Star flyer, p.1
Star Flyer, page 1
Two men on trajectory for an explosive collision…
Still mourning the loss of his lover to invading forces, Marr Hingo operates his farm under a dictatorship while keeping his mind—and feet—planted firmly on the ground. Spring arrives right on schedule, bringing with it something completely unexpected—an unconscious pilot from a downed star jet.
Unable to bring himself to give up the handsome aviator to searching troops, Marr hides him in the barn’s cellar.
The last thing Davan Siedel remembers before ejecting is getting in a couple of good blasts against a Galactic Forces F150. He wakes to find his vague memory of being carried by an angel wasn’t far off the mark. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed farmer has brought him to safety and is tending his injured leg.
The attraction between solid, earthy Marr and clever, quicksilver Davan catches them off guard—and their sexual union is as sweet as it is powerful. Yet the longer Davan lingers, the tighter the enemy’s web grows, threatening their love, their freedom…and their lives.
Warning: Contains hot male/male loving, sweet sexual healing, a down-to-earth farmer who knows how to wield a…plow, a smart-mouthed pilot with fast…jets.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Star Flyer
Copyright © 2009 by
ISBN: 978-1-60504-673-0
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2009
Star Flyer
Dedication
To Mike, my personal pilot.
Chapter One
“Water, Fire, Soil and Air, bestow your blessings on this growing season.” Marr called on the elements, no longer certain he believed in sentient entities that guided all life in the worlds. But the spring prayer was a time-honored tradition of the Theon people, so he murmured the prayer prior to tilling the field.
“Water.” He poured from his canteen into his palm and scattered droplets over the dark, rich land.
“Fire.” Lighting a match, he tossed it and watched it wink out in the breeze before it ever touched the ground.
“Soil.” Marr bent and scooped a fist full and let it sift through his fingers.
“Air.” He lifted his face and breathed in the soil-scented air. Before he could repeat the plea for good crops, a flaming jet blazed across the sky. It was coming in fast, falling to the ground.
Marr recognized the bird as a rebel plane, probably shot down. The Intergalactic War was coming too close to home. Occupied Theon was the new battleground for the resistance fighters, and he wanted no part of the violence and destruction they brought with them.
A dot of white appeared in the sky. At first glance it appeared suspended against the blue, floating lazily in the air. But as it came closer it moved faster, plummeting toward ground. Beneath the chute a gray figure was suspended.
Marr’s legs moved without conscious direction toward where the flyer would touch down or slam into the ground. His feet plowed furrows in the damp soil as he pounded across the field toward the woods beyond. His eyes riveted on the small white escape chute and the man clinging to the lines. Why wasn’t the flyer wearing a jet pack vest he could steer instead of an old-fashioned chute? Marr had heard the rebels’
gear, planes and weapons were outdated, but this bordered on suicidal.
His heart raced along with his legs as he pounded toward the spot he estimated the man would land.
Branches snapped against his face and brambles tore his pants. The pilot might have been all right if he could have maneuvered toward the open field, but it appeared he was heading straight for the thick woods.
He might be impaled or the lines of the chute might get tangled in the treetops.
Marr caught another glimpse of the chute through the interlacing branches, so he knew he was still on course before the forest closed around him and he could no longer see the sky. He followed his instinct, dodging around trunks and stumbling over logs, running blind. When he heard the crash of a heavy object breaking through the dense green foliage, he veered toward it.
He broke through the undergrowth at the edge of a clearing and stopped short. The rebel pilot hung from his chute, caught in the branches as Marr had feared, suspended between sky and land. His head flopped forward and his arms and legs hung loose. Unconscious or perhaps dead, he didn’t struggle to free himself.
Marr sucked in a deep breath to steady his nerves. Panic was useless. He must concentrate on moving fast, freeing the pilot and finding out if he was alive. Marr’s head tilted back as he stared overhead and considered how to cut the lines.
The man’s body swayed and the branches gripping the chute cracked and splintered. The pilot dropped closer to the ground. Close enough for Marr to grab hold of him. There was no time to worry about broken bones. The army would know he’d ejected from the damaged aircraft. They’d be tracking him even now. Seizing the man’s booted feet, Marr pulled. More twigs and branches snapped, releasing their burden like reluctant teeth. He reached farther up the man’s body, solid and warm beneath the gray flight suit, wrapped his arms around him and pulled again.
Marr could reach the harness now and release the lines attaching the pilot to the chute. The man slumped into his arms, as limp as a sack of cornmeal. Marr eased him to the safety of the ground and laid him flat. He drew the helmet off his head and pressed his fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse.
The man’s heart beat slow and steady.
Marr sat back on his heels. His heart hammered hard enough to bruise his chest, and his clothes clung to his perspiring body. Exhaling deeply, he gazed at the unconscious pilot.
