Starcaster

by J. N. Chaney

  The room went dark. Kira stepped out and pulled the door behind her with a final click.

  The bridge was a short distance, and Kira arrived to find every face turned toward her steps. She greeted them with a friendly look, then took up her station at the elevated back where she had optimal views of all the data.

  “As you all know by now, I am your new Lieutenant Commander, Kira Wixcombe. I fought in this past week’s battle against the Nyctus, and my fighter was the sole surviving vehicle among my squadron. That means I’m either lucky or good. I can live with lucky, because as we all know, luck is the only force in the universe that can be shared.” A smattering of grins greeted her statement, and she began walking around, nodding politely to each crew member.

  Their faces were an array of emotions, although—and this pleased Kira—no one was afraid. Tense, yes, but no fear on the outside. She could live with that, because she didn’t want stupid crew. She wanted capable crew who understood that fear was a natural extension of the shitshow brought on by war with the Nyctus. “I belong in the chair, and you belong in yours. We’re professionals, and I expect some nerves at first while we shake off our…let’s call it uncertainties. If you’re nervous, good. Brave and dumb is no way to die out in space.”

  There were more grins and a few laughs, some colored with the sound of relief. She had them now.

  “To sum up, I’m on a short winning streak against the enemy. I intend to keep it going. But first and foremost, I want you all to understand a ship is nothing without its crew, and every task on a battleship is equally as important as the next. So I want you all to feel comfortable coming to me if you need anything. This is the part where I tell you my door is always open, but it’s not. On the rare occasions where I grab shuteye, I’m instructing Lt. Ellerby to have anyone who wakes me up flogged at the nearest opportunity. Lt. Ellerby, do we still flog people in this Navy?”

  “I can arrange something, ma’am,” he said, grinning. The crew smiled at her now, following Kira as she completed her circuit of the bridge.

  “Excellent. Only in egregious cases, of course, but we will have discipline. And coffee, and sleep when we can get it. Who’s in charge of the beans?” Kira asked.

  “Ma’am, that would be me,” said a small wiry man, his hair tightly curled and nearly orange. “Petty Officer McMahon. I handle the roasting of coffee and other occasional tasks pertaining to the mess.”

  “Outstanding. Are you the baker as well?” Kira asked.

  “Ma’am?” McMahon looked confused.

  “Do we have a baker on board?” Kira asked, surveying the room.

  A hand went up, but with hesitation. “Ma’am, I, ah, baked a little?”

  “Your name, please?” Kira asked. The woman was tall and painfully thin, but elegant. She had bronze skin and enormous dark eyes.

  “Petty Officer Souza, ma’am.”

  “Pleasure to meet you. As of now, you have a second job. Bread. We will eat well on this ship. I’ve arranged for certain supplies to be brought in—you’ll find them labeled and ready. We will have excellent coffee, even better bread, and we will never eat the same thing twice unless it’s spaghetti, because the sauce gets better over time. I will not fight those murderous squid on an empty stomach. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Souza said, with a broad, brilliant smile.

  “If you add the orders stay alive and kill Nyctus, you now have my entire approach to command and battle. Are we clear?” Kira asked.

  The entire bridge answered as one. “Aye, ma’am!”

  Kira sat down, and the chair fit. “Helm. Per our course, kick it.”

  Things went quiet after the Nyctus attack.

  There was no evidence of enemy resurgence, so Thorn spent more time in training with Mol, learning what it meant to be Orbital Navy without magic.

  “It sucks,” Thorn summed up.

  Mol shrugged. “Not everyone gets to do things the easy way.”

  “You think magic is easy?” Thorn asked, incredulous.

  Mol gave a small shrug. She was pulling gloves on, waving Thorn into a combat mat. “Easier than this.”

  Thorn stood, hands on his hips, head tilted in disbelief. “I think you’ve misunderstood…well, all of me.” He gave an expansive wave, then began pulling his own gloves on. He wore nothing on his feet, like Mol, although their practice gear was different. She opted for a single-piece robe in an ancient design. Thorn wore loose shorts, no shirt, and an expression of mild amusement.

