DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) Read online

  DarkStar Running

  Volume Two of the

  Living on the Run

  series

  By Ben Patterson

  Copyright 2014 Ben Patterson

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  Living on the Run

  I’m a killer. I don't remember every face of every victim, but I remember this: that look in the eyes of someone facing their end, the mixture of fear, resentment, resignation. It was my job, just my job. I stole lives. Now they steal my sleep, my peace of mind, my soul. The men, the women and, God help me, the children. I am a haunted man.

  This government asked too much from its soldiers. It asked too much from its citizens. It asks too much from me.

  Now, I'm asking for something. To get my soul back.

  There are as many ways to disappear as there are people, but no one could have predicted this.

  Fire up her engines. Let’s get DarkStar Running.

  Chapter One

  The oldest were grown men, twenty-six and twenty-seven-years old. One was twenty-four. Most were younger, twenty two or less.

  Captain Archer watched them from the second story window of his office, listening to them grunt and strain and curse as they drilled in the arts of hand-to-hand. The open hanger bay below was alive to the thumps of well-delivered fists and feet to chests or cheeks, punctuated all too often by the drill sergeants’ shouts whenever a punch or kick failed to connect. Missing the mark would cost a crack on the back with a bamboo rod. Capt. Archer still bore the scars of his training. Few soldiers didn’t. Colonel Ketchem strode among the knew recruits, face reddening beneath his greying whiskers, muttering at them one and all. Archer never seen the old training commander look so fierce. “You there, look alive,” he said to one. “On your toes,” to another. “No. No. No.”

  His sergeants stayed to the perimeter for the most part, darting in now and again to deliver a crack to a deserving back and scream obscenities into the offending man’s face.

  “These men don’t seem to learn as quickly or fight as well as we did,” Archer said to his lieutenant who sat on the couch. With an arm stretched out across the couch’s back, and a calf resting across a knee, Lt. Troy Younger reclined, as much as any soldier on edge could recline.

  Immediately following a sharp rap on the door, a soldier stepped into the office and handed Archer a fist-sized digi-pod. “Your orders, sir.” With that, he glanced at Lt. Younger, dipped his head in salute, and left.

  Captain Archer gripped the small device. Reading his palm-print, a holographic screen appeared over it with text. If what he saw was correct, these orders were distressingly unacceptable. His orders had been getting increasingly worst every day, but he never thought they’d come to this. Abruptly, he flung the electronic palm-pod across the room; it glanced off a wall, and brought the bookshelf down with a crash.

  With a stern face, Lt. Troy Younger stared at him for a moment before glancing at the fallen shelves and the books scattered across the floor.

  “Swift, you okay?”

  Archer sighed irritably.

  “Are they really that bad?”

  “Damn strait!” Stan snapped, glaring at Troy. “I can’t believe they’re asking us to do that.”

  “Asking, sir.” With raised eyebrows, Troy cocked his head. “Are they giving us an option?”

  Archer stepped to his desk, stiffened his arm, and sent everything careening to the floor. If he could have lifted the huge oak desk, he would have thrown it through the window. Appalled at his own uncharacteristic display of anger, Stan stopped. Get a hold of yourself, man, he chided himself. What’s gotten into you? Where did this dangerous stupidity come from?

  “I take it, that’s a ‘no’.”

  “Command has gone insane.”

  “Look, Swift, if I—” But the look in Stan’s eyes was enough to clamp Troy’s mouth shut. “Okay. Fine,” he said. “I just let you deal with it.” Retreating from saying more, he stood to recover the digi-pod, and read it silently to himself. “This can’t be right.”

  “Really? What could it actually be saying then?”

  Stan turned and pulled his helmet from his locker. Small hand-painted hash marks, each representing a “Trog,” completely covered one side. Each kill had started out as a source of pride, but now the hashes served as a constant reminder. “Once done, Troy, some things can never be undone. If we do what Command orders, there’ll be no going back.”

  “Maybe HQ knows something we don’t. It’s a mission. I say we do it and trust our higher-ups.”

  Stan considered his senior Lieutenant. He had managed to get his longtime best friend, Troy Younger, as his second in command, but was now wondering why.

  “And if I don’t do this?”

  Younger sighed, then turned away to peer out the window at the men below, perhaps, or perhaps at the Dart-class fighters at the bays far end. Perhaps he looked at nothing at all before turning to his captain. “Swift, please don’t put me in that position.”

  “I need to know where your loyalties lie, Troy.”

  Troy rubbed irritably at his face, his forehead, his eyes. “Dammit, Swift.”

  “If I turn from this task, Troy?”

  “Sir, we’ve been friends forever, but if I’m pressed, I’ll do what I must.”

  Archer glared at him. “That means what, exactly?”

  “If we start to question our orders now, there’ll be no end to it. We’ll have to revisit everything we’ve ever done. But I think you know that.”

  While in their teens, Stan had taken Troy under his wing to help him get past a rough parental divorce and an abusive father. Troy was a year younger, so Stan got his friend into the academy by vouching for him. For the last five years they had flown together as a team. But in spite of their history, they seldom saw eye to eye anymore. Fact was, because of their friendship, Stan had turned a blind eye to what Troy had, over time, become. Truth be told, there were real reasons to hate the man.

