristine side street amid similar picket fenced houses.

Down the road another three blocks, sat the tavern where Lilia
had worked, and Stan could now feel his heart pulse in his throat as memories
of his first visit pressed to the forefront of his thoughts.

He considered her folks’ home, a small Government Issue Cape
Cod. Atheron law allowed folks to fix them up somewhat, but . . .

Lilia’s folks had pushed right up to approved limits with
fresh paint and plant life.

Standing at the head of the walkway to the front door of the
Slone’s house, Stan went over the speech he had prepared, but it now seemed
rather stupid.

He ducked under the vine-covered trellised archway and
cautiously headed up the walk to their front door. Heart pounding, he wanted to
rush in shouting . . . but to call out
what
exactly?

“Hello,” he heard a voice call, and looked up to see a
dark-haired woman in her late forties standing in the house’s open door. She
looked very much like Lilia. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked with a kind
smile.

Stan felt himself freeze as a torrent of conflicting
emotions flooded his mind. He glanced back up the street toward the hill and
its distant lone oak. So much stood in the way of the mission he had set for
himself. Did the Slone’s still love their daughter? They had to, he assured
himself. How could they not? Would their love for Lilia be strong enough to
bridge the five-year gap without an explanation? Would they trust him enough to
come? Their daughter was now in far more danger than she had ever been. They
simply must come.

“Sir, are you all right?” She took a step down her stoop and
beckoned with a quick jerk of her head just as Lilia would have done, “Got a
hot pot brewed and some apple crumb cake aching to be sliced.”

He stepped closer but didn’t take her outstretched hand. “I
would like that. Thank you.”

She led him into the kitchen where an aroma of coffee and
fresh baked cake greeted him. An older man wearing wire framed glasses, sitting
at the table put down his
Seychelles’ Sentinel
news pad. “And you are,
sir?”

The woman turned away to pull a cup and small plate from a
cupboard.

Stan hesitated, and then nervously blurted, “Are you Mr. and
Mrs. Slone?” With that, and the startled look of the couple, his mind went
blank.

With knit brow, Mr. Slone leaned toward the stranger in his
home. “Who are you?”

Just then,
DarkStar’s
voice whispered in Stan’s
earpiece, “Say nothing, sir. You’re being monitored. There’s a truck down the block
loaded with high-tech equipment. But I believe it’s audio only.”

“Arch. . . Arch. . . Archway. Tom Archway,
sir,” Stan stuttered, as he took a seat.

“What do you want, Mr. Archway?”

“I bring word of . . .” Stan thought quickly
“. . . the parcel of land you were interested in. It’s now on
the market,”

Stan put a finger to his lips, and then knocked the sugar
bowl spilling some of its contents on the table. Apologizing for his
clumsiness, he wrote “Lilia” in the spilled sugar, and then wiped the writing
away.

“She lives?” Mr. Slone mouthed silently.

Stan nodded, and glanced at Mrs. Slone who now covered her
mouth with a trembling hand. The message in the sugar must have been
bittersweet for her.

“Well, uh, Jean and I are interested in that parcel, if it’s
the one we think it is. When can we see it again?”

“I’ve got a little time right now,” Stan said. “What say we
take a look?”

“Men approach,” whispered
DarkStar
. “Go out the back
way
now
.”

Stan sprang to his feet, and gestured that someone was
coming in the front entrance. Heading for the back door, he motioned that the
older couple should follow him. The Slones quickly obeyed his non-verbal
instructions.

DarkStar’s
voice guided him through back alleyways,
side streets, and even a storm drain culvert, past patrols, to the edge of
town.

Now for the most dangerous leg back to the ship. Stan gazed
up at the lone oak, the dirt trail to it, and noted the meadow.
No cover at
all,
he thought.
Now what?

“
DarkStar
, we can’t get to you without being seen.
Any advice?”

“I have an idea, Daddy.” Ericca’s voice was confident. “One
moment please.”

As they hunkered down behind some thick bushes, a troop
transport came around the corner and passed right by them.

