Starcaster Complete Series Boxed Set

by J. N. Chaney

In the case of the Nyctus, they faded like water into sand, running hard for the protection of one of many, many voluminous clouds of dust and gas sprawling through and around the Zone.

  It was a frustrating, tedious kind of war, bleeding away personnel and resources in fits and starts but never yielding a decisive battle—or even a notable loss. Ships had to be constantly rotated out for overhauls and upgrades, as frequent patrols took a toll on their systems, especially the finicky Alcubierre drives. Thorn knew a growing sense of unease was permeating the ranks of the ON, right up to the most senior levels. If something wasn’t shaken free soon, and the ON was able to resume the strategic initiative, it would become ever more difficult to do so, and might eventually become impossible.

  “Stellers!”

  Thorn jumped when Tanner snapped out his name. “Sir?”

  “Are you asleep on my bridge?” the Captain asked, his tone the very definition of menace.

  “Oh . . . no, of course not, sir. I was just contemplating possible ways to get around the dust problem, like you asked.”

  Tanner narrowed his eyes at Thorn but eventually just nodded. “Fine. Just don’t let it switch off your situational awareness. I asked you if you could detect any of their damned—what the hell are they called, shamans? Anyway, any of the squiddie’s ’casters aboard their ships. You can do that, right?”

  Thorn strained against his harness, struggling to take in the tactical display. At this range, no conventional magical effect would likely be effective, not without enormous effort. He’d just be another long-range weapon, no better than a single torpedo launcher.

  And unlike a device made of metal, he would get spent. Exhausted, worn down, and prone to make mistakes. But Joining could work, since it seemed that physical distance between subjects was irrelevant. As long as Thorn could conceptualize his target, he could interact with it, and had several times already, remotely compelling Nyctus to attack one another or scuttle their own ships.

  But he’d been wary about it since. If he could do it to them, they could do it to him; in fact, he’d likely be of more value just trying to shield the crew of the Hecate from psychic influences by the squiddies—

  And yes, the irony of considering how useful Joining might be right now, when he’d pretty much blown Kira’s talents in the very same thing off just a couple of weeks prior, wasn’t lost on him. It just underscored how bad he felt about not being able to apologize to her. He’d been bugged out of Code Gauntlet too fast to get a message out before he left, and the Hecate had been deployed since then, which meant comms were secured and usable for official traffic only. He’d even considered trying to use telepathy, but given their proximity to the Nyctus, hadn’t wanted to chance it. Again, if the aliens managed to influence or, worse, take control of a Starcaster aboard an ON ship, the results might be disastrous.

  Which brought him full circle back to Tanner’s question.

  “I could try, sir,” Thorn replied. “But there’s a risk. If the Nyctus shamans are on the ball, they might be able to back-link through my own telepathy, and potentially gain some control over me. I mean, it’s not likely, but it is possible.”

  “All I need to hear, Stellers. If there’s any chance they could turn you against us, it’d be like giving them the security access codes to our reactor’s governor system.” He scowled at the Nyctus ships, now passing out of effective sensor range. “We’ll just accept these bastards as gone and move on. Tac O, file an entry in the log about this, our latest non-fight against the bad guys, for my review and approval. And let’s stand the ship down from action stations.” He glanced at his own armor, then raised both brows in mild irritation. “I don’t wanna sit marinating in this damned crash suit any longer than absolutely necessary, and the crew needs some grub.”

  Acknowledgements floated around the bridge, as the various stations went to work reducing the alert state and returning the Hecate to her standard flight configuration.

  For Thorn, that mainly meant staying out of the way, which was a skill he learned years ago at the orphanage.

  Some things never change.

  Kira cracked open an eye but didn’t dare stir. The Trainees—and that was their official title at Code Nebula, regardless of rank—were expected to remain in their racks until reveille, whereupon their feet were expected to hit the floor. Even a few seconds before or after was grounds for a chewing-out, and probably extra duties on top of it.

