by J. N. Chaney
“I’m your liaison. I know you’re beat. Follow me to a private lift,” she said, and Thorn was convinced those were some of the sweetest words he’d ever heard. In seconds, they were in a small elevator, moving at an alarming speed. It stopped without a sound, and the doors opened to reveal a passage that was both carpeted and lit in tastefully dim globes.
“Huh. This is new,” Thorn said.
“If you mean comfortable, then good. It’s meant to be. You’re just here,” she said, opening a door to reveal a cabin that was five times the size of his bunk space on Code Nebula. “I’m Laris. Our comm system will find me if you need anything, but I’ve ordered a Quiet Room for the next six hours. After that, move about the ship as you’d like. Do you need anything?”
“I—no. Thank you, Laris. I hadn’t really—”
“Expected this?” Her smile dimmed. “We know where you’re going, sir.”
“Sir?” Thorn asked her, his eyes measuring the young woman again.
She paused at the door. “Not all of us are in uniform, Specialist. Sometimes, we travel quietly in case there are…problems delivering our assets to the front.” Her smile was bright but tinged with iron. “Rest well. Then eat. They’ll feed you if you stand still for more than a minute.”
Thorn grinned as he began slumping to his bed. “Copy that.” His eyes closed, and for once there were no dreams. There was nothing waiting for him but sleep.
The starship was full of civilians, and Thorn felt out of place. He hadn’t even seen a civilian in months. Strolling among them, he felt self-conscious at first but then understood that his uniform meant something to all of them. He was a symbol of hope. Among the people he swore to defend, his posture was wrong, his words were crisp, and his steps too fast, but they looked at him like he was doing everything right, and in an hour of exploration, he relaxed. He wandered. He ate—everything, at any time—and even managed to fall asleep in a chair alongside the incomprehensible luxury of an enormous swimming pool.
Then, he did the only logical thing a soldier considers when he’s not on duty. He slept more.
A soft chime woke him, and for a moment he felt the kind of dislocation that only drool-inducing sleep can bring.
“Yes?” He sat up, his head fuzzed from what felt like a week of sleep.
“Arrival, Specialist. Fifteen minutes to high orbit and you can go downworld,” Laris said over a hidden speaker.
“Thank you. Can I—”
“Open your door, please.”
Thorn fought the blanket and took halting steps to the door, only to see it open without his touch. Laris stood there with a rolling tray of every known food substance in the civilized galaxy. “Hungry?”
“Holy—yes. How’d you know?”
She rolled the tray in, holding up one hand and counting off points. “Subject is male. Subject is young…sort of, and subject just got done with weeks of hard training. Therefore, subject will be hollow, and only food can help.” She quirked a brow at him, then added, “Along with other things, of course.”
Thorn was already stuffing a sausage roll in his mouth, but he paused at that. “Laris, I believe you’re being lewd. Not that I mind. Training was…singular in its purpose.”
She laughed, revealing excellent white teeth. “When you get to the casinos, you’re doubtless going to skin their tables for about ten or twenty thousand creds in the first hour. Don’t.”
“Don’t?” he mumbled around a sweet roll.
“The pit bosses will pick you off like snipers. Go slow, don’t drink too much. I recommend one water to every drink, then two waters per drink after midnight. Trust me, you won’t sleep. Then, when you’re up big, they’ll send in the talent to cool you down.”
Thorn took a long pull of coffee and rubbed at his neck. “I take it this talent has long legs and red hair?”
“What is it with men and redheads?” She blew a breath at her own dark locks, then smiled. “Regardless, yes. Long legs. Smiling, laughing—you’ll be so funny, every joke will hit—and then you’ll be at a different table and losing. Don’t do it.”
“You care if I win?”
“No. I care if you draw the attention of the casino staff, which can lead to problems, which could possibly—”
“Make me late to the war. Got it. I’ll behave,” Thorn said.
Laris laughed. “I doubt it. But welcome to Tuscolum. Do watch your head as you disembark, won’t you?”