“
DarkStar
, we’re cut off. The terrain’s too open
between us and you.”

“There’s less traffic south of you, Daddy. If you can make
it to the
Princess
, we can pick you up there.”

“Roger, Ericca. On our way.”

Stan, with
DarkStar’s
help, guided the older couple
through the less used streets and back alleys until they reached the tavern.

Mr. Slone caught hold of Stan’s arm to get his attention,
and gestured toward the buildings. “This is where it all began, sir. This is
where our daughter was . . .”

Studying the old man’s eyes for a brief moment, Stan patted
his shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, I know,” he said, then took them around the
back toward the downed cruise liner, before stopping at the alley’s end.

This was the very path he followed to lead Lilia to safety
and, indeed, five years hadn’t changed the landscape much, that is, until he
came around the last building. The last time around, the
Emperor’s Princess
lay smoldering under smoke so thick it choked out the sun.

But on this bright and beautiful day, vine, tree, and bush
cloaked the ruins in soft shades of green. Even at this distance, another three
hundred yards or so, small flowers of yellow, white, and pink, polka dotting
the bushes, painted a surreal scene. It seemed as though the Immortal Architect,
with nature, was reclaiming His own.

DarkStar’s
tone was urgent. “Men ahead, sir.”

Stan turned back.

“The alley’s blocked from behind as well,” she added.

“
Reliant
, you’re not making this easy,” Stan scolded.

“Sorry, sir. Something’s interfering with my scanners. I
didn’t see them.”

Stan motioned the Frenches to take cover, and as they
hurried to crouch behind a dumpster, he checked his gun, tucked it back into
and under the holo-camouflage and braced himself for a shootout.

Just then, two Enforcers rounded the corner cutting off his
path to safety. Behind him, two more blocked his escape.

“You there!” said one. “There’s a curfew. What are you doing
out here?”

“Sorry, sir. Just taking out the trash.” Stan stepped away
from the dumpster, dusted off his hands, and motioned to a building’s back
door.

The Enforcer, hand on his holster, nodded.

Stan walked to the door he’d indicated and took the knob and
jostled it. It was locked.

“Blasted thing gets stuck sometimes.” He smiled nervously at
the Enforcers, and jostled the knob again. “Come on, not now.”

“Show your papers. Identify yourself.”

Stan hesitated.
DarkStar
had long ago removed the
ident-chip that had been imbedded in the back of his hand. He hoped the one now
glued to his palm in his clenched fist would fool the scanner.

Palm down, he held out his hand. The Enforcer stepped
forward, scanned it, then checked the reading. “You’re clear. Now get inside
before I arrest you.”

Stan tugged at the door again and then forcefully rattled
it, but it didn’t open. “Must’ve locked myself out. Sorry, gents.”

Just then the door swung inward and a lady stood in the
threshold blocking his path.

“Locked myself out again, honey,” he said as he tried to
step past her, but she barred his way.

“I don’t know you, Mister,” she said firmly with a hand on
his chest.

“Ah, come on, honey bunches. I said I was sorry. Please, let
me in before these fine gentlemen think ill of me. You don’t want me to spend
another night in jail, do you?”

Looking past him to the Enforcer, she refused to let him in.
“Officers, I don’t know this man.”

Glancing at the Enforcers, Stan released a nervous chuckle.
“Hildagard has got a powerful grudge brewin’, boys. Oh, well, seems my bed and
a square is at your house tonight.”

“Hildegard?” she bellowed. “Name’s Letti . . .
Letti Graves. You can check that yourself, officer.” She held out her hand to
be scanned.

Suddenly, Stan bolted past her, pushing her out of harm’s
way into the apartment, spun and fired at the Enforcers. Two dropped where they
stood, stunned by Stan’s zithion-charged rubber bullets.

The other two Enforcers fired as Stan ducked for cover
behind a couch, but an errant bullet caught him in the hip. He reeled and
writhed at the sudden jolt, but found enough presence to attack.