  She heard the sudden clump of booted feet on the barracks floor, then saw Lieutenant Commander Narvez stride into view. The severe woman stopped, looked around in the wan, grey light of predawn, and did—nothing. She just stood there. Kira knew the woman was watching the time like the hawk she resembled, while waiting to see if anyone stirred before her wakeup order.

  A week into training, they all knew better than that. Besides, none of them were actual recruits; all had spent time not just in the ON, but on operational duty, so they generally knew the score. It sucked that they had to go through all of the ridiculous, basic-training style crap contemptuously known as chickenshit again, but that was just the way Code Nebula worked.

  A dazzling blue flash was followed by a piercing crack like thunder, and then the overhead lights snapped on, garishly bright. Narvez varied how she did reveille every morning, another little head game. Kira shoved her feet out of the covers and planted them on the cold tile floor, then she lifted herself up. All the other trainees did exactly the same, almost in unison. As Kira stood, Narvez’s voice grated through the barracks.

  “Wakey wakey, people! It’s the start of another superb day at Code Nebula!”

  A ragged, sleepy chorus rose in response. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

  Narvez stopped and looked around, hands clasped behind her back. “You people sound like you’re tired.” She spun on a Trainee—a lean, hairy young man named Riley. “Are you tired, Trainee Riley? Is the pace of Code Nebula proving too much for you?”

  Riley, a Scorch, blinked at her. It did look to Kira like he was genuinely having trouble waking up, but he blurted out the automatic response anyway.

  “Ma’am, no, ma’am!”

  Narvez kept her gaze on Riley for a few uncomfortable seconds—long enough to make him begin wondering if he should say something else. But she abruptly spun away and raised her voice again, shouting along the entire barracks. “Let’s hit it! Up and outta that rack!”

  Narvez rubbed her hands together, warming to her role as she did every morning. “This day is a gift. Code Nebula is a treasure chest of opportunity, and I’m here to assist you, in my own kind and personal way, to reach levels of expertise you’ve never imagined. A gift, each time you reach inside that cauldron of power you’ve been given. You’re all talented. But I assure you, I will make you better. Superior, even, if you only do one thing.” She paused her pacing, and rounded on Kira. “Do you know what that one thing is, Trainee?”

  “Ma’am, it is to do exactly as you order, ma’am,” Kira answered smoothly.

  Narvez allowed herself a small grin. “Perfect. Trainees, take note. This is how to become better in a hurry. With that in mind, listen up. I want everyone turned out and formed up in PT strip in three minutes from my mark. Your beds had better be made.” She started for the door, then stopped. “Oh, and before I forget, the last one of you formed up gets extra duties tonight. Don’t bother thanking me; my heart’s already full.” She clumped her way to the doorway, stopped again, and shot a single word back over her shoulder.

  “Mark!”

  The Trainees exploded into action, yanking at bedding and pulling it back into order. Most of them had pinned it to the bottoms of their mattresses, meaning they only had to pull and straighten out the top of the bedding, flatten it, and get the pillow properly aligned, instead of having to remake the whole thing from scratch. It was one of a multitude of tricks that got passed down from generation to successive generation of Recruits and Trainees, intended to make life during training a little easier—a legacy of
handy shortcuts through and around the chickenshit.

  As the platoon began pulling on their PT gear, Kira stepped out of the little embayment enclosing her bed space, basically a cubby hole containing her bed and a row of lockers. “Hey, everyone,” she shouted over the clamor of Trainees rushing to make this next timing. “I’ll be the last one out, so don’t kill yourselves.”

  Riley paused in the middle of pulling on a sock. He was more often than not the last one ready. “That’s solid, Kira, thanks.”

  Kira just shrugged, even when a chorus of thanks floated her way.

  “Eh, I have a feeling I’m in for a shitty day anyway,” she said, returning to her locker and extracting her neatly folded and stacked PT strip.

  As she yanked on her gear, Kira wondered how Narvez would be for the remainder of training, then she turned her thoughts to Joining. The desire to be a powerful Joiner wasn’t just lip service; Kira was all in and ready to work. How she could get better was a less certain concept, because magic—and Joining—were somewhere between art and intention.