White blond hair darkened with sweat was matted against his scalp. His skin was pale and his slack lips parted. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes moved restlessly. Perhaps the mag-blast that brought down his aircraft had also rendered him unconscious. He may have other injuries as well, but there was no time to examine him. Marr had to hide the aviator before soldiers came looking for him.
Marr glanced at the deflated chute in the branches above and paused, frozen in indecision. The breeze blew, the birds still called to one another, but the peaceful morning had been blown apart. If he waited here with the injured rebel until the Tandus arrived, maybe even called on his communicator and gave the exact location, he could return to normal life. A few hours of debriefing and he’d be planting his spring crops by afternoon.
The Intergalactic Forces of the Tandus had occupied Theon for almost two years and Marr hadn’t noticed much change in daily life. If anything, things ran more smoothly. But as an occupied planet, Theon owed allegiance to the rebel forces from across the galaxy which had banded together to stand against the Tandus. Marr couldn’t in good conscience turn this man over. He must hide him. It was what Sasch would’ve done.
Marr couldn’t hide the broken branches that marked the pilot’s landing, but he grasped the dangling lines and pulled, forcing the trees to surrender the escape chute. The chute was only about the size of his
7
bed mattress. It was amazing it had the capacity to support a man’s weight. Even the thought of floating through the air at the mercy of a scrap of fabric made Marr’s stomach lurch. He hated heights and was happy to keep his feet rooted on the ground. When he’d pulled the chute down, he rolled the gauzy fabric tight, tied it and tucked the bundle inside his shirt. He attached the chinstrap of the helmet to his belt loop then bent to lift the unconscious pilot.
After slipping his arms between the loamy forest floor and the man’s back and legs, he grunted as he rose from a crouch to his full height. The pilot was a slight man, but a dead weight. His body draped over Marr’s arms and his head lolled back, exposing his throat. At the sight of the vulnerable curve, lust flared, but Marr blinked it away and concentrated on maneuvering between the trees without slamming the man’s head into a trunk. It was hard going. He crashed through the undergrowth like a marauding animal. There was no way to move silently, and he prayed to the elementals he didn’t quite believe in to let him pass.
By the time he pushed out of the thicket of brambles at the edge, he was sweat-soaked. The helmet bumped against his hip with every step. The man in his arms groaned and his eyelids flickered. Marr glanced down at his sharp, fine features. “Don’t wake up yet. Wait ’til I get you back home.” He trod heavy-footed across the field, his feet sinking into the dirt. At last he reached the seeder and hefted the pilot’s body onto the seat in the cab. The man’s arm flopped to his side and Marr lifted and placed his hand on his lap.
After closing the door of the cab, he scanned the horizon for any sign of approaching soldiers. The gently rolling land was empty of anything except birds pecking the ground for worms and the neighbor’s dog trotting toward home.
Marr walk
He figured he’d hide the downed airman in the barn, although it would be the first place the Tandus soldiers looked if they searched farms in the area. There was a cellar beneath the main floor. Since Marr no longer grew root vegetables like carrots or potatoes, he hadn’t used it for storage in years. He could spread hay over the trap door and perhaps the searching soldiers wouldn’t consider the possibility of a basement in the barn.
Marr studied the face of the unconscious flyer, who groaned and stirred. He looked young—too young to be flying missions. The frown puckering his forehead only emphasized the smoothness of his skin. His translucent hair and complexion suggested he was from Antia.
A wave of concern swelled in Marr supplanting the fear that had hummed through him from the moment he’d sighted the diving jet. He felt the same nurturing instinct that drove him to nurse a premature lamida infant to health instead of letting nature usher it into the afterlife. Harboring the pilot meant risking losing the farm, being thrown in prison and perhaps even executed. But he had no choice. He would shelter and heal the injured man, then help him escape Theon.
8
***
Davan’s sweet little jet darted and struck at the Tandus aircraft like a sparrow attacking a hawk. He peppered the C180 with a hail of shots, the magnetic blasts invisible, but damaging the larger craft’s body.
Not enough to bring it down—yet.
Davan spiraled upward, out of range of the C180’s weapons, then dove in from the left flank. His throat was dry and his body thrummed with an adrenaline charge. He was one with his ship, roaring through the sky, twisting, side-hopping, dipping and shooting bolt after bolt at the enemy.
He ran out of firepower before the other jet went down, but knew he’d grounded it for a while.
Knowing when to cut his losses, Davan shot away, hiding in the cloud cover with his shields up to confuse any tracker on his tail.
Halfway to the rebel base, he’d called in. “This is Airborne Twenty-three. Engagement over. Flying home.”
“Are you clear?” Beadle’s brusque voice signaled he was less interested in Davan’s welfare than in the security of the secret base on Theon. He wanted no pilots to inadvertently lead the enemy to the base.
