Starstruck

  S.E. ANDERSON

  STARSTRUCK

  © S.E. Anderson 2017

  Cover Art by S.E. Anderson

  Editorial: Michelle Dunbar, Cayleigh Stickler, Anna Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, scanning, uploading to the internet, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher and/or author, except in the case of brief quotations for reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2017 by Bolide Publishing Limited

  http://bolidepublishing.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hot-Air Balloons Ruin Everything

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Little Party Never Killed Nobody,

  But That’s a Double Negative

  CHAPTER THREE

  Imagine Running Over a Dude With Your Car

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In Which I Gain a Healthy Distrust of Parks

  CHAPTER FIVE

  All of the Abduction, None of the Probing

  CHAPTER SIX

  Don’t Ever Try This at Home

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I Finally Get Some Answers Around Here

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Messy Things You Can’t Clean With a Sponge

  CHAPTER NINE

  Life Gives Me Lemons

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dang Aliens, Always Getting Themselves Arrested

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Close Encounters of the Coffee Kind

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Someone Crashes My Date and the Glass Ceiling All at Once

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I Get Beamed Up to the Mother Ship

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It’s a Long Way Down from Outer Space,

  But We're Only at Lower Earth Orbit

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Zander Seems to Work Here Now

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A Toast to Making an Actual Effort

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It’s Not a Drinking Problem if Aliens Are Involved

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Shaking It Off Might Not Be so Easy

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Sister I Never Had Nor Wanted

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Blayde Came to Stay

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  How Not to Behave in the Workplace

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I Actually Can’t Handle the Truth

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The World is Awful and Everything Sucks

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We Finish This Thing Once and for All

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I Get My Final Boss Fight

  EPILOGUE

  Where Some Things Finally Go Right

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Joanna

  I cannot thank you enough

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  They say a book is only 10% the author, and 90% the reader. Well that tiny 10% might be even smaller than that: I have so many people to thank for making this book a reality. My editor and her team; my friends; my family: these amazing people have never stopped believing in Starstruck and I can’t thank them enough.

  To Michelle, my editor. You’re incredible. You saw promise in this book and turned it from novelty to novel. I never thought editing a book could be so much fun, and I’m still in awe of how you do it. For helping me work out the details that had been holding me back, for turning my words into quotes.

  To my parents, grandparents, and amazing sister. I could not have done it without you. Thank you for encouraging me through the thick and thin, and putting up with all the weird things along the way. I could not ask for a better family. I love you all.

  Now to my friends, and this is going to take a while. To Hugo, for always texting me messages of encouragement and giving me silly ideas when I needed them. Your constant support carried me through the hardest times. To Ronnie, for being one of the greatest motivators in the universe. Your insightful wit when I was down, you pushed me to bring this novel together. Your Grave Report and Books of Winter series are too fun to put into words, and you inspire me to be a better writer. To Andrew, for reminding me how much fun it is to be master of your own world. If you hadn’t allowed me to read Iris as you were working on it, I probably wouldn’t have pulled this dusty manuscript off the shelf and started it up again.

  To all my beta readers who told me this book had promise, who enjoyed the novel and immediately asked for more, who helped me every step of the way. I am insanely in your debt.

  A huge thank you to my great friends, Alix, Nico, Laura, Shilo, Victor, Lea, Katika, Liam, for your support!

  I left the biggest thank you for last: Joanna. Seven years ago, we were eating turkey when we decided to write a series together. We brainstormed names: Stella, Rand, and that knife lady. We alternated books, writing episodic adventures “that would never be longer than a novella, no.” That was seven years ago. You helped bring these characters into the world. You helped craft their world and their adventures. None of this – none of this! – would be here today if it weren’t for you. I am eternally in your debt not only for starting this adventure with me, but for handing me the reigns and allowing me to drive it alone. I owe Starstruck to you, which is why I dedicate it to you.

  PROLOGUE

  It All Begins With a lot of Sand

  The commander raised his binoculars and surveyed the desert. The bleak landscape spread out for an eternity before him, flat as far as he could see, broken only by the crumbling buildings of the city. “Where are you?”

  “Um, sir. W-what are your orders?”

  The commander drew in a sharp breath. His second might only be a kid—on his first posting, no less—and maybe he hadn’t seen the kind of action that kept the commander awake at night, but he had to keep his face straight. If he thought that skirmish with the fugitives was an actual attack, he was kidding himself. Besides, the men counted on them for strength and guidance, not fear and weakness.

  His team waited in silence on the roof beside him. Most were looking anywhere but at the commander, avoiding eye, or any other kind of contact. He did not blame them.

  “I want you to find those fugitives.” The commander’s order flew off his tongue like sparks from a fire. “They must be within the city limits or someone would have spotted them.”

