by J. N. Chaney
“Come on, Stellers. We can’t dismiss these people until you’re off the stage,” Fielder said.
Thorn nodded and followed the Commander back into the wings, another round of applause following him like an unwelcome shadow.
As soon as he’d stepped out of the auditorium, Thorn quickly separated himself from everyone else—even Mol—saying he just needed a few minutes alone. He wandered off behind the building. He could hear the chatter of the almost-graduates spilling out of the other end of the building, punctuated by shouts from their instructors to “Form up!” and “Get it together, people!”
For a moment, though, Thorn was alone.
He basked in it. There was nothing but the sun, the eddies of breeze wafting around the corner of the building, and the grass under his feet. Nothing in sight but the Code Nebula rec hall across the field, the camp HQ building, and the parade square off to his left.
He slumped back against the wall of the auditorium. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone in a place that wasn’t enclosed in alloy bulkheads, reactive armor, and the void of space.
“Sir?”
Thorn blinked and turned. One of the Recruits had just popped around the corner of the building, and he skidded to a stop when he saw Thorn. The name strip over the young man’s right tunic pocket read GRADY.
“Sorry, sir, didn’t know you were here,” he said, saluting.
Thorn started to shrug like it was no big deal but realized he was still leaning against the wall. That was something that would land a pile of shit onto a Recruit here, and probably extra duties, too. He straightened and returned the salute.
“Not a problem, Recruit Grady—” Thorn stopped. “You’re mister hoorah, aren’t you?”
Grady stared blankly for a moment, then gave a sheepish grin. “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry about that. Got carried away.”
“Again, not a problem. Nothing wrong with some course spirit. Anyway, you should hustle your butt to formation, or you’re going to be spending the grad party tonight cutting the sports field with scissors.”
“Oh, it’s okay, sir. Commander Narvez sent me off as a runner to the company HQ to fetch the photographer. I guess they decided to do the final course photos outside, since it’s such a nice day.”
“Alright, well, be off with you then.”
“Sir?”
Thorn raised an eyebrow.
“I just wanted to say—” Grady started, then paused. “I mean, I think that—”
“Just spit it out, man.”
Grady took a breath. “Sir, I just wanted you to know that you’re a hero around here. We actually got one full lecture period just about you. Commander Narvez, she described to us how you moved the Fleet to attack that squid planet. That was—” He just shook his head.
Thorn grimaced. A hero. And Narvez was apparently pushing the idea. Narvez. He’d assumed she’d managed to get from hating him to just tolerating him.
Of course you could dislike someone, he supposed, and still think they were a hero.
“It was my job, Recruit Grady. It’s really no different than the job you’re going to be doing, assuming you actually graduate from here, of course. That might be up in the air if you don’t go get that photographer in a hurry.”
Grady nodded. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir. I just—it’s just that you’re a legend. You don’t meet legends every day.”
“A legend.” Thorn sighed. “Before you get too starry eyed, Grady, keep in mind that I stink when I sweat, just like everybody else. Have to keep yourself grounded in reality. That’s especially true for a ’caster. We can climb to heights that a regular soldier might not know, but we can fall a lot farther. I—what I’m saying is, don’t get swept up in your own hype, because the squids sure as hell won’t.”
“Thank you, sir. Good advice. I’ll remember that.” He saluted. “Still, sir, I got to meet a demigod today. Sorry about that term, but you can’t shift reality without creating some kind of legend. You . . . you sort of scare the hell out of us, sir, but we also want to be like you and do the things you do. That’s worth some shit from Commander Narvez.”
Thorn returned the salute but said nothing.
Grady smiled, turned on his heel, and left Thorn in silence, brooding with memory of what it meant to be more than human. More than a ’caster.
For the second time, he stood on the brink of apotheosis. This time, though, a power every bit as formidable as his own opposed him, and their clash echoed across the universe, trembling the foundations of reality—
Thorn scowled. The sun was suddenly too bright, the wind too cold. He strode away to get to a comm rig and ask Tanner to order him back aboard the Hecate.
He’d received more than enough worship for today, thanks.
Mol jumped when Thorn said her name. She’d been crouched down, fiddling with something inside the Gyrfalcon’s landing-gear well.
“I’m one of the good guys, sir. You don’t need to stealth yourself up behind me like that,” she said.
“Gotta keep in practice,” he replied.
She lowered a tool. “Didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow morning—and I expected you to be hungover.”
Thorn shrugged. “I’ve had enough grad party, I think. Being the guest of honor means I have to be on good behavior”—he made air quotes around the good— “which means I can’t get drunk, take off my clothes, and dare everyone at the party to run a naked foot race.”
“Wow, that’s really specific,” Mol said, then cocked her head to one side and grinned. “You didn’t just make that up, did you? You actually did that at your own grad party here, didn’t you?”
“There may have been clothing removed and dares issued, but I can neither confirm nor deny any of it.”
Mol slipped the tool into her utility belt. “Being the guest of honor does come with some expectations I guess, yeah. But it makes you the center of attention, too, right?” She grinned. “Come on, sir, tell me you didn’t have some cute Recruits batting their eyes at you.” Her voice turned high pitch and sing-song. “Oh, sir, you’re so strong and brave and handsome. You’re my hero—”
“Not funny, Mol,” Thorn snapped and headed for the Gyrfalcon’s open airlock. He got about three paces, then stopped and turned back.