“Aye,” Thorn said, and after a shower and shave, he found himself descending to the planet on a transport crowded with babbling tourists and the occasional pocket of dour traders. Laris had seen him off with a delicate touch. He knew for certain that she was far more than regular Navy. She was an intel agent of some stripe, and she was damned good at her job.
Tuscolum’s surface was covered from sea to sea with towering skyscrapers and bustling flight paths; the calamitous dance of aircraft made Thorn nervous as his transport wove deftly through the chaos. Thorn had never seen anything like it. Cotsworlds was a rural planet, most of its inhabitants surviving as ranch owners and farm hands. The Children’s Refugee Collective Home had been situated on the outskirts of a major city, but Thorn was allowed into the city only for work, and even then he remained close to the Home. Murgon 4 was a mud-ball. Nobody wanted to live there, let alone develop it into a major trade post.
“Well, this is new,” he said as the cityscape rose into sight. Every single direction was a sprawl of lights and motion, smeared to a silvery gleam by their descent.
The lower he descended into the City, the more difficult it became to view the billboards of the upper levels. Of course the ON hadn’t splurged to set him up in a nicer hotel. He checked into his room and felt the need to inspect the area for unwanted bunkmates. The facility might not have been top shelf, but it appeared clean enough, and with a whispered command the single window went dim, casting him into a world of permanent midnight. He slid into the bed and wasted nine more hours of leave doing nothing more complicated than snoring.
Waking, he felt a frisson of uncertainty. Tuscolum was outside his door. He was no longer on Murgon-4, and his status as a mudhumping laborer was long gone. Dressing in the only good clothes he owned other than a uniform, he stepped out into the city, stomach simmering with nervous energy.
“Time to skin the house,” he said, then laughed. Thorn was the least criminally minded person he knew. If he made it through a full hand of cards without sweating, he’d call it a win and go for an actual steak.
He didn’t walk far. In fact, he didn’t walk at all. A moving sidewalk carried him up a small incline before ending at massive doors leading to a casino so gaudy, it fairly throbbed with neon light.
“This’ll do.” Thorn went inside, schooling his features into a mix of wide-eyed rube and hopeful idiot. A spot opened at a table playing sevens, so he sidled up, waved his card over the reader, and cashed in for almost all the money he had to his name.
The dealer was friendly. The table was packed—all nine chairs taken, and more money on each card than Thorn had ever seen in one place.
Thorn let the cards fall.
Then, he let his power roam, sensing each hope being broken as cards went high or low, cracking any chance of a win in one, then three, and then all of the players except him, the dealer, and a woman wearing nothing more than streamers and heels. She winked as he tapped for his last card, his smile impossible to contain.
Here comes the jack.
The dealer smiled broadly, confident—the woman frowned, as Thorn saw an image from her mind. Ah. There’s where the last king went.
Thorn turned his cards and watched the dealer’s face collapse. “Close.”
“Winner to the gentleman,” the dealer said, his smile tight. Thorn watched him sweep the digital chips, a small screen glowing with the winning haul. Nearly four thousand credits on one hand.
Shit. Too big. “Cashing, please. A hundred for you,” Thorn said, rising. A sweating man with th
ree chins quickly took his chair, thick hands twitching with nervous energy. Or fear.
The dealer gave a polite nod, mollified, then watched as Thorn left at a sedate walk, parting the crowd to find another game. The woman who’d lost watched him go, smiled, then pulled out her card and ordered more wine. I’ll find him later, she thought.
Flattered, but no need, Thorn said, watching her twitch with shock over his shoulder.
She covered her mouth, laughing, then threw a conspiratorial wink his way. Sometimes, near misses were as good as successful hunts.
Thorn found another table offering Threedeck, a poker variant he’d seen on Murgon-4. This time, he paid attention to the bets, knowing that a huge win might bring attention. He threw two hands, won one, and then let the dealer think he was bust on the fourth. When the bets were down, he did the math and knew it was a heavy pot, but he vowed it would be his last hand.
