by J. N. Chaney
“Can’t access the control panel, sir!” Rodie struggled against the force holding him to the wall. He was pinned, his face pale from the vicious effects of their spin.
“Cast, Lieutenant! Direct the energy precisely!” He saw Rodie’s eyes go wide at the realization that it would be magic, not engineering, that might save them.
Rodie closed his eyes, jaw working nervously. He pulled on his own energy stores and sent a tremor through the control panel, effectively disengaging light speed with the short circuit of the screen. The ship began to slow, then the emergency Vernier rockets kicked in, burning their chemical fuel in seconds as they bled off velocity through fiery muscle.
The stars, too, slowed. Then they stopped, and a tomblike stillness fell on the bridge—over all of them, except for Streya, who coughed twice, her eyes bright with sick relief.
“Streya, location.” Thorn was getting a handle on the situation, but a gnawing suspicion told him he’d just lost the team any bonus points for effective defense.
Streya dragged herself to the navigation controls and analyzed the data for a couple of seconds. “We’ve spun off course by about three quadrants. We’ve got Nyctus setting up formation at Varroc 2.”
“Silence those alarms and secure the ship,” Thorn said. He addressed Val, who held a hand over her stomach, still in the throes of motion sickness. She didn’t look happy—but then, Val wasn’t made to be happy. She was made to fight.
“Ideas, Lieutenant?” Thorn asked.
“Yeah.” She grimaced. “Kill the engines two minutes ago.”
Thorn leaned in, his voice low. “Sir. For the moment, you’ll use the proper term. Just because you’re about to spill your guts is no reason to act like an amateur.”
She looked down, jaw tight. He was right and she knew it, so all she did was shake her head. “No, sir. I’m effectively out of ideas.”
The clock was ticking, and Thorn stroked his chin, thinking. “Lieutenant, how are your reserves?”
“Of magic? Ah—sir?” Val asked.
“Exactly. Are you capable of casting?”
“Sir, I am,” Val answered, her expression neutral. She might even be curious, if she wasn’t trying not to puke.
“Then report to the engine bay. Cast what energy you may have into the secondary fuel core, and spare no amount of your power. All your energy, down to the last, Lieutenant.”
Val stood and sketched a salute. “Aye, Captain.” She hustled from the command bay, face thoughtful.
“Drigo.” Thorn spoke through his comm. “Stand by. Weapons ready. And that means us, too.”
“Aye. Weapons ready, and…so are we. Sir.” Drigo rolled his head and flexed both arms—real and synthetic. He was ready, and judging by his expression, he was buying what Thorn was selling.
“Streya.” Thorn stepped to the nav displays and pointed to a position behind Varroc’s moon. “Recalculate the course for a direct trajectory to this location. A quiet little place, out of the way, don’t you think?
“Sir, yes sir.” Streya dashed her fingers across the controls while murmuring a stream of data to Rodie, who typed even as he was listening.
Rodie spun his chair when Streya finished speaking. “Course loaded, sir.
“Fast. Good work,” Thorn said.
“You pay me to be fast, sir, not just witty,” Rodie said.
“I’ll issue a bonus for that one. Who’s next?” Thorn asked, smiling.
Val raced back into the command bay. “Secondary fuel core is reenergized, Captain.”
“You’re even faster. Make that two bonuses. Initiate sequence, Rodie. Let’s go. We’ve got a planet to save from the big guns. Or rocks.” Thorn held tightly to the override control this time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. The battleship hurtled away, turning hard into an orbit that seemed to brush the moon. As they dug deeper into the gravity well, rear scans lit up in an array of colors.
The Nyctus weren’t closing on the planet. They were there.
“All stop,” Thorn said, touching Rodie on the arm. “I want to—”
The screens flared into light so brilliant it had a weight. Then the light faded, leaving—nothing.
No planet. No moon. No radar shadow to hide in. Nothing but debris, and even that was little more than glowing dust. A whole world—and moon—dust. Like in the beginning.
“The Nyctus can’t build,” Thorn spat. “Only destroy.”
