Crimson Sun (Starcaster Book 3)
Page 1
Copyrighted Material
Crimson Sun Copyright © 2020 by Variant Publications
Book design and layout copyright © 2020 by JN Chaney
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing.
1st Edition
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
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Prologue
The screen door banged behind her as the little girl came tumbling out onto a broad porch, her small feet busy as she laughed her way through a cloud of fat, indignant insects that buzzed away at her approach. Their green bodies shone in the bright light. She leapt off the bottom step into the lush grass, landing awkwardly, then she stumbled and pelted ahead in the way that only children can, somewhere between joy and chaos.
She kept her feet pumping and ran on, leaving a wake of clacking, buzzing bugs roused into flight by her flailing passage, their only accompaniment her silvery laughter. It was late morning, and behind her in the grass, the girl left a trail of passage. Overnight dew, now burning off in the brilliant sun. A path, wandering as she did, her eyes lifted up into the sky, where the angry bugs dispersed in fading metallic sounds.
“Lookit!” she said, raising the doll she’d been cradling in her arms—a smiling boy with wild, dark curls of hair and crude insignia patches sewn to each arm of its tattered shirt. “Lookit, Mister Starman! Lookit the bugs!”
She turned a circle so Mister Starman could see the fleeing bugs; he took it all in with his usual cheerful smile but had nothing to say about it. He wasn’t chatty. Just happy, and a good companion.
The girl shrugged and broke back into a run, aiming for the cool shade under the sour-fruit trees at the edge of the orchard, their limbs drooping with dark green globes.
Partway there, she stopped again and squinted up against the yellowish dazzle of the sun that was framed so perfectly in the cyan-blue of the sky. Of course, this was why she’d come outside in the first place as soon as breakfast was done. She shifted Mister Starman to one arm and raised the other, pointing with a small finger. Her eyes narrowed in the light, cheeks already pinking with the heat of a summer’s day.
“Awwww.”
No horse.
Yesterday, there’d been a horse in the clouds, trotting slowly across the sky. She loved horses, even though there were none here on Nebo. There were hulking, smelly things called broad-backs that sometimes pulled the plows and wagons, but they were nothing like the ethereal horses.
Since discovering them on the vid during learning-time, all she’d wanted to do was watch the sleek, beautiful creatures, with their intelligent brown eyes and their flowing manes and tails. It didn’t matter if they trotted or galloped or just stood still; the elegant creatures had utterly captivated her. That’s why seeing one in the clouds yesterday had been so exciting.
Mister Starman hadn’t been with the girl, though. Mommy had insisted on cleaning him up, then leaving him to dry for the day. And now the beautiful horse in the clouds was gone, leaving the girl’s lips in a moue that began to fade as fast as it formed.
She dropped her arm and frowned. Her black robe seemed eager to slurp up the heat of the mid-morning sun—a steamy heat, because it had rained only a little while ago on top of the dew, and now the air felt the same way it did in the bathroom when the shower was running. Her frown fell away as she looked around for some sort of relief that didn’t mean going back inside. Learning time would start right after lunch, so she only had until then to—
She wasn’t sure what. She’d come outside to see the sky horse, but it had trotted on to—somewhere else, beyond her limited horizons.
“I’m hot, Mister Starman,” she said, careful with her s sounds. “Are you hot, too?”
He didn’t reply and just kept smiling, but the girl thought she saw a glimmer of sweat forming on his fabric brow.
“Yeah, you are. Let’s, uh . . .”
She looked around but stopped when she faced the sour-pod orchard that sprawled off behind the house. The shade beneath the leafy trees looked so cool and inviting.
“Let’s go there!”
She bounced off, skirting the grav tractor with a broken strut, reaching the shady gloom and stopping again to take her bearings. The air under the trees still had a thick, sultry heat to it, but without the glare of the sun it seemed cooler. At least, cool enough to stand, take stock, and find a good place to sit. The girl was too young to have a schedule, so selecting a tree to lean against would be one of the most important events of her day.
Settling back against the rough bark of a sour-pod tree on the edge of the orchard, the sky was still visible, spreading away in an endless dome of blue.
“Hope the horse comes back,” she said, eyes wide and round.
She kicked off her shoes, then wiggled her toes and settled herself in. She sat Mister Starman on her lap, his back against her chest, and peered closely at the doll when she saw one of the patches on his shirt had started to come free, loose threads dangling. The patches had symbols on them, and words she couldn’t actually read, but she knew what they said anyway. Daddy had told her.