  “I’d adjust my attitude if I were you. I’m not just a stone-cold killer in the pilot’s chair. I’m a ground combat instructor,” Mol said, eyes flashing. She smiled, but it was chilly.

  Thorn gave a small bow. The other crew were slowing down or falling silent. In the gym there were fifteen people training hard, but they all stopped to see what Thorn could do.

  Or not do.

  As a ’caster, he was of limited use after the battle. That meant he needed to be a supernova of skill in some other field, and the way Mol regarded him with a raised brow and half smile, it didn’t look like she found him threatening.

  “Begin,” Mol said.

  A second later, she was rolling to a stop, sucking wind and looking up at Thorn’s extended fist.

  “Um,” she gasped.

  “Um, indeed.” He pulled her to her feet and she waved him off. “The hell?”

  “Try again?” Thorn asked. Now everyone was watching.

  “Need a minute,” Mol said, pressing one hand to her ribs.

  “I can go,” came a light, mellow voice. The speaker was a guy nearly Thorn’s height but heavier in build. He had a sleepy expression, but his movement radiated menace. He wore combat shorts, a faded blue shirt with Cyrillic lettering, and gloves. A trained fighter, at minimum. Also, a possible problem to most people in the gym, given their expressions of respect.

  “Good,” Thorn said. “Stellers, Starcaster.”

  “Voinich, Ground Forces. This is my gym.”

  “I thought it belonged to the ON,” Thorn offered mildly.

  “Not when I’m in it,” Voinich said in a tone so flat it seemed robotic.

  “No broken bones, now,” Mol said.

  “No promises,” Thorn answered.

  Voinich narrowed his eyes but stayed calm. A seasoned pro. “Begin,” he said.

  His left hand lashed out in a blur—

  —to strike air. Thorn moved to the right and delivered a whistling punch to Voinich on the nape of his neck. As Thorn turned, he saw Voinich collapse, his eyes drifting around aimlessly.

  Thorn knelt, checked the man’s pulse, then pushed everyone back. “Mol, did you think that being raised in a shithole collective home made me soft?”

  Voinich groaned. “Friggin’ orphans. Always dirty as hell.”

  “Not dirty. Creatively violent by necessity, is my preferred descriptor. Ready to stand?” Thorn asked Voinich, who shook his head.

  “Guess I sort of forgot that part. Thought your, ah, magic was all you had,” Mol said by way of apology.

  “It’s still with me. I didn’t use it, but it’ll never go away. It’s who I am, I think, no matter what command wants me to be,” Thorn said.

  Voinich sat up, waving away the helping hands of other crew, who regarded Thorn with a mixture of respect and suspicion. “You gonna come fight it out with us as a boarding crew? Ground based? What now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a risk, maybe, and I won’t put anyone else in the line of fire because I leak psychic energy. This”—Thorn made fists— “is what I have for now.”

  Mol smiled and then winced. “It’s good enough for now.” She glanced up at the chrono. “Time to go. Where you headed, Thorn?”

  “Bridge, but not until I smell less like…” Thorn seemed to hunt for a word.

  “A farm animal?” Mol offered, grinning.

  Thorn inhaled and raised a finger. “No. It’s…victory.” He bowed and left, and even Voinich laughed.

 
Thorn reported to the command deck as usual and was greeted by the captain at the helm, his position dead center of a buzzing sea, filled with quiet, competent actions. The air was active but not desperate. The captain leaned over a comm, rubbing at his chin.

  “Sir,” Thorn said, moving to the captain’s side.

  Samuel stood, eyes flashing across the comm screen one last time, as if reluctant to leave—or believe—what he was seeing. “Interesting development here, Stellers.”

  “I’ve learned that interesting is rarely good, sir.”

  “Then you’re already a seasoned veteran,” Samuel said, pointing to the screens. “A battleship has been deployed to investigate a possible Nyctus command center.” The captain rubbed at his chin again, but this time it was even more absently, like a card tell, but revealing something more important than a mere hand of poker. There was danger, or at the minimum, a complication. Both were bad, especially given the ON record.