The walls flickered. The stars vanished.
Hiroshi’s voice came over the comms devices in their ears. “Mission failure. Report to the training field.”
Drigo patted Thorn on the back, despite their abrupt failure.
“It was a good attempt, Cap.” He clung to their ranks from a moment ago without a thought. “I’m just sad I didn’t get to send any Nyctus to hard vac.”
“Same. Shit, we had them. This was designed to kill us. To kill the world,” Thorn growled, then he began trudging away toward the waiting officers, who resembled nothing more than a gathering of angry judges. Which they were. After stony silence, it was Ashworth who spoke into the gathering moment. “Follow me, Stellers.”
Thorn followed.
The door to Ashworth’s office closed without a bang, but a click—a sound so mild, but carrying a wealth of meaning.
“Recruit Stellers,” Ashworth said. “Reflect on your decisions this afternoon in the simulation practice. Carefully, I might add.”
Narvez, who was in the corner, merely stared at Thorn, saying nothing.
“Sir.” Thorn stood to attention, gathering his thoughts. “I…I used my power to clear a meteor field, in order to gain speed. To gain time. I failed. I was able to control all of the rocks except for one—I appreciate the sim reflecting that attempt on my part but don’t know how you did it. However, the one rogue asteroid struck us and sent us into a spin. I have no one to blame but myself.”
Ashworth smiled with a knowing air. “And how did that decision serve your purpose?”
“Not well, sir, if that’s what you’re asking,” Thorn said.
“It did not serve well, indeed. An understatement of rare quality. I saw the effects of your spin—brought on by your decision to ignore the one person on the bridge who could navigate a ship. Interesting command choice. Naturally, when I say interesting, I mean stupid, or perhaps even homicidal.” The First Lieutenant touched his desk, fingers splayed like a spider. “And what was the outcome of your…executive decision?”
Thorn kept his eyes level despite heat rising in his face. “The civilian planet of Varroc 2 was lost to the Nyctus.”
“And the enemy fleet?”
“The attacking fleet escaped, sir.”
“Without a single shot of engagement, I understand.” Ashworth clasped his hands behind his back and pressed his chest forward. “Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct.”
“A team of Starcasters in the Orbital Navy is deliberately chosen with an array of expertise, Stellers.” Ashworth’s deliberation seemed genuine. “As an officer in training, it would be wise of you to place trust in the advice of your flight squad. Executive decisions should be reserved for reactive emergencies, not proactive battle plans.”
Thorn gave a quick nod. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Narvez.” Ashworth sat behind his desk, signaling that the meeting was over. “Explain the concept of cause and effect for Stellers, if you please. I find your creativity to be—um--”
“Fitting, sir?” Narvez offered.
Ashworth knocked his knuckle against the desk, smiling. “That’s the term. Fitting. You truly are accurate.”
Narvez smiled, lifting her nose as she savored the moment. “Stellers, you’re about to become an expert in Hygienic Engineering, and you’ve only got a week to master it—or you’ll repeat the education process. I say this without any undue joy, because if I’d listened to my crew, I wouldn’t be here coddling self-destructive idiots like you. In any field, let alone H
ygienic Engineering.”
Thorn couldn’t hold back the question. “Hygienic Engineering, ma’am?”
Narvez smiled, and it was the look of a serpent. “You’re going to clean the shitters, and you’re going to make them shine like the stars themselves.”
12
The simulations of the following weeks went decisively better than their first run. Thorn relied on his team, and in turn they began to rely on him. Time was the one thing they didn’t have, because the Nyctus continued their advance, chewing at distant systems with weapons that left few survivors and even fewer answers.
He eyed himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his dress blues. The brass buttons shined in the florescent light of the communal bathroom, and Thorn realized he was no longer a kid. Who he’d been—under the covers of his bed, feeling adrift—was as distant as the war’s front. His body had changed, along with his mind. His will.
But most of all, his core ability had become something wholly different.