  “But, sir, we searched the burg, and there was no sign of them.”

  “Then look harder,” the commander hissed, raising the binoculars again. He scowled at the empty wasteland. It was the same as always, as it had been for months … well, until today.

  “Maybe they've, um, braved the desert?”

  The commander resisted the temptation to slap him. How his superiors thought the boy ready for the post was beyond him. Maybe it was meant as a slight, giving him children to command, like he was a babysitter rather than a decorated war hero. “Can you see them out there?”

  His number two swallowed. “Um, no, sir.”

  “Then they're not there, are they?” The commander shifted his gaze back to the horizon, daring the universe to put the fugitives in his field of vision. “They’re in the town. They can’t be anywhere else, which makes me wonder what you are still doing here.” He turned and glared at his number two. “Find them.”

  “Sir!”

  A call from the street below made
him lower his binoculars. He marched to the edge of the roof and looked down at the cracked pavement, ignoring his second-in-command as the boy scampered off to follow his orders. A soldier looked up at him, clutching a rifle against his chest like a shield.

  “What?”

  “They've been sighted, sir.” His voice cracked. “They’re making a run for it on foot, but they're not moving very fast. They've taken to the desert, by the east bridge.”

  The commander spun on his heels, turning from his perch to make his way to the staircase. He gave a curt nod to each of the men standing by, gesturing for them to follow. He would need every soldier assigned to this middle-of-nowhere dump he had been defending for half a century. The atmosphere had been quite cheerful until today, the day when everyone under his command learned what it meant to be tested.

  But they'd been seen, finally, and he could take as long as he wanted to get to the East End. The desert was eternal, without shelter or cover until one reached the mountains, and that took at least three days by 'craft. If they were on foot, all his men needed to do was to keep them in sight, and he would have them.

  He ran through the list of rewards he would receive for capturing the elusive pair. Money? Land? A promotion would be in order; he deserved that much, at least. Somewhere nice, somewhere where the sun shone, instead of burning like fire on his constantly covered-up skin. There was a little place he liked not too far away, with sandy beaches and a deep ocean, a post that required plainclothes rather than camouflage.

  He marched through the ghost town, realizing how high the sand had risen since his first day all those years ago. It had been a vibrant place back then, with a market on this very street and flags flying from the windows. Now, all that remained were crumbling memories; the rising sands were devouring what lingered. Soon, all they would leave would be a gigantic dune—the only dune for thousands of miles.

  “You have them?” he asked as he reached the squadron at the east bridge. The soldiers huddled in a mass, each trying to mask their fear. The broken bridge had all but crumbled away, leaving a cement perch over an ocean of sand, a perfect vantage point from which to see … well, more sand. Only today, just for a change, there was something else out there.

  Each of his soldiers bore a mark from the so-called attack: a red-raw neck; a lump or two growing on their head; a small mark in the shape of a cigarette burn, accompanied by the scent of scorched clothing and skin. Their wounds were minor, however, which meant he would capture the two most wanted criminals in the universe without losing a single man. He did wonder how they had managed to get through the fight with such light injuries, though. According to legend, the fugitives could kill hundreds in a single minute—some even said the blink of an eye—though he was sure the stories were exaggerated.

  The felons dashed across the arid desert. They wore desert clothes, loose layers of cotton wrapped around their bodies to help them blend in with the sand. The man's turban was coming undone, fluttering in the wind he created by his sheer speed. The woman danced lightly across the sand beside him; unhindered by the wrap, she was so graceful, she almost floated in the air. It was enough to make the commander freeze as he watched her shrinking from view.

  “I have them in my sights, sir,” the sniper announced. His finger hovered above the trigger. The commander found himself staring at it, that lonely digit, reveling in how something so simple could bring such vile things to an end. The rest of his companions stood further back, eyes wide with terror, faces contorted with fear, and legs paralyzed by both. This man had no welts on his arms, no marks or bruising on his neck. No wonder he could still think clearly. The commander ran a hand over the burn on his right wrist, sliding his sleeve to cover it.

  “I see them.” He grinned at the sniper, his binoculars trained on the two figures. “Shoot to incapacitate. Then have a retrieval squad pick them up.”

  The sniper fired a single shot. A loud, piercing sound broke the silence. Almost instantly, the man fell to the ground, a red spot spreading from the middle of his back, soaking through his cotton garb. The commander sneered. Just minutes away from glory.

  His sneer faded when the man stood up; he didn't seem to notice the bullet, even though the splotch of blood spread. The man fled across the desert unhindered by the wound, his feet pounding rhythmically. “Shoot him again,” the commander ordered, mortified. He clutched his burn as if he could reflect the pain back tenfold upon those who bestowed it.

