DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) (18 page)

Dear Immortal Architect,
John prayed,
there has to
be something I
. . .
no
. . .
something
You
. . .
can do
.

John looked up and the bare wall caught his eye just as the door
appeared. In stepped the DarkStar avatar and three-year-old Ericca, the Archer’s
first child.

Ericca, wearing a white frilly dress, was adorable. Her dark
reddish-brown hair formed ringlets as it flowed about her shoulders.

At seeing Shepherd Bauer, the little girl pulled free of DarkStar’s
hand to run and jump into his arms.

“Uncle John!” Ericca kissed his cheek, “You know what? DarkStar
is teaching me times tables.”

“At age three? My, you are a smart little girl, aren’t you?”

Ericca gave him a severe look. “Uncle John,
I
am a
big
girl now.” She twisted to point at her mother’s round belly.
“
That
guy is little.”

John chuckled. “I stand corrected. You are, indeed, big,
aren’t you? I’ll not soon make that mistake again.”

“Promise?”

John nodded, kissed her cheek, and then set her down before
turning to
DarkStar’s
avatar. “I see, DarkStar, that you’re dressing in
a more
contemporary
fashion and less like an angel these days.”

With an accepting smile, she politely dipped her head once.
“That was Captain Lilia’s idea, sir.”

Lilia shrugged. “What can I say? I never got used to an
angel on board, DarkStar, but you’ve been a real friend.”

“I can only imagine,” John said.

Standing on a chair, little Ericca peered out a window. The
Dalvus Nebula, as close as it was, filled the entire view on that side of the
ship. Sitting at the heart of Confederate Territory, it cradled Parandi, the
capital planet; Atheron; Chagwa; and a number of less important planets; and
acting as a great barrier to the Providence Union.

Atheron’s sun, though now at a great distance, was still the
brightest star in the sky. What if they went back to Atheron? What if they sought
out the followers in Seychelles as Stan believed was necessary? What then?

John drew a breath and, in exasperation, released it slowly.
There was no point to Stan’s going back. What would it prove anyway?

“Look what the Immortal Architect made, Uncle John,” Ericca
said. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Unencumbered by life’s worries, she saw things as simple and
uncomplicated. If only her dad could.

Just then, the wall opened again and Stan stepped in.
Kissing his wife, he gave her a hug. In the next instant Stan was at his
daughter’s side to share the moment. “Whatcha lookin’ at, honey?”

Ericca started to hum, and then quietly broke into a little
song. “The Immortal Architect loves me this I know . . . for
that
tells me so.”

John saw that Ericca was pointing at the huge Dalvus Nebula . . .
but whatever she saw eluded him. He glanced at Stan, only to find anger filling
his face. Stan shot an annoyed look at John, turned abruptly, and left the
bridge again.

Lilia followed him, but only with her eyes.

It was tough, but John turned back to the nebula rather than
chase the man down. And then he saw it as well. “Oh, man, how could I have
missed that?” He drew an arm over Ericca’s shoulder and wondered how Stan had
interpreted this; such a powerful image.

“
DarkStar
, all stop, please,” Lilia said. She had
seen the vision in the nebula when she stepped next to John.

A myriad of colors, shadows, and light, painted a picture of
a hand reaching out toward them. Chagwa, blocking its own sun, was in shadow
and, looking like a dark hole, seemed to pierce the hand’s palm.

John realized that Stan’s answer wasn’t complex at all. All Stan
needed was the Immortal Architect’s love. His sacrifice enveloped everything it
touched with pure righteousness.

The hand, palm up and pierced, could be seen only here, at
this specific angle.

John recognized the star sitting atop the print of the
extended forefinger. He knew Stan did as well.

It was Atheron.

But he couldn’t figure why this image would upset Stan.

John understood Stan had never received the absolution he so
desperately longed for, nor accepted the Lord’s love he so greatly needed. It
was well within Stan’s reach; all he had to do was accept the forgiveness as
meant for him.

Sighing, John refocused on the rest of his flock. “I have to
show this to our passengers,” he said turning on his heel. “Cargo bay.”

