Prologue

Here is the prologue from Fugitive Star!

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ESY 1362

A captive Fighter endangers the captor.

The simple adage was so well known, its popularity had awarded it the status of proverb among most of the systems of the Alak sector. Despite the inefficacy of dead tongues in propagating rumors.

But some did not listen, or did not care. Some brazenly dared to test the Fighters again and again, pitting their fleeting strength against centuries, even millennia, of battle-hardened expertise.

Fools.

And yet those clever fools had become his captors.

The Fighter’s black eyes glared at the backs of the armed escort in front of him, while his dragging steps tested the patience of the armed escort behind. Eight hands tensely gripped humming weapons, and eight pairs of eyes watched for any sign of weakness in the cuffs that bound his wrists behind him.

He knew the source of their fear. He himself had helped proliferate the stories of superhuman strength and feral bloodthirst and deadly cunning… But there were too many of them, each one armed and attentive, waiting for the slightest suggestion of attempted escape.

A thought came, and with it a cold wave of his own fear. Perhaps a quick death in attempted escape was his best option. He had heard the rumors of their Commander, of course. And they had set a trap for him, they had captured him particularly. His panic rose. If they knew…

He stifled the fear, even as it surfaced. They could not know. His face twisted into a snarl; anger was always his most effective mask.

The thin barrels of his captors’ guns jarred his shoulders and the bones of his back as they led him through their accursed station. He obeyed their prodding in silence, saving his resentment for another time… when he would have the advantage. He was a Volgarin Fighter, and he knew that if he himself did not live to fight back, there would be others, and they would see his death avenged. The Fighters trained their entire lives to destroy those that threatened or harmed them — their existence depended on it. No deed done against them, accidental or intentional, was ever forgotten.

They could not afford to forget. Days, years, centuries might pass, it made no difference how long they waited — they always had revenge.

But they could afford to wait. The Fighters had inhabited the galaxy for longer than any human could remember. Volgarin diplomacy offered offenders no choice; they could fight, or they could flee, but the Fighters would destroy them. For years, those who had tried to harass the Fighters and drive them far from the populous regions of the Galaxy had quickly encountered the full strength of Volgarin skill and deadly cunning. The Fighters had taught their enemies the taste of fear.

It had always been that way, and it would be the same for years to come. It had to be that way.

The cold emptiness of the room they entered now seemed to draw upon his strength, dissipating the heat of rage that smoldered within. He stiffened his neck and shoulders and flung his glare about the room, determination fueling his hostility. Even his first glance took in too much light; reflections scattered from the polished floor and high, smooth pillars, glaring painfully back into his eyes.

His defiant scowl met the gaze of another man in the room, one who stood silently and waited as the prisoner and his captors approached. The man wore the red and black characteristic of the rest of the evil brood, but with slight additions to suggest higher rank. Even the air about him carried authority. A gun dangled casually from his belt, and the prisoner gradually realized that it was the first gun he had seen on a belt… rather than aimed in his face or shoved in his back.

This man did not need the gun. His gaze caught and riveted the Fighter’s attention; his eyes were as gray as steel and cold as ice. His stare slipped through the Volgarin’s mind; tendrils of ice sought the corners of his consciousness, quenching the fire of his anger, smothering his only defense… At last a gun in the prisoner’s back forced him to jerk his head to the ground, where the light blithely chose a glaring angle off of the polished floor into his eyes.

The men around him — the ones who had dragged him at gunpoint from his ship — spoke rapidly to their superior in the nasal and flat language that the galaxy called the Standard language. The words formed themselves into sentences in the prisoner’s mind; he understood their speech, but hated it. They forced everyone to learn their tongue, calling it the standard for communication in the Galaxy. But he himself had never possessed, nor would ever possess, any suggestion of a desire to communicate with the rest of the Galaxy’s vermin.

“Speak.”

He jerked his head up in sudden surprise, for the word was spoken not in the Standard language, but in the familiar tones of his own tongue. He glared again into the steady gaze of the man before him, but set his jaw and said nothing.

“They tell me that you are a Fighter and you know the ways of the ancient Volgarins.” The man spoke his language, but with the curious accent and adjusted grammar that characterized one who did not use his native tongue.

“I have done nothing,” the prisoner spoke at last. His fury choked his voice. “You have taken me prisoner for no reason, and I swear that you shall pay dearly for it! The Fighters never forget, we will —”

But that was as far as he got that time, for he was clubbed in the lower back with the butt of a gun, and his breath was gone, forcing him again into glaring silence.

The man did not appear angered at his prisoner’s words. Instead his gaze passively drifted over the erect head and stiff shoulders before him, his blue-gray eyes thoughtful. “Yes…” he said at last, softly. “Yes, they never forget.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips.

The Fighter spat but made no sound.

“They tell me further that you are not just any Volgarin Fighter,” the quiet voice continued. His words, and the chill in his voice as he spoke them, sent ice through the prisoner’s veins. “They tell me that you are the Guardian.”

The man’s unwilling upward glance at the phrase betrayed him. He held his tongue on his words, desperate to hide his fear.

“I believe you can help me.” The man’s voice was hard as iron, cold as his eyes. “I merely need some information from you, and then I will release you, and you shall be free to go about your revengeful ways —”

The voice mocked him with every word. “I will never help you!” the captive man hissed desperately.

“You will die then,” the man spoke quietly, without emotion.

“Kill me. You will never get a word from my lips to help you.” The Fighter’s rage flew in his words, but it could no longer hide his startled fear. He struggled in desperate terror to free himself. “I will die first!”