“Sorry. Just heroed out, I guess.” He looked across the landing field, a scorched and pitted sprawl of blastcrete rendered featureless grey in the night. The lights of Code Nebula burned through the darkness, especially from the rec hall where the grad party would still be in full swing. Years ago, he’d have been leading the charge on a run to find more beer, more wine—more fun.
He missed being that Thorn Stellers. He missed being ordinary, not a hero.
Or a demigod.
The thought made him look up high in the southern sky. Right there—a tiny, diffuse patch of light. If it were visible in the sky, he could always find it, no matter where he was.
Even just a year ago, that particular patch of sky would have been dark.
Mol nodded. “If it helps, sir, when you fart in my spaceship, a hero is the last thing I think you are.”
Have to stay grounded in reality, he’d told Grady.
He gave Mol a grateful smile. Thankfully, she was damned good at making him do just that.
“Unless you want to spend the night in transient quarters, how about we head back up to the Hecate?” he suggested.
“Hey, no argument from me. They’ve got me stuck in transient lines with some auditor here from Fleet. Friggin’ guy introduced me to a whole new world of snoring.”
“One hundred out, Hecate,” Mol said, eyeing the Gyrfalcon’s flight management system.
“Concur, one hundred out,” came the clipped reply.
Thorn had been staring down at the curve of Code Nebula’s host planet. The terminator crawled across the surface, day relentlessly replacing night below.
He glanced at Mol. “Is that something new?”
“What?”
&
nbsp; “Confirming distances to the Hecate. I’ve never heard you do that before.”
“Just trying to minimize the processing load on Trixie.”
Thorn frowned. Trixie was an AI. She was nothing but a processing load.
“Why the special treatment for her? Nobody tries to minimize my processing load.”
Mol glanced at him, then she looked back at the panel and sighed. “She’s doing it again—says she’s feeling melancholy. Ever since you brought her back, she’s had these spells.”
“Melancholy?”
“That’s the word she uses.”
“Trixie is melancholy. What does that even mean?”
“Damned if I know.”
Trixie cut in. “Melancholy means a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause—”
“No, I know what the word melancholy means. What I’m asking is, what does it mean regarding you? What does it mean for you to be melancholy?” Thorn asked.
In response, soft music began to play, but it suddenly swelled in volume. It wasn’t punk, Trixie’s favorite genre before she’d been savaged by a virus injected into her by a couple of human Nyctus agents called Skins. It was odd. A slower tempo, more orchestral, and downright meditative. But it was the lyrics that caught him, speaking of loneliness and things he felt in his bones.
Mol rolled her eyes. “This one again.” She looked at Thorn. “See what I mean?”
“Yeah, this is . . . kind of downbeat, for such a catchy tune.”
“It’s called Eleanor Rigby. It’s from some old Earth album called Revolver.” She sighed. “I hear it almost every day.”
“Trixie, can you lower the volume, please?” Thorn said.
The music faded to background, just audible over the thrum of the Gyrfalcon’s systems.
He listened to the lyrics a moment longer, then nodded. “Yeah, I’d say this counts as melancholy, alright.”
“Like I said, ever since you brought her back, she’s been like this. She might even be getting worse.” Mol fiddled with her controls, then looked back at Thorn. “Any chance you could look into it, maybe fix her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Thorn replied, settling his head back against the g-couch. The truth was, he wasn’t anxious to have anything more to do with bringing anyone back.
It just didn’t seem to work out very well.
2
Thorn had told Kira that the Danzur were fussy. He’d even used that exact word—fussy. What he hadn’t told her was just what that meant.
Fussy was the utter devotion to an oversized, labyrinthine bureaucracy that seemed to regulate every aspect of Danzur life. It meant keeping important information to themselves, even if it would be in their best interest to release it. It meant engaging in meticulous bargaining over the most inconsequential things.
It meant Kira would soon be bald from tearing her hair out—at least metaphorically, but maybe a little in real life, too.
She sat back in the chair in the quarters the Danzur had assigned her aboard their orbital platform. The accommodations were one of the few bright spots in this miserable assignment, being not just large and comfortable, but in some ways downright luxurious.
Yet another draft of their most recent attempts at a negotiation agreement glowed on the terminal in front of her. Her eyes flicked across a wherefor, passed a heretofore, settled on the second part, then glazed over. She lolled her head back and groaned.
“Kill me now.”
“This system has neither the motivation nor the means to execute violence upon your person,” a clipped voice said.
Kira raised her head and glared at the screen. “You sure about that? Maybe dispense some cyanide into my next meal?”
“This system has neither the motivation nor—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m stuck here.”
She swiveled the chair and looked out the deck-to-ceiling viewport that made up most of one wall of her quarters. She could see a wing of the huge platform, which was lined with docking ports—one of two sprawling constructs that operated as commercial hubs for the voluminous Danzur trade. Ships were plugged into half of them, mostly freighters, but she didn’t recognize a couple of them. Apparently, the Danzur had commercial relations with several other races even further away from Allied Stars space—which itself sprawled on the other side of Nyctus space.
