DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) (20 page)

Tobin stepped from the room.

Carl lay stretched out on a cushioned bench in the hallway,
but sat up when Tobin came out. “How is she, Mr. Slone?”

Tobin glanced back at the closed door. “It was a hard
labor—healthy baby boy—but she may not . . .” The words caught
in his throat. No, he’d not give voice to doubt, not now. “Lilia just needs to
rest, that’s all. She’ll be fine.”

Carl forced a smile. “Sure she will. I’m convinced of it.”

“About Stan . . . You say you know him?”

“For five years now.” Carl got to his feet and gestured
toward the far end of the hall to a side room, a repair shop off the cargo bay.
He picked up a helmet that sat on a corner of the counter-top and handed it to
Tobin.

“What’s this?” the older man asked, not understanding Carl’s
action. Someone had done a poor job painting over more than half the black
marks with white paint. “You must have known Archer before the
Princess
was destroyed.”

“I did. That helmet, those hashes are the reason Stan was
the way he was.” Carl looked away and rubbed his face with a firm hand before
looking back at Tobin. “Yeah, I knew him. He was my squadron leader.”

“No wonder you’re defending him. You’re as bad as—”

“There were times when I couldn’t stand looking into the
man’s eyes either. But that’s only because in them I saw my future; I saw my
eyes in five years time, devoid of life. I suppose that’s what I hated the
most; the thought of winding up like that. But I was with him on that mission.
I flew his wing, Mr. Slone.”

Tobin couldn’t hide his disappointment in Carl. “Oh, I see,”
he said, at once discounting anything else the man might say.

“No, sir, you don’t see. In each
Dart
fighter there
is a small screen dedicated to your partner’s face. As I watched Stan, I saw a
change take place that surprised me. To handle the tight turns and such, a
pilot has to have a concentrated focus and strong stomach, but as we dove on
the
Princess
, before we launched that first torpedo or fired the first
shot, I saw Stan turn pale. He looked as though he was about to pass out.”

“So?”

“Look at those hashes. At one time there were better than
five hundred, each representing a kill. Though he was a seasoned soldier, it was
all he could do to follow his orders this time.”

“He could have disobeyed them. He had a choice.”

“He could have . . .” Carl’s gaze was intense
as he considered Tobin “. . . but he would have died in the
attempt, and the attack would have continued anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s the way strikes are set up. His
Dart
was in Lt.
Troy Younger’s crosshairs.”

“Excuse me?”

“Troy was Stan’s second in command. Had Stan veered away or
failed to launch that first torpedo, Troy was duty bound to kill him. And Troy
would have done it without thinking twice. For Troy, it would have meant his
immediate promotion to captain.”

“Bad guy was he . . . this Troy fella.
Even
for an Enforcer?”

Carl half nodded. “To say the least. Unlike Stan, or myself,
Troy loved to kill, and he didn’t give one wit about innocence or guilt. He and
Stan were like brothers once, but despite that, Troy would have ended Stan in a
heartbeat.”

“So I’m to forgive Stan Archer despite that downing?”

“You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Slone. Look at that helmet. Stan
has tried to backtrack his killing the only way he knows how. Each painted over
hash mark represents a life saved since the downing.

He still thinks in terms of an eye-for-an-eye, and hasn’t
gotten hold of His saving Grace. You’re just like him in that regard.”

Tobin looked away. “A price has to be paid for what he did.
Someone has to pay for that ship’s destruction.”

“Someone already has. The real culprit is behind bars. As
far as Stan is concerned, let me remind you of St. Paul on the road to
Damascus. He, too, murdered followers; and thought he was doing the Immortal Architect’s
work, until he met Him on that dirt road. It took Paul better than eighteen
years to get the followers in Jerusalem to see he had changed. Eighteen years
is a long time, Mr. Slone. Don’t make the man wait. You, sir, aren’t that
important in the vast scheme of things.”

That pricked, but Tobin couldn’t refute Carl’s reasoning.
Who was he to deny Stan what the Immortal Architect had so freely given.

Tobin still needed to build a bridge back to his daughter.
Maybe confronting Stan, no, maybe
talking
to him . . . He owed
his daughter at least that much anyway.

“Where’s Stan now?”

“
DarkStar?
”

“Captain Archer is in the hall, sir, showing the baby to Ericca.”