He popped up and fired twice, but the Enforcers, still
outside, had little reason to show themselves. Help . . .
their
help
, would soon be on its way.

Just then, both men collapsed, crumpling to the ground.
Someone peeked in but, backlit by the bright noonday sun, Stan couldn’t make
out who it might be.

“Hello,” the newcomer called into the house. “You okay?”

“Who’s there?”

“Tennyson, Tony Tennyson.”

Stan got to his feet and headed for the door, brushing past
the woman who now stood motionless, clearly paralyzed by all the gun-play. “For
your own sake, lady, you best forget this day completely.”

With brows arched high, she gave her head a rapid nervous
jerk, and then locked the door behind him as Stan stepped out into the
daylight.

Carlton Ogier, wearing a full beard, checked both ends of
the alley with a gun at the ready then glanced at Stan. “That’s not much of a
disguise, Captain Star.”

Stan looked down; his holographic disguise was gone. He was
unharmed by the Enforcer’s bullet, but the holo-emitter sputtered random sparks
before dying completely, having given its life to save his.

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t time to grow a beard, Mr. Tennyson.” Stan
said. “Glad you made it.”

“I’ve got your wing, Cap. I always have.”

Carl’s just in the nick of time arrival surprised Stan, but
he had no time to think about it. He patted Carl’s shoulder, brushed past him,
and then went to the dumpster to bring out Mr. and Mrs. Slone. “Let’s go.”

Mr. Slone jerked back. Wide eyed, he fumed, “I recognize
you
,
you murdering piece of filth. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Stan turned and scowled at the man. “We don’t have time for
this. For Lilia’s sake, as well as your own, you have to come with me.” Stan
grabbed his arm.

The old man recoiled and wrenched from Stan’s grasp.

Carl stepped forward. “You’ve got to trust us, Mr. Slone.
There’s no other choice.”

“Back off! I’m not goi—”

Stan caught the older man’s jaw with a clenched fist. He
crumpled. Stan hoisted him over his shoulder as Carl took hold of Mrs. Slone’s
arm. Together, they hurried across the street and headed for the
Princess
.

Without warning, shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off
the road near their feet. Stan turned to see an armored troop transport barrel
down the street toward them and then abruptly skid to a stop. They fired again,
but their bullets now bounced off something invisible; a barrier between them
and Stan.

Under cover of
Level-A Stealth
,
DarkStar
had
come to bar the truck’s advance opposite her, and then lowered a welcoming
ramp.

A sharp whine in Tobin Slone’s ears tugged him from
unconsciousness. He jerked awake, nearly toppling from his bed, but steadying
hands caught him.

“Easy, Mr. Slone.” The masculine voice sounded familiar.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus. Someone handed him
his glasses. He put them on, blinked, and saw the blond, bearded man from the
alley.

“You!”

“Name’s Carl, sir. I mean you no harm.”

Tobin raised his head to see he was in a medical room of
some sort. A computer-generated display on one wall flashed with indicator
lights, showing labels, readings, and graphs, all moving in rhythm. “What’s all
that?”

“Your vitals.”

He could see his pulse and read his blood pressure in real
time. This was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It was beyond modern, beyond
anything the Confederates could contrive.

He sat up and dropped his legs from the bed, and with that
his head nearly exploded.

“Take it slow, sir. Stan hit you pretty hard.”

“Stan?” He looked up at Carl’s concern filled face. “Stan Archer?”

Carl focused on him. “You know Stan?”

Tobin rubbed his forehead. “Got anything for pain?”

“
DarkStar
, can you help this man?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tobin heard a high-pitched tone, then his ears popped and
his head cleared.

“Ouch, what was that?”

“Mr. Slone,” Carl said, ignoring Tobin’s question, “how do
you know Stan Archer?”

Tobin spoke without looking up. “After Lilia’s
disappearance—
after her abduction
—the man’s picture was all over the
news. Killed by pirates while on maneuvers, they said. He was a fallen hero,
they said. Yeah, some hero. He was credited with putting down a Follower
infiltration on the
Emperor’s Princess
; Trog terrorists trying to make
landfall, so said those lying . . .”