The Commander merely turned away as the guards shoved their guns against the prisoner’s back to lead him off. The Fighter’s words rang in the air. Of course he would die.

They would all die.

***

The young girl stared out the small windows of the spaceship’s cockpit at the conspicuous red and black uniforms of the guards and sighed heavily, but wishing would not make them disappear. Just as sitting around in the cramped space that made up the cockpit of a K-16 starship would get them nowhere with completing their mission.

But the captain had told them to secure the ship for a hasty exit should the need arise, and if he was anything, her friend and fellow student Arnham Loetz was meticulous when it came to following the captain’s orders. So they sat and waited while the ship’s systems commenced the whirring and thinking that always accompanied the transition from active to standby mode.

She turned her face away from the porthole and cast another glance over her shoulder, to where Arnham was working at the controls.

“Almost got it… I think.” He wrinkled his nose in a grimace at the information scrawled across the screen, then spoke her thoughts. “You know, this would be a whole lot easier if Captain Starr wouldn’t insist on having the ship perfectly ready for us to beat it out of here… but I guess that is sort of necessary, isn’t it?”

She gave him a wry grin. “Sort of. Unless you want to sit here doing all of this while Zargon guns are punching not-so-nice holes into your ship’s hull — I certainly don’t.”

Arnham gave her a look. “Then you finish it.”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “No, too boring.” With another sigh she looked back out the window. The guards hadn’t decided to disappear yet; in fact, they seemed to stubbornly insist on multiplying whenever she looked away. “What are we going to do about them?” she asked.

Raising his head, Arnham glanced out the window briefly, then concentrated again on his work. “You know what the captain said.”

She rolled her gray-brown eyes. “Okay, then, remind me how it’s going to work.”

“They just think we’re the ship’s technicians and it’s supposed to be our job to refuel and service the ship while the captain’s gone, so it will be a simple matter of slipping away while we’re supposed to be looking for the fuel hook-ups. Then we just have to find the Mardoc prisoners that our Zargon friends abducted without reason in time of peace, set them all free and tell them about the secret transport ships waiting for them outside the city —”

He punched a few more buttons on the ship’s console, and gave a satisfied smile when it gave a final whir and was silent. “Once that’s done, we just get back to the ship and wait for the captain, as innocuous as fuel technicians could possibly be. Simple.” He bent down and retrieved the gun that had somehow managed to slide as far as possible into the small space between his copilot’s seat and the captain’s seat during the less-than-smooth ride to get there.

The plan didn’t sound that simple, but it was typical. The captain had an insatiable hunger for the thrill of dangerous and often seemingly impossible tasks, and even though he tried to keep his two students out of most of the danger, it often seemed to follow him around. But Aylin herself felt some of the thrill rubbing off on her, for there was a tingle in her spine as she stared out the window, and it had nothing to do with the stiffness of the chair she had sat in for the duration of the long ride.

“I’ve got everything set here,” Arnham reported, as he double-checked it all one more time. She grinned to herself; Arnham never could resist double- and triple-checking any action of his that had even the remotest chance for mishap. And of course, considering his amazing skill with computers — or anything technical for that matter — mishap of any sort was always highly unlikely.

Out of habit, her hand fell to her belt, and under the loose plain-color jacket she could feel the familiar shape of the gun she always carried there. A mere touch of the smooth, cold barrel brought again the familiar tingle of excitement. Gun, radio… all her gear was there, including the remote activation device she always carried with her that would unlock and open the ship’s door from a distance. She reached a hand up to the door that was by her side, and began the process of disentangling her stiff legs from the mold of the chair.

“Aylin.” Arnham’s voice stopped her.

She turned and gave him a quizzical look. “What?”

“You know the rules. We have to run through the checklist,” he reminded her.

Aylin sighed. “I already did, in my head; everything’s fine.”

“We’ll do it again, then,” Arnham said stubbornly. “We always do, and the captain makes us do it, so we have no other choice.” He gave her a sideways glance, and his look silently wondered why she should deviate from such standard protocol on this mission, after they’d been through it so many times.

Aylin knew why she’d forgotten; her mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the task of not thinking about the thoughts that had been burdening her mind all morning long. So, rather than argue, she merely sighed and said “All right.”

Arnham gave her another glance, and guessed some of the thoughts that she was trying to push away. But he said nothing.

“Got your gun?”

Nod.

“Radio on? Good… me too. Remote?”

Another nod. Unfortunately, the very act of trying not to think about it was making her do just that, and she scowled.

Arnham saw the scowl, and attempted a grin. “Now for the rules…” He looked at her slyly out of his green eyes, and cocked his head sideways in a way that she instantly recognized. “Number one,” he said, absently running a hand through his short, sand-colored hair until it stuck out at odd angles. “Always, always, always…”

Aylin couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her face. It was their favorite game, imitating the captain’s peculiar mannerisms. “Do what the captain says,” she finished with a grin.

“Never, never, ever…”

“… hesitate to do it!”

They both shared a much-needed laugh, for the air in the small ship was charged with the tension of inactivity. “I guess we can go then,” Arnham said. “Remember — we’re just technicians and we’re looking for the fuel hook-ups.” He gestured toward the door. “After you, lady,” he said with a grin.

Aylin rolled her eyes — he insisted on calling her that — and she turned to slide the door open and carefully climb down the ladder to the ground. Her loose tech-attendant’s jacket made her feel as if she’d left something behind, but her belt was well hidden underneath the folds of cloth, and her gun tapped reassuringly against her leg. She jumped to the ground; Arnham was close behind.

