by J. N. Chaney
Kira looked up at him. Telling Thorn that she had been sent to convince him to stay wouldn’t be a betrayal, but it would take the shine of their conversation, and in some way, their shared history.
“No. I didn’t risk anything in speaking with you last night.” She looked around, surveying the room. “But today may be a different story.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why would you not worry about last night, but you do worry about today when we’re surrounded with witnesses?”
“The clock is ticking. That’s why. I don’t want our last conversation to be one that convinced you to go to war. We’ve got too much history for that.”
“You didn’t convince me.”
“I didn’t?”
“No, Kira. I was going to stay, and I’m going to fight. But you’re right about our history, and I’m going to need something more than simply winning the war as my goal,” Thorn said.
“Can’t offer you my hand in marriage. Not my style, and we’ve got a lot of fighting to do first.”
He snapped his fingers in mock anger. “Fair enough. I can wait for your devotion. But for now?”
“Yes, Recruit Stellers?”
He held up the ham. “Can you convince someone to cook actual meat?”
Thorn made it to the medwing just in time to see Drigo wheeled away to the surgical unit. He leaned against a wall, relieved that he’d be there when his friend woke with a new arm. He’d been a part of the accident, and he intended to be there before and after. As for during, he’d leave that to the medical team. Thorn was better at breaking than fixing, anyway.
Rodie, Val, and Streya arrived shortly after surgery had begun. The four of them waited silently in the hall. Being a military medical facility, there was no waiting room. Rodie thumbed through a deck of cards, shuffling and sorting, then shuffling again in a shushing metronome that was oddly comforting. Val bounced a thick rubber ball against the wall, testing her strength—or the wall’s—Thorn wasn’t really sure. Streya paced up and down the checkered floor. Thorn sat cross-legged, his wrists resting on his knees and his head leaning back against the white brick. He closed his eyes, using the wait to explore his magic, which was always just under his surface, like a waiting shark.
It took far less time than he expected before Drigo was wheeled out of the operating room on a silent gurney. The nurses studiously avoided any eye contact, which was frustrating.
“Ya’d think they could spare a nod or something,” Rodie groused, and everyone agreed. Other than the low hum of overhead lights, Drigo’s procession had been silent—unnervingly so. The four bunkmates scrambled to grab their jackets and coffee cups before they hurried down the hall behind the technicians. It would be a while longer before he woke up, but a surgeon relented, pulling her mask down to reveal a face as young as their own.
“I know. I’m a kid, but we all are at this point in the war,” the doctor said in a tired voice. “Everything went well. The arm is attached, working, and there were no unforeseen issues. Trust me when I say I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“From magical damage?” Freya asked, alarmed.
The surgeon—whose uniform read Booker—gave a graveyard smile. “Brought a recruit in here who’d been hit with a Lifer blast. They may as well have carried him through the doors in a bucket.” She shook her head, eyes gone blank with memory. “Drigo is fine. Will be fine, rather, once he learns some degree of synergy with the limb. It will serve him well in this war. If you’ll excuse me, I have another surgery.”
Booker turned and left, her shoes squeaking as she pivoted on the expanse of slick floor. Then Drigo groaned.
“…the hell? I f’l like shi…” Drigo’s voice was thick. “Did we win?” His lips drooped to one side. The meds were still kicking.
“Win? Oh, um, well…” Thorn said, then Drigo’s eyes cleared just a bit. He twitched in alarm. “What happened?” The question was razor sharp.
Thorn’s face fell. “I broke free, Drigo. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Drigo blinked rapidly, trying to sift memories.
Thorn lifted Drigo’s hand and placed it on his new bionic arm. Drigo’s head turned in slow motion to see the titanium alloy that had yet to be covered with synthskin. He flexed his fingers, and the hydraulics hissed in response but then went silent as they adjusted. He turned back to Thorn, eyes wide.
Val tapped her foot. “Say something.”
“Bro…” Drigo’s mouth widened to a beaming smile. “I’m a robot!”
