Yanur stood by and watched as they gathered their children and belongings and left. Once they were gone, he returned to his friend’s side and, ignoring the earlier order to leave, settled down to wait.
Less than an hour later, an isolated portion of the night sky began to shimmer and, like a hologram taking on definition and substance, an alien spaceship emerged
.
Caught dozing, Yanur scrambled to his feet, fearfully looking upward
.
Clutching the tube hanging from his necklace in a death grip, he gave Alex’s body a final look and a silent prayer, then turned and ran from the beach
.
* * * * *
Skeeter’s was the last remaining icon of an era gone by. Situated at the remote end of the Las Vegas Coastal Airfield, the Old World pub offered sanctuary to world-weary travelers down on their luck. The ale might be watered down, but it was cheap. The meals weren’t gourmet, but they were hot and the portions filling. The rooms upstairs were small and lacked the amenities considered standard fare at even the low-end hotels, but they came free of pests (of all species) and could be rented by the hour, day or month with no ID and no questions.
The gaming that went on twenty-four / seven in the dank side rooms was just this side of legal. The activities that took place in the back rooms were so far outside the law that most patrons felt it was safer to pretend nothing was going on. All in all, Skeeter’s was a place best avoided by self-respecting, law-abiding citizens and the last place one would look to find a young woman of good breeding from an affluent family. Which was precisely why Angel Torrence called it home.
Sitting now in the cockpit of her Falcon XLT, she studied the pub’s lights shining from across the tarmac. It had been a safe place to hide these past two years. Given the circumstances, she’d almost been happy here, but two years was about a year and a half too long. It was time to move on.
She was in a better position to leave now, she thought, running a hand lovingly along the console of what was soon to be her ship. The money she'd earned from this last job gave her enough to make the final payment. Then, with the means to go anywhere, maybe, just maybe, she could finally be free.
Free. She’d been on the run since she was fifteen. Running from those who wished to control her, use her for their own purposes. Running from those who refused to let her go. In the early days, her survival had been more thanks to luck than anything else, but she'd been born with the ability to think on her feet and experience had made her tough. Now she worked as an independent galactic courier - uncertified, because that required registration and a background check, but her lack of certification didn’t matter to the clientele she attracted. Transporting illegal goods wasn’t always easy, but it was lucrative.
She'd just finished a run and Dugan would be waiting to hear how things went on Felinea. More important, he’d want his money.
Angel verified that the stasis field holding the ship firmly anchored to the ground was operational before leaving the pilot's seat. She headed down the short passageway to the small onboard cabin to retrieve her things, pausing when she caught sight of her reflection in the small wall mirror.
After eight years, the dark-haired woman staring back at her should have looked familiar. Angel absently ran her fingers through her too-short hair, remembering how long - and blonde - it had been eight years ago. It had nearly reached her waist - and acted like a shining beacon of light bringing her too easily to the attention of those looking for her.
That first week on her own, she'd cut it herself and, using a cup of concentrated coffee swiped from an outdoor cafe, she'd dyed the uneven strands dark brown. The residue from the beverage had left her hair stiff and sticking out from her head. What she hadn't realized at the time was that her new style, combined with her light violet eyes and dark clothes gave her a tough, edgy appearance that went a long way toward making sure no one bothered her.
Shaking herself of the memories, she opened the closet door and, grabbing a cap, pulled it low to partially hide her face. She checked the charge on her gun before securing it the shoulder holster, knowing it would be well concealed beneath the heavy leather of the flight jacket.
When she reached for the satchel containing Dugan’s money and hefted it over her shoulder, pain lanced through her side. Sneaking a look beneath the jacket, she saw that her wound had opened and blood had seeped through the homemade bandage onto her shirt. The stain was small, so she figured the bleeding would stop soon and she wouldn’t need stitches after all.
With the satchel in hand, she exited the ship.
The sun was just beginning its ascent across the eastern sky, painting the airfield in a vibrant display of pink, orange and yellow. Despite the early hour, there was a steady drone of activity on the airfield. At least a hundred ships hovered a meter or two over designated landing pads, stasis fields holding them in place while maintenance crews ran through pre- or post- flight checks. The field itself was in decent shape considering it was routinely subjected to terrorist attacks. The last attack had been only a couple of weeks ago and Angel hoped she'd be long gone before the next one came.
At the head of the tarmac stood the Control Tower, from which all launches and landings were coordinated. Even this far away, she smelled the familiar pungent odor of Tyrillium fumes and inhaled deeply, watching as pilots and other personnel rushed back and forth, taking care of business. She would miss all this.
She gave her ship a cursory once over. Everything appeared in order. As much out of habit as curiosity, she took note of her neighbors. Most of the ships she knew by sight. On the left hovered TJ’s derelict cruiser, the kind typically used for common trade. On the right, however, was a sleek little number she’d not seen before. A real beaut. A smaller craft designed for high speeds and long distances. She wondered if it handled as good as it looked and ignored a twinge of longing to find out. Drawn by peculiar openings on either side of the nose, she stepped closer. Smartly embedded in the outer paneling were PCPs: pulse cannon portals. Definitely not a standard aircraft. It might have been government issue, but why keep it here? The United System of Planets’ Security Forces had its own airfield not far from here.
Bold blue letters across the side spelled out the ship’s name,
Icarus
. The name sounded familiar. She searched her memory of ancient Earth folklore and remembered a character from Greek mythology who had fashioned wings out of wax and feathers to fly. Unfortunately, he had foolishly flown too close to the sun, causing the wax to melt and him to plummet to his death.