“Fix your hair,” she muttered to the back of his tousled head. It hadn’t recovered from his attempt to imitate the captain.

He flashed a lopsided grin over his shoulder. “Why? It never seems to bother him.”

“We’re trying not to attract too much attention, remember?” she reminded him. “And it’s quite distracting.”

“Don’t forget to lock the door,” Arnham said as he ran his hand over his hair again to smooth it down.

She did so, mechanically, still staring at the back of his blond head. The thoughts just would not go away, so she gave up and faced them down. Arnham was seventeen Standard years old, and only days away from being eighteen, and when students in training turned eighteen years old they were formally eligible to apply for a position in the official military forces of the planet Mardoc. She knew that Arnham had already filled out his own application, and was only waiting until the day arrived. He would be accepted, that much she knew without doubt, for Captain Starr was the best instructor in the Galaxy and Arnham was excellent at following all the rules and the proper chains of command. He would be accepted, and this would be, in all probability, their last mission together.

Aylin herself was equally excited at the prospect of joining Mardoc’s armed forces and fighting alongside her people for the defense of their planet… but she had over three years to wait until her eighteenth year finally arrived. Three long years… and this was their last mission together. Bitterly she shoved the thoughts away and forced her mind to focus on what she was doing.

Arnham glanced back at her as if to ask what was wrong, but at the last moment he saw her face, and wisely caught the words before they were spoken and hid them away. He knew what was wrong, and to bring it up again would only make it worse. “Come on, let’s go,” was all he said.

One of the guards she’d been observing from the window was the first to stop them, and Aylin averted her eyes to gaze around the room while Arnham explained their cover story. She had gotten pretty good at hiding nervous energy over the past four years, but she still had to remind herself not to fidget. Why wouldn’t any guard — even a Zargon, at that — not wonder at a squirming young service technician who would not meet their eyes and couldn’t help but finger the barrel of the gun that was supposed to be concealed under her too-large overcoat? And she’d had the audacity to chide Arnham about his ruffled hair.

The guard finally nodded his gruff acceptance and pointed, and Aylin followed his gesture with her eyes. A door that was obviously for servicing and repair work on the ships was standing slightly ajar at the far wall. They moved away from the guard and toward it; it seemed to take longer than necessary to cross the shiny floor. When they had slipped into the semi-darkness of the hallway beyond, Aylin finally allowed herself to let out the pent-up energy with a sigh. Nerves.

Arnham caught the sigh, and cast a grin over his shoulder as if to say: “See? That wasn’t hard.” He checked a colored map on the wall — the one the guard had instructed them to find. “All we’ve got to do now is find a computer room and get the information we need. Let’s go.”

***

The room was dark, lit only by the various monitors scattered throughout on long tables, but the pale light revealed two figures ducking furtively through the rectangular doorway. The taller of the two paused at the door, slipping his head out, double-checking to see if they had been followed. The light slanted across the barrel of the gun gripped in his hand. Seeing nothing outside, he moved quietly to the monitor at the nearest end of the tables.

Aylin was already there, reading information from the screen. The monitor’s pale blue light starkly illuminated her face and highlighted her wavy, brown hair with a peculiar shade of green as it fell around her shoulders. This was definitely Arnham’s job; he seemed to be able to get anything he wanted from computers. Aylin herself was convinced the machines hated her, malevolently searching for ways to thwart her efforts to make any use of them. But she knew what buttons to push, and she managed to get the information they wanted in front of her. “I’ve got it on the screen,” she spoke in a low voice as Arnham knelt beside her.

“Good,” he replied, rapidly scanning the information with a finger on the screen. “Let’s see, these are the cell blocks we want, now which cells…?” He tapped his fingers on the table as he waited for the computer. Aylin gave a half grin in the darkness, guessing his thoughts. Zargon technology could be so slow at times.

“There. Six of them, five in Block Eleven and the sixth in Block Twelve.” Arnham scrawled their numbers onto a piece of paper, along with the codes that would open their doors. Quickly tearing off part of the paper, he handed it to her. “Here, you get Block Twelve, I’ll get the others. They’re not too far away from each other. I gave you the code too. We should have no trouble opening the door lock-panels.”

She grunted. “The captain’s only made us go over it sixty times.”

“A little patience would do you a lot of good, you know.”

“I don’t have time for patience.”

Arnham rolled his eyes. “My point exactly.”

Quickly and quietly, they slipped back into the shadows and through the door.

***

His rage simmered through his thoughts, dulling his mind as he tried to think.

The steady glow from the crisscrossed red beams across the doorway cast its pattern of modulated light throughout the Volgarin Fighter’s dark cell. Just one glancing touch, he knew, and those beams would release a shock painful and powerful enough to knock six men senseless. Their dull, red glow reflected off the smooth walls of the near-empty room, a constant reminder that he could not leave.

He had to think. He had to escape before they found some way to pry his mind until they found what they wanted. His defenses were virtually impenetrable: he had taught himself and many others to stand torture until death without betraying a word, he had stripped himself of all the close relationships that might become tools in the hands of his enemies…

But if the rumors were true, and the man with the eyes of gray steel was indeed the Zargon Commander…

His rage and fear carried his hand violently against the wall, as if he could tear it down with just his fierce anger. They had set an easy trap, and like a fool he had walked right into it.

Barely a week ago, a group of Mardoc merchant transports had attacked a lone Fighter ship and destroyed it. He realized now, too late, that the Zargons had disguised themselves in those Mardoc ships, and attacked the Fighters for the sole purpose of enticing them to retaliate.

