The Starfire Wars: The Complete Series
Page 1
Contents
THE STARFIRE WARS
Copyright
Other Books by Jenetta Penner
STARFIRE
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
DARK MATTER
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Parallax
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
ZENITH
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
EPILOGUE
Configured Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Other Books by Jenetta Penner
THE STARFIRE WARS
The Complete Collection
JENETTA PENNER
THE STARFIRE WARS
Copyright © 2019 Jenetta Penner
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Hair on Cover Art: Trisste-stocks.deviantArt.com
ISBN:
Printed in the USA
First printing 2018
Other Books by Jenetta Penner
The Configured Trilogy
Configured
Immersed
Actualized
Betrayal of Magic
Crown of Lore
The Fall of Lore
Spellcaster Academy
Magical Realism
The Dark Curse
Fire & Lightning
Shadow Pack
The Dying Realm
Lost & Found
The Terran Sea Chronicles Duology
Reckless
Limitless
STARFIRE
BOOK ONE OF THE STARFIRE WARS
Chapter 1
My father named me after the stars. But I’ve always preferred to keep my feet on the ground.
Ironically, I’m hurtling through space in a gigantic starship twenty thousand light-years from Earth. The only life I’ve ever known was there—school, my friends . . . Mom. This journey wasn’t my dream, it was Mom and Dad’s—and we left Mom behind.
I fumble for the simple gold band encircling my right ring finger and twist it. Now all I have left of her after she died is this piece of jewelry.
I’d rather have her.
The muscles in my stomach tighten and I exhale loudly. I glance at a glass computer panel, which displays a glowing image of Arcadia—the new Earth—our destination. The planet pretty much looks like old Earth but the continents are all mixed up, and it boasts two moons. The planet’s atmosphere also glows a strange shade of cyan. On the occasional night, the atmosphere creates amazing patterns like the aurora borealis. Or so I’m told. The planet is uninhabited except for wildlife.
Ten years ago my mom, Isabel Foster, discovered how the atmosphere was similar to Earth’s. My parents had worked tirelessly alongside the World Senate to streamline Arcadia’s settlement and were told, repeatedly, that the process would take a minimum of fifty years before the first permanent international colony would set foot onto a new planet. Yet we’ll temporarily disembark at the Skybase orbiting above Arcadia in less than eight hours.
Arcadia is a perfect Earth 2.0—ripe for the picking. I sigh while twisting the ring on my finger once again. Theory had always claimed that humans would need to make an inhospitable environment capable of supporting human life by completely restructuring a planet through terraforming. But this planet was just dangling out in space, waiting for us. And here we are. This discovery shifted Dad’s plans for Arcadia to an urban development focus since it was considered an Easily Terraformable Planet.
Most days, Dad remains excited, but without Mom here, his moods are typically mixed. Though since our starship voyaged out of the Turner Space Fold, I’ve barely seen him, so I wouldn’t know his mood today. To ensure safety, the captain of our starship, Pathfinder, had programmed our exit point for a seven-day lightspeed journey to the new Earth. Since then, Dad has been too busy making all the preparations and meeting with people I’ve never met or don’t care about. I guess when you’re the man who envisioned every aspect of how humans plan to live on Arcadia, people seem to think you’re important or something.
His importance is evident by the cabin we were assigned, which consists of two good-sized rooms plus a small office for Dad. There’s even a living room and a little eat-in kitchen with a set of barstools at the counter. The refrigerator is stocked with food, and if the supplies start to dwindle, a cute delivery guy shows up to replace the missing items.
Most of the people down below are lucky to receive a bunk and a nutritional food pack for the day. Ninety percent of these individuals probably felt like they had won a lottery ticket to the planet when they came out on top of their job testing. But the privilege also entitles them to a lifetime of indentured servitude on our new “Eden.” I doubt many will ever repay the debt incurred just from the ticket price alone. Arcadia needs ready workers, however, and most had lived in slums and were starving while on Earth, so maybe being indentured was a better option.
The remaining v
oyagers bought their way onboard. They’re the types who typically have piles of money to spend and were no doubt bored with Earth. Coming to a new world was hyped up as the chance of a lifetime, and if you have the cash to blow, why not blow it on building a new colony?
Princes and paupers. Not many passengers in-between.
