The Black Stars

by Dan Krokos

  Once more, Mason was without words.

  “The Fangborn aren’t coming, Mason. They’re already here. They’ve already begun their invasion, but in a slow way. A terrifying way. I’m tempted to send everyone in this school home … that’s why I’m here. To decide.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Mason said.

  The king almost smiled. “You were once wise enough to show me one truth. Now I hope you can help me discover another. What would you do, if you were king?”

  Sending the students home was the best idea Mason could imagine, but it wasn’t the answer he gave. “I would find who was responsible, and stop them.”

  “So would I,” the king said.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Four days passed without a Fangborn sighting, without an incident, without a transformation. Space was empty, too. The Fangborn did not come.

  In those four days, half of the students left the school to return home until the Fangborn threat was ended. There was a rumor Master Zin was sending students home so they wouldn’t be asked to fight once the war started.

  In those four days, Mason felt the yearning of his gloves. The old gloves, the red ones, were safely locked in the storage compartment in the wall next to his bed. Those gloves never wanted anything. They obeyed. They were tools. These new gloves were alive, Mason was sure of it. Somehow, some way. He hadn’t seen his hands once in those four days, and yet his skin didn’t sweat in the gloves; they didn’t feel unclean. Because the gloves were his skin now.

  Each afternoon, Mason sat with Master Zin and recounted his interaction with the gloves for that day. Master Zin never let his face slip, never showed how troubled he really was, but Mason knew.

  Mason and his team went to class. He endured the whispers and the sideways glances, the rumors and the alienation. Tom and Merrin are here, and we are alive, so that’s all that matters. Mason didn’t have an opportunity to practice with the gloves, but he wasn’t worried: he knew that when he needed the gloves, they would respond.

  He visited his mother’s lab on the third day, but the lab was empty. Which felt strange, with the threat so imminent. The Fangborn behind the glass stayed hidden in the dark, but Mason knew they were there, watching him.

  On the fourth day, Broxnar visited Mason’s dorm. He knocked on the door and opened it a second later, the way adults did, whether human or Tremist.

  “Hello everyone, how are we this evening?” Everyone was not so good, almost the entire team having been eliminated in the free-for-all (which had just been reinstated) right away, when a group of older Bloods made them their first targets. The team was feeling the consequences of being associated with Mason and Tom now. They were becoming outsiders, and Mason didn’t know how to fix it. He had not been allowed to participate in the free-for-all, since his gloves were still an unknown factor. In a combat situation, Mason worried he might actually kill someone, not stun them.

  Lore, however, was doing great. She’d won the game, having escaped from the team and hidden herself in the trees for most of the match, a fact the rest of the team wasn’t going to let her forget.

  “That good, huh?” Broxnar said.

  “We’re okay, Broxnar,” Po said, tossing a ball against the wall and catching it. “Is there something we can help you with?”

  Broxnar nodded, his jowls jiggling up and down. “Actually, yes, Po, thank you. I was hoping I could have a word with Mason Stark.”

  “Me?” Mason said, sitting up in bed. He pointed at his own chest, and when his finger touched his robe, a great warmth spread from his fingertip through his body.

  Broxnar smiled. “I don’t know any other Mason Starks.”

  Mason got out of bed and followed Broxnar, who was already waddling down the hallway.

  “Is something wrong?” Mason asked, once he’d caught up to him.

  “No, no, nothing is the matter.” Broxnar smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Unless you count the madness this school has descended into. I must confess, I am quite embarrassed. The first time a human visits our school it has to be during a crisis like this. You must think so poorly of us.”

  So Broxnar didn’t know April Stark had been here for years. Or more likely, he just picked his words carefully. Mason wondered if Broxnar was really embarrassed: horror at what was happening to the rhadjen seemed more appropriate.

  “I don’t think poorly of anyone. The school is trying to handle it, I guess.” Mason said.

  “The students should be sent home,” Broxnar said. “All of them, including the older students.”

