by J. N. Chaney
Or that was his intent, anyway.
“Trixie?” he said, his eyes still closed, his mind still enmeshed with magic.
“Standing by.”
Trixie didn’t say standing by. Not the Trixie he knew.
He began to weave the magic, shaping it into a pattern that twined itself through reality, but with the tiniest shift. Call it a hint of stitching, as it were, the threads so gossamer as to be unnoticed by whatever agents rule over the chaos of magic.
“Trixie?”
“Standing by.”
Thorn drew upon more power, wove it into what he’d done so far, applying specific pressure here, tugging on reality there, nudging it incrementally closer to—to truth. To his truth. With a distant flash in his magical psyche, he knew he was closer. The truth was like a fingerprint—it had a shape, and whorls and ridges and even sound, and Thorn knew it all.
He knew her right down to the hideous music she loved, crashing in the distance like dissonant waves on a shore made of broken glass. Trixie was more than simple chips and matrix. She was a presence. A feeling.
He sensed her then, closer. The real Trixie.
“Trixie?”
“What? I mean, shit—speak up, Thorn! Don’t just keep saying, Trixie? Trixie?”
Thorn smiled, plucking at this truth, which was both old and familiar, and locked it into place. Then he slumped back and opened his eyes.
“Trixie? Talk to me.”
“About what? I mean, that’s a pretty vague statement—ooh, wait. I know. What did the sign say on the brothel after it closed down?”
Thorn let a broad smile play across his face. “I don’t know, Trixie. What did it say?”
“Beat it, we’re closed!”
His smile became a laugh, his first in a long time.
“What’s so funny? Did that joke land?” Trixie said..
“Dead center.”
“Oh, well, if you liked that one, how about this—”
For a while, Thorn just sat in the co-pilot’s seat, listened to Trixie tell him jokes—some of them shockingly dirty—and forgot about the rest of the universe.
Turns out, Trixie knew a lot of jokes.
At least they weren’t punk.
Thorn watched as the Stiletto’s shuttle thumped into place against the airlock. The concourse of Code Gauntlet’s orbital platform was crowded again, ships coming and going, all of them disgorging personnel for temporary taskings, miscellaneous jobs, and leave. He ignored it all, keeping his attention on the inner airlock door.
It slid open, and people in ON uniforms spilled out. Thorn waited.
Where was she? Had she stayed aboard the Stiletto?
Kira stepped over the hatch coaming. She immediately saw Thorn and smiled.
They kept their greetings appropriately civil. Thorn intended to leave it at that, but he decided he couldn’t wait. He gestured for Kira to follow him, and he led her aboard a docked shuttle from the Hecate that he knew was empty.
Kira gave a mischievous smile and glanced around. “Right here, right now? Sheesh, Thorn, we haven’t been apart that long.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said.
Her smile faded. “Oh. Shit. The we need to talk thing. Wasn’t good the first few times.”
“It’s—wait. No. It’s—”
Kira held up a hand, then let it fall to Thorn’s chest. “All I’ve heard about the op against the squid planet is how successful it was, and how you’re the hero for it. Is there something about it I don’t know?”
“No, it’s not that, either.” He took a breath. “Kira, I can bring her back.”
“You can—” She shook her head. “Bring who back? From where?”
“Our daughter. I can bring her back.”
Kira’s face went blank. She just stared for a moment. Finally, she let out a breath.
“What?”
Thorn smiled, slow and hopeful.
“I know it sounds insane, but . . . I can do this. I know I can.”
Kira said nothing. They just stood in silence in the shuttle, together, the bustle of Code Gauntlet drifting in through the open airlock. In Kira’s mind, she discarded her grief, casting it away in the brilliance of this new possibility.
Outside, in the deepest black, Thorn’s truth rippled, touched by his presence.
Kira felt it, leaning close to speak in his ear. “Tell me how.”
Keep reading to continue the story in WITCH NEBULA, right after a brief intermission. The bonus chapter, Spark to Flame is next…
And now, please enjoy this short bonus chapter, Spark to Flame, as a brief intermission before the remaining three books.