“That says Orbital,” he’d told her, one calloused finger pointing at the first word. “And this one says Navy.” He moved his finger back to the first word, then traced both as he spoke. “Orbital Navy.”
“Ortib—”
He smiled. “Orbital.”
“Orbit—al.”
She’d eventually gotten it, even if she didn’t know what the words themselves meant. It didn’t matter, though, because Mister Starman did. He knew all about Orbital Navy, and lots of other things, too.
<
br /> But not horses. She had to tell him all about horses.
Sighing, she looked back up at the sky, still unhappily free of dancing horses. There was a cloud that looked like a bunny, and another like some kind of spiny thing, maybe a jawfish, like the ones that made it so you couldn’t swim, except where mummy and daddy said it was safe? Uncertainty pulled at her tiny brow as she watched the clouds bloom, their edges swirling and dancing as a hidden wind began to pull hard, high above.
Then something did appear, and it was no horse.
It was a hard, fierce point of light, so bright it hurt to look at. It was like a little piece of the sun had broken away and now streaked across the sky. The sun shard left a glowing trail behind it, but it was utterly silent.
“What’s that, Mister Starman?”
He didn’t seem to know.
A huge bang walloped her, like a blast of thunder. The girl jumped and looked around, heart pounding, suddenly breathless with confusion.
“What’s that?” she asked, but Mister Starman had no answers.
The dazzling mote of light fell across the sky, toward the horizon. A steady, rumbling thunder seemed to follow it. The light touched the distant hills and vanished—
Then the entire sky in that direction lit up, as though from a tremendous flash of lightning in the late summer storms. The girl winced at the glare, instincts humming in her little body.
No, she thought. No, no. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Pieces of the sun didn’t break off. Thunder and lightning didn’t come from a sunny, empty sky.
Mister Starman agreed. He showed it by starting to glow a soft, shimmering blue. He did that sometimes, when she wanted to change things. To make them just so.
Another piece broke off the sun. Then another. The girl shook her head. No. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it worked. Pieces didn’t break off from the sun.
The bluish glow swelled, filling the air around her like a pool, outward, slipping, spilling, pouring over grass and broken grav-tractor alike. In seconds, the coruscating light swept through the sour-pod trees in a flood of brilliance, rendering every part of the house and barns in sharp, cobalt relief.
The light did not stop there. It went on, a silent flood turning her world the most perfect blue. A cool color, not like the broken piece of sun that spat anger as it fell.
The doll seemed to smile as he glowed, bright enough now to push the sunlight away. On the small, fabric face, a look of relentless good cheer beamed, and the sunlight began to fade, replaced by a pure blue that curved up and out in a dome of dancing energy. The temperature dropped. The girl smiled, knowing Mister Starman would make things all right. That was what he did.
A boiling wall swept over the distant hills and raced toward the farm. Everything vanished behind it, leaving only hazy visions of scorched ground and tattered trees, their bark and leaves flashing into ashes as the lethal procession vaulted forward, inevitable as the wind. In just a few seconds, it washed over the blue glow—and was deflected, around and up, until the farm and the grass and the orchard were just a bubble of unchanged calm encased in roiling fire.
It only lasted a brief moment, then raced, trailing tongues of flame that slid across the bubble, seeking a way inside. The sky returned, but it was different—pale, shimmering, shot through with more pieces of the sun, all of them streaking with blasts of thunder toward a colossal, black cloud now rising and spreading from beyond the hills.
“No, no, Mister Starman,” the girl shrieked. “Make it stop, make it stop!”
Mister Starman happily obliged. Streams of blue radiance shot up from the bubble, reaching for the sun shards like grasping hands. Each time they touched one, it simply vanished, poof, gone. But there were more, there were always more. To the girl, the sun was falling apart, and she wondered if anything would be left behind. She was a brave girl, but the thought of endless dark touched her fears, and she clutched the smiling doll even tighter.
Something warm and wet slid across the girl’s lip. It tasted of salt, and the way the old scrap metal daddy kept in a bin behind the barn smelled. Trembling, she touched her mouth, then pulled her finger away. It was crimson. It was blood. Her nose was bleeding.
No.
Mommy. She needed mommy.
The girl drove herself to her feet, meaning to run back to the house, find mommy, and get her to make all of these horrible things stop. As she did, the shimmering blue light faltered.