The smooth, bare wall irised open and John stepped through
the circular portal. As it closed behind him, he went to the cargo bay’s side
door to open it so everyone could see out toward Dalvus.

The awestruck refugees gave a sudden, corporate gasp
followed by total silence.

The picture painted in the nebula, although an illusion,
seemed to say, “The price was paid, come.”

But why would this view upset Stan? John dropped his eyes to
ask the Immortal Architect for the answer, and then looked up to see the hand
afresh, but he received no response.

Stan paced the ship several times, but found no release from
his anger.

As he cut through the cargo bay, he heard the oohs and ahhs
of the passengers speaking in hushed reverent whispers of the Immortal Architect’s
grace regarding the scene before them. All he saw was an accusatory pointing
finger demanding justice.

An hour had passed since he was last on the bridge, but he
had no desire to go there. Instead he took his anger with him all the way to
his daughter’s room, but he buried it before peeking in.

She was back from the bridge, and he found her focused on a
figurine of some sort. Her long, curly, dark-red hair contrasting with the
white chiffon dress her mother had just finished, made her look like a
porcelain doll as she sat at the base of her chest of drawers.

“Whatcha got there?”

Ericca looked up and stared at him with eyes that said, oh,
oh, I’ve been caught. “I just wanted to look at this, Daddy. Now it’s broke.”

Stan stepped into the room. Ericca held up the statuette
that had once topped his wedding cake. Lilia treasured the china piece for a
reason. Carl Ogier had removed the original ornaments—
separate figures of a
bride and groom
—and had replaced them with this
one
; a single
ornament of a groom embracing his bride. Connected only from the waist up, the
kiss, sweet and innocent, implied a perfect union.

He took a seat on her bed as she got to her feet and handed
two pieces to him. The groom had been snapped in half at the waist.

“Honey, you weren’t supposed to take this without asking.
It’s not a toy. It belongs to Mom. You have to give it back.”

“I know, Daddy. I’m sorry I broke it. I can’t give it back
to Mommy like this.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Daddy, I want you to fix it please.”

Stan pressed the groom’s lower half to the upper to study
the damage. Although it was a clean break, Stan never had any luck with this
sort of thing.

He remembered one of his mother’s figurines suffering a
similar fate after an illicit
in-the-house
, ill-thrown baseball got away
from him. With glue everywhere, and the damage growing worse with his every
attempt to fix it, the ornament ended up looking like a poorly constructed 3D
jigsaw puzzle. Hiding it and himself in his room in the hopes Mom’s favorite
Hummel wouldn’t be missed was probably not the best choice a ten-year-old could
have made. The resulting spanking wouldn’t have been as severe had he fessed up
to begin with, as his buddy Dennis Dugan had suggested.

“I don’t think I can fix this, sweet cheeks. Glue and I
always seem at odds with each other. You just need to take this back to Mommy
and explain.” He tried to hand the pieces back to her but, met with such
grief-stricken eyes, he felt his heart skip a beat.

“Daddy, you can fix it. You have too.”

His little girl had Mom’s eyes. Dark brown and compelling,
they had a way of obligating him to impossible tasks in spite of himself.

“Okay, honey, but give me time. I want to do it right,
okay?”

Her gaze held just a hint of suspicion as she brought her
face just inches from his. “
You
fix it, Daddy. Not
DarkStar
,
okay?”

“I was thinking
DarkStar
might do a better job.”

“No, Daddy. Your hands only please. Your hands have more
love in them.”

Stan chuckled. “They do?”

Unexpectedly, Ericca’ eyes filled with tears and she lurched
into his embrace. “You’re my daddy. You’ve got more love in your hands than
anybody. You have to fix it, you just have to.”

Stan held her close as his mind raced in search of a way out
of this, but he found none. “Okay, baby girl. I’ll do my best.”

“Promise?” Holding him tight, she was reluctant to let go.

Finally focused on what was actually taking place, Stan
pushed everything else from his mind and just held her, giving her all the time
and attention she needed.

After a long moment, she kissed his cheek and pulled away.

