by J. N. Chaney
A woman walked in, cute, blonde, surrounded by an air of bustle. She had a clipboard with a medical scanner fastened to it. She didn’t bat an eye when a naked Thorn stepped forward to shake her hand. She took it without changing expression, glanced at the clipboard, and asked, “Stellers, Thorn?”
“In the flesh,” he replied. “Obviously.”
She glanced at the clipboard again, unimpressed. “This is your entrance physical.”
He tapped her clipboard, and she looked up, expression still stoic.
“Kira made it sound like I already had the job.”
“It’s just a formality. The ON fixes what gets broken during training or service—if there’s anything left to fix. They’re not likely to deny for a preexisting, but they do want to know what you’re coming in with.”
“Coming in with?”
She shrugged. “Childhood trauma is fairly common in the Magecorps.”
She didn’t add much warmth to the room. For all that she was cute, and seemingly flesh and blood, she could have been a well-designed ’bot. Thorn had dropped Kira’s name, hoping for a connection of some kind—anything to tether him to this new world, and what might be a new life.
Instead, she waved him to the exam table and ran the scanner from his temple to his shoulder and then across his chest at nipple level. Every now and then, it beeped and she made a notation. She worked her way down, then back up, and front and back, without ever saying a word—except twice. Once when she asked him to turn his head and cough, and later when she instructed him to hop off the table and grab his ankles.
“I kind of prefer reclamation work,” he muttered.
“Don’t take it personally,” she said, moving around to his front again, her eyes flat with clinical regard. “We do reclamation work here, too.”
The pale blue walls seemed to muffle background noise. The stylus against the clipboard, the girl’s breath, the shush of the air circulators—he couldn’t hear any of it. It was like being stuck under an ice sheet in a frozen sea, sunlight filtering in from above.
She was scribbling notes after poking and prodding him when Thorn asked her how she liked being in the service. She blinked, puzzled for a moment, and then started to laugh. “The ON’s recruiting comedians now?”
“Apparently.”
She stepped to the door, then through as it opened. “Enjoy your sense of humor while you’ve still got it.” With that, she was gone.
3
Code Nebula was a much smaller planet than the mud-ball Thorn had spent the last few years on, so the darkness that met him as he left the medwing took him by surprise.
Narvez waited, tall and angular, with her hands clasped tightly behind her back. Her sharply angled elbows mocked a hawk’s wings. In contrast to her poise, Thorn sauntered toward her, shoulders slumped forward, hands jammed into the pockets of his oil-worn trousers. Having lived on a planet known for nothing more than mud-slush and monsoons, he’d learned to keep his head down and hands warm. He didn’t expect the sharp—and sudden—two-finger jab to the diaphragm that propelled his body upward in a desperate attempt to swallow the air he’d lost.
The woman’s lips curled in a frigid bow. “Stellers,” she hissed. “You will stand upright and at attention or I will make you stand upright and at attention.”
“I think I understand. Ma’am.” Thorn choked on his words as he recovered from the shock, keeping his anger at bay with a force of will.
Narvez stared, then turned on her heel and led him toward a small grouping of oil-shined steel buildings. She didn’t look back, assuming he would follow. He did, though he looked around, stunned at the sights.
Code Nebula was pristine. On Murgon 4, Thorn had stood out from the other workers, literally a head taller than the rest, but also because he couldn’t stop himself from attempting to clear the muck from every facet of his life. As he absorbed his surroundings now, he felt as though he was the muck they’d be wiping from their shiny black boots.
They arrived at the barracks, and Narvez directed him to the second on the right. Simple black markings above the door read “2A.” Thorn paused, a new life waiting just beyond the metal threshold, then pressed into the orderly, sterile space.
The recruit bunks somehow managed to exude the kind of cold that seeps into your bones while at the same time hinting at comfort he could only dream of. In all his years, he had never felt so luxuriously neglected. The soft white pillow beckoned to him, and he realized just how utterly exhausted he was. Kira may have slept en route, but he’d never had the pleasure. All of the plane jumping seemed to smack him in the face, and his eyes began to droop.
“STELLERS!” Thorn jolted to attention at the sound of Narvez’s voice. He didn’t remember drifting into a sleep haze.
“Ma’am?” he said, his brain lagging two steps behind his mouth.
“Your bunk is there.” She pointed with a long finger. “Near the window. Get the hell out of Rodie’s bunkspace.”
“Shit,” he grumbled. Then, as his brain finally caught up to him, he snapped to attention and flashed a brilliant smile at the serrated woman. “I mean shit, ma’am.”
