Once Upon a Starman Read online

  Once Upon A Starman

  Allie Marell

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR BIO

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright first edition © 2019 Allie Marell

  All rights reserved. This book may not be copied or reproduced in any form.

  Please read the full copyright notice at the end of book

  *

  Edited by Judicious Revisions LLC

  Cover art by CT Cover Creations

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  www.candyandalexandra.com

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  www.alliemarell.com

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Sometimes you have to cross the stars to find the Christmas of your dreams.

  Andra Dalesio thinks she’s found the perfect Christmas gift. Until it’s stolen in a Christmas market by an injured soldier claiming to be a Starman from outer space.

  A Starman claiming to have memories of a former life here on Earth.

  When he kidnaps her and begs her to help him, she can’t leave him out in the cold. It’s Christmas and his story intrigues her more than she wants to admit.

  As they grow closer in her cosy cottage on the moors, fugitive super-soldier SA NT AR12 realises that with his location tracker still active, his time is running out and together they begin a journey of discovery to a Christmas that never was.

  A Christmas that might still be out there, waiting - if only they can find it in time.

  Please note I use UK English spelling.

  Chapter 1

  It was hers. Finally, hers.

  Andromeda Dalesio, Andra to her friends, glanced covertly over one shoulder, scoping out the bustling Christmas shoppers. None of them cared or even noticed the small drama playing out at the parcel collection locker in the corner of the store.

  Jaunty Christmas songs filled the air and for the first time in the past few hectic weeks, Andra found herself smiling. Reaching into the locker with shaking hands, she drew out the parcel.

  The Holy Grail.

  Well, not quite. But just as elusive.

  Turning for the exit, she spotted a tall man with dark, unkempt hair watching her every move. A soldier in a rumpled dress uniform, the jacket torn, his expression glazed. How had she missed him? Swaying like a drunkard, the soldier made his way towards her.

  Think again, buddy. Andra dodged behind a giant cardboard snowman, stuffing the parcel into her shoulder bag. She’d come too far to lose it now.

  The soldier turned a slow circle, shrugged and closed his eyes, lips moving as if talking to himself. Poor guy looked as if he’d come straight from the battlefield.

  Andra waited, hysteria bubbling in her throat, until he finally opened his eyes and limped from the store. She watched him disappear into the thronging Christmas market in Albert Square and made her escape to find her car and get the parcel home.

  And, if all went to plan, to make at least one Christmas dream come true.

  I’m coming home for Christmas.

  The lost soldier frowns, swiftly translating the softly crooning voice streaming from a primitive address system somewhere overhead. Another voice blares from a rival speaker. Momma’s been seen kissing Santa Claus.

  Whoever that is.

  Deep in a dark corner of the man’s mind, a forgotten memory stirs.

  He pushes into the unfamiliar crowd crammed into the bustling Christmas market. Remembers the sign emblazoned over a wooden archway enticing people in. Apparently, ’tis the season to be merry, but he has little reason to smile.

  He’s a long way from home.

  Atmosphere, breathable. Population humanoid, like him. The transfer computer at least got that right. Eyes narrowed for focus, he translates the symbols on plaques and walls, surprised at the ease with which the words form meaning.

  Has he been here before?

  He remembers waking up under heavy grey skies, somewhere windswept and bleak, his transport dematerialising around him. Walking endless steps with no idea of a destination until a burly humanoid took pity and stopped his vehicle, urging him inside.

  The ride took him here to this bustling city. This market of glittering silver streamers snapping in a brisk wind whipping through a huddle of cabins adorned with flashing lights.

  He takes a painful step, wasting a stab of irritation on the limp plaguing his left leg, the stinging graze that skimmed the skin from his right shoulder. Blood’s congealing at his temple and his left elbow joint throbs.

  Nothing to worry about. Skin and bone heal and implants can be replaced. Of greater concern are the possible internal injuries and the personal location tracker he paid the tech medics to disable in stasis. Though they took his credits—stole his credits—it’s still there, pulsing weakly in his neck.

  Thankfully, his translator is undamaged. His brain continues to record local information and sensations, nervous systems all intact. But his alpha core is glitching. The nano-chip should be churning out facts, names, maps of his location in time and space. But he’s getting only spits and sparks.

  His nostrils twitch, picking out scents of sweet and spice. The pungent smell of brewed ales and the tempting promise of something rich and dark in the spiral of steam curling from a drinking receptacle clutched in a humanoid female’s gloved hands.

  He notes her mid-hued, flowing hair. Remembers the female he watched hoarding the secret package in the retail establishment. She called to him, made him stop and take a second look. And he has no idea why. His mind swirls with confusing thoughts and half-formed memories as he stumbles through a huddle of stalls offering tempting morsels sizzling on hot griddles.