Tobin peered at Carl over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Five
years . . . for five years I believed my daughter was dead . . .
or worse. Stolen away by that scum and later taken by pirates maybe. Now to
find she lives? Where is she? Where’s my daughter?”

“Her condition is serious, sir. She’s giving birth, or
trying to. There is a very real chance that she won’t make it. The labor has
been difficult. That’s why we brought you here.”

“Who’s with her?”

“She has a skilled midwife attending her. Your wife is
there. Just seeing her mother has helped—to see you will even more so.”

Tobin jumped to his feet and nearly toppled with a sudden
dizzy spell. Carl steadied him.

Like a tornado pushing everything else aside, Tobin’s mind
forced a single thought to the forefront—to demand an answer. Was his daughter Archer’s
slave or—”
he gulped
“—his wife? Tobin couldn’t bring himself to ask. In
either case, the news was sure to twist the knot in his stomach tighter than it
already was.

“Did you say she might not make it? If she’s having that
butcher’s child, maybe her death would be a good thing.”

“What? How could you possibly say that? She’s your
daughter.”

“Do
you
have any children, Carl?

“No, I haven’t been so blessed.”

“Then you couldn’t possibly understand a father’s concern. I
know my daughter would want nothing to do with an Enforcer, especially
that
murderer.”

“There is so much you don’t get. It’s not like that. Lilia
loves him.”

“If that’s true then I can’t understand any of this. Why
didn’t she contact us during these last five years? What happened to the ideals
her mother and I taught her? How could she love someone like that? Did he do
something to her mind? None of this is right.”

“Nothing like that happened. Mr. Slone, I can truthfully
tell you Lilia missed you deeply.”

“And I her, Carl.” All of this seemed like a horrible
nightmare.

Just then a little girl came into the room, saw he was up,
and ran to hug him. “Granpa, you’re awake.”

Granpa?
Tobin thought as he glanced at Carl, then
back to the child as his gut twisted a notch. The very idea that
his
little girl had willingly married a mass murderer sickened him. He took a deep
breath and released it slowly, all the while automatically embracing the child
in his arms.

Tobin pulled back from the little girl and set her on her
feet to get a better look at the youngster. “And who might you be?”

The girl beamed and spoke with pride. “I’m your
granddaughter, Ericca Adrianna Archer.”

He surged to his feet. “And the child she bares now, also
his?” he asked of no one in particular.

He stepped past Ericca and Carl without another word and
headed down the hallway only to find himself standing at the entrance to a huge
room. It was full of cots and luggage, and dozens, no, hundreds of people in
small groups on their knees.

“Who are all these people? More victims?”

“Refugees, Mr. Slone,” Carl said from behind him. “It’s what
the Archers’ do; rescue people. It’s what your son-in-law lives for.”

Tobin turned to face the bearded blond. “He torpedoed the
Princess
into oblivion, killing thousands of innocents—my own sister among them, . . .
her husband, . . . my nephew.” Tobin glowered at Carl. “And now, out
of the blue, you ask me to accept my daughter’s kidnapper as my son? Well,
isn’t that something? You might as well rip my heart from my chest. There’s no
way in this lifetime or in the next will I accept that monster as my son.”

Carl stepped forward and for a long moment said nothing.
When he finally spoke, his tone was a calm, sober whisper. “She chose him for
reasons you don’t yet understand. I know. I was there. You have to forgive him,
Mr. Slone. He
is
Lilia’s husband.”

“I
have
to do nothing of the sort! For five years she
was dead to me. Maybe it should’ve stayed that way.” Tobin glared at Carl
meaning every word.

Carl straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. “You
have no right to . . .”

Turning away, tears blurred Tobin’s eyes. “I prayed I’d see
her again, hoping beyond hope that somehow my daughter had survived. And now, I
can’t stand the thought of being with her knowing she married that . . .
that . . .”