And retaliate they had. Three of them had been sent for the task — himself and two others. They had come upon the unsuspecting group of five Mardoc ships in an attack as swift and deadly as the Fighters were known for. But the five ships had not even attempted to evade them, and as the three Fighters destroyed the decoys, the ambush of twenty Zargon ships had fallen upon them. He had seen it first and managed to warn the others. They had escaped while he had tried in vain to fight.

If any thoughts of their cowardice ever crossed his mind, he dismissed them instantly. They had gone back for help. The Fighters would strike back as never before against this intolerable act. He only found himself anticipating his own part in the destruction of the ones who had taken him captive.

He knew that he was alone in the cell block, quite alone, for he had watched carefully as they had led him here. His was obviously an isolation block; he suspected that the cowards were terribly afraid of him and wished to put as many walls between him and their safety as they possibly could.

So he was rather surprised at the sharp click of the far door at the end of the hall.

Silence ensued as he strained to listen.

But whoever it was did not make any further noise. He found that slightly unusual, for the guards seemed to make as much clamor as they could whenever they came near. Perhaps, he thought, one of them had just come to check on the door to ensure that it was locked. This last explanation seemed to him the most reasonable, and he heard no more noises in the hall, so his mind slipped back to his angry thoughts.

His preoccupation had so consumed him that he gave a start of surprise when he noticed the girl. She was standing at the door of the cell, half concealed by the wall, and her eyes stared at him through the darkness. Her features were softly lit by the red light of the beams, and he could see her brown hair and determined jaw and the slender fingers of the hand that rested against the wall of the door. She could not have been older than fourteen or fifteen Standard years, but the look she gave him was a solemn one, almost a knowing one, as if she could figure things out about him without much effort.

He was so surprised at seeing anyone — especially a young girl — that he did not move, just stood there returning her stare.

She cast a glance down the empty hall, then tilted her head at him. “Are you one of them?” she asked in Standard, her voice a soft whisper.

He stared, uncomprehending.

“Are you the last one?” she repeated, more strongly.

“Who are you?” he managed at last, knowing that she would hear the words spoken in the curious Fighter accent that he could never lose.

The accent did not seem to concern her. “You must be the last one,” she insisted. “The number on your cell is the same as the one I have, and you’re the only one in here.” She glanced once again over her shoulder. “The captain will be glad you’re all right. Wait a minute, and stand away from the beams. I’ll get it open for you.” She slid to the side a little and began to work at the door panel.

He crept a little closer and tried to see what she was doing. Could it be true? Could this child truly have the code to open the door for him? He pushed the questions aside. If she really had the right code and managed to free him, there would be no time for questions. He would have to act fast, and before they had time to see him. But if she did not have the right code…

He knew what would happen. If the wrong code was entered into one of the door-lock panels, instantly the entire block would ring with alarms, and the place would be swarming with officers in scant seconds.

But instead of blaring alarms, he heard the panel hum acceptingly, and the red beams slowly retracted into the walls. He stepped quickly into the hall, almost fearing that the beams would shoot back at him, trapping him once more. They did not, and he was soon standing in the empty hall facing the young girl who had set him free.

She glanced furtively over her shoulder, then up at him. “There are ships waiting for all of you just outside the city, beyond docking ports 20-26. I’m sorry, we weren’t able to salvage your goods, but at least you’re alive.” She gave a small, matter-of-fact shrug. “Hurry there and keep out of sight; don’t fight unless you need to. We’ll follow in our own ship. Once you’re back at Aliok, report to the general immediately. He’ll want to know you’re safe.”

She checked a communications device in her hand. “I have to go; Arnham gave me the easy job, so he’ll probably still need help with his part.” Without another word, she slipped to the door of the long hall and was gone.

He stood there for a long moment, his mind whirling. It was evident that she had mistaken him for someone else — from what she had said, possibly a Mardoc merchant. All he knew was, she had entered the right code and set him free, but if the Zargons decided to return to find him puzzling over what had happened, his freedom would be short-lived. Quickly he followed the path that the girl had taken through the Zargon halls to the ports she had specified.

***

A prize worth ten Block Twelve prisoners had just casually sauntered into the meeting room.

Zargon lieutenant Raako Talivian rested the tips of his fingers on the polished surface of the long conference table and observed the man who approached its other end, wondering silently if Sargas had been expecting this. Not much could surprise the Commander, not even a visit from the legendary pilot Draekel Starr of the planet Mardoc.

But Starr’s appearance in this station — and at this time — had surprised the Zargon lieutenant… He fought the urge to tap his fingertips against the table’s cool surface, and channeled his nervous energy into studying the man in front of him. He had previously only observed the Commander’s most hated enemy from a distance, and he would not pass up the opportunity to catch a closer glimpse.

A glimpse was all, though; he took in the man’s medium height, short dark hair, and intense black eyes in a moment’s glance, before his gaze calmly moved to the door to offer the nearly invisible guards a nearly invisible nod.

“You requested an audience?” he spoke quietly into the silence, meeting Starr’s gaze again as the guards took up their customary stances beside the door.

The Mardoc captain’s head turned briefly before he replied, taking in the positions of the men behind him, and allowing the lieutenant to glance at his insignia. Pilot Captain. The meager rank was either false modesty or an attempt at a clever disguise; Starr’s prowess was known across the Alak sector, even as far as Elson.

