Fractured Stars

by Lindsay Buroker

  She gazed up toward that glass-walled control room. “Not yet.”

  “But you will, right?”

  “I hope so. Junkyard needs me.”

  Dash wasn’t sure whether to be bemused or amused that her dog seemed to be her primary motivation for getting out of there. He liked dogs fine, of course, but if he were in her position, he would want to get his sleek ship back. And to bury Sheriff Axton a thousand feet down in an asteroid hurtling toward the sun.

  Dash shoveled coal into the furnace he and McCall had been assigned, flames now roaring inside the firebox. When the needle reached the optimal heat point, they joined the queue of people hauling ore up in buckets from some deeper level that linked to the network of mines. By the time they had filled their bin again, it was time to shovel more coal into the furnace.

  Dour-faced guards monitored everything, as did the cameras mounted on the walls. Dash hadn’t been tempted to test his limits yet and wouldn’t until they knew more about the facility. It was possible to get out, as that prisoner who’d made it up the stairs and to the surface demonstrated, but why had he burst out then, when he must have known all those guards with blazers were just outside?

  A glint of light flashed in a hallway leading away from the furnace room, and Dash had his answer. Forcefields. They were likely all over the facility, keeping the prisoners from wandering out of their work and living areas. Perhaps the forcefield blocking access to the surface had been lowered because the new prisoners had been coming in, and that had been the escapee’s only opportunity to get out. Maybe the never-ending labor had made him desperate enough to try what he must have known would be extremely poor odds.

  “You two,” a gruff voice said. “Over here.”

  A guard and a bald man in a white doctor’s jacket stood at the front of Dash and McCall’s furnace, the guard already gripping her arm. She scowled down at his hand, and Dash remembered her feelings on touching. They weren’t being respected by anyone today. Further, she winced frequently at the ceaseless noises of the facility, and he had the sense of her nerves fraying. He wished he could do something to help her. The clangs and bangs were giving him a headache, but he thought they affected her more.

  “What is it?” Dash walked slowly over, eyeing the doctor and a black box he carried.

  Using the coal bin like a desk, he opened it and started assembling a piece of equipment.

  “Just a little something,” the guard said, “to make sure you don’t get any fantasies about roughing up the staff.”

  Brainwashing. They had alluded to it before. Dash’s gut clenched.

  McCall looked at the equipment being assembled and then to him, her eyes wide with concern. Even without telepathy, he could have guessed she was afraid of having her brain tinkered with. Her brain was how she earned her livelihood.

  Even though it didn’t sound like the doctor planned to reprogram their thoughts or memories, not the way the government did to those who spoke too loudly against the empire and its ideologies, the idea of someone tinkering with his mind made him uneasy too. For one thing, it would be easier to escape if he had no compulsions against attacking the guards, and for another, it was always possible the device would screw something up. He doubted any doctors would rush out to help repair the brain of an inmate who lost his memories. Why bother?

  “Who’s volunteering to go first?” the guard asked cheerfully. No doubt, he liked seeing this procedure performed.

  The bald doctor had to be nearly seventy and looked tired and indifferent. Being stationed here was probably as much a punishment for him as it was for the inmates.

  “I will,” Dash said.

  “That’s a good boy,” the guard crooned, as if he were talking to a dog.

  McCall opened her mouth, an objection on her lips but shut it again. Dash smiled bleakly. It wasn’t as if it mattered who went first; the other would be subjected to the same treatment a minute later. Unless he could figure out a way to beat the device.

  Breaking things with his mind was, like all other telekinetic feats, something he’d never mastered. If he had any hope of affecting anything, it would be the doctor himself.

  The doctor stepped toward Dash, a cable attached to a suction cup in his hand. He paused and looked at the guard. The guard pointed a blazer pistol at Dash’s chest.

  Dash snorted. There wasn’t much point in fighting the doctor with a dozen other guards stationed around the furnace room. Though the suction cup and device were ominous, and he supposed he could see someone going berserk with fear as they approached.

