by J. N. Chaney
“Keep us at speed, Lieutenant, and send the details of that meteor shower to my comms. Call me when we’re within two quadrants.”
Streya paused, torn between an order and her own knowledge of astrogation. “Yes, Captain.” Her answer was simple. The fallout might not be.
The battleship thrummed as it began to move, a deep basso suggesting immense power. Thorn performed the mandatory pre-takeoff announcement, and the squadron prepared for the preliminary jolt that came with light speed initiation.
Thorn’s stomach fell away as the drive effects began to take hold, every inch of his body rebelling at the unnatural sensation. Behind him, someone retched, swore softly, and then went silent.
“Steady yourself. The field is stronger than a transport or passenger ship,” Thorn said, not looking back to see who was sick. He spoke for everyone’s benefit, as military engines were far more powerful than any tub running from system to system. In truth, his own guts were turning to water, but he dug deep to hold himself in check.
Around them, the digital galaxy came to life, and stars of every color began to blaze away in an endless deep.
“If it feels real, then it should look real. Steady on your stations,” Thorn said.
“Captain,” Streya called out to him. “We have contact. Nyctus signals, closing hard.”
Thorn’s stomach had adjusted to the compression drive, so he walked to her station at a steady pace. If nothing else, he’d look like he had his shit together. “Show me.”
“Yes, sir—here and here.” Streya pointed at two small groupings of moving dots on the display. “They’re really moving.”
“Are we sure these are Nyctus ships?” Thorn felt a twinge of nerves, despite knowing it was a virtual battle. The trust he was trying to build was anything but virtual.
“Ninety-eight percent certainty, sir.” Streya nodded.
“What could the other two percent be?” Thorn asked.
“Radar malfunction, Captain. Which I don’t believe to be the case.” A red notification flared into existence on her screen. “We are within two quadrants of the meteor shower, sir. Your command?”
Thorn stepped to Rodie’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maintain speed, Lieutenant.”
“Captain?” Rodie asked, his fingers poised over the display.
“Maintain. And watch. Streya…display updated data on the meteor shower. Big screen, if you please,” Thorn said. His hand brushed the talisman without thinking, but no one noticed. Not even him.
Thorn fell completely still, and the crew followed suit, watching him turn inward, his eyes gone flat with an effort. In the place between places, Thorn’s power began to coalesce, turning empty space into something far more crowded.
His magic had a form. And that form had force behind it.
“Captain?” Rodie asked, but Streya hissed at him to be quiet. The seconds stretched, and something—not real, but not unreal, either—bridged the space between stars, shoving against the meteors.
“They’re just rocks,” Thorn muttered, his eyes flickering with strain.
In his mind’s eye, Thorn rearranged the meteors, turned his vision to will, and cleared a path. At speed. The tumbling mass of ancient debris pressed on his reserves of power, the effort dotting his brow with sweat. He shook, if only for a second, then broke through into a calm place beyond the turbulent moment of seizing control over the natural world.
With a force of will none of the other recruits could fathom, Thorn plowed the row as the big ship streaked forward, its path clear save for residual grit.
“Streya,” he said, his voice a distant echo in his head. “Nav update.”
“Captain. Ten seconds to contact with the meteors.” Streya’s fingers anxiously danced over her console.
Rodie reached for his own controls to kill their velocity and then drew back, flinching at Thorn’s command.
“No,” Thorn cracked. “Steady on, Rodie. Steady on. It’s okay. I have them.”
“Three seconds, Captain.” Streya’s voice wavered, but she kept on. “Two. One. Contact.”
Thorn gasped as he released the meteors, invisible tendrils of his power vanishing out in the black. The battleship streaked through the clearing, bolting out into clear space in less than a second.
They weren’t entirely clear.
As a ripple of excitement passed through the crew, the simulation revealed just how dangerous space could be. A lone rock clanged into the battleship’s hull, raking through two compartments and shearing an entire suite of navigation tech from the port side. Instantly, the ship began to roll, stars whirling by in a smear of confused light.