That made Kira a little queasy. She hated having the Nyctus between her and home. Fortunately, the Danzur had a neutral relationship with the squids. They had something the squids wanted, obviously, and the squids were willing to respect their neutrality to get it. She wished she knew just what that was, but the talks she’d been attending, led by Fleet on behalf of the Allied Stars Central Administration, hadn’t even gotten close to that question yet.
She glowered at the screen again. Negotiation agreement my ass, she thought. It was a negotiation agreement only insofar as it documented the things they were going to negotiate—an agreement to work toward an agreement.
“I did not join the ON for this,” she muttered.
Cyanide was starting to sound pretty good.
“Lieutenant Wixcombe,” a voice cut in over a comm circuit. “It’s Specialist Dawson. We’ve got a Danzur named Tadrup here at the ship looking for you.”
Kira groaned again. Dawson was one of six crew who, along with her, made up the human delegation to the Danzur. Their ship, an ON courier sloop named the Venture, was docked nearby. Kira tended to split her time between the ship and the Danzur platform, since the Venture carried their classified gear, like cryptographic equipment and secure databases. The Danzur had insisted on a complete timetable of Kira’s whereabouts, since she was the ON’s delegation head, and she’d marked herself as being aboard the Venture this afternoon.
If there was one thing the Danzur weren’t, it was flexible. Kira had never married her life to a rigid timetable. Who could actually live that way? Sure, key timings and deadlines mattered, but whether she was here, in her quarters, or aboard the Venture, about a hundred meters away, should not be a big deal.
But it was to the Danzur—in an almost pathological way.
“Alright, offer my apologies to Tadrup and tell him I’ll be there in a moment,” Kira said.
“Actually, Lieutenant, he says he’ll come to you.”
Kira’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“He’s on his way right now, in fact.”
Kira stood and fastened her tunic. “Got it, thanks. Wixcombe out.”
A moment passed, then the door chime sounded. Kira gritted her teeth. The stupid chime had a shrill, ear-scraping edge to it. Apparently, the Danzur audio range was higher pitched than that of humans, so they were more attuned to higher frequencies. Kira couldn’t help wondering, though, if it might just be a negotiating ploy, putting her slightly on edge and off-balance.
She opened the door. Tadrup stood outside. Kira recognized him from the particular pattern of stripes and spots in his fur, all of which combined to make the squat alien look as though he’d been covered with smiley faces.
Now that was off-putting.
“Tadrup, my apologies. I became so absorbed in the latest version of the negotiation agreement that—”
“It is of no consequence, Kira,” the Danzur said, holding up a fingered paw in a very human gesture. “We’ve realized we have to accept that you are not as dedicated to protocols as we are.”
Kira tried not to chuckle, despite Tadrup making not as dedicated to protocols sound synonymous with failure.
She gestured the Danzur in. “Well, I apologize anyway. If I schedule myself as being somewhere, then I should be there.”
“Yes, you should,” Tadrup replied. This time, his voice held no recrimination, he simply stated it as a fact. “But, as I said, it is of no consequence.”
Kira thanked him. “So what can I do for you today, Tadrup? I’m still reviewing the agreement and have yet to consult with Damien about it. But I believe we have until tomorrow to do th
at.”
“You do. Damien has already made it clear that you are still in the process of doing your review.”
Damien Forester was lead representative for Allied Stars diplomatic corps and titular head of the mission. In fact, Kira had been given the effective lead role, commanding the overall effort to get diplomatic relations established with the Danzur. Damien actually functioned in more of an advisory role. She knew that the man chafed at least a little under the arrangement, which had no doubt been the result of some power mongering back and forth between the military and civilian leadership. But he had to cosign anything negotiated with the aliens, which seemed to mollify any resentment—mostly, anyway.
“I am actually here with some good news,” Tadrup said.
“Oh?” Kira gestured at a chair—a Danzur one, crafted for their particular physiology—while she took a seat on something a human could actually find comfortable. “What sort of good news?”
“Your request for divulgence of our trade relationship with the Nyctus has finally been vetted and approved.”
Kira just stared. “Really?”
“You seem surprised, which is unusual, since you initiated the request yourself.”
“Well, yes. Or no, I’m not surprised at the request itself, but—approved? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Kira’s mind raced as though propelled by a lit fusion drive. They had put this particular request in to the Danzur just a few days after their arrival. Damien had suggested it, ostensibly so they could satisfy themselves that the Danzur weren’t engaged in selling or trading arms to the Nyctus. Citing Allied Stars diplomatic protocols as the reason was a clever ploy. The Danzur had immediately understood that all-important word, protocols, and accepted the request without any fuss.
The real purpose of the request, though, was to test the Danzur reaction to it, while also sending a signal that the humans knew they had some sort of ongoing commercial relationship with the squids. And that moment, that request, was why Kira had been considered so vital to this mission’s success. While Damien had talked, she’d eased her awareness outward, using barely a trickle of magic to empower the most subtle and least intrusive Joining she could manage.