It was replaced with a searing white glow. The girl spun around to see that one of the sun shards hadn’t been sent away by the blue light, and now the errant piece of fiery debris fell toward her in a long looping arc. It was the biggest by far, swallowing most of the sky.
The girl began to cry harder, a hiccupping sob that shook her shoulders as the sky kept falling, and the world flared into ruin everywhere except in the bubble of deepening blue light.
Mister Starman smiled and tried to help, tried to gather some of the blue light, or so the girl thought—she could tell he was trying to make everything right again. But he didn’t have enough time, and the fragment hurtled to the ground spitting red and orange sparks, the air around it scalded to furnace heat.
The white light filled her eyes, and the doll said nothing. Neither did she, and the world rang like a bell, mortally wounded from the falling pieces of sun.
Thorn!
Stellers! Stellers, what’s wrong?
The voices drifted out of the light that had become everything, everywhere. A white so bright it filled his head, displacing coherent thought. He recognized the words, Thorn, Stellers, what’s wrong, but couldn’t attach any meaning to them. They were just sounds—noises that meant something, but he couldn’t discern what. There was only the light. The world was made of light.
Stellers! Shit, infirmary, crash team to the mess hall!
Okay. Okay. Those words—they did mean something. He was Stellers. Infirmary was—a place. Crash team—
The meaning of crash team flickered tantalizingly close, then vanished behind a wall of pain.
“Stellers, look at me! Look at my eyes!”
Thorn groaned. The light had become pain. It filled his head completely. There was nothing else, just pain.
His pain. But also the pain of others. A multitude of minds shared this agony with him. Some were familiar. One, though, was unmistakable.
Kira.
She was screaming. It was like the dreams and visions he’d once had of her, when she was taken by the Nyctus and nearly killed. Except this time he was screaming right along with her, his vocal chords straining to the point of shear.
“Stellers, dammit, look at me!”
The voice rang through the pain like a whip crack, cutting it apart, revealing a face looming over his. Through the pounding agony, he recognized it.
Tanner. Captain Tanner. Commander of the Hecate.
“Stellers! Can you hear me?”
Thorn nodded, or thought he did. Tanner’s face resolved as that infinite white pain gradually receded, like a tsunami slowly draining back out to sea. More details swam into view. Pipes and conduits lined the ceiling, beyond Tanner’s face. People moved around. Voices—
“Stellers, nod if you can hear me.”
Thorn did. This time, he felt muscles contract, and his field of vision moved.
The white agony had faded into the edges and margins now, a painful nimbus that haloed everything Thorn could see. Even that was subsiding now, and Thorn nodded again.
“Sir—”
“Stellers,” Tanner said. “Don’t try to move.” He turned to—someone, but Thorn couldn’t see who. “Where the hell’s that crash team?”
“Right here, sir,” someone called. There was a clatter as more people appeared—off duty crew in various states of dress, a security team, grim with purpose, and now medics with crash bags slung over their shoulders, a stretcher floating along on grav repulsors.
“Okay, Stellers, these people are going to t
ake care of you. Don’t—”
“Sir—”
“—try to move. Just stay still, they’ll—”
Thorn shook his head this time. “No. Sir. We—” He had to stop and swallow, his voice scraping against his throat like shards of glass. “Nebo.”
“Nebo. What about it?”
“Nebo—” Thorn levered himself to his elbows. He lay on the deck in the mess, the dinner of passable stew he’d been eating spattered across the bench where he’d been sitting, dripped onto the deck plates beneath in slow, gooey dollops. “Nebo,” he tried again. “Attacked. It was—”
“Attacked? Nebo was attacked?”
Thorn nodded.
“How do you know?” Tanner shook his head. “Never mind. Look who I’m talking to.” The Captain gestured the medics forward and stepped back, activating his personal comm. “Nav Officer, calculate the flight parameters to Nebo and get them verified by Engineering. I’ll be on the bridge in ten. Be ready to fly then.”
“Aye, sir,” the Navigation Officer replied.
One of the medics clamped a diagnostic tap around Thorn’s wrist. The other handed him a disposable wipe. “Your nose is bleeding, sir,” she said.
Thorn sniffed and caught that unmistakable tang of blood in the back of his throat. As he wiped at his nose, Tanner returned to his side. “Okay, Stellers, while these good folks do their job, you’d better tell me what’s going on.”