They all broke out in laughter, and Rodie flicked the new arm like a gong. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. A good attitude is the—”
“Dude. Rodie,” Drigo said.
“Yeah?”
“Give me a minute before you get all…” Drigo searched for the word.
“All Rodie?” Val said.
“Exactly,” Drigo agreed. “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?” Rodie asked, but everyone was on alert, searching Drigo’s face for pain.
“Automatic med dose. Felt it just now,” Drigo said, eyes drooping.
“Rest now,” Thorn said, but Drigo was already snoring softly.
“I have got to get me one of those,” Rodie said as they left.
“A cybernetic arm? Or those meds?” Freya asked.
Rodie’s smile was conspiracy itself. “Both.”
Everyone went back to their duties.
Except Thorn, who walked, eyes down as he processed what Kira told him about his abilities.
Lost in the abyss of conflicting emotions, Thorn had hardly looked two feet in front of him when he collided with Kira. He caught her just before she planted her rear end firmly in the mud, then stood to attention.
“Ma’am, my apologies.”
Kira dusted herself off. “Stellers.” She nodded to move past him, barely acknowledging his presence.
“Ma’am?” Her dismissal was cold to the point of rudeness, given their conversation and life before the ON.
She turned, but only halfway. “Sorry, Thorn. It’s time to think of yourself as an officer, because that’s the one thing we don’t have. Time.”
“I will. Ma’am.” His voice was steady, features neutral.
“I know. I wish there was some other way, but there isn’t. Get ready, Thorn. Sooner rather than later, we’re all going to battle.”
10
All he had left of home was the book.
The cover was tattered, and the bottom corner gone. Smeared with ash and grime, the title faded to a color so dull, it left no hint of the book’s former glory. Thorn knew every inch of it, and the cover, and even the torn page—259—and he touched that page like a talisman—which it was. The Hungry Trout and Other Stories could be felt, but not really seen, each letter more a memory than a shape on the seared paper cover.
Since the day the KEW took his home—his town, too, and his life along with it—the book was all he’d had. It was all he could salvage from the smoking hole of his former life, and now, under the alien light of twin moons, he opened to a random page and began to read. There was little comfort in his actions, but it was comfort, nonetheless.
I never should have stopped reading it.
Thorn tucked the book into his jacket pocket before reporting for training. He would read between instructions, or he’d never have time to read at all. Some touch of home was better than none, so he vowed to steal moments for reading while Drigo healed for another week. After that, Drigo could return to training, not as the same person, but as something more. Drigo would be a man with rare motivation.
And a perfect whetstone for Thorn’s magic. Again, he made a vow, but this time it was to be prepared for what Drigo might bring to the practice field. Anger, Thorn knew, could turn magic into a wild thing beyond the control of even a seasoned warrior, and the recruits were far from seasoned. They were, as Thorn and Drigo knew, dangerous.
But they could also be assets.
Even Burnitz seemed to take a
softer approach with him. During stave training, Thorn sensed—not hesitation, but consideration on Burnitz’ part. Thorn was hit less often during stave training, though no one would consider Burnitz as being kind. If anything, the cynical part of Thorn’s mind said Burnitz was being prudent. An untrained—and lethal—element on the field was something to shape, not crush. The behavior made Thorn more receptive to quiet instruction. Where Burnitz had once bellowed, he now gave direct, practical advice on specific movements, each comment driving Thorn closer to an ideal combat form.
The new form of instruction took root.
Thorn was landing blows with regularity, and when the last session concluded, he was instructed to wait, as all soldiers did at one time or another, so he stood in the sun, reading his book and thinking of nothing at all.
“Stellers,” came Narvez’s voice, crackling with command.
“Ma’am?” He stowed the book, standing to attention. A second officer trailed Narvez, her bearing the polar opposite of anyone in command Thorn had seen thus far.
“This is Captain Leblanc. She’s here to begin your Clearance training, and if you want to succeed, you’d better pay close attention,” Narvez said.
“Ma’am,” Thorn said, accompanied with a crisp salute. Behind him, the other trainees rattled into formation, their uniforms making sounds of multiple salutes.