“Oh, this is real peachy,” Carl said. “I suppose you can’t
pick your relatives, can you? Sometimes you wind up with real slime bags.”

Tobin turned to Carl. The youngish, blond’s eyes were now
filled with disgust. With arms folded, Carl stood straight and defiant.

Tobin turned to face Carl straight on. “I may have issues
with my daughter, but I’ll not have you speaking of her like that.”

“Oh, I wasn’t taking about her; it’s you I have concerns
with. I’m forever surprised with just how mean a man can be. But you? You have
got to be the world champ.”

“Who are you to judge? The man she married is a—”

“Kind and generous soul. Yeah, I know him, but obviously you
don’t.”

“I was about to say—”

“Your ignorance was about to spout trash. Ask me and I’ll
tell you about Stan . . . the Stan you don’t know. But before you
speak, know this, if you ever butcher your daughter’s reputation in front of me
again, I’ll hurt you . . . and you can take that to the bank. She
lies in the infirmary, in trouble, needing you, and you can’t get beyond your
own prejudices.”

With that, Carl turned and headed away.

“No! Wait!” Tobin hurried to his side, but Carl kept
walking. “Tell me then; who is Stan Archer? How do you know him?”

Ignoring his question, Carl went to a closed door. “Mr. Slone,
there’s no telling how well she’s fairing. Do you really want your feelings for
Stan to bar you from your daughter now?”

“Answer my questions!” Tobin snapped.

Carl glared at him. “Questions? There’s no time for
questions. Go to your daughter!”

Tobin glanced away and released a sigh. “I can’t believe my
daughter married . . .
him
.”

Carl rested a reassuring hand on Tobin’s shoulder. “The
questions can wait. Lilia needs her father now. You may never get another
chance to do right by her, so don’t blow this . . . this answer to
your prayers.”

Tobin dropped his gaze.

“When you’re ready,” Carl said, “pass a hand over that
sensor. The door will slide open.” Carl turned away and headed down the hall.

Tobin fell against the door jam, tears falling like rain. He
didn’t know her story, not yet anyway, but maybe it was . . . He
steeled himself to be strong; to be strong for Lilia’s sake. Maybe her story
was actually . . . the Immortal Architect’s.

Wiping his eyes with a sleeve, he squared his shoulders, and
waved a hand across the sensor.

Tilted forward in a near sitting position, Lilia, pale and
sweating profusely, strained in labor. Next to her, Stan Archer clutched her
hand, a mix of concern and encouragement on his face. Two women, one standing
between Lilia’s feet, the other standing behind the first, encouraged Lilia to
push. Jean, Lilia’s mother, stood next to Lilia, opposite Stan.

With an abrupt hiss, the door closed behind Tobin. He
stepped in and took a place by his wife’s side to take his daughter’s free
hand. “Lilia? I’m here, honey.”

Now sixteen hours into labor, Lilia was running out of
energy. She met his eyes with a tiny smile of delight, but her tired expression
told the real story.

Tobin leaned close. “You can do this, honey. The Immortal Architect
is with you.”

“I see the top of his head, Lilia,” the midwife said. “Push,
girl, push.”

“I’ll try, Margery.” Lilia strained, her face flushing red
as she bore down, and then she fell back, too weak to do more.

“Don’t give up, my wife,” Stan insisted. “Reach down and
find the strength you need. Push!”

Lilia gritted her teeth and bore down.

The baby’s head appeared.

Lilia collapsed.

Stan embraced her, desperate to lend his strength to hers.
“I love you, honey.”

Stan truly loved Lilia. Tobin could see that, but there was
more to their relationship. Stan shared a connection to his wife that few men
enjoy with their own. Most don’t even know such things can exist. At Stan’s
touch strength seemed to flow into Lilia.

Tobin marveled at what he saw; words failing to describe
what he now knew to be true. His mind awakened to a reality he had never before
encountered—the presence of an intense Someone who, like mortar joining bricks,
cemented this young couple together.

As Lilia looked up into her husband’s eyes, renewed power
and purpose brought color to her cheeks.

She pushed again.