  As the doctor lifted the suction cup toward his head, Dash studied the front of the device. It seemed as simple as most of the technology here, and he wondered if it had been made from spare parts lying around whatever medical facilities the place had. The only things on the front were an on/off indicator, two dials, and a small display.

  The cool kiss of the suction cup touched his head, and Dash flinched, but he kept himself from moving back. The doctor flicked a switch to turn the machine on. A sharp stab made Dash gasp, as if a needle had gone through his skull and into his brain. It hadn’t, had it? He lifted a hand, wanting to check, but the guard frowned and tightened his finger on the blazer.

  Dash took a deep breath and tried to force his mind to calmness, to the state he needed to use his mental powers. He gazed at the doctor’s face as the man started fiddling with dials. What did he expect to happen? Dash managed to pluck a thought from his mind, one right on the surface. The doctor would turn the device on, rotate that dial, choose one of three programs, and wait for the readout to display that the job was complete.

  Dash willed him to believe he’d already started the program running. The doctor hesitated with his hand in the air, his brow furrowed. Yes, he’d already done it. As he had hundreds of times before. To turn the dial again would be repetitive and useless.

  The doctor looked toward the display, waiting for the expected readout. Since Dash had seen it in his memories, he had little trouble inserting it into his mind. He just hoped the doctor wasn’t one of those perceptive souls who would see through his manipulation.

  “Done.” The doctor lowered his hand.

  Dash exhaled slowly and imperceptibly, certain nothing had happened to his brain.

  “That was fast,” the guard said.

  Dash shot him a worried look. Should he have diddled with the doctor’s mind for longer?

  “Guess he has a simple brain.” The guard snickered.

  “If you wish to test it, you can poke him with a knife and see if he reacts,” the doctor said, sounding bored.

  Uh, was that typical? Dash would have to muster all his will to keep from lashing out if someone stabbed him.

  The doctor reached up and removed the suction device, and Dash glimpsed a bloody needle retracting into the cup. Hells, maybe that had stabbed his brain. He shuddered.

  The guard stepped closer and prodded Dash in the ribs with the muzzle of the blazer. “Whatcha think, hero? You want to brain me?”

  What was the expected response? Dash thought of the thugs he’d seen go glassy-eyed earlier. But they hadn’t said anything; they had simply gone back to work.

  “No,” Dash said. “People are counting on us to keep the electricity flowing.”

  “Yes, they are.” The guard stepped away and turned his focus on McCall, putting his back to Dash. It seemed to have been a satisfactory answer.

  As the doctor lifted the suction cup toward McCall’s head, Dash readied himself to fool the man again.

  But McCall balked and stepped back. “You’re not going to give me a fresh needle? Or at least clean that? Are you trying to share blood-borne pathogens among the inmates? That’ll affect production, you know. Sick people can’t work.”

  The doctor gave the guard an exasperated look. Dash decided not to be offended that she believed he might carry some awful disease in his blood. No, just tainted Starseer genes, he thought. But she didn’t know about that, and it wasn't
as if they could be transmitted through a needle, anyway.

  “What?” the guard asked the doctor. “You want me to shoot her?”

  “A stun gun would suffice.” The doctor glared at McCall but dug into his kit.

  She folded her arms over her chest and looked at Dash. Squinted at him. He sensed she was trying to tell if he’d truly been altered.

  The doctor wasn’t looking, so Dash shook his head slightly. He was tempted to hold a finger to his lips to suggest she go along without struggling, so it would be easier to place memories of a standard procedure in the doctor’s mind, but he couldn’t do that without letting her know he had the power to affect people’s minds. And if she learned that, she would learn everything. He didn’t know how she would react, but he cringed at the idea of her drawing back in fear or repulsion of him. There was a reason he never told anyone about his genes anymore.

  “A fresh needle,” the doctor announced, inserting it and tossing the other one on the floor.

