by J. N. Chaney
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice trembling. Still, though, Mister Starman just smiled, saying nothing.
She watched the sun shard fall past the end of the sky and vanish. A second later, the sky, the air, everything seemed to turn white, then fade back to normal.
Morgan gasped. Her heart pounded like a galloping horse. She needed to find Mommy and Daddy ask them what was—
Mister Starman began to glow a soft, radiant blue.
More pieces broke off the sun and plunged through the sky.
Morgan whimpered again. She didn’t want this to happen. She didn’t want any of this to happen. The sun didn’t fall apart, and thunder and lightning didn’t come from an empty sky.
She wanted it all to go away, and it did, a sudden wave of bright blue pulsing away from her to push away the terrible things that were happening.
A wall of fire as tall as the sky suddenly raced over the hills, struck Mister Starman’s bubble of blue denial, and swept over it.
“No, no, Mister Starman, make it stop, make it stop!”
Mister Starman smiled, shooting searing bolts of blue energy into the sky. Every time they touched a sun shard, it went away. Gone.
Morgan whimpered and cried, rocking as she clutched Mister Starman tightly. Salty fluid, warm and sticky, poured over her mouth. Crimson droplets spattered into the grass. She was bleeding, her nose was bleeding, and she needed Mommy—
She stood to run, and the blue glow flickered and started to die. Mister Starman tried his best, but a big sun shard, the biggest yet, fell out of the sky, turned everything white again, and—
And that was it.
Everything was dark, now. There might have been other things happening, sounds and movements, but they were lost in the darkness around her.
And then, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just an instant of it, a tiny flicker, but it was the most awful thing she’d ever felt. But that minute flicker gave way to something new, a growing spread of pale light. It was white again, but a different white. Not the white of the sun shards, not the white of that terrible flash that ended everything. This was softer, more expansive, slowly spreading and growing.
Stars. The light was stars. Thousands, millions of them. More. And they were all around her, taking shape, and now so was she.
It was all coming back. Ground coalesced under her feet as the sky above returned, brightening with the sun—grass, the farmhouse, the sourfruit grove, and the clacking, bumbling bugs busy in their simple pursuits. Her world was coming back.
Mister Starman was bringing it all back.
Except it wasn’t just Mister Starman. It wasn’t just her doll, but a real presence, a strong one that felt like a warm, tight hug. It was all around her, infusing her, infusing everything.
A voice rumbled out of the earth, the sky, from the air itself.
I’m here, Morgan. I’m here. Daddy’s here.
Morgan gasped. Daddy. Daddy was here. He’d come back from the war for her. She spun around, looking for him. But—
Daddy, I can’t see you!
That’s okay. I’m right here. We’ll be together soon.
Daddy, where are you?
I’m here, Morgan. I’ll always be here.
She spun again, desperately looking for him. But all she saw was Mister Starman, and he had started to glow a soft blue.
But I can’t see you! she said. I can’t find you!
We’ll be together very soon, I promise!
Daddy—!
Almost, Morgan. Just a little bit longer.
Where was he? Why was he hiding? What was he—
She stopped, went still.
Something wasn’t right. She was becoming more herself, more real—but somehow, the world around her was fading in and out, and every time it faded, part of her went with it. The process could only end in one way, and even a child could see that.
Daddy—
Nearly there, Morgan.
Daddy—it’s different. It’s wrong. It’s wrong!
Morgan, Daddy’s almost there. His voice strained with effort. I’m almost—
Morgan’s hand was in an iron grip, pulling away into the swirling darkness where Mister Starman’s cheery radiance flared and then began to die. Things began to pop, to separate, a series of noises that made her wince even as her hand was torn farther away, always in the blue glow of her savior. Her father.
Her tormentor.
All that connected the hand now was a tenuous thread of existence that was about to snap, and Morgan threw back her head and screamed.
Mister Starman echoed it, with a sudden flare of blue light as bright as the white light that ended everything—a curtain of punishing light that seared her eyes—
Then it vanished, and her hand snapped back into place. She was whole again.
She felt a shockwave pulse away from Mister Starman, rippling through reality, turning it as rigid as stone in its wake. But she also felt daddy pushing back, trying to undo it, trying to take her hand away again.
Daddy, no!
Morgan, please, let me help you—
No, you’re hurting me!
Morgan remembered touching the stove once. The brilliant flash of pain had made her hand jerk away all on its own. That happened again now. The shock of pain from Daddy trying to pull her apart made her jerk back, made Mister Starman flare as bright as the sun. She snatched desperately at it, trying to scoop up endless handfuls of dust and gas and anything else she could reach for in that desperation that only pure pain can bring. She threw the matter back at him, creating a titanic blast, the biggest and brightest yet. It crashed through reality, flinging away stars and planets and glowing gases like sparks from a holiday bonfire. The stars howled, Morgan screamed, and then Daddy was gone—or at least, distant.
He was still there. She could feel him searching for her.
No. She couldn’t let Daddy find her.