Tobin turned away, took a couple reluctant steps before
glancing back at Carl. “Trying to be a man of the Immortal Architect, is he?”

Carl gestured toward the door. “See for yourself.”

Tobin looked at the helmet once more before tossing it to
Carl.

Drawing a deep breath as if he were about to take a plunge
into icy water, he released it slowly, and then stepped into the hallway. The
door hissed closed behind him.

Holding his newborn, wrapped in a soft light blue blanket, Stan
knelt before his daughter in the hallway. “Ericca, this is your baby brother, Ryley
Stanley Archer. What do you think of him?”

Ericca gently pulled the blanket away from Baby Ryley’s red
face to admire him. “Oh, Daddy. That’s a fine baby boy. But he better know
who’s in charge; I was here first.

Stan chuckled.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“What if something’s wrong with him? Are you still going to
keep him?”

Stan chuckled again. “Oh . . . flaws and all, no
matter what, he’s my son, and I’ll always cherish him, just as I will always
love you.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

No matter what?
came another voice.

Startled, Stan turned. No one there. Though this was the
first time he’d heard this voice, it came with a sense of recognition.

No matter what?
he heard again, but it wasn’t a
voice—
not really
—and yet it was. It was more of a feeling . . .
an unction . . . a direct connection to the speaker, bypassing every
sense Stan understood.

Yes. I will love my son forever.
Stan responded in
thought alone.

You are my son, and I love you far more than you love
little Ryley.

A torrent of guilt and horrible images sprang into Stan’s mind.
The inferno in the sky, charred remains of people, faces twisted in
excruciating agony on the decks of the
Emperor’s Princess
, flaming
chunks of metal falling to the earth; filled Stan’s thoughts. His involuntary
gasp accompanied a stab of agony.

No, my son
. As if swept away by a breath, the awful
images vanished like smoke.
Here is how I wrote the code
. Instantly, Stan
saw into the
Princess
before the attack. Three-thousand-twenty-four
souls walking her decks; some among them openly preaching the Word of the Grand
Programmer. Inexplicably, Stan knew each and every one of the individuals by
name, and understood why each was on the ship. One in particular, a boy,
preached as if on fire. Passengers were in tears, some on their knees, as the
power of the program’s Coder covered the entire ship.

In the last few hours that remained before the attack, the Immortal
One had sent his people, including Proctor McCullough, into the decks to preach
the good news and, before meeting their end, most of the men, women, and
children accepted the Immortal One’s anointed as Lord and Savior.

Not everyone was saved, but every person was given the
chance.

Stan knew also that each of those followers had boarded
knowing they might never make landfall, but they went anyway.

Dropping to his knees with his baby boy in his arms, Stan
suddenly felt surrounded by pure encompassing acceptance bathing every dark
nook of his soul. More than acceptance though; Stan struggled to define it,
understand it, this thing far greater than . . . Ah, yes. Love. Pure.
Simple in substance, complex in its effect. Without reservation Love touched
him, wrapped him, flowed through him, carrying him to a place above and beyond
his present perception.

Stan, before the Immortal Architect, began to see the depth,
the breadth, and the height of the God’s love, and he laughed—laughed at his
own inability to find its limits. But now he knew, now he could see that it was
for this reason that the Immortal Architect gave His only begotten Son, that no
man should perish, but have everlasting life, even Stanley Archer.

Laughing uncontrollably, Stan opened his tear-filled eyes to
find he was sprawled on his back.

Standing above him, with the baby now safely held in his
arms, a puzzled Mr. Slone scowled down at him. “What are you doing?”

But Stan didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Still simultaneously
laughing and crying, he carefully climbed to his feet, weak-kneed, and wobbled
past Mr. Slone and Ericca to the front lounge. Beyond the window, vivid and
striking, he saw the hand of the Immortal Architect as if for the first time.
It wasn’t the pointing finger of accusation Stan had seen previously, but an
outstretched, inviting hand, pierced at the palm; and, falling to his knees, Stan
began to cry even harder.

He looked back and, through blurred eyes, saw his baby boy
safe in his father-in-law’s arms and realized that, in the Immortal Architect’s
hands, he, too, was safe. Stan felt restored.

He steadied himself, clutching the window frame, and saw his
reflection in the glass, a stupid, drunken grin spread across his filthy,
moist-from-tears face. Ruffled hair was the least of his problems. The suit
he’d worn all day was covered with dirt and dust. Disheveled from the foray in
the alley, its shoulder had a rip in the seam. His tie hung loose. He had
traveled far. And he certainly looked like a drunk.