  Kira squared her shoulders, eyes ahead, and strode out into the day, knowing exactly what awaited her on the other side.

  “Wixcombe,” Narvez snapped as Kira finally rushed into the cold light of dawn and took her place in the platoon. “You’re the last.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll clear my calendar for the evening, ma’am.”

  Narvez gave a single nod. “I’ve got just the activity to fill your free time. Now let’s get to work.”

  4

  “Tac O,” Captain Tanner said. “Talk to me. Talk to me especially about those two Nyctus ships that seem to be trying to flank us, starboard high.”

  “Two ships trying to flank us, starboard high, sir,” the Tactical Officer said, offering a sheepish smile. “It looks like they’re trying to hammer-and-anvil us.”

  Thorn shifted uncomfortably in the jump seat. He was starting to feel more at home in this cramped, folding seat than he did in the cabin he shared with two other junior officers. That is, if at home included sitting in a sweaty crash suit, jammed into a chair about a centimeter too narrow, just enough to prevent him from ever quite finding a comfortable position.

  “Concur,” Tanner said. “Hammer-and-anvil it is.” He tapped at the console set into the arm of his expansive—and no doubt plush, at least by comparison—command seat. “Helm, I’ve sent you a new heading. Tactical, coordinate our new trajectory with the Steadfast and the Gladius, and inform them to adopt Formation Tango during the approach to battle.”

  Thorn watched Tanner as he worked. The man exuded a quiet but formidable competence. He was, Thorn thought, a true leader: direct, assertive, and unforgiving of sloppy performance, but just as ready to make the correct way clear, then give the miscreant a chance to fix their mistake. He could be gruff or warm by turns, and the Hecate’s crew loved him for it.

  Which was no doubt why he’d been given command of this little task force—the Hecate and Steadfast, both destroyers, and the smaller, more nimble Gladius, a corvette. The Gladius’s primary job was courier duties, running dispatches between Tanner and the fleet HQ back at Code Gauntlet. Absent easy transluminal comms beyond twenty-five lights, Alcubierre drive-equipped ships were the only way to get messages moved around that would take years, centuries even, as they crawled along at light speed.

  But she could fight, too, and it was looking as though that was about to happen—that Task Force Tanner would finally come to grips with an enemy that seemed to suddenly want to engage in battle, rather than running off toward the nearest dust cloud.

  And that made Thorn suspicious. Why the sudden desire to fight, when the past few weeks had seen nothing but hit-and-run attacks, emphasis on the run part?

  Apparently, Captain Tanner had the same suspicions.

  “Stellers, we’ve got five enemy ships, frigates and corvettes, that are apparently looking for a scrap. They outgun us by a small margin, but not enough to be immediately decisive. This could go either way, and they know that. I want to know what they’re up to. Comments?”

  Thorn shifted in his uncomfortable seat again. He could see the subtext of Tanner’s words in his expression.

  Do something to earn your keep, Starcaster Stellers. Give me a reason to keep you on my bridge.

  “No idea, sir, but I’d like to find out myself. To do that, though, I’m going to have to ’cast.”

  Tanner nodded. “Do it. Find out what you can.” He glanced at his console. “And you’ve got three minutes, then we have to make a go/no-go decision about fighting today.”

  “Understood, sir.” Thorn began unhooking from the jump seat so he could move to the briefing room adjoining the bridge for some privacy.

  “Oh, and Stellers?”

  “Sir?”

  Tanner tapped his console. “I’m going to have a Rating watch over you, with a sidearm and orders to do whatever needs to be done if the squiddies get their mental tentacles around you.”

  Thorn looked at Tanner for a moment, then nodded. “Again, understood, sir. Just one favor?”

  Tanner’s eyebrow lifted. No one asked the Captain for favors on his own bridge, but he was obviously intrigued. “And what would that be, Stellers?”

  “Tell whoever’s going to watch over me that I owe you ten grand. That should ensure they’ll only pull the trigger if they absolutely have to.”

  Tanner just returned his no-nonsense stare for a moment.

  And then he laughed. The moment of humor flickered away from him, around the bridge, and Tanner gave him an appreciative look.