Was this really an appropriate name for a starship? The ship’s owner certainly had an odd sense of humor, which negated the government theory - for obvious reasons. As everyone knew, the government was not capable of humor.
Turning from the ship, Angel scanned the tarmac once again before starting across. The sense of foreboding that had started last evening before she left for Felinea was getting worse. If what happened there was any indication of what was to come, the sooner she left, the better.
Inside Skeeter’s, things were quiet. Only the die-hard patrons were still up and about at this hour. A few heads turned briefly at her entrance. Across the room, Martin stood behind the bar, cloth in hand, wiping down the counter. Ol’ Joe was passed out in his usual spot, head down, a thin stream of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth to pool on the countertop below. Over by the stairs, Pixie was finishing “business” negotiations with a potential client. Angel had to admire the older woman’s stamina. This was probably her tenth customer tonight. Other patrons sat around gaming tables, wagering and drinking ale. It was the same scene as a hundred times before, right down to the outsider sitting in the corner.
He looked out of place drinking coffee, but he was minding his own business. Angel could respect that.
She gave a mental shrug and continued into the room. She had her own problems to worry about. The door to Dugan’s office was closed and she knew better than to knock. Martin had no doubt pressed the button under the counter alerting Dugan to her arrival, so she headed over to the bar to wait.
“How ya doin,’ Angel?” Martin’s smile was warm and friendly while her own no doubt came across looking more like a grimace. Tucking the toe of her boot under the bottom rung of a stool to pull it out, she hiked one hip onto the seat, leaving her other foot on the floor for balance. With effort, she lifted the satchel off her shoulder and onto the countertop.
“Jeez girl, what happened to you?”
Angel looked up and saw Martin staring at where her jacket gaped open revealing a shirt stained with more blood than the last time she'd checked. She quickly pulled it closed. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. You run into trouble on Felinea?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.” She smiled at the lame joke while Martin continued to frown.
“Yeah?” He sounded skeptical. “Maybe I should take a look at it. Clean it up. Do a little sewing?”
“No thanks.”
Martin didn’t press her further, but instead reached under the bar to pull out a double-shot glass, which he filled with an iridescent sky-blue liquid.
He pushed the glass toward her. She downed the icy cool liquid in a single swallow. Martian Ale went down cold, but arrived hot. As the warmth spread throughout her body, the pain in her side eased.
Angel pushed the empty shot glass across the counter, indicating with her hand that Martin should fill it again.
He gave her a questioning look. “You never drink more than one. That side of yours must be hurting.”
“I’m celebrating,” she said, watching him fill the glass again.
“Really? Care to share the good news?”
“As of tonight, I am the proud owner of one Falcon XLT space craft.”
Tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m free.
“And at such a young age, too.” Martin smiled. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.” He pushed the refilled shot glass toward her, then poured a smaller one for himself. They raised their glasses in a silent toast and downed the contents. This time the icy burn wasn’t as startling to her system.
“Tell me about the stiff in the corner?”
“Don’t know," Martin said. "He doesn’t talk much, just sits and drinks coffee. Every now and then, he’ll look at his watch and go outside. I followed him once, just to see where he went.”
“And?” Angel prompted when he paused.
“And nothing. He walks over to that sleek little number on the field, you know the one I mean, and just stands there for a minute like he’s waiting for someone. Then he comes back here and orders more coffee.”
Angel lazily pondered what the man was up to. Thanks to the Martian Ale, she felt almost as good as new. Her hands absently played with the empty shot glass as her attention wandered down the bar.
“I miss something?” She nodded toward the images flitting across the vid-screen.
“Harvester attack, not far from here. West Beach.”
“You're kidding? How'd I miss that?” Angel absorbed the news in shock. She’d just flown over that area not an hour ago.
“Yeah.” Martin nodded. “It’s getting so decent folk aren’t safe going out at night.”
Angel shot him a look, eyebrows raised. How long had it been since either of them had been considered “decent folk”?
“Point is, no one is safe anymore.” He focused his look at her injured side.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Torrence!” A male voiced bellowed. “Get your ass in here.”
“Then again...” She pushed the empty glass toward Martin and slid from the stool. “Been nice knowing you.” Hardly wincing this time when she hefted the satchel onto her shoulder, she headed for the back room.
Alistar “Skeeter” Dugan, Underground Boss of the West Side, was in his mid-fifties and sported an athletic build just starting to go soft. His commanding presence gave him the stature his average height could not. He was overbearing, unforgiving, and his sense of humor had died along with his wife and daughter ten years ago. He was not a man to be messed with and Angel had no doubt that if she irritated him enough, he would forget how much she reminded him of his daughter.
“I know what you're going to say and I'm telling you, it wasn’t my fault.” She slid the satchel off her shoulder and let it fall to the desktop. “By the way, here’s your money.”
“Not your fault?” Dugan shouted, slamming the door behind her. “You shot the son of Felinea’s leading crime boss!”
“Give me a break, it’s not like I killed him. It was just a scratch.”
“You shot off his –.”
“I know what I shot off,” Angel interrupted. “Look, the guy was all over me. I told him I wasn’t interested, but the more I said ‘no,’ the more he heard ‘yes.’ I didn’t have any other choice. Besides, what’s the big fuss? He’s Felinean. It’ll grow back.”