Mr. Slone, holding the baby, followed Ericca into the lounge
to where Stan stood.

“Daddy?” Ericca turned his attention. “Are you okay?”

Stan knelt and drew one arm around his daughter. “Better
than okay, hon.”

“Met the Immortal Architect, did ya?” Mr. Slone said,
rocking the baby in his arms.

“For the first time, Mr. Slone.” Stan drew a deep breath.
“Huh! I’d like to say I get it now, but I’d be lying. He’s so much more than I
had imagined. I suppose it’ll take quite awhile to sort out.”

The crease between Mr. Slone’s eyes deepened, and he gave
his head a slight shake. “Sounds like my wife. Her reaction was about like
yours when we found . . .” Mr. Slone stopped himself.

Stan smiled. “When you found . . . Dillan?”

“Who, Daddy?” Ericca said.

“A man set aside by the Immortal Architect for a special
purpose, hon. You’ll meet him one day soon.”

Mr. Slone’s eyes became as big as saucers. “How do you know
about Dillan?”

“I saw him.” Stan climbed to his feet, his expression was a
mix of excitement and disbelief. “The Immortal Architect showed me the moments
before . . . I . . . before I—”

“Killed all those people?” Mr. Slone’s face was harsh.

Stan looked down at Ericca. “Honey, you want to see Mommy?”

She lit up.

“Go on, then.”

“Yippee!” Ericca said, as she hurried away.

Stan gingerly took the baby from Mr. Slone. “Thank you for taking
him from me. My mind was . . .”

“Sure,” snapped Mr. Slone.

Stan flinched from the man’s harsh tone. “You asked about Dillan.
Do you want to know, or shall I—”

“No. No, continue.” Mr. Slone had a wall of anger raised,
and Stan didn’t know if more words would do any good.

“Dillan was the only survivor of the
Princess
, Mr. Slone.
But, of course, you already knew that.” The baby fussed, and Stan rocked him
back to sleep.

“Yes, I knew. I found his life-pod. The question is, how did
you know?”

“I saw him,” Stan said, dismayed at his own words. “The Immortal
Architect showed him to me—this fifteen-year-old kid—preaching up a storm
before—”

“You killed all those people.” Stuck in his anger, Mr. Slone
seemed to be looking for every opportunity to take Stan to task.

“He didn’t kill everyone, Mr. Slone,” Carl said from the
doorway. “He let one escape-pod go. So now we know. The lone survivor was Dillan,
huh?”

Mr. Slone turned, his brow tightening as he considered Carl.
“What do you know of this?”

Carl stepped into the room. “I flew Stan’s wing, remember?
When faced with shooting down that escaping pod—
Dillan’s
escape-pod—Stan
couldn’t do it. It was just one little pod, . . . one life, . . .
but Stan couldn’t pull the trigger. I saw, and I . . .” Carl
thought for a moment. “Humph. . . . I
thanked
the Immortal Architect.
All these years, and I had forgotten that I had thanked the Immortal Architect.
Wow!” Realizing the significance of that simple act, Carl’s eyes welled up, his
chin quivered, and he glanced away to wipe moisture from his cheek.

With a thin, calculating scowl in his eyes, Mr. Slone looked
from Carl to Stan, glanced back toward the hallway, and looked at Stan and the
baby again. “You two planned this nonsense. You’re both playacting to get me to
believe you’ve come to this supposed immortal one; that you’re good guys. Do I
seem that naïve?” Shaking his head, he walked away, and out of the room.

“He’ll need time,” Carl said, turning back to Stan to coo at
the baby.

“You thanked the Immortal Architect?”

With a slight nod, Carl half shrugged.

“So I had a latent Trog at my wing,” Stan said, pleased to
have heard this new revelation. “Will the wonders never cease?”

“Hmm. I guess you did, and . . . I hope they never
do.”

Stan handed the baby to the attentive Carl. “So, what were
you doing on Atheron? I can’t believe you showed up when you did,” he said, as
the two headed into the hallway.

“Are you kidding?” Carl said, gently bouncing the baby in
his arms. “I thought you knew. Paladins are everywhere on Atheron. The church
has gone underground, and—”

“The church was already underground.”