“There’s been a mistake, and you’ve taken into custody several Mardoc merchant transports,” Starr spoke, returning an unfazed stare to meet and hold the lieutenant’s eye. “I have come to negotiate for their release.”

The Commander had been expecting this; his instructions were clear. “There has been no mistake,” the lieutenant answered, forcing his gaze to match the other’s calm stare.

Starr’s expression did not change, save for a slight narrowing of his dark eyes. “I am speaking of the Mardoc trade envoy apprehended by Zargon forces nearly five days ago.”

“The Mardoc ships surprised a posted sentry, and resisted when requested to change course. They were captured in fair combat, and are held here as a precautionary measure, until the situation is deemed suitable to warrant their release.”

The captain shifted forward; his knuckles brushed the opposite end of the table. “The ships were assaulted along an open trade route, I have the exact coordinates of their final distress communication. Our merchant ships aren’t equipped with wartime artillery, only small guns for defense purposes. They could not have fought unless they were attacked first.” His dark glare searched the lieutenant.

Talivian knew his orders. “Your coordinates must be in error. You have no evidence —”

“We need no more evidence!” The pitch of the Mardoc captain’s voice reached the ears of the guards by the doors; they shifted positions slightly. “The very nature of the trading mission,” continued Starr, “the very weapons the ships carried… The attack was unprovoked and irrational.” He gestured with his hand in dismissal. “I have not come to argue semantics. The message from our end is clear enough: you will release the prisoners, or risk the consequences.”

Talivian let the words hang in the air. Perhaps Starr himself could sense the foolishness, the severe irony of the statement; perhaps not. He could almost hear the Commander’s mirthless laughter. The very “consequences” Mardoc might attempt against the Zargon alliance would quickly be their own ruin —

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of a distant alarm, then another echoing alarm — not so distant this time. Instantly his gaze fell to the communications monitor at his side, which flashed a map of the station and the location of the alarm. His jaw tensed as he scanned the map, then quickly he punched in the radio code. “What’s going on?” he demanded of the prison guard.

“Block Eleven, we have a break, sir!” The man’s voice on the other end of the radio sounded breathless.

The lieutenant flicked his glance up at the man across the table; Draekel Starr was turning his head slightly to glance to his side. Without taking his eyes off the man, the lieutenant asked tensely: “Block Twelve?”

“Haven’t gotten there yet sir,” the guard replied.

“Find out immediately,” he ordered. “Have the entire building locked down; no one — no exceptions — no one leaves or enters until we can search the entire base. Move quickly!”

“Yes sir!” the guard shouted. The radio went dead.

The captain was watching him as he looked up, and he thought he could detect a slight tremor of apprehension in his gaze. He did not miss the tightening of the man’s hand on the table, nor the breath of sudden nervousness that seemed to stiffen the air. Desperate men could be dangerous, and the Zargon lieutenant knew that Starr could move quickly against them. He would have to be careful.

He signaled to a couple of the guards to stay, but ordered the rest to leave and help with the lockdown. His gaze never left the man across the table.

Losing all visible apprehension, the captain shifted his position slightly. “Having problems?” he asked casually. His demeanor one of perfect calm, he glanced across the table.

The sudden subtle change in the captain’s manner had the lieutenant even more worried than his previous aura of desperation. “I’m sorry, but you’ll understand if we need to detain you as well, for questioning of course.” At his pointed nod, the two guards stepped to flank the captain on both sides, their guns at the ready.

The captain eyed them, not losing his calm. He looked back at the lieutenant. “I see,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

The lieutenant gave a shout of warning, but he was too late. With a lightning move that seemed to require minimal effort, the captain brought his right forearm smashing across the jaw of one of the guards, sending him sprawling backwards to the floor. Now, suddenly, that hand grasped a gun that had materialized from nowhere, and as he ducked the other guard’s first blow his precise shot took the other man’s gun from his hand. Then that guard was on the floor too, with a kick to the stomach, and there was no one between Draekel Starr and the door.

But the lieutenant had seen it from the moment it began, and he had wasted no time. His gun was in his hand before the first guard hit the floor, and the elliptical table made for great cover. The captain wished to escape, but there was a great distance between him and the only door, and no cover along the way. As the pilot captain sprinted away from the table, firing shots in desperation that harmlessly skimmed off the table, the lieutenant carefully aimed to stop him.

A prize worth a hundred Block Twelve prisoners… his finger flicked across the barrel, setting the weapon’s power to stun.

He fired, but his fingers stung with sudden pain as his gun was blasted from them to skim across the floor, coming to rest a good distance away. He gave a cry of surprised shock, and immediately flattened himself behind the table for cover, but no more shots came. He risked a glance over.

The captain stood at the door, a wry smile on his face as he stared back. He lifted his gun in mock salute, then without a word disappeared through the doorway.

***

Alarms were not in the plan; alarms were definitely not good.

At the first warning wail, Aylin threw a panicked look over her shoulder at Arnham. His face was grim as he looked around, and he motioned for her to keep going.

“Hurry… but try not to make it too obvious,” he warned. Both grasped their guns tightly now, and jumped at shadows. They started to see more and more Zargons — mostly guards who ignored the young technicians in their rush to get somewhere and do something — and every time they passed, both of them would try to simultaneously hide their guns and to keep them at the ready, and Aylin felt like her nerves would snap with the tension.

At last they reached the door to the ports where their ship was waiting — the door that said SERVICE in block yellow letters on the gray metal — and Arnham laid his hand on the handle. But at that moment they heard noises behind them, Zargons were calling to each other as they approached, and they both froze. Aylin felt her muscles stiffen with terror, and when Arnham glanced her way his face reflected the same fear.