  Dash grunted. He hoped this wasn’t the doctor he would see if he ended up stabbed by another inmate. He had to be close to retirement; it was clear he didn’t care about anything.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  McCall eyed the discarded needle on the floor. “I’d be happy if that had gone in a biohazard disposal container. And if you swabbed that suction cup with alcohol.”

  “Where do you find these people?” the doctor asked the guard. Apparently, most prisoners didn’t care about medical hygiene.

  “I just work on Sub-level Sixteen here. I don’t find anyone.”

  The doctor affixed the suction cup to McCall’s head. She flinched when the needle penetrated. Dash didn’t blame her. He gave her what he hoped was a comforting nod, then focused his attention on the doctor. Once again, the doctor paused before actually touching a dial.

  The first time, the guard hadn’t been watching, but he frowned over now, noticing the hovering hand. Shit. Dash couldn’t diddle two people’s minds at once. He would have to pick. But if he let go of his hold on the doctor, the man might turn the dial and start his brainwashing device on McCall. Dash had no idea how they would get out of here, but he wanted her as eager to pummel guards as he was.

  “Don’t step on that,” McCall said, drawing the guard’s attention.

  “What?” He looked at her.

  Dash exhaled a relieved breath and renewed his focus on the doctor, urging him to believe he’d already turned the dial and was merely waiting for the machine to finish its work.

  “That needle on the floor.” McCall pointed down at it. “It could go through the sole of your boot. Dash there used to be a bounty hunter, and you know what kind of unwholesome lives they lead. He probably has all manner of sexually transmitted diseases that you could get from his blood.”

  Dash choked and almost lost his concentration. He shot her a quick dirty look, then worked on making the doctor believe he saw a readout that confirmed the device had completed its task.

  The guard did not notice. He was too busy staring down at the needle, stepping far, far, away from it, and shifting his hand protectively over his crotch.

  When Dash finished his manipulation, the doctor proclaimed that the procedure was complete. McCall looked at Dash again. She quirked her eyebrows slightly. Had she known what he was doing? It didn’t seem possible, but if not, why had she deliberately drawn the guard’s attention away from the device?

  Dash swallowed, wondering how much longer he would be able to keep his secret from her.

  8

  McCall’s hands were bleeding. She would have given her entire wine collection, including the rare Hyrulacian sangiovese she’d accepted as payment from a vintner needing an employee-turned-thief hunted down, for a tube of QuickSkin. Instead, she had pieces of a dirty rag wrapped around her palms. The impromptu bandages did nothing to help with the pain and were surely a breeding ground for bacteria.

  When a guard had directed her and Dash to a set of bunkbeds, she’d flopped down on the bottom one, exhausted from the hours of shoveling. Later, she would find the lack of privacy loathsome—there had to be a hundred bunks in the cement-walled bay, most with people sitting in them—but for now, her weariness made her too numb to care. And her stomach kept whining pitifully. She had no idea what time it was on board the Surfer now, but it had been late afternoon when they’d landed. That had been… ages ago, it seemed like.

  “You all right?” Dash sat down on the end of the bunk she’d claimed, waved at her hands, and gave her a concerned look.

  Normally, she would have bristled at someone she barely knew sitting on her bunk uninvited, but it wasn’t truly her bunk, as she’d only been lying there for two minutes, and at some time during the long day, she’d started thinking of him as an ally rather than “someone she barely knew.” Besides, she had a question for him, one that she’d been mulling over as she’d been contemplating ways they could create a distraction and get out of the facility.

  “Yeah,” she said, even if it was a lie. Tomorrow would be even worse. It would take days for the blisters to heal and the skin to grow calloused enough for hours of shoveling, and she wasn’t sure her senses would ever grow calloused enough to handle the noise of this place.

  “I’m almost as bad.” Dash held up his hands, broken blisters moistening his palms. “If you feel better knowing someone else is miserable too.”

  “I suspect everybody here is miserable.”

  McCall sat up and scooted closer to him so they could speak privately. People talked on the bunks nearby, and even though they all wore green uniforms, she wouldn’t be surprised if there were spies planted down among them to report on prisoners making escape plans.

