Witch Nebula (Starcaster Book 4)

by J. N. Chaney

  Daddy—

  Nearly there, Morgan.

  Daddy—it’s different. It’s wrong. It’s wrong!

  Thorn pushed harder at the clay of creation, but it resisted him more and more. Something was stiffening it, rendering it ever less pliant, making it push back against his will.

  She was fighting back. Maybe not deliberately, maybe because she was driven by primal instinct to protect these things that were part of her. She was fighting his efforts, and she was very, very powerful—

  Morgan, he said, fighting against the forces trying to repel his efforts, Daddy’s . . . almost there. I’m almost—

  Morgan shrieked.

  A shockwave rippled through reality. Thorn slammed headlong into a wall of rigid denial. His will beat against it, but he might as well have been trying to punch his way through granite.

  Daddy, no—!

  Thorn’s truth began to fray, starting to unravel. He hadn’t been able to seal and lock together the seams he’d created in reality. It was all just a patch, and the patch was coming loose.

  Morgan, please, let me help you—

  No, you’re hurting me!

  Morgan’s frantic, anguished plea ripped at Thorn, tearing into his chest and slashing into his heart. He lost focus, his will faltered, and reality began to collapse like crumbling brick.

  Thorn reacted as any father would, by reaching for his daughter. He focused on snatching her away from Nebo, a planet that had always existed unharmed by the war, and pulling her fully into existence just as she was.

  Morgan shrieked again, a keening wail that shook the bedrock of existence.

  A soundless detonation washed away the universe. Light that transcended the very concept of white engulfed him, piercing his eyes, filling his mind with nothing but blinding radiance.

  Slowly, it began to fade. A pervasive glow still surrounded him, resolving into streams and veils of dust and gas like rippled curtains lit from within by the fierce glow of hot, new stars.

  A nebula.

  Thorn gaped at the inconceivable forces that had been briefly unleashed. Morgan had fought him, and he’d tried to overcome her resistance. The resultant cascade of power had spiraled up to a titanic blast of power and possibility. The universe had, for a moment, been able to craft its own, mindless truth, and the result had been this.

  A new nebula, full of new stars. New matter, brought into existence from nothing.

  Thorn slowly cleared his thoughts, then did the one thing that called to him as a father, ringing through his being like a primal call. He tried to find his daughter.

  Morgan?

  He heard nothing but the silence between the stars.

  Morgan? Morgan!

  Nothing. There was no hint that she’d ever existed. He tried to push his awareness across the void, driving it further and further, sweeping it over stars, planets, asteroids—

  He pushed until his consciousness encompassed such a vast swath of reality that he could see all of it and yet see none of it.

  There was no sign of Morgan. Nothing. She simply did not exist.

  He had failed.

  Thorn had failed to bring his daughter back. Instead, he was left with her final words to him inscribed in his mind in fire and starlight.

  You’re hurting me!

  Thorn tore himself out of the dream, slamming awake with a violent start. He shoved himself up in his bunk, drenched in sweat, gasping like he’d just run a race. He untangled himself from the damp sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold touch of the deck against his bare feet steadied him, giving a specific sensation to focus on.

  Only that coldness existed. That was all. It was all he had to think about. It made no other demands, implied no other obligations.

  Thorn took one final deep breath, then looked around into darkness.

  “Lights.”

  His quarters lit up, leaving him squinting and blinking until his eyes adjusted. When they had, he stood and crossed to the tiny wash basin, then he ran the water. He cupped some into his mouth, then splashed some more onto his face. More cold to steady him.

  Finally, he turned and looked back at his bed. It was absolutely uninviting—a place of dire conflict, not rest. Instead of trying to get back to sleep, he got dressed and left his quarters, heading for—

  He stopped. Where aboard the Hecate was he going to go?

  Thorn headed for the witchport, from where he’d be able to see the nebula he and his daughter had managed to spawn into existence. It was all he had left of her.

  Thorn knew its name, even as he went to gaze upon the construct of his efforts.

  The Witch Nebula.

  4

  Kira had just lifted her feet onto the desk. She leaned back and looked out the big viewport, taking in the stars in their vast beauty.

  She needed the break. Since the revelation of the ongoing trade deals between the Danzur and the Nyctus, things had been flung at them at an unprecedented pace. It was as though, having given up one piece of information, the floodgates had been thrown open and released a torrent.

  Damien just gave a thin smile, though. “It’s another tactic. They’re going to try to bury us in documents and updates and errata and appendices so that we might miss something important.”

  Kira glowered. “That sounds, I don’t know, unethical? Belligerent?”

  “Unethical and belligerent pretty much sum up what diplomacy is all about. The point is to try to get both sides to be a little less unethical and belligerent to one another.”

  Kira shook her head. “Wow. When you said it had taken you a while to get this cynical and jaded about it all, you meant it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. Diplomacy is just another form of warfare.” Damien smiled wryly. “In some ways, a dirtier, nastier, less forgiving form of warfare. And you military types are supposed to have some sense of honor.”