  The aristocracy thinks he’s the ideal soldier. They can think what they want, but I know better. If that is my best friend, thought Stan, what does that say about me?

  His mind panned back through the days and weeks in search of the trigger that changed his mood . . . his outlook. Oh, yes, that new kid.

  Carl Ogier—fresh and full of promise, an exceptional pilot, sharp and always ready—had joined them just a month ago. Even from the first day, Stan noticed that, no matter how hard he tried; the kid could never meet his gaze. It was as though something about Capt. Archer acutely disturbed Carl, as though the kid perceived something in his captain’s soul that was . . .

  Stan couldn’t put his finger on it, but it certain bothered him.

  He dropped his head to consider the mess at his feet. To be honest, long before Carl joined the squad, Stan’s growing anger started to take on a life of its own. The kid’s boyish face—or the troubled look in his eyes—seemed to bring to the surface what Stan had, up until then, kept very deeply buried.

  Archer’s mind jogged back
to the time he first joined a fighter squad like this one. Just as Carl seemed now, back then Stan had high ideals; thoughts of changing the Confederacy toward the better, toward a proletariat living without the threat of Trogs mucking about. But the more Trogs Stan killed, the more prolific the buggers became. There seemed no end to this enemy.

  Problem was they knew how to blend into the population at large, making them near impossible to ferret out. Only eyes on the ground provided a sure way to discover who was who. This was exasperatingly difficult, though. Many once loyal citizens who had discovered Trogs wound up, themselves, contaminated and turned.

  This next mission, tomorrow’s mission, was designed to alleviate the Trog problem, or at least show them that the Confederacy was serious about their defeat.

  Still . . . that unknown something gnawed at the pit of Stan’s stomach. One way or another tomorrow would change everything.

  “All right, Troy. Gather the men. I’ll be down shortly.”

  Chapter Two

  Carl Ogier wondered what this day would bring to him and his fellow pilots. Would Wolverine Squad see more of the same, just more killing?

  Fully suited up for this next mission, he quietly shut his locker and tucked his helmet under an arm. The two hash marks on it—now painted over—said he found the very idea of marking his kills in this way, whether tradition or not, was as repulsive to him as the rows of tattooed hashes that spiraled around Lt. Troy Younger’s neck.

  Three hundred plus, Troy had bragged.

  Sick.

  Fighting a mix of acceptance and irritation, Carl sighed before turning to his boss, avoiding his eyes.

  Captain Archer’s manner and voice were always calm and self-assured—leaderly—but Carl hated looking into eyes that veiled all emotion.

  “Geared up and ready?” Archer said, then turned away and headed for the situation room without waiting for a response.

  “Yeah, sure,” Carl muttered, knowing full well Cap couldn’t hear him, nor would the old man care even if the words registered. Carl glanced at Billy, the only other new pilot.

  Billy Taft shrugged and shook his head. “That old guy should retire or take a desk job. What’s he now, twenty-five? Kind of old for a Dart pilot, don’t you think?”

  Considering Archer’s replacement would be Lt. Younger, his XO, Carl shuddered.

  Lt. Troy Younger nearly burst at the seams with a toothy grin. “Great day ahead of us, boys, but tomorrow will be even better. More Trogs will meet a just end. Yehah!” He headed out behind Cap.

  It was clear to Carl that Troy was once again in his element. Murder came so easily for the man that it set Carl’s teeth on edge.

  “Freaky,” Billy Taft muttered, referring to Troy as he brushed past Carl.

  “Yeah,” Carl answered, following him and the older pilots into the situation room.

  Capt. Archer stood at the head of the room in front of a large computer screen waiting for his pilots to find their seats. Troy stood to one side.

  “Get the animals fed?” Cap asked Troy, just as he had each and every morning.

  “Yes, sir. Wolverines are ready, Cap.”

  The only chair open sat in the middle of the room, just in front of Lt. DuMass, Troy Younger’s wingman.

  Carl grudgingly took the chair. Any moment now Jessup DuMass would resort to his typical childish behavior. Carl waited for it; as expected, a wadded piece of paper smacked his head from behind, and Jessup chortled like a schoolgirl.

  Carl turned to the man behind him. “You’d think that a man with as much gun under his belt as you have would act like an adult.”

  DuMass snapped a closed fist at Carl’s face, but stopped short of connecting.

  Carl didn’t flinch. “Well, apparently not.” He quickly wiped the annoyed frown off his face, and turned back to focus on his captain.

  Cap dragged a finger across the screen to pull a digital star map to its center and expanded it for all to see. With Parandi, the Confederation’s capital planet, at its center, the map showed most of the surrounding star systems. Just four light years east sat its nearest neighbor, Atheron. Cap tapped it with a knuckle.

  “Our target is a cruise liner nearing Atheron, boys. We’ve just received intel that suggests the ship, Emperor’s Princess, is infested with Trogs. Key Trog leaders, actually. We can’t allow the ship to make landfall.”

  Carl reared back. Had he heard right? “Intel ‘suggests,’ Cap? Does this mean no one’s certain?”