  How long since his last meal?

  He watches a female purchase two wrapped delicacies and his stomach growls, demanding substance. Briefly, he considers following her. Taking what he needs.

  No. He shrinks back into the crowd. Males are fair game, but females are to be protected. This is not a part of his military training. It’s a personal creed that grew in strength during his rise through the ranks. And just one of the odd beliefs The Grand Order of Centrum Command failed to purge from him.

  Though not for want of trying, he thinks, his mouth a grim line.

  The song comes to an end, switching to a male dreaming wistfully of a white Christmas. On cue, the crowds look up with a collective gasp as pale flakes float lazily from darkening skies.

  Precipitation. Frozen water crystals. Snow.

  Whirling clouds of opaque, super-cooled ice particles settle on his black military jacket, spotting the toes of his knee-high boots No time to change into civilian garb when the opportunity for escape presented. He has only the uniform he stowed in the pod for when he awoke.

  A uniform that marks him as an elite operative. Yet, on this alien planet, no one seems to care who he is. As he watches the snow fall, inside of him another memory stirs. Images of a young male, a boy, gazing from a window at a landscape transformed, a tingle of excitement coiling in his chest.

  No school today. The snow-covered moors and his toboggan beckoned.

  The soldier’s heart clenches with a painful longing that baffles a
nd angers him in equal measure. Latent memory emergence, they called it. He vowed it would never happen to him. Volunteered for every test, every procedure to purge and cleanse unwanted feelings, mind-muddling emotions and old memories that made no sense.

  And still, the strange thoughts tormented him, whispering that he came from another place, had lived another life. Until suspicious eyes started turning his way and murmurings of incarceration and termination began.

  And running was the only option.

  A wizened female, prim in her red-ribboned bonnet and dark uniform, rattles a container, jolting him back to the present. “Peace and joy of the season to you, sir.” She doesn’t have to add, you look as if you need it. The compassion in her eyes says it all.

  The Salvation Army? The soldier raises one sceptical brow. They look like no army he’s ever seen.

  “This is Christmas?” he says, taking in the silver and gold balls reflecting flashing light from the retail establishment behind her. A glittering window boasts an array of humanoid effigies—dolls they call them here. Some with long hair and frilly gowns. Others in military camouflage.

  Another memory downloads in his head. Scattered images of the same boy. This time he’s striking numbers from a chart.

  Only ten sleeps to go. And then... The memory flares and dies, moving frustratingly out of his reach.

  “Christmas indeed, pet.” The tiny woman cocks her head, regarding him for a long uncomfortable moment. Innocent as she looks, she may still be a spy for Centrum Command. He’s learned in his colourful life to trust no one.

  “Looks as if it will be a white one, too. The children always love that.” She lifts her face to the swirling snow. Glances back at him, lingering on the honour colours decorating his left breast pocket and the officer’s epaulette hanging torn from his shoulder seam. “I’m Gladys, by the way. Will you tell me your name, soldier?”

  She asked for his name? He looks around, hoping that even in his befuddled state he’ll spot any bounty hunters hot on the trail of a traitorous officer of Centrum Command. This ancient female does not feel like a threat, but the things he’s seen? Nothing surprises him.

  Stay alert. This may yet be a trap.

  He needs a label for this world. A name that helps him blend. His translator makes a swift inventory of the letters adorning the female’s collection tin, deciphering and encoding his rank and status into words and letters she’ll understand.

  SA NT AR12.

  “Santar,” he says. From what he’s heard in the market, it sounds like a name these beings might use.

  The female soldier’s mouth widens into a knowing smile, her eyes brightening with a disconcerting twinkle. He obviously said something amusing.

  “Well, Santar. If you need to talk, we’re always here.”

  “And here is?” She seems harmless enough, and he needs to know where the transfer landed him.

  “Manchester Christmas Market. Would you like someone to tend to your face? There’s a first aid tent over there.”

  He fingers the wound skimming his snow-wet brow. The woman notices the two fused fingers of his right hand. A trauma suffered in early age, so they always told him. He remembers none of that. Knows only they’ve always been so.

  “It’s of no...” His translator falters, searching for the word. “Consequence,” he says at length.

  Manchester, in the United Kingdom of Great Britain. A small part of the planet they called Earth in a galaxy they called the Milky Way.

  His alpha core flickers briefly to life and he almost wants to laugh out loud. He’s way off course. Should be safely in stasis en route to... His memory shudders. Rogar, Reagar? Somewhere far from Centrum Command’s greedy reach. He programmed the destination intent reader himself, mindful of all the tricks the thieving crews worked to relieve innocent travellers of their credits.

  And awoke bleeding and in pain next to a disintegrating stasis pod on a world that felt disturbingly familiar.