Davan scanned the horizon with the aid of the viewer. “No enemy aircraft in sight.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when he felt the hit. A magnetic blast rocked the jet, shattered the air in the cabin and rolled over him in waves. Davan felt as if his organs were liquefying and his head imploding.
“Received a hit!” he shouted into the receiver as he pressed the eject button. Fragmented images of jet, sky and planet kaleidoscoped in his vision before it went black.
Davan jerked awake from the nightmare. No, not a nightmare. His body screamed, telling him he was injured. Every part of him, it seemed, but with a special concentration of pain in his leg. He gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath, smelling dust and hay.
How had he gotten out of the jet and where was he now? Was he a prisoner? He didn’t want to let his captors know he was conscious until he’d had a chance to assess the situation, so he lay with his eyes closed, listening. Then he heard a familiar voice. It was the dark spirit who’d carried him and said he was taking him home. At the time, Davan had thought he meant to the afterlife, but the voice was real and the hands that touched his leg were physical.
“Sorry. This is going to hurt some. I’m no medic and I’m doing the best I can.” Davan realized he was nearly naked. He could feel air touching his chest, arms and legs. He peered through the screen of his eyelashes. The silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders blocked the light. His hands were warm and comforting as they moved gently down his leg. Then they grasped his calf and shifted it. Ground glass pierced Davan’s bones and he cried out. His body jerked and eyes flew open.
9
The man pushed against his chest, pressing him flat. “Lie as still as you can. I’m going to lay it straight and splint it. The bone might be fractured.” He spoke Universal with the soft accent of Theon.
“Hold tight.”
Davan clutched the rough sacking upon which he lay. He braced his body and clenched his teeth, groaning as the man took hold of his leg once more and pulled. Agony wracked his body and he cursed in Antian. The residual ringing in his ears from the magnetic blast grew louder, joining with a black cloud that filled his head until there was no room left for consciousness.
When Davan rose into the gray fog of awareness again, a warm palm cupped the back of his neck, raising his head. Something cold and hard touched his lips.
“Try to drink this. It will help ease the pain.” The low, rumbling voice flowed over him like water. He opened his mouth and drank. Cool liquid with a sharp tang bathed his throat and slid down to his stomach.
He opened his eyes and looked at the face hovering over him. The man’s features were blunt and square with a big nose and chin, a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth. He had the hard, rocky look of a Theonian, as if he’d been hewn from the land itself. But the severity of his face was relieved by the crow’s feet at the corners of his brown eyes that gave a suggestion of humor to his solemn gaze. Davan felt an urge to make him laugh so he could hear what that sounded like.
For a moment, their gazes locked together like two gears, then Davan blinked and swallowed, and the man removed the cup from his lips.
“Are you my hero?” Davan said. “I seem to remember being carried like a damsel in distress.” The wide mouth curved and the lines fanning from his eyes deepened. “Yeah. That was me. For a little guy, you’re as heavy as a bag of rocks.”
“And here I’ve been working out, trying to keep my figure trim.” Davan shifted and gasped as a new wave of pain shot up from his leg. He glanced down to see a homemade splint comprised of two boards bound to his leg with strips of cloth. “You sure you’re not a real medic? That looks so professional.”
“You want me to take it off and let it heal crooked?” the other man responded to his sarcasm. “Stuck in a cockpit, I’m sure it doesn’t matter if you have a permanent limp.” Suddenly the ramifications of his situation wiped the smile off Davan’s face. He was flightless, far away from the base camp, and he couldn’t walk. The enemy was certainly searching for him and he’d put this man at risk. Davan gestured at his leg. “Thanks for this, but I should get out of here. I don’t want to bring the GA down on you.”
Davan struggled to push to a sitting position and more pain stabbed through him. He caught his breath and collapsed against the burlap covering the hard floor. He breathed slowly, fighting the pain into submission.
“I wouldn’t try to sit up,” the man said dryly.
10
Davan grinned ruefully. “Thanks. I’ll remember that. Where are we?” He looked around the dimly lit room with its rough-hewn walls and dirt floor.
“The cellar of my barn. This is my farm. My name’s Marr Hingo.” He offered his hand and a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead.
Davan wanted to reach up and ruffle his hair until it stood up in all directions. He wanted to make this man’s calm eyes go wide. Whatever medication was in the water he’d drunk was kicking in. His pain eased and a floating feeling buoyed him as he shook the farmer’s big, rough hand. “I’m Flight Lieutenant Davan Siedal. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you and I’ll be out of here as soon as I can hobble.”
“That won’t be for a while. I don’t know if your ankle’s sprained or fractured, but either way you won’t want to put any weight on it until it heals. Are you hungry?” The man picked up a bowl. The rich aroma of stew made Davan’s stomach rumble. He’d been living on vac-pac rations for so long he’d nearly forgotten what real food smelled like.