  The shot rang out, seemingly louder this time, but the man kept running, despite fresh blood saturating his shirt. “Again.” Finally, losing his temper he commanded, “Kill him!”

  This time, the bullet hit the small of the man's back, but he didn't fall. Instead, his hand reached across his back, as if to swat a fly, smearing the blood without slowing his stride.

  “This is clearly the wrong approach,” the commander said, forcing himself to keep his composure, though fury flooded his words. “Arms at the ready.”

  “What, all of us?” a soldier asked.

  “Yes, all of you,” he snapped, raising a hand in the air. “Ready … aim …”

  The soldiers had barely raised their guns when the targets just … disappeared. They had not fallen, nor had they escaped upward. The commander scrutinized the landscape, but there was no trace of them; in their place, an unfurled turban floated to the ground in the breeze.

  The commander's fury burst the dam of self-control, and he howled. He ripped off his helmet and slammed it on the ground. It hit the pavement and rebounded, ramming into his shin. He felt none of it; his anger eclipsed his pain, the fury burning through his veins like acid, stronger and hotter than he had ever felt before.

  Everything he had heard about them, everything he wished he hadn't known but had learned to fear about them … it was all true, and there was no better truth than the one he had seen with his own eyes. One second they were there, just out of reach, the next, gone. Just … gone. Bullets didn't even slow them down. No wonder they had a knack for evading the law.

  No wonder they needed to be taken down.

  For the first time in his life, the commander dropped his head into his hands, a sob ringing across the empty wasteland, heard only by the cowards behind him. He picked up his helmet, and, seeing the burn marks upon it, shouted words into the desert that his men could not understand. Then, without thought, he tossed it into the desert, watching the dented metal tumble in the air, before falling into the sand and lodging itself there to be covered up by time. With that, the commander fell to his knees, rubbing his webbed fingers over his irritated, sunburned scalp.

  They had escaped once again. And with them, his dreams.

  Goodbye, money.

  Goodbye, land.

  Goodbye, promotion and plainclothes.

  And he had so wanted that quiet posting on Earth.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hot-Air Balloons Ruin Everything

  Before there was the universe, before the endless cities, the ships, or the Dread, before the Alliances and higher dimensional parties, there was only sleep.

  I was pretty happy just sleeping.

  Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had taken the day off and just slept. If I had called in sick to work, sick to the party, and had never left the apartment at all.

  I think about that a lot.

  I awoke to the sound of a jackhammer. It broke through the morning gloom, tearing me painfully from sleep. The noise made my entire nightstand shake and with it, my mattress and pillow. It jolted me awake quite violently; I should have known then what sort of day I would have.

  I wasn't fully aware yet, my brain was still waking up, but I knew enough to throw out my hand and try to stop the dreadful noise. Ugh. My other hand clutched the sheets, begging the universe for just one more minute of warm, comfortable sleep.

  The universe denied my request.

  I finally found the source of the noise and slapped it as hard as I could, knocking several items to the flo
or in the process. The music kept playing. So I did the only thing that seemed logical—I hit it again.

  And again.

  By that point, my hand stung, and I concluded it wasn't the alarm clock making the ruckus. My phone sang and vibrated all over the place. I fumbled for it, missing it completely. Finally, my fingers found its cold surface, and I dragged it under the covers. I accepted the call and held the tiny speaker to my ear.

  “'Lo?” I grunted, expecting a full word to come out.

  “Sally?” came the anxious voice on the other end.

  This early in the morning, I had no idea whose voice this was. It could have been Sir Patrick Stewart or God himself trying to wake me. Whoever it was—I was mad at them.

  “Who is this?” I mumbled.

  “Marcy,” the voice replied, worried as ever—or could it have been cheerful? People who could be cheerful at this ungodly hour were not to be trusted. “I wanted to know if you had a grill?”

  “Hold on, what?” I sat up way too fast. The blood rushing from my head gave me the worst morning headache in human history. And the cold—the cold! I shivered as the air touched my skin. “You want a grill? What on earth for?”

  “For tonight. Jenn's is busted.”

  “Tonight?”

  There was a painful silence on the other end of the line. I used the pause to my advantage, pulling the sheets over my cold, exposed shoulders. Finally, Marcy spoke again, slowly this time, the worry all the way back in her voice. “It's my birthday,” she said, but then her cheery self returned, “Birth-day par-tay. My birthday party. Tell me if any of this rings a bell? Like, if there’s something you'd like to say to me?”

  “Marce, I would absolutely love to jump into a rendition of the birthday song, but not this early in the morning.”

  “Well, sorry,” Marcy replied, mock-hurt, “I assumed you'd be at work.”

  “At this hour of the morning? It’s pitch-black still.” Oddly enough, my alarm clock, which was usually within reach on the night stand, was nowhere to be seen. “I can't remember my own birthday at this hour.”