  He still has no clues to why the intent reader chose this place over his programmed destination.

  The old female turns her attention to a group of intoxicated males. The musicians play on while the growling ache in his stomach echoes like a hollow pit, demanding food.

  When he lifts his hands, they’re shaking. His vision’s blurring, the jangle of music blending into a cacophony of noise. He takes a chance. Whips a meat-filled bun from the hands of an intoxicated male and runs.

  A burst of hormones give his flagging body wings, propelling him from the market as he rams the desperately needed fuel into his mouth and blanks out the pain in his injured leg. Behind him an indignant wail cuts through the noise. Someone shouts stop him, but they’re no match for his enhanced soldier’s body.

  Dodging around a short male, arms outstretched to bar his way, he runs across a thoroughfare and dives into the shadow of a narrow gap between tall buildings, his energy flagging. The silhouette of a humanoid’s blocking his way, but behind him they’ve given up the chase.

  Not worth it for a paltry morsel of food.

  He’s still running. The figure blocking his way is small, possibly female and nervous. Jittery breath, heart racing, she’s eyeing him warily.

  Stop before she panics and screams. Walk calmly around her and away from here. His legs keep on moving. Too many synth hormones still whizzing around his system. Without them, he’d never have survived the crash.

  Their bodies make contact. A glancing blow shoots lancing pain through his wounded shoulder, spinning the female around, sending her crashing to the ground, cursing up a storm. Dropping to one knee, he takes a swift glance behind him and then turns to assess the damage.

  “Are you harmed?”

  She’s on her knees, long dark hair falling around her face, muttering and gathering up the scattered contents of her tote. Avoiding eye contact, as if he might conveniently disappear if she doesn’t look at him.

  “You again?” she says, hastily stuffing belongings into her tote. “Are you following me?”

  Her face is familiar. The female with the secret package.

  “Following? No, you may rest calm. I meant no harm.” His training kicks in. Part of the elite espionage squad, he’s a smooth operator when required. Hasn’t yet met a female he couldn’t charm.

  “Well, then try looking where you’re going.”

  The parcel she collected earlier lies on the dirty floor, the wrapping ripped at one end. He picks it up. Offers it to her. She looks at him then and her eyes flash with panic.

  “Oh no, please don’t let that be broken.” She holds out a hand. He places the parcel onto her outstretched palm.

  “Assure me you’re not hurt.” She doesn’t seem to hear or care she might have suffered injury in the clash. Too preoccupied with inspecting the contents of the soft, padded pouch. He narrows his focus, scanning the head and torso of the action figure she’s holding almost reverently.

  Action figure.

  How does he know that label? Something inside of him snaps. A door bursts open and memories flood through.

  Ten sleeps to go. Did they get it? A mystery parcel under the tree. He wants it so bad…

  The female notices him staring. Pushes the action figure back into the pouch. Her expression’s guarded, as if protecting something precious.

  More precious than she knows. To him, it suddenly feels like a key that might finally unlock these rogue memories of his.

  He landed here for a reason.

  And this was no random encounter.

  His arm moves quicker than she can react. He’s up and away, the parcel wrapped tight in his fist. The female’s outraged cries float on the air behind him.

  “Son of a…”

  It’s part sob, part battle cry and when he looks back, she’s on her feet and powering after him, eyes set firmly on the prize.

  Chapter 2

  “I knew it. Thieving son of a bitch!”

  Andra scrabbled to her feet, threw the bag over her shoulder and ra
n, ignoring the sting of her scraped knees. And the fact that the thief was tall and strong and she might as well be running on an ice rink in her kitten-heeled ankle boots.

  It can’t be gone. Heaving in a sobbing breath, she slowed. She’d never catch him. Not at the speed he shot from the alley.

  Months of vigilance, endless hours of searching, to say nothing of the sudden lucky break browsing the online market place last week, all for nothing.

  She knew others would be after the rare toy and had to get in fast. Even went to the precaution of collecting it from a city centre pick up point instead of having it delivered by her friendly postman who liked to know all her private business.

  Half an hour ago, General Jo was hers and little Oliver was about to get the Christmas of his dreams. Now she had only disappointment to deliver to his hospital bed on Christmas morning.

  She promised him a dream come true and now she had to tell an injured seven-year-old boy, that Santa didn’t always get it right.

  How could she do that to him?

  No sign of the thief. Only a spattering of red spots and a line of skidding footprints in the snow to show he’d run this way. Andra leaned on a wall, head tipped back, refusing to cry.

  A true collector’s item. The toy was sixty years old and still in mint condition. From a small production run and so rare she’d never replace it before Christmas. Not for the price she paid. The seller had no idea they were virtually giving away the surprise Christmas hit of 1959 and she hardly slept for two days waiting for the action figure to arrive.