The captain had blonde hair pulled back so severely it gave her a look of mild surprise. Her cheekbones were high, her uniform black, and her pose one that verged into sleepiness.
Captain Leblanc did not stand at attention. She was the least militant officer that Thorn had ever laid eyes on, and for a moment, he felt a sense of disconnect. How did that person become a captain?
“Soldiers.” Leblanc stood with her legs hip width apart, knees slightly bent. For a moment, Thorn wondered if she was going to sit cross-legged on the ground. “I will lead you in your Clearance training today. Our individual sessions have given me the understanding necessary for this intensive training. Prepare for a deep psychological disruption.”
Thorn felt himself try to frown. He’d concluded, wrongly, that the individual sessions were Clearance training. The thought of his shared secrets being told to the entire squad left him with a pit in his guts. Fears, especially personal ones, were something Thorn kept to himself. To share them in the Home meant to be even more vulnerable to the other children. It was a lifelong habit born of hard lessons that Thorn kept his fears buried.
It was survival. It had always been about survival.
As if she sensed his unease, Leblanc continued with her instruction. “What you see before you will be your experience alone—an experience tailored to the weaknesses you carry. I am not your enemy. I am your ally. Your fears, however, are most certainly your enemy, because they can be used against you, or worse.”
Rodie raised a hesitant hand. “Ma’am?”
“Speak, please,” Leblanc said. Her tone was inviting, even if her facial expression remained one of shock.
“How? Our fears, that is, ma’am. How can they be used against us?” Rodie asked.
Leblanc began an easy walk along the front of their formation, her steps light. “A superb question. If fear has no tangible mass, then how does it manage to kill so many ON soldiers? The answer is quite simple. A weak mind, paralyzed by fear, becomes a weapon pointed not just at you, but the people around you. You can and will fail in the moment of truth because of fear.” She paused in front of Thorn. “Or childhood trauma.” She walked on, stopping in front of Rodie. “Or a sense of inadequacy. All of these are wedges, forced into the place where your power and discipline reside, and once they have a way in, you have no way out. Do you understand? This training is not about you. It’s about how your flaws will impact every single member of the battlespace, and how you plan on mastering that uncertainty. Starting right now.”
Narvez stepped forward and stood next to the captain. “This is the single most important training exercise we are able to give you to prepare for fighting the Nyctus.” The battle-hardened lieutenant dropped her mask and betrayed a plea for cooperation with her eyes. “If you are unfortunate enough to be within range of Nyctus mind control, this is the closest simulation to representing the horrors you will endure.” The willowy woman retreated, her face a scowl as she sifted memories of previous battles. Even the most tone-deaf recruit sensed her anger was born of experience, and Narvez scared the hell out of almost everyone.
That fact alone made every recruit stand a bit taller, and lean forward just that much more.
Thorn felt a pressure building inside his skull, and the world around him began a slow, dreamlike shift. In place of the blonde Captain and sharp Lieutenant, a little girl in a pink floral nightgown stood in front of him. Her sandy brown hair was braided into pigtails, and she held a floppy stuffed rabbit under one arm, a blue thread trailing from the hem of her dress.
“They’re coming, Thorn!” the girl cried, reaching back to him as she ran away, her feet a near blur. She pulled his hand toward a tall farmhouse, the roof glowing gold in the late day sun. “You have to save them,” the girl—no, not a girl, his sister, Bettani, piped at him in her child’s voice.
His heart clenched, his breath grew short, and he ran, his feet flying over rows of earth turned in the field that hemmed the south side of their farm. There was a low rise, then a ditch, filled with broken rock and the odd still pool, and then—
Home. He pelted forward, driven to see if they could be saved. If he could be saved.
In the sky above, an unholy noise grew from distant rumble to a roar, the massive rock splitting atmosphere in a boiling cloud of heat and light. The angle was sharp, the impact sharper, and Bettani vanished in a scalding blaze of white, only to reappear as he fell, faceup in the field. Thorn sensed the book in his pocket, and grass, and a small pebble digging into his shoulder. Bettani leaned over, her face twisting into hysteria.