“Winner, to the gentleman. I believe that’s three big wins tonight.” The dealer—a tall, slender woman named Bann—made a subtle motion to her left. Time to get him off my table. Hope they send Vee, Bann thought. An image of Vee flashed through her mind—long dark hair, tall, pale. A witchy vibe that would be impossible to resist among the glittering neon and pulsing noise.
Take that, Laris. Not a redhead, Thorn mused, then stood, repeated his tip to the dealer, and took his winnings in a transfer to his card. The small chirp of transfer made him grin, and he walked away from the table before Vee could descend on him to defend the casino profits.
Although, if he was honest, it wasn’t a bad way to lose a hot streak.
He went to a restaurant, sat by himself, and ordered an actual steak. Laris had been right—it was the reward he needed, and counting his illicit winnings was even better when accompanied with a piece of meat that cost a month’s pay. When he fell into bed some hours later, worn from the city and noise and lights, he saw a blinking icon on the flatscreen.
Kira.
He touched the screen, and her face came to life. She was smiling, like she could really see him.
“This is expensive, so I don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “I bribed a comms officer to send this before we go pluslight, so I’ll just get to it.” She drew in a breath, and her face took on a purposeful glow. “Don’t die in this war, Thorn. Don’t. Die. I won’t either, because I…I don’t want that to be the end. Of everything, I guess, but of knowing you. Find me, or I’ll find you. Clear the skies of Nyctus, and I’ll be waiting.” She looked away as someone uttered something in urgent tones. “Drive is powering up. Gotta go. Stay alive and then find me, Thorn. You’re all I have of my past.”
13
Most ships had one Starcaster, if any. They were largely autonomous for long stretches of time—a sort of limbo until the fleets clashed and planetary defenses filled a system with lethal ordnance.
That meant when Thorn arrived on the battleship ON Apollo, he did so alone, and without any special recognition. If anything, he was roundly ignored until he was finally greeted by a harried Petty Officer with two different colored eyes and an abundance of nervous energy. He offered his name as Slaughterbach, then turned and nearly bolted down the passage.
“Follow me, sir, and welcome aboard. Captain wants you on the bridge after you stow your gear.”
They paced through the ship like they were being chased, Slaughterbach keeping a running commentary about the ship, the crew, the Nyctus, and anything else that happened to occur to him. After an exhausting trip, he stopped in front of a gray door that narrowed at the top.
“Where are we?” Thorn asked.
“Bow, sir. Close to your, uh—close to where you do your thing, that is. See the blue line on the wall? Follow it to the bridge. I gotta get back.” Slaughterbach was gone in a second, leaving Thorn to wonder just what the hell had happened.
The quarters were small but tidy, with a bunk, chair, desk, and—to Thorn’s surprise—private head. The shower was small enough to cause claustrophobia, but it was his, and that was an unexpected bonus. He dropped his bags, squared himself away in the small mirror, and stepped out to go meet his Captain.
To his surprise, Slaughterbach was waiting.
“Change of plans, sir. You gotta eat first. Cap’s kind of a stickler—you’ll understand, soon enough—are you hungry? It’s breakfast time. Not sure where you came from?”
“I could eat,” Thorn said, following Slaughterbach.
“Good, sir. Let Cap see you do it. He thinks hungry sailors can’t fight. He’s right, you know. Here we are.”
Thorn could smell chow before he saw the double doors, which were open to let a stream of people in and out in two orderly lines. Most of the crew had eaten, so a light crew sat at tables, eating and drinking coffee. Low, friendly conversations stopped when Thorn came in, but the sound buzzed back to life as he took a tray and began filling it. There were eggs and bacon and biscuits and even real milk, which made Thorn blink in case he was dreaming—along with every other kind of food he’d never had as a kid.
So far, so good.
When it was suitably covered with food, he picked a seat, Slaughterbach in tow, but the young Petty Officer made another apology and bolted away.
Thorn began to eat, looking around in curious appraisal. Then Captain Samuels walked in, speaking easily to the crew as he filled his own tray and sat down, coffee cup balanced in one meaty hand.
Thorn stood. It was time to meet his future.