  Mason had to agree with that. The hallways were almost deserted, which made everyone feel less safe. The one they walked down now was like an enormous, hollowed-out tree trunk, but halfway through it became what appeared to be ice that was not cold or wet.

  “Here we are,” Broxnar said, stopping outside a door in the fake ice. He gestured for Mason to walk in first. A chill ran across his shoulders.

  Mason entered an office that appeared like a meadow you might find on Earth. The floor was grass, the walls paneled in tree bark. Birds chirped all around them. The only furniture was a simple desk and two chairs across from it. Mason sat in the left chair, and Broxnar squeezed himself into the chair behind his desk.

  They stared at each other for a moment. Mason did not like the light behind Broxnar’s eyes.

  He decided to be blunt. “How can I help you, sir?”

  Broxnar shrugged. “I was hoping we could talk, you and me. One-on-one. You know my affinity for the story of the Uniter and the Divider. I believe it was your first lesson from me, was it not?”

  Broxnar’s eyes lingered on Mason’s gloves.

  “Yes,” Mason said. “I enjoyed it very much.”

  “So what is it like, Mason Stark, to wear history? To wield legend?” For the first time since Mason had known him, Broxnar’s face was harsh, tense with an emotion Mason couldn’t quite place.

  Mason looked over his shoulder at the door.

  “Do not look at the door again,” Broxnar said. “Now answer me.”

  Mason decided to be honest. “It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. It’s … power.”

  Broxnar was nodding, his lips twisted in something that might’ve been another version of a smile. “Go on.”

  “The gloves feel … alive.”

  “I would like to try them on. Just once.” Broxnar leaned forward in his chair, which creaked. “You wouldn’t deny me that simple pleasure, would you? Did you know I am a descendant of the Uniter? Not direct of course, but I have his blood. I know of the chamber you found those gloves in. I have been trying to access it my entire life, since I was a rhadjen myself. And then a human comes to the school and finds it within a few weeks. And now you have my birthright. You have what belongs to my family. So I’m sure you will understand my desire to just try them on, to just wear them for a moment. Surely you understand.”

  Broxnar’s lips glistened with spit, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. A manufactured breeze pushed through the office, rustling Mason’s hair. Broxnar had no hair to rustle.

  “I understand,” Mason said slowly. “But I can’t take them off. They won’t come off.”

  “That’s interesting. Has anyone tried to remove them by force?”

  Mason had felt uneasy at first—Broxnar had been his favorite teacher—but now he was beginning to feel the stirrings of anger deep inside his gut. “I don’t think you’ll be able to do that, either,” he said.

  “But there is fun in trying, isn’t there? Know that if you strike me, every Rhadgast in the school will come to this location, and who will they believe? Me, a respected teacher, or you, a human wearing gloves that could be corrupting your mind with each passing second.”

  Broxnar was right. Mason felt a cold, sinking sensation in his chest.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” Mason said. “They won’t come off!” He stood up.

  Broxnar rose with him
. He reached for Mason’s wrist; Mason let him. There was a small explosion of black energy between them when Broxnar’s skin touched Aramore’s glove. He yelped and pulled back his hand, but the yelp turned into a low growl, and Broxnar lunged across the desk, reaching with both hands for Mason’s throat. It felt like an iron collar had been locked around Mason’s neck. Instantly he felt pressure in his head, behind his eyes, in his ears. His breath was stuck in his lungs, unable to move in or out.

  This is not the end, Mason thought, as he grabbed Broxnar’s wrist. The glove, seeming to sense its master was in danger, automatically sent out a pulse of energy. Broxnar flew backward, knocking over his chair. Some things slipped out of his robe and rolled in the grass. Mason stepped around the desk, taking deep breaths, the pain in his head fading but his heart still thrumming. He was not afraid of getting in trouble anymore: Broxnar was clearly insane.

  The gloves were hungry. They were hot on his hands, bursting at the seams with energy that was begging to be used. Finish him off, the gloves seemed to say, but Mason knew that was only a voice in his own head. Finish him before he hurts you. Mason stepped closer.