Thorn hissed in defiance at the instant disaster, pulling hard at his power to recapture control over the wildly spinning ship.
Nothing. He wasn’t tapped—he was on pause, if only for a few seconds, but it was long enough to lose the ship.
“Rodie!” he shouted over the chaos. “Disengage light speed!”
Alarms screeched through the cabin, and the ship spoke calmly over him. “Code Yellow. Damage to the secondary fuel core. Code Yellow. Damage to the secondary fuel core.”
“Can’t access the control panel, sir!” Rodie struggled against the force holding him to the wall. He was pinned, his face pale from the vicious effects of their spin.
“Cast, Lieutenant! Direct the energy precisely!” He saw Rodie’s eyes go wide at the realization that it would be magic, not engineering, that might save them.
Rodie closed his eyes, jaw working nervously. He pulled on his own energy stores and sent a tremor through the control panel, effectively disengaging light speed with the short circuit of the screen. The ship began to slow, then the emergency Vernier rockets kicked in, burning their chemical fuel in seconds as they bled off velocity through fiery muscle.
The stars, too, slowed. Then they stopped, and a tomblike stillness fell on the bridge—over all of them, except for Streya, who coughed twice, her eyes bright with sick relief.
“Streya, location.” Thorn was getting a handle on the situation, but a gnawing suspicion told him he’d just lost the team any bonus points for effective defense.
Streya dragged herself to the navigation controls and analyzed the data for a couple of seconds. “We’ve spun off course by about three quadrants. We’ve got Nyctus setting up formation at Varroc 2.”
“Silence those alarms and secure the ship,” Thorn said. He addressed Val, who held a hand over her stomach, still in the throes of motion sickness. She didn’t look happy—but then, Val wasn’t made to be happy. She was made to fight.
“Ideas, Lieutenant?” Thorn asked.
“Yeah.” She grimaced. “Kill the engines two minutes ago.”
Thorn leaned in, his voice low. “Sir. For the moment, you’ll use the proper term. Just because you’re about to spill your guts is no reason to act like an amateur.”
She looked down, jaw tight. He was right and she knew it, so all she did was shake her head. “No, sir. I’m effectively out of ideas.”
The clock was ticking, and Thorn stroked his chin, thinking. “Lieutenant, how are your reserves?”
“Of magic? Ah—sir?” Val asked.
“Exactly. Are you capable of casting?”
“Sir, I am,” Val answered, her expression neutral. She might even be curious, if she wasn’t trying not to puke.
“Then report to the engine bay. Cast what energy you may have into the secondary fuel core, and spare no amount of your power. All your energy, down to the last, Lieutenant.”
Val stood and sketched a salute. “Aye, Captain.” She hustled from the command bay, face thoughtful.
“Drigo.” Thorn spoke through his comm. “Stand by. Weapons ready. And that means us, too.”
“Aye. Weapons ready, and…so are we. Sir.” Drigo rolled his head and flexed both arms—real and synthetic. He was ready, and judging by his expression, he was buying what Thorn was selling.
“Streya.” Thorn stepped to the nav
displays and pointed to a position behind Varroc’s moon. “Recalculate the course for a direct trajectory to this location. A quiet little place, out of the way, don’t you think?
“Sir, yes sir.” Streya dashed her fingers across the controls while murmuring a stream of data to Rodie, who typed even as he was listening.
Rodie spun his chair when Streya finished speaking. “Course loaded, sir.
“Fast. Good work,” Thorn said.
“You pay me to be fast, sir, not just witty,” Rodie said.
“I’ll issue a bonus for that one. Who’s next?” Thorn asked, smiling.
Val raced back into the command bay. “Secondary fuel core is reenergized, Captain.”
“You’re even faster. Make that two bonuses. Initiate sequence, Rodie. Let’s go. We’ve got a planet to save from the big guns. Or rocks.” Thorn held tightly to the override control this time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. The battleship hurtled away, turning hard into an orbit that seemed to brush the moon. As they dug deeper into the gravity well, rear scans lit up in an array of colors.