  “Investigate with weapons or scans, sir? I find both can honor the intention of that order, if not the letter of it.”

  Captain Samuel gave him a wintry smile. “Now I know you’re getting salty. They’re instructed to locate the target area, observe, and report. Nothing more drastic than data, although that’s a dicey proposition when the Nyctus are peeling open our, ah—well, we’re exposed in ways we hadn’t considered. This is riskier than I’d care to see.” Samuel swiped away the comm, then sent coordinates—very specific coordinates—to the helm.

  “Observe and report doesn’t sound—oh. At what range, sir, if I may?” Thorn watched as the helm worked.

  “They want the Lieutenant Commander of the ship to bypass the Nyctus defenses, deep scan the facility, and return with a detailed 3-D of the alien command post.” Samuel threw the Nyctus post image onto the panel for Thorn to review.

  “Sir, forgive me for being obtuse, but…how?” Thorn shook his head. “Is this within our jurisdiction, sir?”

  “I’m told the Lieutenant Commander is capable of telepathic shade—a female caster…Wiccum, Wixco…”

  “Wixcombe.” Thorn’s breath caught, but he schooled his face into something close to neutral.

  “That’s the one.” The captain dragged the image to display a direct route between the Apollo and the designated coordinates. “Yes, it’s within our jurisdiction, and yes, we’ll assist.”

  “I thought the Admirals didn’t want any Starcasters wielding the craft?” Thorn’s confusion—and worry—were mounting with each passing second. This wasn’t just dangerous; it was a contradiction of the muddled policy anyone could see coming. The Admiralty was in a state of confusion about ’casters, their risk, and the reward that might come from using them in battle.

  “This Wixcombe, you know her?” The captain gave Thorn a searching look. “She’s a Joiner. They’re assuming the Nyctus can’t track Joiners.”

  “Assuming.” Thorn kept his hands loose, letting the rising tension drain away—or at least trying to. Even as a junior officer, he knew a bad call when he saw it. Punching through Nyctus defenses for something that amounted to a fishing expedition wasn’t just low reward. It was damned near suicidal, given the ON weakness to brainjacking by Nyctus shamans. “What if they’re assuming wrong?”

  “My thoughts exactly, Stellers.” Samuel took his seat, lifting a battered coffee mug and taking a wincing sip.

  “This could be provocation and a guaranteed loss, sir. And Lieutenant Commander Wixcombe’s ship could be taken prisoner without the Nyctus firing a rock.”

  Samuel regarded him with a blank expression. “Both correct.” He fell silent as a means of inviting Thorn to continue.

  “Have the Nyctus ever taken prisoners before?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Thorn did his best not to betray any concern. “Who knows what they’ll do to them?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Let’s hope this Wixcombe is as good as they think she is.”

  Thorn knew Kira and believed in her ability to make good decisions. But the Nyctus were another issue. “If I may, sir?” He looked toward the bow, and his quarters, as an ensign refilled Samuel’s mug. The captain was almost languid when he tilted his head toward the door, and Thorn was walking toward his bunk—and Kira—before realizing the captain had given him silent permission to contact her.

  “Huh,” Thorn said to himself. Captain Samuel got a lot done without saying anything at all, sometimes. “Another lesson.” Everything was a lesson out here in the black.

  He lay in his bed and pulled the book from beneath his pillow, then he set it on top of his chest. Best not to use the ’port unless it was strictly ordered. This would become the new ritual. If the Nyctus couldn’t trace Kira, they certainly couldn’t trace him either.

  Or so he thought. It was a risk, but his power as a Starcaster was outside the aegis of anything humanity had ever used to fight a war. That meant his instincts were more honed to the reality of magic, tracking magic, and winning a war with power beyond natural science.

  At least, that’s how he was going to play it. He drew his power to a point, seeking the shape of Kira’s mind. He didn’t look for long.

  Lieutenant Commander, huh? Thorn’s smile colored his mental casting. You’ve earned it.

  Thorn! You shouldn’t—this might not be safe. Not with your power. Her answer was almost instantaneous, the words clear.