  Broxnar struggled to one knee, his eyes on the items that had slipped from his robe. Three vials filled with a milky blue liquid. Mason knew what they were instantly, even though he’d never seen them before in his life.

  They were vials of Fangborn venom. Broxnar was incredibly huge, but he was quick. His hand darted out for the vials and was already pulling them back when Mason unleashed the first bolt, this one intentional. The grass was set aflame. Broxnar rolled away behind his desk as Mason fired a second blast, scorching another patch on the floor. Again! Again! the gloves cried, but Mason forced himself to maintain control. Broxnar stood up slowly on the other side of the desk …

  … And let the three empty vials fall to the grass.

  “It was you all along,” Mason said. “Why? Why hurt the students?”

  “I wasn’t hurting them,” Broxnar said. “I was remaking them the way they’re supposed to be.” He held up his thick hands. “Look at these fragile tools of flesh and blood. We were supposed to be Fangborn. But the lesser race escaped and settled our planets and now … now we’re this. Disgusting, weak creatures. When your mother slept at night, the Fangborn allowed me to spread their gift. And what a gift it is, Mason.”

  “You didn’t even know any of this until we brought the truth to everyone,” Mason spat back. His hands were almost rising on their own, itching to fire a volley of black lightning, but he kept them at his sides.

  Broxnar sneered, his mouth already larger somehow, elongated. “You think you’re the first one to discover the history of the People?” His words came out slurred, a bit garbled by his teeth, which were also much bigger than before.

  Kill him now! Before he changes!

  “The Fangborn have known about us for a long time, Mason Stark. They’ve been watching. Preparing. Their ship took generations to construct, but they are patient beings. And now they’re on their way to reclaim us. We will be saved from this miserable existence … and those that fight will die.”

  Broxnar was now a foot taller. Then two feet.

  “This is the only way to survive, Mason. They will win. Join the winning side, like I did, and I will give you an incredible gift. But first … I need your gloves.”

  Mason knew he couldn’t let Broxnar have them no matter what. With the gloves, Broxnar might be able to fight his way out of the sphere, killing dozens along the way. Even without them, he was an extreme danger to everyone in the school.

  Broxnar’s silk robes began to split in different places, accompanied by the sound of crunching bones and shifting tissues. His skin darkened, becoming gray and hard. Fingers became claws, and two curling horns sprouted from his bald head. Mason had to crane his head back as Broxnar grew taller still. He took three vials.

  When Broxnar spoke, his voice came from deep within his throat. His cavernous mouth barely moved at all.

  “Are you ready to change?” Broxnar said. He bared his huge teeth. Venom was already dripping off the fangs.

  Mason was not ready to change.

  He finally let his gloves do what they wanted to do. He raised his hands, palms out, and fired two blasts at Broxnar’s chest. Broxnar stumbled backward, twisting aside and ducking under the twin lances. As he rose upright, he flung the desk at Mason with one hand. Mason threw himself to the still-smoldering grass as the desk exploded into a million splinters against the wall.

  Broxnar let out a mighty roar that shook Mason’s brain and tickled his skin. It was so loud it hurt. Good, bring everyone.

  “GIVE ME THE GLOVES!” Broxnar lunged for Mason, who didn’t think, just pushed out with both hands and closed his eyes. TWANG! A dome of black crackling energy formed around him, and Broxnar bounced off it harmlessly, careening back into the wall. He roared, shaking his head from side to side.

  Mason stood, letting the dome dissolve around him in tiny black explosions of light. He didn’t waste any time. Broxnar was still regaining his balance when Mason unleashed everything he had; every ounce of fear and anger funneled through his gloves and out his palms. Mason’s brain was on fire, red hot with rage that felt bigger than himself. The gloves were practically singing on his hands. After a few seconds, Mason let off. Parts of the office were on fire, and black smoke crawled along the ceiling. Broxnar was heaving, gray smoke rolling off his broad shoulders.