They both looked back, and Aylin saw what would for days persist in haunting her nightmares — three Zargon guards, all armed, heading toward them. The lead guard pulled up short as he saw them, and Aylin recognized with a jolt of fear the same guard who had questioned them as they left the ship. She saw his eyes narrow with suspicion, then widen in sudden realization, and his gun came up as he aimed to kill.

But then Arnham was flinging open the door and shielding her from the rapid shots as he pushed her through, and using the door as cover they both fired off enough return shots to effectively discourage pursuit from that particular detachment of Zargons. Arnham slammed the door shut, and they turned quickly to face whatever new threat might await them in the small docking bay.

But instead of the expected danger, Aylin saw with relief that the captain’s ship still waited peacefully where they had left it, apparently unharmed. And, perhaps more importantly, the large and ponderous doors that closed and opened that particular docking room to traffic from outside remained open and showed no sign of closing… for the moment. A quick scan of the large room revealed only a small number of Zargons, and they did not seem too worried about the alarms… at least not yet. Apparently this was a less significant docking port, and the state of turmoil that had gripped the rest of the city had not fully impacted them with its urgency.

They took temporary refuge behind a stack of fuel drums in the vicinity of the door. Arnham crouched next to her and they both raised their heads just a fraction higher than the drums to peer across the room. They were close to the ship, but there was little cover between their present place of hiding and their intended destination. The distance could have been light-years.

“We’ll have to run for it,” Arnham said, breathing hard and trying to keep his voice low. “The captain’s probably waiting for us, and if we can just get to the ship we should be able to slip out of here, maybe even unnoticed.” He looked sideways at her, and Aylin could see a glimmer of excitement lurking behind the tension in his green eyes. Some of the captain had definitely rubbed off on him. She felt the thrill too, despite the danger of their situation. Both of us, then, she decided.

“You go first, I’ll cover in case you need it,” he said.

Aylin nodded, and gripped her gun tighter in her hand. Taking a deep breath, she slipped away and into the open.

Her eyes were firmly fixed upon the Zargons at the far end of the room as she hurried toward the ship, but they did not move. The leagues of open floor between her and the ship could have garrisoned the entire Mardoc army, but soon enough she was sheltered behind the ship’s ladder, and lost no time in signaling Arnham to follow. She saw his nod of acknowledgement, then his head briefly disappeared and reappeared again as he headed toward her.

Aylin placed her hands quickly on the cool metal rungs of the ship’s small, retractable ladder and hauled herself up, pulling the door-activation keypad from her coat pocket and rapidly punching in the numbers. Perhaps the captain would hear them at the door and would have the ship ready to leave. They could waste no time; there was no telling when the Zargons would come bursting through the doors and cut off their only chance of escape.

Arnham was beneath her on the ladder. She heard the latch click on the door, and Aylin didn’t wait for it to slide open but instead pushed it hard and tumbled into the small cockpit.

It was empty.

Aylin felt a cold chill seize her chest; suddenly she felt that she had not known true terror until that moment. The captain was not there; he was somewhere back in the maze of Zargon halls that they had just left, surrounded by hundreds and thousands of hostile enemies, and there were alarms to make his escape even more difficult.

Captain Starr was not there… and instantly Aylin knew that she would face a horrible decision. He had said so many times, she could repeat it after him in singsong — their safety came first, absolutely, and if ever they thought there was no other safe choice, they must never, never, ever hesitate to escape the danger.

Even if not hesitating meant leaving the captain behind, was always the unspoken yet understood end of that particular admonition, although none of the three ever acknowledged it out loud. And until the moment that she tumbled into the empty cockpit, Aylin had never bothered to worry about it at all, except to wonder what she might do if ever she faced that awful choice. Now suddenly it was reality.

Arnham had appeared in the doorway and slipped himself through, and was in the act of turning to close the door again when he got the same realization that had stopped Aylin cold only moments before. She watched his face and saw a moment’s flash of fear, then his features were masked.

“He’s not here yet,” was all Arnham said as he slid into the pilot’s seat. “We’ll have to get the ship ready so we can beat it once he does show up.” His hands moved over the controls in front of him, flipping the switches to get the engines warmed up and the shields to full power. They were facing the outside doors, their only escape route. The sunlight glinted off the water and traced its patterns across the small cockpit roof.

“If they start to close those doors…” Arnham muttered quietly. He left his sentence unfinished. If the Zargons discovered them and tried to prevent their escape they would have only two choices: stay and be captured, or leave without the captain.

Always, always, always do what the captain says…

Aylin found herself again at the small window, staring out at the Zargons below, gripping the barrel of her gun tightly. If only wishing could make the captain appear…

Beside her, Arnham’s breathing was forced and steady, but she could feel his tension. He was worried about the captain too, of course he was; they had both trained together under Draekel Starr’s careful tutelage for four years now, and they both loved him for his enthusiasm, his skill and his teaching, and his funny ways.

But, although Arnham didn’t know it, it would always be harder for Aylin whenever the captain was in danger — much, much harder.

Arnham’s eyes were fixed upon the ship’s monitors, watching for any sign that they had been discovered and their escape was going to be cut off. Aylin had to consciously force herself to let go of the barrel of her gun and secure it on her belt. When the captain did arrive, she might need to use her hands to help them get out of here… fast.