  How else do you expect me to reach you?

  Oh, I don’t know, by comms so I can see your face like a normal human being. He could hear the comic frustration in her voice.

  Not nearly as fun. This is better. And, I think, safer.

  It’s not supposed to be fun. Laden with emotion, he caught her image. She was alone in her cabin, at the desk, meal tray before her.

  Is that actual bread?

  You can see me? She twitched, briefly disrupting the image. Like ripples in a pond, then, her face stabilized, though the cabin remained—unfocused. Does command know you can do this? She recovered quickly.

  Can’t everyone? All the Starcasters, I mean?

  Thorn, are you joking? This is—it’s next level. It’s unprecedented. This isn’t simply using magic. You’re spanning a distance with imagery. And it’s immediate, Kira said. You have to tell your captain, and then—

  I will. Then what? he asked.

  I’m wondering how we can use this. You heard about my next objective?

  Yeah. It’s a shitstorm. Why can’t they use hardened drones and send the data to a relay? Even at the massive distance, and in a means not known to humans—or at least not widely known—Kira could hear his anger.

  The Nyctus. The squiddies are capable of frying drones if they can see them, and we can’t risk getting nothing. So, we’re going in, and we need to scrape as much data as we can. Draw your own conclusions about what comes next, she said.

  You’re on the way then, and without the help of any ’casters. What the hell is command thinking?

  That we’re losing, Thorn. And we need a lucky card.

  Bullshit to that. We have a lucky hand. We’ve got Starcasters, and command got spooked from one sneak attack on our minds. Billions have died, and we’re abandoning an entire division because the old guard can’t adapt? Thorn seethed.

  I’m confident in my strength. You know that. But we don’t know what the Nyctus can and cannot trace, so we’re not going in without some magical cover. Shit, I can’t get used to saying that.

  Magic?

  Yeah. It’s real, and it lives in me—not like you, but it’s growing. It can be learned, Kira said.

  True. How much cover can you provide? Can you shade the ship and keep the Nyctus at arm’s length, at least?

  Yes.

  Then what does your gut tell you about being tracked? Thorn asked.

  My gut tells me that it has nothing to do with whether or not I’m a Joiner. I think they have a hard time identifying telepaths, and yes, command overreacted. She moved in his mind’s eye, then settled
again, her eyes unfocused. He felt like a voyeur, but it didn’t trouble him. She knew they were connected, and the shape of her mind was a cool blue—colored with agreement, nervous energy, and even—

  —she missed him. At least a little.

  Does command grasp the concept of shade? Do they really get it? Thorn asked.

  Maybe. A sigh echoed across the miles. Maybe not. They don’t seem to understand that you—and even me, and the Joiners—aren’t just battering rams. We can be subtle, too. That’s our advantage over the squid. We don’t need rocks.

  Doesn’t mean I don’t want to drop a few on their heads. If they even have heads, Thorn said.

  They do. Just soft. Might bounce off them, the bastards.

  Thorn sent her the equivalent of a telepathic snort, earning a smile in his mind’s eye. Right. Forgot they’ve got—heads, if you want to call it that, they’re just so damned ugly I tried to block that particular memory. Regardless, travel safe, and Kira?

  Yes?

  The thing about shade is that you don’t have to be powerful. You just have to be constant. You understand? Thorn asked.

  I do. Pace myself.

  Good. I’m here if you need a boost. I think—wait. No. I know that things are going to change, in here, Thorn said.

  Where?

  In my—whatever this reservoir of power is. It’s not the same as it was a month ago, or even a week. I’m unfolding, Kira. I can feel it, and that means that I can try to reach you if your shade falters. Know that I’m here, though all the miles lie between us. Know that, and stay constant, Thorn said.

  I do, and I will. We’re not done with magic yet, Thorn. Not now, and not ever. Until the war is done.

  Thorn let the signal start to fade, like a long goodbye. Aye, commander. Thorn out.

  17

  “Stellers,” came a voice.

  He awoke instantly; a longtime habit developed in the children’s home. Heavy sleepers didn’t fare well among the casual cruelty of displaced, angry youths.