  “You will need more than that to kill me, human.” He either smiled or just showed his gigantic teeth.

  Mason decided it was time to run. He fired again at Broxnar—the gloves seemed just powerful enough to keep him at bay. And while he was running for the door, he had a terrible realization: How will we ever beat them? If these gloves can’t kill one Fangborn, what weapon can?

  He flew through the doorway into the hallway and heard Broxnar crash through the door’s frame right behind him. He was double the size of any Fangborn Mason had seen before, and the sight of Broxnar galloping after him almost took the strength from his legs, almost sent him stumbling into the wall. He preferred rage. Mason let the gloves ignite again, throwing volleys over his shoulder. Broxnar dodged all but one: a direct hit to his head. He snarled, jaws snapping at the residual electricity on his face.

  Mason rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Reckful.

  Along with Masters Zin, Rayasu, and Shem.

  Yes! Mason had never been so happy to see a group of Rhadgast in his life.

  “Lend us your power, Mason Stark,” Zin said, stepping aside so Mason could join the line.

  Broxnar pulled up short when he saw the four Rhadgast (and one rhadjen) standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

  “You won’t be able to save your student this time, Zin.” His voice was painful in Mason’s ears, low and grating. “Kneel before me, and I will reveal your true form.”

  “This is my true form,” Master Zin said. “And the only person I will not be able to save today is you.”

  Broxnar crouched, coiling his muscles to leap, and the five warriors unleashed their power. Purple and red and black electricity lanced across the space, winding together, spiraling into Broxnar’s chest. Broxnar backpedaled from their combined might, until his back hit a wall. “NO! I MUST HAVE THE GLOVES. THEY BELONG TO ME—”

  He collapsed, nearly covered by a blanket of prismatic electricity. The others let up, but Mason was still firing, wrapping his electricity around Broxnar’s arms, pinning them to the floor. He didn’t stop when he felt Reckful’s hand on his shoulder. He only stopped when Master Zin lashed out, knocking Mason’s tendrils aside with his own. Mason snapped out of it, heaving, the rage burning hot and black in his hands. He noticed Master Zin was wearing a Stone glove on his right hand and a Blood on his left.

  “I assure you, he is quite incapacitated,” Master Zin said to Mason.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said, but he wasn’t, not really. Broxnar had tried to kill him. Broxnar had tried to take his glov
es.

  His gloves.

  The others were looking at Mason strangely. Shem had a hint of unease behind his cool gray eyes. Rayasu’s hatred was mixed with a dash of grudging admiration.

  “The boy has skill,” Shem said. Mason couldn’t help but feel a little thrill of pride. The head of the Bloods had never spoken to him before.

  “But lacks control,” Rayasu replied.

  Shem raised an eyebrow at Rayasu. “I seem to remember a young rhadjen who was not so different.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Rayasu said.

  Master Zin cleared his throat. “Are you finished?”

  They had more important problems. Namely an overlarge Fangborn slumbering in the hallway.

  “We need to get him to the lab,” Reckful said. “The cure is almost ready.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jiric was a Tremist again. So was Juneful and the other students who had been transformed. Their skin was paler than usual, their eyes bloodshot, but they would survive. They would continue their lives.

  The glass cage in the lab held only one person now: Broxnar. He was lying in the corner of the room, still unconscious, his skin blackened in places, fangs glinting, a puddle of drool leaking from his gaping maw.

  Mason was standing in the lab with Shem, Rayasu, Master Zin, and Reckful. They watched as April Stark administered the cure to the last student, who was strapped to a table, unconscious. His huge Fangborn chest rose and fell with each breath. Soon he would be Tremist again.

  The other newly nonmonstrous students had already been taken to the medical room, where they would be under careful surveillance for some time, to make sure their cells did not alter. Only Juneful was still on a table, groggy from the transformation, his rhadjen robes neatly folded next to him. Mason watched as Juneful held up his robes and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. Juneful probably thought he’d be a monster forever, but now he’d returned to his old life, hopefully leaving his bullying ways behind with the monster.