“Okay, . . .
more deeply
underground. There
is a pipeline to Hastings, Baldwin, and on to Calyx. I was sent into Seychelles
to assess the situation there. Imagine my surprise at finding you in the middle
of yet more gunplay.”

“Well, I—”

“Five years,” Carl said, as they stopped in front of Lilia’s
room. “Why do I continually find you in the middle of shootouts?”

“I’m just glad you do.”

“Huh?”

“Umm, not in ‘shootouts,’ . . . the finding me
part. Speaking of which, why is that always the case, Carl—your being there?”

“Swift, I’ve always got your wing. You know that. But I do
need to get back to Atheron. I and a few other Paladins still have a job to
do.”

Stan grinned even more. “Captain Ogier, if you will tell me
why you keep popping up, the ship is all yours.”

Carl’s smile was filled with pride. “It’s like I said, Swifty.
I’ve got your wing. Per my request, our assignments always parallel.”

“Well that explains the last five years.”

“Does it?” Carl winked, handed the baby back to Stan, and
turned to head up to the bridge, bounding three stair rungs at a time.

Stan passed his hand over the sensor, the door opened, and
he stepped in to find Lilia asleep; her father standing at her side.

Wide-awake and sucking her thumb, Ericca lay nestled in the
crook of her mother’s arm.

“You want to stay with Mommy longer?”

Ericca beamed. “Can I?”

Stan gave a slight nod. “Your being here might do her some
good, but be quiet and let Mommy rest.”

Jean, sitting nearby, peaceably embraced by
DarkStar’s
avatar, was herself napping. The woman hadn’t left her daughter’s side since
she’d come aboard, and Stan knew she was exhausted by the whole ordeal.

DarkStar’s smile said she knew Stan had finally come to
grips with grace.

Of course she knew.

Nothing got past the ship.

Lilia’s eyes opened a crack and she weakly reached out to
take Stan’s hand. Then she cocked her head to see him more clearly. “Oh, my.
That’s a nice look for you.”

Stan glanced down at his dirty clothes. “Sorry, hon. I
haven’t had time to change.”

She smiled. “I wasn’t referring to your clothes. I was
talking about your new heart. It fits you perfectly.”

Tears suddenly flooded his eyes again. He leaned close to
let his cheek caress hers for a long, gentle moment. “I love you, my wife,” he
whispered. “I always will.”

At peace, she smiled and patted the bed next to her.

Stan laid the baby in the crook of her arm.

Lilia gently kissed the child’s head and noticed the object
in Ericca’s hand; the cake topper. Taking it, she looked at it carefully, and
smiled a little more. “You shouldn’t play with this, hon. Let’s let Daddy put
it back, okay?” she said, handing the figurine to Stan, then she drifted off to
sleep.

Stan kissed her cheek and pulled back, glancing fleetingly
at the topper; then he looked again. It had been completely restored; no crack
or seem could be found at all; and without effort, he understood. As a tear
trailed down his cheek, he looked up and saw that Mr. Slone was staring at him,
but his father-in-law’s expression remained severe.

He glanced once again at Jean and DarkStar, and then went
back out into the hallway. Mr. Slone fallowed.

“You can take us back now,” Mr. Slone said flatly. “I have
to see if Dillan—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Slone, but you can’t go back.”

His glare stiffened. “And why not? I have business that
needs my attention.”

Just then Carl trundled down the stairs.

“Look, Mr. Slone,” Stan said. “Right now it’s simply not
possible. All of Atheron is on high alert. They’ve busted the church at Cornesh
and have your sector completely locked down. We can’t go back there. Not now.
Not
for a long time to come.”

Carl stepped up to them.

Mr. Slone was seething. “Dillan wasn’t with us. I’ve got to
find him.”

“Mr. Slone, I can find him for you. What’s his name, and
where will he be?”

“His name is Dillan Chace. He should be in the—”

“Chace?” Carl said in surprise. “Twenty-year-old, sandy
hair, sparse, thin, mousy little mustache?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Carl laughed. “I can’t believe
that
is who you were
referring to. Don’t worry about Dillan, Mr. Slone. He’s working the rescue
operation in Hastings, and from what I hear; he’s making quite a name for
himself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir. He and his small squad are driving the Confederate
troops nuts, running interference.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Slone beamed without right pride for Dillan.

“Oh, and by the way, he’ll be leaving with me once we’re
done here.”

“Yeah? To where?”