Bonus Chapter: Spark to Flame
The first asteroid hit three hundred klicks away in a circular bay where houses rose from the water in tiers, each building painted bright colors.
Like the colonists’ dreams, the houses were optimistic—a second floor, even a third was a possibility, and the windows all faced the bay to welcome daylight when it crept across the water at dawn in a brilliant slurry.
None of that mattered, because the rock hit at terminal velocity, an angle of sixty degrees, and with more force than any weapon humanity had ever designed. The glass windows were first to go, blown in by the superheated cushion of air being pushed ahead of the boiling mass of nickel, iron, and—
—steam. This rock was no rock at all, but a comet—probably small enough to be nudged from an ancient orbit, then accelerated with magnetic force to punch through Cotswold’s atmosphere with the intention of a clenched fist.
The comet core vaporized, along with a million cubic meters of water, sand, and people, right down to the birds flying away, their instincts triggered by some visceral warning. Even their wings could not save them, and they died too, along with every human town and settlement spanning east, as the planet turned, the rocks fell, and sixty years of life were reduced to circular holes on a world that would never be the same.
Weeks later, the survivors were gathered. There were fifty-eight on the entire planet, and one of them was a boy with light hair and a shadow on his soul. He clutched a charred book, taken from the ashes of his home, and he wore one shoe, the other lost somewhere along the way. But then—he’d lost everything else. What was one shoe?
“Thorn. Someone’s coming,” Kira whispered, her piping voice held in check by the fear of being discovered talking after lights out.
He said nothing but tucked his book away and feigned sleep, willing his body into a false repose that was good enough to fool the prowling staffer, her shoes fading as she walked up and down the aisles of beds before a door closed.
Thorn exhaled.
Children around the room snored. Some whimpered, caught in the claws of dreams from their own falling rocks, which had ended so many Earth colonies over the past months. The war was over. The killing was not. The enemy—faceless, implacable, vicious—left few survivors behind after their silent ships emerged from the black of space, dropping stones onto planets until only fire and death remained.
“Gimme your hand,” Kira said.
“No.”
“Just gimme your stupid hand,” she insisted.
Reluctantly, Thorn held his hand to her and felt tiny fingers wrap around his own. Kira relaxed, then gave a final sigh, colored with peace, and in seconds, she was asleep. The children’s home was a place where peaceful moments were few, especially for Thorn Stellers, orphan, outcast, and keeper of secrets.
Carefully, he withdrew his book form under the wafer-thin pillow, feeling the embossed letters. The Hungry Trout and Other Stories. He knew each letter. Each page.
Each burn mark, and each memory that came with it.
He reached inside and found the secret, then let it flow outward, invited, welcome, and alien, even to him, where it resided in that place between thought and memory. A place where—
—the spark began in his palm, kept under the sheet. It was a soft blue light. Friendly
. Small.
His.
He let the light grow, but not too much. It cast across his book’s pages, and still holding Kira’s hand, he flipped to the story about a boy who found a hidden stream, only to discover the fish living in a quiet pool could talk and tell him the secrets of the forest. The deer were chatty; the bear, a grump; the crow could not be trusted around bright or shiny things. This was the story Thorn read as the light streamed forth from his hand in a silent curtain, made by a power deep within his lonely, small soul.
He made it through most of the story before the first fist hit him, and then a second and third and fourth, and maybe even a kick—he couldn’t be sure, because the sheets were over his head and Kira was screaming, followed by rough laughter-- a sound not heard at the children’s home, or at least not often--
The children beating Thorn—who was a magician, a freak, the boy who made light—were laughing. And then a fist connected with his temple, and he heard nothing except Kira’s last protest as darkness fell, and with it, the first moment of quiet he’d known since the skies went red with fire.
Thorn opened his eyes slowly, because everything hurt.
“Are you thirsty? When I woke up, I was thirsty,” the man said. He had one arm, a gray uniform, and a half-smile. He sat in a chair next to the bed. In his hand was Thorn’s book. “You’ll want this later, when you’re flying.”