  “Carry on, Starcaster Stellers.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Once he was settled in the briefing room, little more than a cubbyhole, and a dour Rating with a pistol had joined him, Thorn pulled his crash suit open. He extracted his talisman, the battered copy of The Hungry Trout, a book from his childhood on the now-devastated planet once called Cotswold. Before he began ’casting, he glanced up at the Rating.

  “You’d better draw that pistol and aim it at me.”

  The man frowned. “Why, sir?”

  “Because if you’re more than a trigger pull away from killing me, and if the Nyctus manage to grab control of me, you won’t get the chance.”

  The Rating swallowed. “Sir? Uh, really?”

  “Yes, really.” But Thorn smiled. “But don’t worry. The chances are slim. More likely I’m going to be the one making their day miserable.”

  The man took a breath and released it as he drew his sidearm and cocked it. “Hope so, sir. I mean, if I end up having to blow your head off, I’ll probably be the one stuck cleaning it up after.”

  Now it was Thorn’s turn to laugh. Riding the surge of good feeling from the humor, Thorn let his awareness shrink down to the point of contact between his fingers and the smooth, glossy cardboard of the book’s cover. Once he was entirely focused on the familiar touch, he let his awareness expand again, like a balloon filling with air, until he could feel every nerve ending in his body hum like a wire keening in the wind.

  Then his senses kept going, encompassing the briefing room, the Rating and his intense nervousness, the purpose and confidence of Tanner and the bridge crew beyond, the yawning gulf of emptiness beyond that—

  —all the way out into the darkness yawning just beyond his fingertips.

  Now Thorn had to start pushing, crafting a wave of psychic force that would carry his awareness far beyond the Hecate’s hull, and into—

  Nothing. Literally nothing. Just vacuum and a few glimmers of matter, lone dust motes, and gas molecules too dispersed for even the Nyctus to craft into a viable weapon. He rode the wave through it, his focus diminishing even as the area of his awareness grew like a blooming thunderhead. Thorn gritted his teeth, squeezed his talisman, and continued to push.

  Still nothing. And—

  Alloy, tough and lifeless. Electro-mechanical systems, but he didn’t recognize them. They had no clear signatures, so there wasn’t anything h
e could know about them other than their utter unfamiliarity. But this told him nothing about the intentions of the Nyctus. He needed to touch a squid’s mind for that, so he let his awareness roam through the enemy ship, searching.

  And finding nothing of the sort.

  Thorn pushed a little harder and drained himself a little faster, bringing the enemy ships into even tighter, more complete focus. But it made no difference. There were no signs of life, no flickers of thought, aboard two of the Nyctus ships. Just electrical and mechanical signals, the fierce energy of reactors, and nothing else.

  Thorn made to release the ’casting, to return his awareness to the bridge of the Hecate. Before he could, though, he heard—or felt, or thought—a voice that rang in his mind like the booming of a gong, the scrape of heavy feet in gravel, the squeal of fingernails across slate.

  We

  See

  You

  We

  Know

  You

  Thorn yanked himself out of the ’casting, flicking his eyes open, gasping as he reoriented himself. He was still sitting in the Hecate’s briefing room.

  “Stellers!”

  He turned to the voice, but it wasn’t a gravelly screech. It was Captain Tanner over the comm.

  “Sir?”

  “We’ve got to make a call to either commit to battle or not in the next fifteen seconds, or we’re committed whether we want it or not—”

  “Two—” Thorn began, then licked dry lips with a dryer tongue. “Two of those ships . . . the two flanking us . . . they’re crewless.” He was already hurrying back to the bridge as he spoke, passing the Rating who gave him a relieved smile.

  “Glad I didn’t have to blow your head off, sir.”

  “Me too.”

  He stepped onto the bridge to find Tanner staring at him. “Drones?”

  “Aye, sir. There are no life-signs aboard those ships that I can detect.”

  Tanner kept staring.

  Then his eyes widened and he turned, stabbing a finger at the console attached to his command seat. “All ships, crash action Beta-Epsilon! Rendezvous at Point Tiger!”