His cheeks pulled into an honest smile all on their own. He
kissed her forehead, crossed his heart, and said, “I promise, okay? I’ll do it
for you.”

As she nodded, Stan saw that the trust in her large, dark,
eyes would hold him to his pledge. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Ericca, I’m going to require payment though.”

Her eyes lit up. “Okay.” She quickly pulled open the top
drawer of her dresser, brought out a sock and from it dumped three coins into
her hand. “I got lots of money. You can have it all, Daddy.” She then plopped
three Providence pennies into his palm.

Wide eyed, brows arched high; Stan looked at the coins and
shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is not nearly enough, honey. This won’t do
at all.”

She cocked her head. “I saved this from holiday. It’s all I
have. I don’t have any more money, Daddy.”

Stan gently took her hand, set the coins in it, and curled
her fingers around them. “My price is
two
great big hugs. One now and
one when I’ve finished. I know the amount is steep but—”

Ericca threw her arms around his neck nearly strangling him
in her embrace. “I love you, Daddy.” He was her hero, or was supposed to be
anyway, and now he was committed to facing his old enemy, glue.

He kissed her cheek and took the pieces to the small repair
shop just off the cargo bay. Pushing his helmet aside, he set the figurine
pieces on the counter. His helmet now had more than half the hashes poorly painted
over with white.

“I wish Carl were here. Lucky stiff, gallivanting around the
‘verse . . . saving folks. Oh, well. The kid makes a great Paladin; I
just wonder how well he and glue get along.”

“I hear he’s working on Atheron as we speak.”

Stan turned to find DarkStar standing in the doorway. “I’m
not going back there to hunt him down just to fix this.” He thought about it
for a moment before shrugging off the notion.

“DarkStar, do we have a proper adhesive for this?”

“One moment, sir.”

In another instant, a small door opened on a cabinet’s face.
From inside Stan pulled out a small tube of glue. “Thanks, DarkStar.”

A vision popped into his head niggling at his already
heightened apprehension; a picture of himself, hands dripping with adhesive,
and stuck fast to a cabinet door.

From a retractable arm, a magnifying glass hung below an
upper cabinet. Stan used it to see the glue tube’s label. “Oh, great. Even that
mocks me.”

DarkStar’s
label read, “Adhesive for Stan.”

With a tightened jaw, he faced this enemy with great
deference.

“Let’s see . . . Just unscrew the lid, and dab a
drop here and here.” Stan replaced the lid and brought the figurine’s lower
half carefully to the upper. “Perfect.”

If not for a faint but visible seam, the joint was
faultless. Nothing he couldn’t live with at any rate, but what would Lilia
think?

Careful to check for stray glue on his fingertips, Stan slid
the little cake topper to the countertop’s back edge.

From this distance the bride and groom looked perfect. No
one would notice the groom’s flaw, no one but Stan that is. Stan pulled a bar
stool close, sat on it, and leaned on the counter to admire his work, but
something about the figurine made his brow stiffen. If it weren’t for the sentimental
value he and Lilia held for it, he would have tossed it against the wall.

He turned away, but the tightness in his forehead spread to
his temples. Stan threw up his hands in resignation.

Actually, what the figurine represented was most fitting; a
flawed groom . . . a flawless bride . . . forever joined.

He slammed a fist against the wall but was too furious to
feel any pain.

A nonchalant “Ouch,” came from the doorway. DarkStar, now
leaning on the doorjamb, had her arms folded.

“I’m sorry, DarkStar.”

“It’s okay, sir. I’m sure your anger wasn’t aimed at me.”
She slid a box of tissues his way.

Stan gave the box a puzzled look. “What’s that for?” And
then he noticed his cheeks were wet. Had he been crying? He must have been so
riled up he hadn’t noticed that either.

“Can you tell me what’s got you upset, sir.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s that stupid thing.”
He shot a thumb over his shoulder toward the porcelain piece. It represents Lilia
and me pretty well, don’t you think?”

She pushed herself from the door jam, stepped forward, and
took the piece in hand to study it more closely.