Thorn was a Starcaster. Ten years earlier—hell, five, if he was right—the term hadn’t existed. The war was now in its third decade, with the last five years being little more than a bloodbath as humanity watched the sphere of worlds shrink with each massive Nyctus push. He was a Starcaster, and an officer, and even more importantly, a human. And his training was nearing the end.
Wandering to the barracks for the last time, Thorn knew that of all the things in that building, only one mattered, and it was nestled in his pocket. The talisman didn’t leave him. Clothes were temporary, as were weapons, because he was the weapon, aided by the intense aura of magic imbued in the charred pages of a childhood book. It was hard to recall the feelings he had upon arrival at the base; all he was able to muster was a faint remembrance.
Everything was different. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be, even if it meant leaving the husk of his earlier life behind without a backward glance. That, he knew, was something he could do.
Val and Streya smashed through the door into the bunk, an air of breathless relief around them.
“We made it,” Thorn said simply.
Streya smiled. Val nodded, slowly, processing the reality of their moment.
“Now, the real work,” Val said, and there was an echo of something bitter in his words. They understand reality, and the math was not on their side. They would die. All of them might die inside a week if the Nyctus continued to target Starcasters with ruthless efficiency.
That silenced them as a group, so their walk to graduation was more like the march of the damned. There was no triumph, not at first, then Schrader gave a small nod as the former recruits began to line up in the main hall. There was room to spare around them.
“Thirty-nine,” Schrader said, his voice rattling off the walls. “We began with…far more than that.” He paused. “There’s no time for melancholy memory. There is only here and now. And the war. I say this with complete confidence—you’re ready.”
Schrader began pacing, marking their faces as he passed by. No one spoke. The air hummed with the unknown.
“I became a soldier before we knew magic existed, even though it was living inside me. There were no words for what I was, only the knowledge that I was real. My power was real, and so is yours. We know…we know much more now, but we also understand the Nyctus to some extent. Our magic and theirs are not alike. Let me repeat—your power is different from theirs. They are vicious, and aggressive, and even relentless, but I believe, as your commander, that our abilities are superior. This is where you take a stand. From this moment, you will be officers. I’m going to tell you an ugly secret—it doesn’t matter. What does matter is your will. It must coalesce into something harder than the heart of a star. And just as hot. You will be alone, at the bow of a massive ship being hurled into the teeth of an enemy that has known nothing but victory. You’ll be alone in your witchport, with the black stretching before you, and that’s when it will happen.”
“What, sir?” Thorn heard himself ask.
Schrader turned to regard him, his eyes serious but not angry. “Fear. You’ll fear the enemy. And failure. And for some of you, your own power.” Schrader held out his hand, and Ashworth placed the first Starcaster insignia in his palm. As he spoke, Schrader pinned the bronze symbol on one new officer after another—Val, looking serious, Streya and Rodie relieved. Then the rest, until only Drigo and Thorn remained.
“Don’t lose control of yourself. Ever. This war isn’t personal, despite how you might feel,” Schrader said to Drigo, who looked thoughtful but nodded in thanks. The salute he offered Schrader was crisp, and then it was Thorn’s turn.
He pinned the bronze rocket-and-stars on Thorn and then took a small step back, appraising him. “I tell you the opposite, Stellers.”
“Sir?” Thorn asked, confused.
“Hold nothing back. Burn them from the black, and don’t ever limit yourself. I know what you can do. We all know. Now, the Nyctus have to understand that our species has…certain advantages…that they don’t,” Schrader said.
“I—yes sir?” Thorn tried not to make it a question, but it was.
Ashworth chimed in. “You scare the shit out of the Nyctus, but they don’t know it yet. They’re single-school ’casters. Earthers, mostly, throwing rocks and being—”
“Inelegant,” Schrader cut in. “Your power is what they fear most, because it’s something they can never have. They hoped to wipe us out with the KEW barrages, and they came damned close. They failed. Now, they’re grinding us to dust, but that ends now. Which is why the next bit of news is, I’m sure, most welcome. Lieutenant, if you please?”