The Nyctus weren’t closing on the planet. They were there.
“All stop,” Thorn said, touching Rodie on the arm. “I want to—”
The screens flared into light so brilliant it had a weight. Then the light faded, leaving—nothing.
No planet. No moon. No radar shadow to hide in. Nothing but debris, and even that was little more than glowing dust. A whole world—and moon—dust. Like in the beginning.
“The Nyctus can’t build,” Thorn spat. “Only destroy.”
The walls flickered. The stars vanished.
Hiroshi’s voice came over the comms devices in their ears. “Mission failure. Report to the training field.”
Drigo patted Thorn on the back, despite their abrupt failure.
“It was a good attempt, Cap.” He clung to their ranks from a moment ago without a thought. “I’m just sad I didn’t get to send any Nyctus to hard vac.”
“Same. Shit, we had them. This was designed to kill us. To kill the world,” Thorn growled, then he began trudging away toward the waiting officers, who resembled nothing more than a gathering of angry judges. Which they were. After stony silence, it was Ashworth who spoke into the gathering moment. “Follow me, Stellers.”
Thorn followed.
The door to Ashworth’s office closed without a bang, but a click—a sound so mild, but carrying a wealth of meaning.
“Recruit Stellers,” Ashworth said. “Reflect on your decisions this afternoon in the simulation practice. Carefully, I might add.”
Narvez, who was in the corner, merely stared at Thorn, saying nothing.
“Sir.” Thorn stood to attention, gathering his thoughts. “I…I used my power to clear a meteor field, in order to gain speed. To gain time. I failed. I was able to control all of the rocks except for one—I appreciate the sim reflecting that attempt on my part but don’t know how you did it. However, the one rogue asteroid struck us and sent us into a spin. I have no one to blame but myself.”
Ashworth smiled with a knowing air. “And how did that decision serve your purpose?”
“Not well, sir, if that’s what you’re asking,” Thorn said.
“It did not serve well, indeed. An understatement of rare quality. I saw the effects of your spin—brought on by your decision to ignore the one person on the bridge who could navigate a ship. Interesting command choice. Naturally, when I say interesting, I mean stupid, or perhaps even homicidal.” The First Lieutenant touched his desk, fingers splayed like a spider. “And what was the outcome of your…executive decision?”
Thorn kept his eyes level despite heat rising in his face. “The civilian planet of Varroc 2 was lost to the Nyctus.”
“And the enemy fleet?”
“The attacking fleet escaped, sir.”
“Without a single shot of engagement, I understand.” Ashworth clasped his hands behind his back and pressed his chest forward. “Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct.”
“A team of Starcasters in the Orbital Navy is deliberately chosen with an array of expertise, Stellers.” Ashworth’s deliberation seemed genuine. “As an officer in training, it would be wise of you to place trust in the advice of your flight squad. Executive decisions should be reserved for reactive emergencies, not proactive battle plans.”
Thorn gave a quick nod. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Narvez.” Ashworth sat behind his desk, signaling that the meeting was over. “Explain the concept of cause and effect for Stellers, if you please. I find your creativity to be—um--”
“Fitting, sir?” Narvez offered.
Ashworth knocked his knuckle against the desk, smiling. “That’s the term. Fitting. You truly are accurate.”
Narvez smiled, lifting her nose as she savored the moment. “Stellers, you’re about to become an expert in Hygienic Engineering, and you’ve only got a week to master it—or you’ll repeat the education process. I say this without any undue joy, because if I’d listened to my crew, I wouldn’t be here coddling self-destructive idiots like you. In any field, let alone Hygienic Engineering.”
Thorn couldn’t hold back the question. “Hygienic Engineering, ma’am?”
Narvez smiled, and it was the look of a serpent. “You’re going to clean the shitters, and you’re going to make them shine like the stars themselves.”