That meant she couldn’t stay. She had to run. There was something wrong with Daddy. He was trying to hurt her—
Mister Starman knew what to do. He made a ship for her.
She’d never been on a ship before. This one had a chair for her and a big window so she could see where she was going, and that was all. It lifted from the ground and rose into the sky, then everything blurred and she was back among the stars. The farm, the sourfruit trees, the clacking bugs, they all vanished, lost somewhere far behind her now.
Morgan began to cry.
She cried as the ship raced through the universe, flashing past stars so fast they were just smears of light, gray and fleeting.
She sobbed, like the child she was, biting her lip and sensing the things that were around her now, so different from the nothingness of before. She knew about the farmhouse, and the fields around it, and she’d been to the city once, but that was it. Everything else was just things she’d heard about or seen on the vid.
A pall of desperate loneliness fell over Morgan. Anguished, she reached out, trying to find someone, anyone, who might take her in, take care of her—
She touched something, or something touched her, as light and soft as a feather.
Who are you?
I’m Morgan. Who are you?
I’m a friend.
Morgan bit her lip. This person, whoever it was, was lying. She could tell. She could feel it, see it in the curves and bumps and wrinkles of their thoughts.
You’re not my friend. You’re bad.
How can you say such a thing?
I know it. You’re lying! You’re lying to me!
Morgan sobbed again. She had nowhere to go, no one to go to. She couldn’t let Daddy find her, not while he wanted to unmake who she was.
She stopped, frowning. “Mister Starman, I know them. I know who this is.”
She reached out with the feather-touch again. You’re the one who made the sun fall apart.
I don’t know what you mean.
You’re lying again!
This time, she felt a push.
Whoever this was, they were trying to dig themselves deeper into her, further into who she was. They wanted to make her do the things that they wanted, not what she wanted.
No, I won’t let you do that, she said.
She felt something moving toward her. Something like a wave in space. A ripple. She couldn’t see inside it. It was nothing. A ripple of nothing.
It scared her, the same way the sun shards had. The sun wasn’t supposed to fall apart. Space wasn’t supposed to ripple around nothing. It wasn’t right.
“Mister Starman, I don’t like that,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t like that at all.”
Mister Starman agreed in an aura of blue. Morgan reached out and made that nothingness, and the strange, frightening ripples it made in space just go away.
As she did, she noticed that it had come from the same direction as that feather-light voice. Still riding Mister Starman’s blue radiance, she reached out to see what was there.
They were people. But not people. They were different. So different. A whole world of them. A world they called a strange name. Tāmtu. But she didn’t know what that meant, or if it meant anything at all.
But they didn’t live on Tāmtu, the way she’d lived on the planet called Nebo. They lived in Tāmtu, a secret place, far beneath thick ice layered over a warm world-ocean.
That would be the perfect place to hide from Daddy, at least until she could figure out what was wrong with him and why he wanted to pull her apart the way the sun had been pulled apart.
So you have found us, that soft voice said. Come to us. You want to be taken care of. We’ll take care of you.
It was lying again. So much lying. Mommy and Daddy got mad at her for lying. Once, they made her spend almost a whole afternoon in bed, in her room, because she’d lied about breaking a branch off a sourfruit tree. It had actually been Mister Starman with his blue radiance that did it, but it had been her idea, so it really was her fault. She’d just wanted to see if she could do it. When she finally told the truth, Mommy and Daddy hugged her and let her and Mister Starman out to play.
Lying was bad. Telling the truth was good.
You need to tell the truth.
I am—
No, you’re not! You’re not nice! Lying is wrong!
Please, just come to us—
No, she thought, but—if not there, then where? Where else could she go?
She made up her mind.
I will come to you, she said. I will, but you’re going to be nice and not lie anymore.
Mister Starman once more agreed with her and gave her as much blue radiance as she needed—enough to change these people, to take away the badness and lying and make them nice.
Morgan slowly awoke and looked around. She floated high above one of the hot vents—that’s what the Nyctus called them, and they used another word—hydro-terminal, or something like that. If she were deeper, the heat would have woken her up. This far above it, though, close to the ice, it was just a gentle warmth.
“You’re awake, child.”
She turned and found the elder shaman nearby.
“You were dreaming,” it said.
“Were you watching me?” Morgan asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
“Of course. We always watch over you.” The elder shaman drifted closer. If it could smile, Morgan knew it would be smiling now. She smiled back.
“I know. I’m glad.”
“Were you dreaming of him again?”
She nodded. “I wish he wasn’t disappointed in me. I wish he didn’t want to change me.”
“I’m sorry, child, but I can’t speak to that. I don’t know his mind.”
Morgan’s eyes stung. She didn’t know his mind either. But she could.
The shaman flashed with soft blue-green light, trying to soothe her. It made her eyes stop hurting.
“I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“And we’re glad you’re ours. Of course, why wouldn’t we be? After all, you are the reason that we exist,” the shaman said.
6
“That’s it,” Kira said, pointing at the screen. “Right there.”