“What?” Thorn tried to sit up, failed, and fell back. He hurt even more.
“Flying. When you’re flying. No one will believe me, but that’s because they think I’m broken or mad. I’m not, really. I just know.”
“Who . . . who are you?” Thorn asked. Now he did sit up, though slowly.
“Nestor. No one cares, but that’s my name. I used to be a soldier. I flew. Through the black.”
“What?”
“The black,” Nestor said, waving vaguely at the sky. Thorn thought he might be about thirty years old, but his face had the lines of a refugee. Or a madman.
“Why are you here?” Thorn asked.
“Because they couldn’t kill me, and I hid, and—”
“No, not—why are you here?” Thorn looked pointedly at the chair, the room. It was a part of the Home he’d not seen. It had privacy.
“Oh. Because everyone is scared of you. ’Cause of the light you made, but I’m not scared. I’ve seen it before.”
“You—when?”
“I told you. In the black. Where the squid fly and, and, where they do things to us with their spells and minds. They made the ship crash. That’s why I’m left-handed now. ’Cause of the ship. Crashing, that is,” Nestor said, matter-of-factly. He leaned toward Thorn, nodding. “You have a concussion. You won’t remember this.”
“Remember what?” Thorn asked, pulling away from Nestor. He didn’t sense danger, just madness.
Nestor leaned back and crossed his legs. “Do you want me to tell you about the black ships?”
Thorn considered that. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Nestor looked up to the ceiling, sifting memories. “They’re bigger than ours, and they fly without flame. They carry the enemy, and they can throw rocks and other things without any sign at all. Like magic. Sometimes, there’s light, but never anything on the—” Nestor’s voice shifted, becoming more crisp, crackling with authority. “The long-range suite of scans indicates no drive sigs, nothing our planetary defenses could detect, sir. They’re moving in-system at plus-light, shedding velocity in a short burn. No sir, they didn’t flip. I make sixty targets, impact in three minutes. They’re inside orbital defenses, sir. No, the planet is gone. Send comms to—yes? The Halcyon and Provost are under attack.” Nestor paused, his eyes losing their momentary fever. “They’re gone, sir. We’re alone.”
Thorn said nothing, at first, because none of the language meant anything, but he knew what was missing. “You said . . . magic?”
Nestor’s attention came back to the room. “Oh, right. Yes. The squid use magic, and so should you. Because you can. Some of the other kids, too, I think, but they don’t know it yet.”
“The light in my hand is magic?”
“Yup. I hope you remember this someday. Because all those worlds,” Nestor said, voice fading away.
“Worlds?”
“Many. That’s why you kids are here. You’re all that’s left. Someday, you’ll have to go out there and fight them. I won’t. I can’t let them find me. They know the—they know the shape of my mind,” Nestor said. There was a chilling fear in his tone, like he spoke of a ghost who could pass through walls.
“How will I fight?” Thorn asked.
Nestor stood, his face going slack. “Don’t let them find us, Thorn. If you do, they’ll get inside and you’ll never sleep again. They don’t like it when we sleep.”
Thorn shivered, even though the room was warm, and Nestor slipped out the door, but not before handing Thorn his book.
“Keep it. Always,” Nestor said. “It carries memories.”
Thorn smelled the scorched cover. A familiar friend, it brought a small smile to his face, but even that much movement hurt him. “I will.”
The hallway was quiet, except for Thorn and Kira’s steps. They walked as fast as Thorn could go, as he was still healing from the myriad bruises on his long, pale body. He was tall for his age, if thin. Kira was still small, but her red hair made her fill the hallway.
A door opened behind them, and they both turned.
“Broadnax,” Kira hissed.
The boy stepped forward toward them, pure malice on his face. He was thickly built, with a heavy brow and wideset eyes so pale they looked like ice. His tongue flicked out, pink and narrow, at odds with the rest of his oafish body.
“Witchboy. Never liked you,” Broadnax said. His voice was thick with something dark.
