Contents

Cover

About the Book

Portrait of a Marshal

About the Author

Starters

Copyright

About the Book

Are all Enders evil? Not quite. Go inside the mind of a Marshal in Portrait of a Marshal, an exclusive ebook original short story by Lissa Price. The ebook is a perfect entryway into the world of Starters, and a must-read for fans who’ve already read the novel and the first ebook original short story, Portrait of a Starter.

POOR LITTLE STARTER, what happened to you?

I look down at the body of this girl on the ground. She should be safe in her home, or dancing, or doing her homework. But she’s here, on the cold concrete of this abandoned underground parking structure that smells of mildew and oil spills.

Her clothes are torn: the pants and T-shirt, even the sweatshirt that slipped off her shoulder is ripped. Starters style. When you fight a lot, your clothes will show it. And they’re always fighting, because everyone wants to fight them. Renegades, Ender shopkeepers, other Starters. Even marshals like me. So which of these rips were already there and which were made by her killer?

I pull my scanner out of my pocket, crouch down, and run it over the rips. It comes up with dates on the small airscreen.

The most recent rip was made a month ago. Thought so. No help there.

And the bullet hole in her heart isn’t talking either. Clean entry, from a distance. All the scanner admits is that it was created two hours ago. The anonymous tip from a passerby came in ten minutes ago.

A memory flashes through my mind. Another bullet hole, another girl, another time. I push it out of my thoughts.

I focus on this girl, this Starter. She looks about fifteen. Probably been out on the streets for a year. Most Starters lost their folks about then in the Spore Wars. I run the scanner over the ends of her brown hair, which reaches past her shoulders. Last cut approximately sixty days ago. Odd. Where did she get the money for that? Maybe it was a trade. Or a friend good with scissors.

Another flash: Jenny. Blond hair, past the shoulders. Tangled.

I blink myself back to the present, squatting, holding my scanner. I scan her complete body. I watch to see if the screen blinks red for something unusual. I flick the audio switch and the readout speaks as I run it over her stomach.

“Scar from accidental trauma, five years ago. Probable cause: fall.”

I run it over her clothes from her belly button to her thighs.

“No sign of trauma.”

Nothing special comes up, so I just store the information. I choose not to use the scanner’s image capture, setting it on the ground as I take out my phone. I shoot a picture of her, then slip the phone back into my pocket so I can search the folds of her clothing. Starters often carry some small pouch. But all she has is her water bottle still slung over her shoulder and a handlite on her wrist. I scan the bottle and handlite, come up empty. I undo the handlite. Sometimes they hide paper inside the thick band.

Nothing. I hear something skitter away in the dank garage. A mouse? I stand and stretch the kinks out of my back. Oh, for the days when I was limber.

I bend and remove her shoes.

Blue athletic shoes. They’re so small, hardly bigger than my hand. It breaks my heart.

Flash: Another pair of shoes, this time pink. Torn. A few rhinestones left. A hole in the toe. Jenny’s shoes, the ones she wanted so much it hurt. I bought them for her.

I shake the pain away. I will focus.

Most Starters have almost nothing. Who thought this girl was worth an expensive bullet?

Finally, I let myself examine her face. It’s surprisingly beautiful. Her skin flawless. Starters usually have sunburns, freckles, cuts from fights.

I look at her hands. Also pale and perfect. I didn’t run the scanner over her face. The wound is the obvious cause of death, but my gut says to check. I pick up my scanner.

It tells me she’s had green laser surgery. A nose job. Also sixty days ago, the same time she had the haircut. Strange.

I lift her head and feel something on the back of it, under her hair. Carefully, I turn her head to the side and run the scanner.

“Neurochip.”

Neurochip?

“Inserted sixty-one days ago.”

I examine the rough spot of skin and see a small, slightly raised scar. I turn the scanner to magnifying mode for a closer look. A scar, all right, and two months seems right.

She’s the third victim in a month. I didn’t examine the others. Bet no one scanned the backs of their heads.

A noise like someone kicking a can pulls me away from my examination. I lower the girl’s head gently and stand. I pull out my gun.