  Cap’s eyes, as cold as ever, focused on Carl. “The Consul has ordered the ship’s immediate destruction before its passengers contaminate Atheron. Is there a problem, Ensign?”

  “Capt. Archer, what about the innocents there? Are they doomed to die alongside the guilty?”

  “Would you like to sit this one out, Ensign? No one will fault you—”

  “Well, I will fault him, sir,” Troy snapped. “If he has issues with the Consul’s orders, Cap, demote him. We fly Dart Interceptors; if he wants a surgical strike he can hoof door-to-door looking for Trogs under beds and in basements. I don’t need anyone on my flight team hesitating in the midst of battle.”

  “That’s enough!” Cap glared at Troy. “I don’t fault the man.” In locking horns with his first in command over this issue Cap was moving toward setting himself up for an overthrow. If Troy Younger was an ambitious man, and he was, he now had the means to usurp Cap and take his command. But Capt. Archer didn’t show the slightest hint that he would back down.

  Troy Younger hesitated, looking first at Carl and then at Cap, before restating his position more carefully. “Sir. With all due respect, we can’t allow our men to ‘opt out’ whenever the mood strikes them. These orders come from the Consul himself. Consul Dais says kill, we kill.”

  Archer’s eyes, once cold, turned hot with anger. “We’re talking about downing a cruise liner, Troy, killing citizens loyal to the Confederacy. And for what; a mere rumor?”

  Troy’s eyes darted around the room. “Trogs, Captain. We’re talking about a threat to our society like no other.”

  “Really?” Cap looked at the map once more. “Have you witnessed firsthand the threat you say we face? Have you seen any real evidence of the damage done by Trogs?”

  The room went absolutely silent. Carl and everyone else knew that the lieutenant was Cap’s close friend and protégé. A disagreement between them? In public? Unheard of.

  Troy stepped closer and leaned toward Cap so as not to be overheard, but in the silence everyone heard Troy’s low growling tone anyway.

  “Captain Archer, you’re talking treason. Calling into question the danger we face only stokes rebellion.” He leaned closer to whisper, “We must take a firm stand, sir.”

  Carl considered Cap. What Archer had said was indeed treasonous, but his expression spoke of something more, something new, the least of which was rebellion. There was life in old Thorn-bushel’s eyes, the likes of which Carl had never before seen. It was as if Cap had caught hold of a thought he’d only now considered.

  Carl just had to stick around to find out what that might be. “Cap, I’m in. Sorry I led you to believe otherwise. Just wanted to make the stakes clear, sir.”

  Cap’s gaze narrowed once again on Carl, considering him for a long moment before turning back to Troy. “Carl flies my wing. Reassign Tuttle.”

  Oh, man, thought Carl. Flying as Cap’s wingman meant that on the way up to the transport, Carl was going to get a private butt chewing by Cap, and everyone in the room knew it.

  Another wad of paper hit Carl in the head, and he heard Lieutenant DuMass’ chair squeak as he leaned closer to Carl.

  “Now you’ve done it, runt. Cap’s goin’ta burn you a new one.”

  After the briefing, Carl followed the others as Capt. Archer led his men out into the hall toward the flight bay. DuMass waited to one side and when Carl passed by, DuMass tripped him, sending Carl crashing into Billy Taft and on to the floor. DuMass laughed.

  With a hand
from Billy, Carl climbed to his feet.

  DuMass stepped up. “You should have stayed down, punk.” DuMass shot a fist up, Carl blocked it, and returned fire with a blinding blow.

  DuMass now lay sprawled on the floor. Sitting up, he shook his head to ward off the daze, then glared at Carl.

  Saying nothing, Capt. Archer pushed his way back through the crowd to the disturbance, glanced at the man on the floor, at Carl’s bloodied knuckles, and then considered Carl’s face. But to see any emotion on Archer’s eyes was still impossible. “ ‘Bout time you defended yourself, pilot.”

  “Sir,” DuMass said, raising himself to sit on the floor, “he struck a superior officer.”

  “Now who are you superior to, sitting on the floor?”

  DuMass scrambled to his feet. “You should—”

  Archer backhanded DuMass sending him back to the floor. “When talking to me, DumAss, never start a sentence with ‘You should.’ I’ll decide what I should or should not do. Am I understood?”

  DuMass sat up. “It looks like I’ll need to file charges against both of you.”

  Troy Younger’s face soured. “Don’t be absurd, idiot. Push it any further and you’ll find yourself hoofin’ door to door to find Trogs.”

  Archer turned back to lead his men to the launch bay leaving DuMass scrambling to catch up.

  They mounted their fighters fly up to a transport awaiting them in orbit.

  With Carlton Ogier at his wing, Cap led his posse up in tight formation.

  Carl tabbed the autopilot, keyed in Cap’s Dart-wing code, and settled back in his seat to let his bird stay where it should all on its own. His hand was beginning to throb. Once aboard the transport that would take them to Atheron, he’d have it looked at. But for now, the transport was still some distance away.

  Cap’s voice crackled in Carl’s headset. “What was going on back there, Ensign? At first, it sounded as if killing innocents bothered you. Care to explain yourself?”