Damien leaned forward, frowning. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the Venture’s aircyclers. “Krol-kazan? What’s krol-kazan, aside from something I assume involves that kicking drink the Danzur export to the Nyctus?”
“It’s the key ingredient of krol,” Kira replied. “The Danzur import it because they don’t seem to have access to any of their own.” She pointed again. “Now, take a look at the import stats for it.”
Damien scrolled down the page, one of myriad tables of commercial data the Danzur had provided.
Not that they’d meant to provide them. That had been Kira’s doing. It turned out that if you Join with a minor functionary, a petty bureaucrat filling the role of a tiny cog in a vast, creaky machine, it seemed to go unnoticed. This little cog had been dedicated to his work but not particularly stimulated. He tended to drift in and out of fantasies that were, Kira assumed, pretty lurid by Danzur standards. It had been easy to take control of his fantasies and make them a little more real. The distraction from what he was actually doing meant he didn’t notice that among the requested statistics, he was also sending Kira all of the Danzur import/export data for the last three cycles.
Damien abruptly stopped scrolling and looked at Kira. “Wait. How did you get all this? I don’t remember seeing any requests for it from us, and I don’t remember seeing it coming in, either.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not,” Damien said, shaking his head with a small smile. “But these Danzur keep track of everything. They audit their audits. Don’t you think they’ll eventually figure this out?”
Kira gave a sly grin. “They might. On the other hand, auditing your audits creates such a vast amount of paperwork that someone would have to actually notice it, right? And what are the chances of that happening anytime soon?”
Damien started scrolling again. “I don’t know, and that’s the—whoa.”
“I thought that would perk you up,” Kira said.
“Their imports of this krol-kazan, whatever it is, just stop.”
“So do their exports of Krol to the Nyctus, almost right away.”
Damien drummed on the table with his fingers. “So their import source got cut off. Okay, that sucks, I guess, mainly for the Nyctus—which doesn’t break my heart. But—and I mean this in the nicest possible way—so what? Walk me through the repercussions, because I’m not sure we’re on the same trail.”
“Look at when this happened,” Kira replied, pointing at the corresponding column of dates. The Venture’s computer had converted them to ON standard, so it wasn’t hard to tell when the Danzur had been cut off from their supply of the ingredient. “Right here.” She pointed at the date column.
Damien stared blankly at it, then at Kira—then understanding dawned. “That’s almost immediately after the ON destroyed that squid planet that was not too far away from here.”
“Exactly. You know what that makes me think?”
“That this krol-kazan came from the Nyctus. From that planet, in particular.”
“Bingo.”
Damien drummed his fingers again as the implications sunk in. “We inadvertently cut off a lucrative source of trade for the Danzur when we destroyed that planet. Krol-kazan came from there, and they processed it into krol, which they traded back to the Nyctus.”
“Makes you wonder why the Nyctus just didn’t make krol themselves if they had the ingredients,” Kira said.
“I dunno. They might not have had all the ingredients. Or they might not know the process, which might be proprietary or even beyond the physical limitations of the Nyctus. In any case, they obviously needed the Danzur to make it for them, and it wasn’t worth starting a war over. It would have had the Nyctus fighting on two fronts.”
Kira leaned on the table and nodded. “Which is what we’re facing if we can’t figu
re out a way to maintain—hell, to even develop, for that matter—good relations with the Danzur.”
When Thorn contacted her, it took a moment for her to transition from the task at hand to mental communication across the light-years. With slow, deliberate movements, she pushed back from her desk, and from the latest Danzur draft of the negotiation agreement.
Busy? he asked.
I’m deconstructing a trade war between two races who have no reason whatsoever to be in business. So, the usual. What is it?
I think I know what went wrong, he said without preamble.
With bringing her back?
Yes, and I know why. I don’t think I was there enough for her.
You weren’t—what? What does that mean? Kira asked.
She was confused, frightened. She didn’t understand what was going on. I should have talked to her more, explained what was happening. It was the mechanism of what I did that scared her, but my failure to explain it made it worse.
Thorn, she was four.
Actually, I think she was older than that when I tried to bring her back. I don’t know why, but she seemed more like an eight or nine year-old. It must have had something to do with how I visualized her, and how the magic reacted to that. I’ve aged from magic, and I should have anticipated the same for her. It’s . . . it’s too big. Magic is bigger than life, I think, and it can reshape everything right down to reality. I missed that when I dove in and tried to bring her all the way back.
Thorn—shit. That means you would have taken away four or five years of her life.
As opposed to all of it, because she was dead?
Kira sighed. True. Okay, explain an interstellar war, an alien enemy, a KEW attack, death, magic, resurrection, and not just for her, but for a whole planet, as though you’re talking to a nine-year-old child.
Okay. You see, Morgan, we’re fighting a war.
What’s a war? Kira interrupted.
It’s when two groups of people don’t agree on something, so they fight about it—
Why?
Because they might not understand the universe the same way, so that makes them—