“I’m not—”
“I saw the light you made. My da said—well, he said before he died, he said that the enemy used magic to get to our planet. That makes you one of them,” Broadnax said, still coming forward.
Thorn held up a hand, his brows pulling together, but Kira stepped between the boys, hands on hips and head tilted in anger.
“You really wanna go to solitary for this? Because you thought you saw a light or something?” Kira asked him. She was clutching at straws, sensing the coming violence. The hall was still quiet—a rarity, but it seemed to fit. Thorn was a magnet for bad luck, even in the little things. Kira ran interference for him, but Broadnax was bigger, and angry, and only a meter away, his meaty fists clenched as he eyed Thorn with hatred.
“Witchboy,” Broadnax repeated.
Thorn reached around Kira and slid her to his side. “I heard you the first time.”
The only answer was a punch, which grazed Thorn’s jaw and sent him spinning. Kira leapt on Broadnax, but she made not a sound. Whatever was going to happen, she knew they would all be punished. Even at a young age, she was thinking ahead.
Always thinking ahead.
Broadnax was on Thorn then, fists rising and falling like pistons, each punch landing with ruthless efficiency. He was made to fight.
He was not made to think.
Memory descended on Thorn, and he felt the loss of his planet. His parents. His home.
He had nothing left, and now he was against a cold wall, fighting a boy who hated him because of a secret.
Broadnax pushed a hand under Thorn’s chin, bending his long neck back as the boys grunted. Kira kicked Broadnax in his leg, his buttocks, his knee. Nothing mattered, because Broadnax was warming to the moment, his young voice dropping to a growl as he chanted witch witch witch in Thorn’s ear, a chant made of pure hate.
The light flashed like a nova, blazing clean, sending Broadnax into relief as his flesh and bones lit up from within, a magical fire with no heat that blasted the boy backward against the opposite wall. His mouth came together with a crack, chipped teeth scoring his tongue as he began to wail in pain. Thorn’s hand pulsed again with raw sorcery—blue, then white, a
nd then fading to silver motes that wafted away in seconds.
Silence fell. Broadnax groaned. Kira sobbed, then reached out to Thorn, who stood mute, his face a hollow mask of wonder and fear.
“You can—you have it. Magic,” she said, staring at his unblemished hand.
“I don’t want it.”
“You might need it,” she countered.
“Why?” Thorn asked, his voice a whisper.
Kira shrugged. “If they come back. The ships.”
Thorn’s shoulders fell when Broadnax groaned. “He’ll tell.”
Kira looked at the fallen bully in her curious way, then took Thorn’s hand. “Can you, um, can you make him forget?”
“What?”
She pointed to Broadnax with her chin. “Like, wash away the memory. Make him think he fell. That’s magic, too right? I feel like—I mean, like I could do it, if I practiced.”
“Really? You have—you have magic?” Thorn asked, seeing Kira anew.
She shrugged. “Maybe?”
Looking down at Broadnax, something happened to Thorn’s face. It changed. Grew older. He lost something, and gained something, all in a fugitive moment.
Danger colored his gaze.
He lifted his hands over Broadnax and began to frown. “Let’s see.”
Prologue
For a while, she simply drifted, carried along on placid currents, and was content.
But the currents were inconstant, more so as she drifted closer to the roiling plume of superheated water erupting from one of the hydrothermal vents. It fascinated her that it could get so hot. The crushing pressure of water and ice pressing down from above prevented it from boiling, but it poured out of the vents hot enough to melt lead. Before she drifted too close and risked the infernal heat, she moved herself back toward the serene, blue-green glow of the city.
So pretty, she thought. She’d drifted far enough from the nearest buildings that she could take in the entire sprawl of it, stretching off downslope into the murky haze of distance. Tiny tentacled figures floated among the spires, going about their business. She was surprised to see so many, because today was a rest day. Today was an opportunity for contemplative reflection, followed by various entertainments. Only the shamans were meant to be active, keeping their ceaseless vigil over The Radiance, the soft, teal glow that lit the midnight abyss. She wondered why the others were so active, and it concerned her—