Despite her attempts to prevent it, all at once the different possibilities of disaster were flashing vividly through her brain. The captain injured, the captain captured, even… killed. She drew in her breath sharply and shook her head hard, ignoring the questioning glance Arnham sent her way. No, he would come, he had told them to meet him here; it was that simple.

Besides, she thought, he’s the captain. No one can capture him. Even the thought gave her comfort, and she drew in another breath and tried to calm herself.

Suddenly the sound of shots reached her ears through the ship’s open door. Arnham’s hands tensed on the controls. Aylin’s heart was in her throat — had they been discovered? A quick glance through the small window told her that several guards had burst into the docking bay, through the same small door where she and Arnham had just entered, and they were firing away at —

Her heart immediately leapt, then fell. She could see the captain sprinting toward the ship, dodging flashes of enemy fire, chased from behind by the familiar suspicious Zargon guard who had almost succeeded in cutting them off earlier. There were more guards pouring in through the door behind him now, all of them firing with abandon. The captain was doing his best to evade the shots, but there were too many of them…

Then suddenly, as she stood frozen, Arnham yelled “Rear guns!” at her, and there was no time to think. She flung herself into her seat in the rear of the ship’s cockpit and flipped on her targeting monitor. The room flickered into view, traced in contours of green. Avoid the running bright spots, was all she had time to think, before firing over the heads of the running shapes. She took aim again more carefully, searching for a target… the captain could do this instantly without even thinking about it…

But her aim was momentarily distracted, as the room blossomed into a curtain of orange fire that came close to threatening their own position. The fuel drums were gone, destroyed… she should have paid more attention to her first aim, the burning shrapnel could have killed them all… but there was no time to think. The explosion had momentarily distracted the guards — several were knocked to the floor — and it was time to move… fast.

Suddenly Captain Starr burst in, swinging through the open door, his gun letting loose a few parting shots back at the guards behind him. “Let’s go!” he shouted as he flung the door shut. Arnham was already ahead of him. In seconds he had the ship off the ground and accelerating toward the open door at the end of the port.

But then they all saw it; their worst fear.

“The doors!” Aylin cried.

Already the distance between the edge of the heavy hangar door and the floor had been cut down to half, and it was slowly but ponderously moving to cut off their escape. Just a few more seconds and they would be too close, and their small ship would smash irreparably into the edges of threatening metal.

The engines began to whine. “It’ll take a second —” Arnham started to say.

“We don’t have a second!” the captain snapped at him, and Arnham barely had time to slide out of the way before Draekel Starr grabbed the controls. Arnham did not argue.

The ship whined slightly in protest as the captain urged it forward, but his expert hands knew its limits. Tensely he gripped the controls, his minute adjustments keeping the ship aimed just underneath the door. His black eyes were set in that intense gaze he wore when he concentrated hard, and normally Aylin would have been watching his skilled movements as he expertly controlled the ship, but she could not tear her eyes from the possible source of their imminent demise.

Her hands were gripping her gun again, hard, but she did not feel it. Almost there…

The ship was through. The closing door had caught their tail, and a vicious jolt followed them through, but they had made it. She gave a shout of joy, Arnham heaved a tremendous sigh, and the captain’s glance in their direction carried a shaky smile. He was breathing hard from his run, and the hand on the controls shook from the tension of escaping, but his black eyes were sparking with excitement. “Well,” he said. “I don’t think that Miss Shaelia will hear about this mission,” he said with a mischievous grin. “And don’t either of you tell her.”

Aylin laughed; Miss Shaelia Starr never wanted to hear any details about the obvious dangers of her husband’s particular choice of occupation — “Just having you come home is enough for me,” she’d say — and it was a joke that the captain was always bringing up. Arnham was grinning as he watched the monitors; the captain gave Aylin a sly wink behind his back, and she returned it with a knowing smile.

There would be more ships sent to follow them, she knew, but the Zargons no longer mattered. No one could overtake the captain at the controls of the fastest ship in the Galaxy. He was teaching her — and Arnham, of course — to fly the K-16 fighter ships, and they had flown together on the captain’s missions for four years now. Aylin had made the captain promise her, a long time ago: he would teach her to fly the K-16s as well as he did, and together they would be undefeatable. It was her dream, as it had been for as long as she could remember, which was only about the last ten Standard years.

Captain Starr reset a few system controls with one hand, the other he ran through his dark hair, expelling a long breath. “Did you release them all?” he asked after a pause, glancing over at Arnham.

“Yes sir,” he answered immediately. “There were six, sir, in prison blocks eleven and twelve. We told them where to find the ships and to report to the general once they reached Aliok.” Whether or not they had all escaped the base could not be known yet, but the two of them had fulfilled their responsibilities.

“Good.”

Aylin checked the radar; two ships were just leaving the base, and more were sure to follow, but the K-16 was already nearly point-two jarr ahead, and had cleared the lower atmosphere. They would be free soon enough.

The captain punched in the code to scramble his message and sent a radio transmission. In a few moments, the radio crackled. “Captain?” It was the general in Aliok, the man in charge of Mardoc’s armed forces.

“Sir, we’ve released the six Mardoc prisoners,” Captain Starr reported, his gaze drifting across the darkening star field through the window in front of him. “They should be on their way back to Aliok right now.”

“Excellent, Starr. Well done…”

Aylin half listened to the radio conversation, and half watched the small green dots on the radar screen slip farther and farther away from the escaping blue dot. Arnham was in control of the ship now, as he usually was, and she watched with longing as he carefully adjusted their direction and speed and set their course for Mardoc. The captain had said — promised — that when Arnham left them he would teach Aylin everything he knew, but still she could not help but envy him the head start he was getting. Sure, she watched and listened, and picked up a great deal, but as of yet she had not been allowed to actually try her hand at the K-16s.