  Dash raised his eyebrows at her closeness. She didn’t know if that meant he minded or if he was surprised by it.

  She drew her knees up as an added barrier between her and the rest of the bay and crooked a finger so he would lean in closer.

  “Given that I just showed you my unsexy, pus-dripping hands,” he said quietly, “I’m guessing you’re not inviting me over for a kiss.”

  “No.” She couldn’t keep a bewildered expression from escaping to her face, though right afterward, she realized he was joking. Amazing that he had the energy for humor after the day they’d had. “Also, that’s not pus. Most blisters are filled with clear fluids. Plasma or serum.”

  “Most blisters, you say. Mine could be special.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Are you sure? Other parts of me are special.”

  She tried to decide if he was flirting. Given their situation and the amount of coal dust slathering their exposed flesh, it seemed ludicrous.

  “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, waving him closer when someone sat down on the bunk right behind them.

  “You’ve noticed my specialness? Excellent.”

  “What’s the deal?” she whispered, flicking a finger toward his forehead. “You’re telepathic?”

  All trace of humor vanished from his face. He drew back, his expression guarded.

  She squashed irritation and told herself he might have some emotional baggage if he was telepathic since that would mean Starseer genes, and Starseers were less popular than toenail fungus these days.

  “I only ask,” she whispered, waving for him to bring his ear closer again, “because it could be useful, an asset we have to help us get out of here. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “You don’t care?” His forehead crinkled.

  “Not unless you can fling guards across the room with your mind.” That would have been handy, but she hadn’t heard of anyone with abilities like that in the modern era. Supposedly, a few centuries back, before their genes had become diluted from mating with people from other planets, some Starseers had been able to do such things. “You can’t, can you?”

  “I can’t even fling a peanut across the room.” Uncharacteristic bitterness laced his tone.

  “You wish you
could?”

  He looked away. McCall took a slow breath, forcing herself to wait silently. She had enough issues of her own; that ought to make her good at being patient with other people with issues, right? Not that she was that patient in dealing with her own. She mostly got frustrated. Especially when she was somewhere she didn’t have access to her usual outlets for settling her mind, running on the treadmill or painting landscapes in her studio.

  “A typical Starseer could,” Dash said quietly, gazing across the bay instead of looking at her. “I’m not typical.”

  “No, you said you were special, right?” she asked, thinking humor might make this easier for him. Not that she was great at making jokes other people found funny. “Or is that just your pus?”

  He smiled faintly. “I thought you said it was serum.”

  “Possibly plasma.”

  “Exciting options. Do you have a medical background too?”

  “No, I just read books.”

  “About pus?”

  “Are you deliberately changing the focus of the conversation from you to me?” McCall asked.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I miss a lot actually, and I scramble like mad to compensate so people don’t notice.”

  He looked at her, that furrow creasing his brow again.

  She waved away the comment, not feeling like explaining her issues. Her issues weren’t going to help them get out of this hellhole.

  “The telepathy,” she said. “You can use it to influence people? Like that doctor?”

  Dash hesitated. “Just a little and only if someone is susceptible to it. Some people have naturally stronger mental defenses than others. I’m not…” He hesitated again and plucked at a seam in the thin mattress. “By Starseer standards, I’m very weak. At mental skills. There’s nothing wrong with my body or my muscles or anything.” He glanced at her as if worried that mattered to her.

  She shook her head, willing him to continue on with the relevant information.

  “My mother is a Starseer,” he murmured. “I grew up in a temple on Arkadius and was trained, the same as the rest of the Starseer kids, but I didn’t have as much aptitude as most of them. No matter how hard I worked at it, I couldn’t do the things others did easily. I can speak telepathically, yes, and do a few mind tricks, but I have no aptitude for telekinesis or transmutation or so many of the typical Starseer skills. I wasn’t good enough to get a job or have a career of any kind in the temple, so I left to do the only thing I was good at, flying ships. I thought about going into the fleet, but I was afraid they would pry into my background and find out where I came from. I got a…” He frowned at her. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?”