I return my attention to my Earthscape lesson. Apparently, in my distraction, my entire simulated society has suffocated from a lack of oxygen in their domed city. Poor planning on my part. I sigh and tap off the program. When both of your parents specialized in terraforming and urban development, the expectation is that you’ll do the same, especially when you began to understand the concepts before you were five. I do have a knack but not the passion—when I want to focus, that is. I’m only seventeen; why am I required to know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life? Maybe I want to be a painter. Don’t need to travel across the galaxy to make that dream a reality. Mom never pushed me to make important life choices before I was ready.
I stand, brushing my wavy, strawberry blond hair off my forehead, and go over to the nightstand beside my twin bed to search for a clip. Mom’s jewelry-making tools—colorful beads and glistening gems and an array of metal fasteners—cover the surface. She was in the middle of teaching me her hobby when . . . when we ran out of time. We did fashion a few pieces together, though, and I even managed to partially cobble together a ruby tie tack on my own. After it’s done, I plan to give it to Dad when we reach Arcadia. I might not be excited, but he is, and I love him.
I pick up a sapphire clip Mom made and affix it to the right side of my hair. Then I grab my green sweater hanging across the chair’s back and run my arms through the sleeves. This particular shade of green—a deep emerald—not only matches my eyes, it’s also my favorite color. Fashion and matching eye color aside, there’s an odd draft that always seems to be present in the corridors. I’m not sure the mystery breeze is a good thing, but the colonization site on Arcadia tends to lean toward tropical. I’ll never be cold again.
Exiting my room, I amble through the silence of our unit. Once I enter the living area, I stop momentarily to stare at the blur of stars outside of our window. The blackness streaked with white light made by our forward motion takes me farther away from Mom and everything I left behind. With a gulp, I resume my pace to the door and tap my hand on the release. The door whooshes back and reveals a brightly lit hall.
I step out of the unit and glance behind at the bronze placard on our door:
Richard Foster
Cassiopeia Foster
The names are listed as if we are movie stars or something. It’s weird. No one else on our wing has names on their doors, only unit numbers. Maybe the other members of the Board do too. But I have not been to their units. I shake my head and veer to my left toward Dad’s dedicated workspace. Maybe he has a few minutes for us to grab lunch and talk about tonight’s gala planned for after our Skybase arrival. The party is a good distraction, and I’m sure he needs a break too.
Halfway there, I check the time on my Connect: 11:17 a.m. I exhale in frustration. I know Dad. He’ll be engrossed in a project until closer to noon. My best odds for pulling him away are to waste the next twenty-five minutes. So, I take a right toward the arboretum wing. The space is quiet, and the crowded plants spark memories of family trips we used to take to visit Grandma, who lived out in the country.
The five-minute stroll and elevator ride a few floors up are worth every second spent. My shoulders relax a notch as I stroll through the gigantic, nearly park-like setting. I scan the space for any other people, but there’s no one. It seems like everyone else is working all the time. Looking up, I watch as simulated white, puffy clouds float across an equally simulated blue sky. Around me, buzzing worker drones called Agrowbots—roughly the size of pigeons—tend to trees heavily laden with fruits of all kinds. The bots pollinate, prune, and dispose of dead leaves and any overripe produce. If I squint hard at their white, pearly bodies, I can pretend that the bots are real birds, as if I’m outside instead of inside an artificial arboretum. Even the soothing sounds of a rolling breeze and the chirping insects are fake. Not as if the pigeon drones would allow any insects into their perfect orchard.
I approach a tree and reach for a blushing apple. With an easy snap, I pluck the fruit from the tree limb. I rotate the apple in my hands and study the impeccable skin before biting into the crispy flesh. Tart and sweet, the juice floods my taste buds. Pink Lady, my favorite. I grab a second and tuck it into the pocket of my sweater for Dad. They’re his favorite too.
I take my time perusing the trees and manicured gardens, hard-pressed to spot one blemish. But with the lack of foot traffic, I’m not even sure why the ship is equipped with an arboretum. Our journey is only one week and everyone is working eighteen-hour shifts. Work, eat, sleep. Rinse and repeat. No time for nature.
Sighing, I toss the skeletal core to the ground. The second it hits the grass, a drone buzzes in and gobbles the apple into its belly’s trash compartment, where the organic components will break down into usable compost. In real life, I’d never litter. But it’s entertaining to watch the hungry pigeons. Even if the bots are not real birds.