Though she didn’t seem too pleased with the correction, Thorn snatched up his canvas bag and clutched it tightly as he transitioned to the correct bunk. The other six recruits in his barrack sniggered into the crooks of their elbows or behind their blankets, but Thorn didn’t pay them more than a glance. He didn’t have the energy. Until their collective laughter, he hadn’t even clocked their presence.
Narvez left him with an icy glare, and Thorn sighed away the tension as he collapsed on the edge of the mattress.
“I’m Rodie,” a nasally voice announced from much closer than Thorn had anticipated. “This is Drigo. Don’t worry about the bunk mishap. They all look the same anyway.”
Thorn grasped the man’s hand and shook it, marveling at the slight figure he saw before him.
When Kira had offered him the job, Thorn thought he was a lock. Obviously, the ON would be interested in a tall, heavily-built man such as himself. But standing before him now was a young man barely more than skin-and-bones with a head two sizes too big for his neck and glasses that made a job of sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“I…uh, yeah…” Thorn stuttered at the juxtaposition before him.
Drigo chuckled and lifted his arm to press it against the metal bed frame. “We get it, man. Don’t worry about it. The first day in Magecorps is a little freaky. Messes with your head and shit.” He had a subtle air of aggression, even when he was smiling. Thorn knew his type—as the tallest kid in every group, and on the slop crews, Thorn was made to be challenged, and usually by guys like Drigo, who thought their natural position was in the lead. They’d have to reach an understanding at some point.
Thorn dropped his head and ran his fingers through his chunky locks of blonde hair. “Magecorps.” He tested the word on his lips. It fell from his mouth naturally and somehow brought the collision of reality to the surrealism of his surroundings.
“Yeah, well, trust me, man—your head’s gonna be doin’ somersaults tomorrow.” Drigo’s bicep rippled as he gestured vaguely about the oncoming day. His physique fit the construct Thorn had created of his fellow recruits much better than Rodie’s—just about a foot and a half shorter than what he expected. What he lacked in height, he’d certainly gained in bulk, though.
Add Napoleon complex to his urge to lead, Thorn mused.
Rodie chimed in again, pushing his glasses up with a crooked finger. “That’s Val over there. She’s a beast. Then you’ve got Streya, Tuck, and Unger.” He leaned in close enough that Thorn could feel his breath against his cheek. “But if you need anything, you wanna talk to me.”
Drigo grabbed Rodie by the shoulder and nudged him gently toward the aisle between the bunks. “Yeah, yeah, let’s let the poor guy get some sleep before you start touting your goods, eh?”
The pillow on his bunk was just as inviting as Thorn imagined Rodi
e’s to be. Even the rough blanket couldn’t stop sleep from finding him, and soon he slipped away for the night, his body and mind finally at rest. For a while.
A resounding crack brought Thorn reeling out of sleep. His heart pounded against his chest, and he gulped to calm his staggered breath. He hardly recalled his dreams anymore, though he didn’t know why. He did know that the racing thump of his heart and beading sweat on his brow wasn’t unfamiliar. Without thinking, he reached for the book stashed beneath his pillow and ran his thumb across the cracked cover in the dark.
Just when he thought the calm had returned, another sharp, atmospheric crack sounded in the distance. This time, he saw the light that filled the room with an ethereal glow. Thorn pulled himself up by the window ledge and stared out in wonder. He had only seen that particular luminescence once before, and it had emanated from his own palm. Here, he saw the clouds alight with the spectacle.
Thorn glanced around the room. Everybody else seemed to still be sleeping. Smart. Catch your flies while you can, he knew, so he eased back down to a prone position. Despite his exhaustion, Thorn lay awake listening to the sky crackle as flashes of light splashed across the ceiling tiles.
It wasn’t much longer before the barrack door smashed open and a cyclone of cold air tore through the bunks, ripping blankets from the recruits and jolting them all awake. At the back of the room, Thorn was lucky enough to see the destruction, so he clung to his bunk, fingers in a death grip.
The slim figure in the doorway could be none other than Narvez, but right now she appeared to stand ten feet tall. Her cloak swirled about her knees as she stood silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky.
Narvez’s voice echoed above the tired groans of his bunkmates. “Breakfast in five, or none at all.” Then she was gone.
With each passing second, Thorn was missing the muck and oil of his former life.