“This is a cake decoration.” Her tone said she attributed no
more to it than that.

Stan rolled his head to loosen stiff neck muscles before
letting out a long sigh.

As the avatar admired the figurine, a smile began to lift
her cheeks. “Ericca will be so happy that you fixed it.”

Stan stood abruptly, snatched the small statue from her
grasp, and threw it with all his might at the far wall.

DarkStar, instantly there before it connected with the
bulkhead, caught it with one hand.

With a clamped jaw, Stan glared at her in exasperation.
There was no beating someone who could disappear and reappear somewhere else in
a heartbeat. And less of a chance with someone who could appear in two places
at once. The blasted holographic avatar was there before it left his hand. He
turned to leave, but
that
DarkStar blocked his way.

“It’s a cake decoration, sir. Why are you portraying it as
something beyond that?”

He glanced away and shook his head. Why was he letting it affect
him more than it should? It was just a keepsake, a little porcelain memory of a
significant day, nothing more. He took a deep breath and released it hard.

The second avatar, from behind him, held the statuette over
his shoulder. “Here you go, sir. Ericca will be so happy to have it back.”

Stan yanked it from her grasp, half glanced at it and then
looked again. The groom was flawed—so what? Realistically the tiny crease was
hardly noticeable across the once smooth, jet-black porcelain tuxedo.

“DarkStar, I’m sure Ericca expected more from me. My hands
only, she said. But that’s the best it’ll be. I’m no miracle worker.”

“No, sir. You’re not. You are an imperfect human who has
needs just like everyone else. No one expects you to be perfect—no one.”

He checked it once more under the magnifier, but the crack
remained. Oh, well . . . It wasn’t going to get any better. Lilia
would notice, but maybe she would accept it anyway. She had accepted
him
with all his flaws, why wouldn’t she accept this?

“May I ask you something, Captain?”

“Sure, DarkStar.” He looked up at the Avatar’s
expressionless face.

“Do you think Lilia is without her faults . . .
even with the Immortal Architect’s hand on her?” And with that, both avatars
merged into one, then vanished.

Stan ran his thumb over the porcelain. The seam felt deeper
than it looked.

Just then, Ericca burst in, panting hard. “Daddy! . . .
Mommy’s . . . having . . . the baby.”

Stan stuffed the porcelain figurine into a pocket, snatched
up the three-year-old, and headed for the infirmary. Once in the hall just
outside the med-room, he let Ericca down. “DarkStar?”

The avatar appeared before them. “Sir?”

“Take care of Ericca, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Stan knelt before Ericca, pulled the cake topper from his
pocket, and handed it to her. “Ericca, take this and go with DarkStar.”

Wide-eyed, she looked at the porcelain piece for only a
brief moment before throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Stan kissed her cheek, stood, then stepped into the room.

Margery Barrett, a practiced midwife, had Lilia sitting
erect on a birthing bed. Its back was mostly upright, as near chair-like as
Margery could get it.

Lilia, already red-faced with labor pains, motioned to Stan
to come closer so she could take his hand.

Thirteen hours later, Stan stepped from the room, and braced
himself on a wall. The labor started poorly and had gotten worse with each
passing minute despite Mrs. Barrett and the avatar’s best efforts.

Approaching total exhaustion, and barely audible, Lilia
called for her mother.

DarkStar agreed with Mrs. Barrett’s assessment, this might
be the last chance Lilia and her parents would have to see each other. Making
that happen fell squarely on Stan’s shoulders.

“
DarkStar
, turn us around and get us back to Atheron
as fast as you can.”

The avatar appeared before him. “Where would you like me to
set down?”

“Get us back to Seychelles and hide in the woods just north
of the village. Hurry.”

“Yes, sir. Ericca’s awake. I’ll take her with me to the
bridge.”

“Please. Just don’t alarm her.”

“I’ll let her pretend she’s the pilot.”

Stan nodded and watched the avatar head away.
DarkStar
had played ‘little girl pilot’ with his daughter before. Good, Ericca would be
occupied with matters other than her mother’s condition. He turned his
attention back to his wife.