Mom would have a fit if I did, she thought wryly, and the smile that she had shared with the captain tugged again at her lips. Shaelia Starr approved even less of Aylin’s participation in anything involving danger, but her daughter’s eager appetite for excitement and thrill could not be sated, nor thwarted by sage advice.

Suddenly a part of the previously-ignored radio conversation caught her ear. “… you say that you freed six prisoners?” the general was asking.

“That’s right,” Draekel Starr repeated. “My two students did the actual work; I just gave our Zargon friends a little… distraction.” He gave them a grin over his radio.

“That’s odd,” the general could be heard to say. There was a long pause.

“Sir?”

“Our records show that the convoy that was attacked had only five Mardoc ships… Unless the records are wrong, there was no sixth.”

Captain Starr glanced over his shoulder at her and at Arnham for confirmation. Aylin gave him a bewildered shrug. “There were six, sir,” Arnham verified quietly. “One was in a different prison block, but all six were listed as Mardoc prisoners in the computers.”

A furrow appeared between the captain’s eyebrows, and Aylin could see that he was as puzzled as they were over the discrepancy. “Well, sir,” he said at last to the general, “we freed six prisoners just now — is it possible there could be a mistake in the records?”

“Possible, yes, but not likely at all. I also have the records with me of each one of the travelers and their destination and what goods they were carrying, and only five are listed here.”

“Hm,” Draekel said. “The mistake must have been in the Zargon prisoner records, then. Or else my students can’t count,” he added, tossing them a grin over his shoulder to let them know that he was teasing. “Oh well, any stranger who happens to make an enemy of the Zargons is a friend of mine — and one I don’t mind springing out of a Zargon prison. Been there once or twice myself, you know, and I didn’t want to linger.” He laughed good-naturedly.

“I suppose you’re right,” the general agreed. “Well anyway, if six of them do show up here I guess we’ll know, and if it’s only five… well, we’ve made a new friend. I’m grateful for your service again, Starr, and I’ll see you back here as soon as you return for a full report.”

The radio was turned off, and as soon as it was silent Captain Starr turned back to them. “Well, what do you make of that?”

Arnham was flying the ship, trying to get the blue dot farther away from the green dots, so he didn’t look up. “I don’t know, sir.”

Her father’s eyes met hers with the same question, but all Aylin could do was shrug. She was thinking about the man with the dark eyes and dark hair who had stared out at her in uncomprehending surprise from behind the access-restriction beams in Block Twelve. Suddenly she got a chill, wondering who she had released. Sure, like the captain had said, he was obviously no friend of the Zargons, and therefore probably intended them no harm, but still… Her mind leapt with the possibilities of what he might be — a famous bounty hunter, a secret spy, even a captured king or royalty from some Zargon-conquered planet… she sighed heavily. Arnham was always teasing her that she had an overactive imagination and she put it to good use. But of course, that particular sentiment came from a person who — in Aylin’s opinion — had no imagination whatsoever.

“Let’s get on back to Mardoc; those Zargon ships won’t follow long,” the captain was saying. Aylin looked at the radar and saw that it was true — the pursuing ships had fallen out of long range.

Aliok. She had never particularly enjoyed sitting in the general’s large office and listening to the captain report the details of their missions. The large, cushioned chairs weren’t so bad, of course, and she had always been fascinated by the patterns of light that the sunset made on the roof, as it danced across the tops of the waves of the sea below the glass windows… but the reports were always long and boring. The general, a man named Narkis Lakkan, was nice enough, with graying hair and a face that mixed both smile creases and worry wrinkles, but in her recent younger days he had terrified her, and she still sometimes felt uncomfortable around him.

But when they arrived at the official government docking ports in Mardoc’s capital city of Aliok, Captain Starr had a surprise for them. After making them both run through the shutdown checklists, he gave them a smile and said unexpectedly, “We’ve only got a little bit to report this time, and I can probably handle it on my own, so why don’t you two take a walk around the buildings while I talk to General Lakkan. You’ll be staying here for good soon, Arnham, so you might as well get used to the place a little.”

Arnham and Aylin gave him surprised looks; it wasn’t normal for him to let them off what he had always termed “the mandatory pleasure” of reporting their mission’s successes or failures… but then, their previous missions hadn’t carried the weight of being their last mission together. They both were quick to accept his offer — Arnham disliked reporting almost as much as Aylin did, although he was less obvious about it than she was — and hurried to finish the final work so they could leave. Captain Starr left them with a grin and a promise to meet them back here in an hour… and a customary wink to his daughter that Arnham didn’t see.

Aylin ran her hand over the K-16’s sleek side as she climbed down the ladder, and allowed thoughts of the future to slide through her mind. She could not help but love these thoughts, those that made her breath quicken and her heart beat faster — thoughts of flying these ships, the fastest in the Galaxy, on missions with Captain Starr, thoughts of fighting for her people and her home, thoughts of becoming a pilot that the Galaxy knew and revered or feared… like her father.

All that would come soon enough, and although it could not come fast enough for her liking, she would wait.

“Are you coming?” Arnham asked from the other side of the ship. Aylin nodded happily and ducked underneath the K-16 to join him. She would wait because she had to, but already she could sense the excitement she would feel when she too turned in her application and walked through the doors of this huge, awe-inspiring building and into her new life.

Just three and a half more Standard years.