  Damien had gone on to prove just how adept he was in the dirty, nasty business of diplomacy. For every incoming document, he immediately requested clarifications, amplifications, and anything else that generated more work for the Danzur bureaucrats. Sure enough, after a day or so of that, the deluge slowed.

  So she actually had time to put her feet up and take a break.

  Kira?

  She sat up. The voice humming through her mind was as familiar as her own.

  Thorn?

  In the psychic flesh, he replied.

  His tone was flippant, but Kira could hear murkier depths to it. Stress, anger, frustration—they echoed in his words, a residue of feelings he couldn’t entirely suppress through the Joining. Not when he Joined with Kira, anyway.

  It’s nice to hear from you. It’s always nice to hear from you. But . . . something’s wrong, isn’t it?

  What, I can’t check in on how the negotiations with the Danzur are going?

  Do you care?

  Of course I care. I was one of the first to make contact with them, remember? That kind of gives me a dog in this fight. Or maybe a puppy. Can’t imagine dealing with them is like dealing with a puppy, though.

  That’s not why you want to talk to me, Thorn.

  There was a pause.

  No, it’s not, he sent. Proof that you know me too well, even across the miles. I miss you, for what it’s worth. Nothing about this . . . this life . . . feels natural. I’m sorry, Kira.

  Sorry? Her mental tone was one of genuine confusion.

  For all of this. Sometimes the weight of our choices comes back to me—my choices, mostly, and you’re bearing the brunt of it, over there acting as a liaison to those opportunists.

  It’s my job, and your job, too. We made this choice together. But tell me. Why reach out at this moment? Kira asked.

  I had the dream again.

  She nodded at the starfield. She’d suspected as much.

  Thorn, maybe you should see someone. Not just to talk, but to find a solution for who and what you’re becoming, and what it all means. I care about you in
ways you’ll never imagine, but I’m just—I’m an ON officer. My skills are not what you need, even though I want more than anything to help you.

  There was a long pause, and the connection between them hummed, ripe with things unsaid.

  Thorn broke the quiet. I’m a Starcaster who tried to bring his daughter back from the dead, and I seem to have created an entire nebula from my attempt. I don’t know if there’s a doctor out there who’s seen this kind of thing before.

  You know what I mean, Thorn. You might be a Starcaster, but you’re first and foremost a man. A person who has to come to grips with his emotions—grief, anger, regret, all that unpleasant stuff. The fact it involves magic is just one of the details. The feelings are exactly the same, though. And there are people who can help you recognize them, and cope with them, and finally incorporate them into yourself, even if the source of all this is beyond anything some doctor might have imagined. Or anyone, for that matter.

  You looking for a new line of work? Because you seem to understand this better than anyone else I’ve ever listened to, he said, along with a mental chuckle.

  Kira gave the stars a rueful smile. Oh, I know all the right words. I can describe the process, sure. But I’ve got my own baggage to cart around. I think I need to fix myself before I start trying to fix other people. But we share the source of this, or at least some of it. Morgan. I love her with every fiber of my being, and I know you do too. So let’s . . . try? Find a path, an answer? Something?

  I want to. I know you want it, too, and I’d be a damned fool if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that if things get out of hand with my power, there’s more at stake than just our daughter. And us. I just don’t know why this keeps happening. I keep getting to a point where I think I’ve actually started to get over it, then wham, the dream happens again, and the counter resets, and I’m dripping in fear and anger all over again. Scares the hell out me, Kira. I can admit that now.

  I’m sure that’s probably significant—you thinking you’ve reached a point where you can cope, and then your subconscious says, oh, no, you’re not done with this yet, Stellers!

  Significant how?

  Kira sighed. I don’t know, Thorn. That’s the sort of thing you need to explore in detail, with—

  She hesitated.

  With someone who isn’t you, Thorn said.

  She sighed again. It sounds terrible, I know, like I’m just leaving you hanging. But I’m way too close to this myself. My own feelings are still pretty much a mess when it comes to this. I’m not sure if I even can help you, or if I might just end up doing more harm than good. Like I said—this is our problem, but you’re the conduit at this point. You have to explore this. My heart is sick, but I can handle it. I have to. For her. For us.

  Silence, as if Thorn had cut their bond. It stretched between them again, unwelcome and chilled.

  No. She could tell he was still there, could feel him, in the same way you can feel someone standing behind you.

  Finally, he replied. I understand. I don’t know where to turn, but I’ll take the first step.

  Kira sighed, a sound braided of hurt and exhaustion. What about attacking this from a different direction? The dream? What about that?

  You mean the details? Or when it happens?

  Maybe both, but let’s start with the facts. You tried to ’cast, to bring our daughter back. You got it at least partially right and complete. You brought Nebo back from the dead. The planet is there, populated by millions of people there who owe you their lives. Oh, and there are millions more, on other worlds, who had friends and loved ones that they’d lost but were then returned to them, thanks to you.

  Yes. I know. And that’s—don’t me wrong. That’s fantastic. But our daughter, Morgan, wasn’t—

  Our daughter wasn’t on the planet when the Allied Stars census takers went to figure out exactly who came back. Which, incidentally, must have been a new experience for them. New and maybe even terrifying.

  Despite his stress and sadness, Kira felt a flash of laughter across the light-years.