“Why aren’t you doing anything, Thorn? They’re dying. Burning. All of them. Can you hear it?” Bettani asked, even as the roaring fire began to drown out all sounds except for the apocalypse brought down from the sky. Thorn’s chest bucked with a sob, but he ran his thumb over the book, now in his hand somehow, and the fire from above began to fade.
So did Bettani.
Reality flickered, then stabilized. Then the dream world was no more, and his mind, once more, was his own. He knew this was true because of the coppery tang in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue, but if anything, that only helped flush the invasive visions from his mind.
“You’re not my sister,” he stated with conviction, and the last outline of Bettani shattered, leaving behind nothing except a deep-seated pain, pulsing just below Thorn’s brow.
“Thorn!” Kira rushed down the bank to his side and pulled him up to his feet.
“That was…intense.” He sat up, but slowly, trying to shake off the effects of a powerful telepathic assault.
“This is my least favorite portion of the curriculum.” She brushed off her pants and breathed deeply. “I was terrified you wouldn’t come out of it. Sometimes, people don’t.”
He shook his head, still feeling pressure inside his skull, but it was fading.
“Not fast enough,” he murmured, groggy.
“Oh, the hangover? It fades.” Kira shrugged, her eyes gleaming with relief. “Takes a bit, but it does. And I’m glad you’re coming back this fast. It’s a good sign for…for later.”
Kira smiled, stood, and pulled him to his feet among the groans and odd cough of every recruit coming out of their own private hell. “They’ll all have a story to tell. I once heard a ’caster say his dead uncle forced him back into high school. Can you imag—oh, shit.” Overhead, a silver line streaked across the darkening sky. “No, no, no. Captain?”
“This can’t be,” Leblanc hissed, pulling another recruit up from the ground.
Kira’s head whipped sideways to track the object. Another bright point flared into existence, the
n two more. “They found the base.”
Explosions hammered the ground, sending waves of debris skyward as the base was methodically reduced to ashes.
“KEW,” Leblanc shouted, leading the wobbly recruits across open ground. “On me,” she barked, as everyone followed in varying states of readiness. In seconds, the recruits were running at full tilt, their recovery complete as Leblanc led them to the armory.
They didn’t get far.
Thorn watched in horror as a hailstorm of bullets tore through the grass in front of them. Streya screamed as she hit the ground, blood spraying from her shoulder in a looping arc. She rolled twice, arm flopping.
Kira grabbed him by the arm as he changed trajectory from the armory toward Streya. “No! Thorn, you have to leave her! We have to get to the armory. We need weapons and suppressing fire!”
“Can’t,” he grunted, pulling away from Kira and ramping up to a run.
“Thorn, if you try to save her, you’ll just get both of us killed! Stay to the tree line and keep your damned head down.” On cue, rounds howled overhead, chopping trees apart with efficient brutality.
“Get my weapons, too,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Keep to the trees! I’ll meet you at the armory.”
Bullets continued to whine overhead, but Thorn wove with the desperation of the hunted. He slid to Streya’s side, causing his book to tumble out into the bloody earth. With one arm, he rolled Streya over; with the other, he grabbed his book. A heave and she was up on his shoulder, his adrenaline cooking off at a stunning rate.
“Gotcha,” he muttered, but Streya said nothing. Blood spooled away from her. “Shit, she’s ventilated.” Heart hammering against his ribs, he began to run and drew on the atmosphere around him, harnessing a cloud of dark shimmering matter. He held the attack ready, like a drawn arrow, wiping blood from his eyes—Streya’s—then wiping the sticky mass on his leg. His thumb brushed the book’s cover, peeking from his pocket—and the world stuttered.
“The hell?” he said, still running, but his steps slowed. Streya seemed light. “No-- lighter,” he corrected, then touched the book again. Overhead, his spell swirled, an unformed mass of endless violence, waiting for his command.