12
The simulations of the following weeks went decisively better than their first run. Thorn relied on his team, and in turn they began to rely on him. Time was the one thing they didn’t have, because the Nyctus continued their advance, chewing at distant systems with weapons that left few survivors and even fewer answers.
He eyed himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his dress blues. The brass buttons shined in the florescent light of the communal bathroom, and Thorn realized he was no longer a kid. Who he’d been—under the covers of his bed, feeling adrift—was as distant as the war’s front. His body had changed, along with his mind. His will.
But most of all, his core ability had become something wholly different.
Thorn was a Starcaster. Ten years earlier—hell, five, if he was right—the term hadn’t existed. The war was now in its third decade, with the last five years being little more than a bloodbath as humanity watched the sphere of worlds shrink with each massive Nyctus push. He was a Starcaster, and an officer, and even more importantly, a human. And his training was nearing the end.
Wandering to the barracks for the last time, Thorn knew that of all the things in that building, only one mattered, and it was nestled in his pocket. The talisman didn’t leave him. Clothes were temporary, as were weapons, because he was the weapon, aided by the intense aura of magic imbued in the charred pages of a childhood book. It was hard to recall the feelings he had upon arrival at the base; all he was able to muster was a faint remembrance.
Everything was different. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be, even if it meant leaving the husk of his earlier life behind without a backward glance. That, he knew, was something he could do.
Val and Streya smashed through the door into the bunk, an air of breathless relief around them.
“We made it,” Thorn said simply.
Streya smiled. Val nodded, slowly, processing the reality of their moment.
“Now, the real work,” Val said, and there was an echo of something bitter in his words. They understand reality, and the math was not on their side. They would die. All of them might die inside a week if the Nyctus continued to target Starcasters with ruthless efficiency.
That silenced them as a group, so their walk to graduation was more like the march of the damned. There was no triumph, not at first, then Schrader gave a small nod as the former recruits began to line up in the main hall. There was room to spare around them.
“Thirty-nine,” Schrader said, his voice rattling off the walls. “We began with…far more than that.” He paused. “There’
s no time for melancholy memory. There is only here and now. And the war. I say this with complete confidence—you’re ready.”
Schrader began pacing, marking their faces as he passed by. No one spoke. The air hummed with the unknown.
“I became a soldier before we knew magic existed, even though it was living inside me. There were no words for what I was, only the knowledge that I was real. My power was real, and so is yours. We know…we know much more now, but we also understand the Nyctus to some extent. Our magic and theirs are not alike. Let me repeat—your power is different from theirs. They are vicious, and aggressive, and even relentless, but I believe, as your commander, that our abilities are superior. This is where you take a stand. From this moment, you will be officers. I’m going to tell you an ugly secret—it doesn’t matter. What does matter is your will. It must coalesce into something harder than the heart of a star. And just as hot. You will be alone, at the bow of a massive ship being hurled into the teeth of an enemy that has known nothing but victory. You’ll be alone in your witchport, with the black stretching before you, and that’s when it will happen.”
“What, sir?” Thorn heard himself ask.
Schrader turned to regard him, his eyes serious but not angry. “Fear. You’ll fear the enemy. And failure. And for some of you, your own power.” Schrader held out his hand, and Ashworth placed the first Starcaster insignia in his palm. As he spoke, Schrader pinned the bronze symbol on one new officer after another—Val, looking serious, Streya and Rodie relieved. Then the rest, until only Drigo and Thorn remained.
“Don’t lose control of yourself. Ever. This war isn’t personal, despite how you might feel,” Schrader said to Drigo, who looked thoughtful but nodded in thanks. The salute he offered Schrader was crisp, and then it was Thorn’s turn.
He pinned the bronze rocket-and-stars on Thorn and then took a small step back, appraising him. “I tell you the opposite, Stellers.”
“Sir?” Thorn asked, confused.
“Hold nothing back. Burn them from the black, and don’t ever limit yourself. I know what you can do. We all know. Now, the Nyctus have to understand that our species has…certain advantages…that they don’t,” Schrader said.