  Yeah, I’m sure it was. I guess there are some AS bureaucrats who weren’t happy with it, though, since they had to do all the paperwork. Millions of birth certificates might thrill the Danzur, but not our people.

  Kira smirked. Overworked bureaucrats? Good.

  Screw ’em, she said. If it was my call, I’d have it in print, and in triplicate.

  He laughed again. You’re vicious. I like it.

  Just one of my good qualities. The other glaring result of what you tried is a new nebula.

  The Witch Nebula, he said. He wasn’t bragging, just stating the surreal facts.

  That’s what they’re calling it. In fact, I think the plan is for that to become its new, official name. Anyway, all ’casters, everywhere, felt it come into being. I remember walking along one of the Stiletto’s corridors, heading to a debriefing, when it hit. I had to stop and brace myself against a bulkhead. It was . . . not as extreme or prolonged as the Vision, but still intense. Especially considering no one knew exactly what had happened, only that it was something huge.

  But you felt more? Thorn asked.

  I did. I knew it involved you and our daughter. But that’s all I knew, that other ’casters didn’t. As you might recall, I was hammering on your mental door as soon as my head cleared enough that I could ’cast again.

  I do, yeah.

  Do you remember the other thing you felt as the Witch Nebula came into being?

  A pause.

  She winked out of existence, Thorn admitted.

  And we all felt that, too. Just like we felt it when she—

  Now it was Kira’s turn to pause, to take a mental breath.

  Just like when she died, she said. Just like in the Vision.

  Silence again. Again, she could feel Thorn at the far end of it.

  Thorn, I think you need to admit to yourself that she didn’t come back—that she isn’t coming back.

  She was right there, though, Kira. Right there. I could feel her. I could almost touch her. Just a little more effort, just a little more time—

  Thorn, you said that she resisted you.

  Something did.

  Something?

  Another pause. Okay. Yes. It was her. She pushed back. I don’t know why, but she pushed back.

  And that’s important, I think. Thorn, it might not even be possible to do what you were trying to do. It worked with Trixie, but she’s a machine.

  Tell that to the people of Nebo, all back from the dead. Seemed to work just fine for them.

  Well, sure—but we don’t know the details, what the rules are, or at least what’s possible and what isn’t. Maybe you can’t bring back a Starcaster. Or maybe you can’t bring back your own daughter. There may very well be reasons for it that we just don’t—can’t—understand.

  It’s like she didn’t want to come back.

  Kira narrowed her eyes. For just an instant, a flicker of time, she felt Thorn was holding something back from her—it was a fugitive sensation, but it had been there, and the realization hit her like a physical blow.

  Maybe she didn’t want to come back, Thorn. Maybe she’s somewhere that . . . she doesn’t want to leave.

  Heaven? Or some analog for paradise?

  I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter what it’s called. It might just have been somewhere she doesn’t want to leave, now. She did— She paused and took that mental breath again. She did die as a young child. Maybe that has something to do with it.

  Maybe.

  Thorn, is there anything you’re not telling me, here? Anything you’re holding back?

  Like what? Thorn asked, but slowly, as if he was considering the angles.

  Anything at all. A thought, a sensation. A fleeting moment that you can’t shake but is tied to the dream. And if you can’t then we’ll do this again, Kira said.

  Do what? Rehash the loss? The distance and our reality?

  That’s exactly
what we’ll do. And then, we rehash it some more. I think healing takes on many forms, Thorn.

  I—thank you. Just knowing that we might have a path forward is . . . it might be what I need. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, not really.

  Neither do I. But we can find out together, Kira said.

  That’s all I ask, and it’s more than I deserve. Thank you, Kira. For all of it.

  They ended their connection, both feeling hopeful.

  And uncertain.

  “The latest,” Damien said, tossing a data pad onto the table. He and Kira were back in the Venture, going over the most recent overtures from the Danzur.

  Kira picked up the data pad, read the word heretofore, and dropped it again with a groan. “Why? Why can’t things just be written out in plain speech? Why all the hereafters and whereupons and crap?”

  “It’s the high priesthood thing.”

  Kira looked at Damien blankly. “The what now?”

  “The high priesthood. You’ve never heard of it? Every profession develops its own codes, jargon, descriptions of specialized knowledge, that sort of thing. It’s to prevent outsiders from being able to easily understand.”

  “It makes every field of expertise a high priesthood. If you aren’t part of it and don’t know the mysteries, then you have to rely on the high priests to do it for you.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that they’re protecting their turf.”

  “High priesthood sounds more mysterious and interesting—protecting their turf sounds like something a street gang would do.” He shrugged. “But you’re right. They’re the same thing.”

  Something on the data pad caught Kira’s eye.

  “So the Danzur exported krol, and only krol,” Kira said.

  “To the Nyctus, yes. That’s their single trade good.”

  “Interesting.”

  “As a diplomat and a born cynic, interesting is a word that gets my attention. Care to elaborate?” Damien asked, his brows lifting.

  She pointed at the data pad. “It says here that the Danzur won’t do any trade negotiations for krol. It’s on their List of Excluded Products.”