I glance at my Connect again. The clear device accomplishes quite a bit for a small piece of tech. If I tap the face, an interactive holograph will appear that I can use to relay communication, or as a computer. But mostly, I use the device as a watch. 11:38 a.m. Close enough. It will take me a few minutes to get to Dad, anyway.
I exit the arboretum and pass a few unfamiliar, busy-looking faces along my way to meet Dad. Everyone holds such a serious expression. You’d think there would be more excitement. I hope once we arrive at Arcadia, people receive much-needed down time to enjoy their new lives. But I have a feeling none of that will happen.
I chew the inside of my lip as the elevator rolls up, releasing my lip when the doors slide open at deck twenty-five. From my vantage point, I spot Dad wearing a tan jacket and hustling down the corridor and away from me. He always complains about the mysterious draft on the ship too. Even though no one else seems to notice the breeze. I open my mouth to call out to him and then quickly snap my lips shut, realizing he’s too far away and I would need to yell to get his attention. Shouting is something the snooty people in charge look down on around here. As I step out of the elevator, my father makes a left down a wing I haven’t visited. Then a group of his team members come into view and follow him.
I tap my Connect and bring up a hologram of his itinerary. No, he doesn’t have a conference scheduled until 3:00 p.m. And Dad is a stickler for schedules.
My stomach grumbles, ready for a more significant meal than an apple. I glance around for any signs the wing is off-limits, but there are none. So, I head in the direction he took. I turn the corner just as the last of the group behind him files into an unmarked conference room. As the door slides shut, I hear Dad’s angry voice rumble through a nearby wall. Just my luck, he is in there.
Defeated, I decide to retreat and spend lunch in solitude. Typical. But the door makes a scraping sound on the track and then grunts when it sticks about a half-inch open. Once more, Dad’s voice, thick with negative energy, pipes out from the narrow opening. Grumbles from voices I don’t recognize step over whatever he’s saying.
I shrug and peer around again. No one is here and I’ve got nothing better to do, so I might as well be a little bit nosy. What can the Board do to me? I’ll just confess I was here for lunch and searching for my father. Which is true. A slap on the wrist is the worst they’d dole out.
I creep toward the door and position my ear as close as I can without being noticed. As an only child growing up, I had many opportunities to sneak around and listen to grown-up conversations that I wasn’t really supposed to hear. I always felt guilty, but I never could stand being out of the loop.
“You can’t let her get away with it,” Dad pleads.
Several voices meld together through the crack in the d
oor, and I lean my ear in closer to discover just who her might be and what exactly it is she can’t get away with.
The clop of heavy boots on flooring echoes from around the corner and my breath hitches. Luckily, ten feet away, a short hallway connects a group of offices. On my toes, I dash for the hall’s safety. Just as I round the corner, a woman’s frame comes into view.
I let out a breath, knowing she didn’t see me, and then squat to peek from my hiding spot.
Oh—her. Elizabeth Hammond. Mid-sixties, dyed white blond hair, and a scowl as a permanent accessory. The President of the Board . . . and my Dad’s archenemy. I should’ve known from the disdain in his voice. The woman has spent her career mostly objecting to my father’s ideas. He’s always had innovative concepts, and the Board is conservative, especially Hammond. She’s a rule follower to the core.
Oil and water.
She slams her hand to activate the door and it slides back with a scrape. I grit my teeth at the sound and the hairs on the base of my neck stand on end. Hammond doesn’t flinch. And instead of entering, she stands in the opening. The conversation inside goes silent.
“Dr. Foster, I am unclear as to why I was not invited to this meeting,” Hammond says, her voice thick with venom. No one breathes a word.
“President Hammond,” Dad finally speaks up.
His voice is strong, but I know him well enough to pick out a tinge of fear. He’s using the same tone as when he had told me a year ago that Mom had been killed in a vehicle accident. I’ll never forget every minute detail of the moment I heard him say that Mom would never be coming home again. An ache blooms in my chest, and for several beats of my heart, I forget how to breathe. Too much. It’s just too much to think about. Too incomprehensible. In that moment a year ago, I stuffed the feelings away as much as I could. Then something simple like the tone of a voice rushes fresh pain to the present. I gnaw on the inside of my lip and force myself to focus on the brewing argument just feet away.
“You are not unaware of our . . . difference of opinion on this issue,” Dad continues. “And by the expression on your face, I get the impression that inviting you here would’ve been fruitless.”