“Captain?” Thorn approached and saluted uncertainly. “Stellers. I just arrived, sir.”
The captain’s eyes scanned him, but not in an unfriendly way. “You’re the Starcaster, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Samuels waved at the food, then motioned for Thorn to grab his tray and join him. When Thorn settled in, Samuels pointed to their trays. “An army, it was said, moved on its stomach. I believe that is only partially true.”
“Sir?”
“We travel in starships. We fight with our minds and bodies. If we don’t eat, we don’t fight. It’s that simple. The myth that tough soldiers come from hard conditions is just that—a myth. So, we eat. We train. And we do all of these things without fail, because we get exactly one opportunity to engage and defeat the Nyctus, on average.”
“Sir, you mean…most ships don’t survive engagement?” Thorn asked, lowering his fork.
Samuels shook his wide head, the scalp covered with short black stubble. His eyes were impenetrable black, but he had a presence that was more positive than punishing. “Some ships don’t even make it through first contact. The Nyctus aren’t just sledgehammers. They’re clever. We can discuss that more later. For now, eat, then come to the bridge and see me. Your witchport is open and ready to use, though I pray to the stars that we don’t need you just yet. We’re still getting used to the idea that something other than a missile can kill the enemy.” He beetled his brows, leaning forward. “You can kill the enemy, can’t you?”
Thorn considered his words carefully. “In the right situation, I can kill them all.”
Samuels sat quietly for a moment, chewing. “Houdini.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Samuels put his own fork down and folded his hands. “The Houdini. It was a near-Earth frigate that got off the luckiest shot in naval history. One missile, three kills. That’s the last time an ON ship has punched above her weight, and it was only because a missile tech sent a fast-burner through the weakest point on a Nyctus dreadnought—and out the other side, clipping two more in the command modules and creating the biggest implosion you’ll ever see. That’s how rare it is for us to clear a battlespace, so when you say all of them, you have my attention.” He resumed eating, then finished quickly while Thorn chewed, waiting for something else to answer.
Nothing came up, because Samuels cleared his plate, stood, and told Thorn, “Come to the bridge. Let’s talk about luck.”
Then he was gone, and the clatter of a mess rang in Thorn’s ears as he wondered
how long he would live on a ship that needed luck more than it needed magic. He was woolgathering when he became aware of more company.
A petite woman with dark skin and hair so black it may have been blue sat herself across from him at the otherwise empty table, settling easily as if she already knew him.
She leaned forward on her elbows, grinning. “You’re new.”
Thorn wiped his face and extended a hand. “Stellers, Specialist, Starcaster division.”
The woman tilted her head. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I suppose not. Thorn Stellers, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Mol Wyant, same.” Her grin faded, but the tilt remained to her head. It gave her an avian aura.
“Well, Mol, what’s your MOS?” Thorn turned his coffee cup around, idly.
“Thirteen Ten ON. I’m a pilot.”
“How long have you been flying under Captain Samuel?” He sipped the coffee, wincing. It was body temp—an affront to all who love caffeine.
“I’ve had the privilege of calling Samuel my Captain for three years.” Mol gave a sharp nod, as if driving it home that the privilege was real.
“Sounds like he’s a good Captain with a good crew.” Thorn stood then went to return his tray to the waste conveyor, where it clanked away into a hidden disposal.
“Great.” She touched his shoulder for emphasis. “The word you’re looking for is great. Welcome to the team, Stellers.” Her eyes searched him, perhaps looking for rank, then she turned away with a polite nod.
“Thanks,” he told her, earning a wave as she vanished into the passage.
Thorn smoothed the wrinkles from his uniform and reported to the command deck. Captain Samuel stood at the helm, his broad shoulders hunching forward over the controls as if the weight of the world sat upon them.
“Captain Samuel?”
“Ah, Specialist.” The captain addressed him without turning. Around them, the bridge was a quiet buzz of orderly work, screens and consoles casting light of many colors across the dark walls. At various stations, staff looked down, or up, or into nothingness, their virtual gear held in place by small headbands.