Ashworth addressed everyone with a genuine smile. “Most of you will have two days to raise hell in the casinos at Tuscolum, and it’s our unofficial position that you not wear anything identifying you as a Starcaster.”
“How’re we gonna get laid then, sir?” Rodie said, earning a round of laughter.
“For you, Rodie, I’d start with a bag over your head,” Ashworth said, and the room erupted. Ashworth patted the air for silence and went on. “I’m sure some of you want to get laid. But I bet all of you would like to screw the casino for a few thousand creds at the card tables. Am I correct?”
More cheers erupted, and even Rodie brayed with laughter.
“Remember, be subtle, be sly, but shake those bastards down with our blessings. Fight well, and dismissed,” Schrader said, thronged with new officers as he shook hands and clapped shoulders.
They were, for a moment, happy, and that was good enough. Thorn was swept away in the tide of relief, and then he was outside, looking up at the sky as it purpled to night. A ship blazed away to the north, its orbit heading out of system, and then the sky was calm again.
Kira was waiting.
“Hey. Dinner?” Thorn asked. There was a spread laid out before the jump planes began taking everyone into orbit.
“Got something better,” she said, holding out a silver flask. It looked impossibly old.
“Thirty-year-old whiskey in a two hundred-year-old flask. The last taste of home before we—” Kira said, then stopped. “Specialist Stellers. A salute to you.” She tipped the flask, drank, then handed it to him.
“Sounds weird. Why not lieutenant or, I don’t know, something a little less—”
“Special?” Kira asked, laughing. “Drink up. My plane leaves soon.”
He sipped and then smiled. “Peat. And meadows. I miss that,” Thorn said.
“Then make sure you come back to it,” Kira said.
“I’ll do my best. Why do I feel like there’s more?”
She took out an envelope and opened it to reveal orders. “Because there is. I’m going active.”
“Kira. You’re not a ’caster. Not yet. Where are—“
She smiled, eyes scanning the page. “Captain. Of the Pleiades. I’m getting a ship.” Her face had the bittersweet cast of someone who’d just gotten bad news of the kind you can’t avoid.
“Ca
ptain? I mean, you’re capable as hell, but…a ship? Isn’t the Pleiades a defensive frigate? You’ll be knee deep in the shit, Kira. You’re safe here, you can help win by—”
“Safe? You’re shitting me, right? Safe? Thorn, Code Nebula isn’t just a target. It’s the target, and no, I’m not safe within ten lights of this rock. At least on my own bridge I’ll be mobile, and I can fight back. Here, we’re just watching the skies, wondering when the rocks are going to fall.”
“Again,” Thorn said.
“Again.”
He nodded and then faced her, mere inches away. “You’re going to be a true leader, Kira. You led me out of that hellhole, and you’ll do it again. I’m sorry I didn’t just cheer.”
“It’s okay. I’m a bit stunned myself. We’re bleeding officers, so it’s not as if they have a lot of choice. I’ll—like you said, I’ll do my best.”
Thorn put his arms around her, and she stiffened, then went soft. “Thank you. For everything. I’ll see you out there.”
“Same. Meet me in the black, over the debris of a Nyctus fleet. We’ll be even then.”
“Deal.”
The jump plane from what had become more of a home to him than any other since Cotsworlds was a bumpy one. The upper-atmo chop was rough, leaving his teeth rattling after the first short hop. It took two additional jump planes before he docked for the last portion of his journey to Tuscolum, where he transferred to a grand, lumbering starship of enormous proportions. By then, Thorn hadn’t slept—not really—in thirty-six hours, and his eyes felt like sandpits. He staggered onto the massive ship, bag over his shoulder and looking for a bed.
“Specialist Stellers?”
Thorn turned to find the speaker. It was a small, fastidious woman near his age, her uniform sporting an offensively yellow badge that read ASK ME in bold letters. Underneath her apparent job description was the name L. Vigorito.
“Um. Yes?” Thorn said, slow to respond. He was nearly swaying. Compared to training, this was a new kind of challenge.