The mess hall was far from messy. Thorn couldn’t help but marvel at the polished aluminum floors, the shiny metal chairs—hell, he could nearly see his reflection in the tray Drigo passed back to him. Bodies jostled about as they shook off the haze of fitful sleep. Men with silver bars on their jackets stood throughout the room, surveying the recruits with professional disinterest.
To say the breakfast was meager would be an overstatement. For a hard day’s labor on the pipes, Thorn could eat nearly a dozen eggs, toast, bacon, and then some. He had a feeling today would be a bit more strenuous than working pipes on Murgon 4, but what he got was two egg-like circles of protein on top of a slice of dusty bread so thin it only had one side. For his second slice of what the cook seemed to think of as bread, there was a jelly with the consistency of engine oil, smelling vaguely of burned sugar and peaches. He devoured it out of necessity but took solace from the coffee. It was hot, heavily caffeinated, and only mildly offensive.
After breakfast, Narvez led the recruits of 2A to the training grounds where they came to a stop on a running track. The sun was just starting to rise above the wooded hills in the distance, and the new officer pulled a cap on to shade his eyes.
“Recruits, at attention!” Narvez commanded.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” Thorn was a syllable behind the rest in response as they saluted in unison.
“Instructor Burnitz, your recruits. Stellers, step forward.” Narvez tipped her head to the ginger-bearded man. “Instructor Burnitz, your newest recruit—Stellers. Good luck with this one.”
Thorn shuffled forward, uneasy with the limelight for the first time in his life. Instructor Burnitz scoffed, then sized him up like livestock. Thorn felt his anger rise, but only just.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you’re called, recruit. Get back in line.” Burnitz’s voice was all bite and no bark. Thorn could sense the danger this man held at his fingertips.
“Get ready to run, Proby,” Val whispered over her shoulder in his general direction.
Rodie’s right. Thorn raised a brow as he took in the hard lines that shaped her physique. She’s a beast.
“Recruits! Fall in!” Without another word, Burnitz started down the track with a quickness that took Thorn by surprise.
Thorn hadn’t been on a run in ages. His chest burned as they trekked through the hills and slogged through muddy banks, but he refused to fall out. He wouldn’t be that Proby. The other bunks had just caught up with them when Thorn’s legs began to falter, and his mind told him the run was over. But they continued. They must have done about six miles when Burnitz finally spoke above the gasps and moans.
“What’s the matter? We’re just over halfway there now.” Burnitz chuckled at the hopeless grunts. He stayed ten yards ahead of the rest, seemingly unfazed by the rugged terrain. “You know, I am feeling a bit shaded in these trees. Can any of you get my hat off my head?”
A few recruits started moving faster and pressed forward, but Burnitz only increased the distance between them. Now he turned and ran backward, a slight smile lifting the corner of his beard.
“Ease up, now. Run any harder and you’ll hit the ground before you hit me.” Burnitz continued to run backward, his feet finding purchase on the ground below as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
Despite himself, Thorn let out a groan. Luckily, it wasn’t heard over the retching behind him. He looked up and saw Rodie, by some act of the gods, appeared to be at the front of the pack. He had to admit, the nerd had great cardio. Thorn watched as Rodie raised his hands, running awkwardly with shoulders stiff to the front. A globe of light built in his palm and he threw it forward, but it was an awkward motion, like a fawn taking its first steps. The globe splattered against the ground and blew Rodie’s feet from beneath him. He hit the trail hard and whimpered before scampering back to his feet at the back of the pack, head down.
Burnitz chortled. “There we have it! The best of the best! Is that all you fresh bloods got? A miserable fizzing of energy that takes out the ’caster?”
All around him, Thorn saw balls of light begin to glow one by one, and each fizzled out before it could be thrown at Burnitz. He clenched his jaw and directed his eyes to the dirt, determined not to give in to his anger at Burnitz. The instructor was an asshole, but an asshole with a purpose. Thorn would avoid being one of the many. Instead, he let the anger simmer as everyone else around him failed, their magical efforts little more than an embarrassment.
“Kids, kids—we’re all going to be friends someday, but not with this terrible attitude,” Burnitz called, hoping to further break their egos. “Can’t run, can’t fight.” He sniggered. “And can’t even perform magic. Not a good way to assault your instructor and reveal your incompetence.” He lifted a brow, smiling at them, his feet still moving like pistons. “You have to understand enemy strength, along with your own ability. So far, I’m seeing neither.”
Val growled and threw her hands forward, a bright white ball of light flying from them. Burnitz sidestepped easily and the globe splintered the tree beside him.
“There we go! That’s some fire!” Burnitz lit up—literally; his eyes glowed with an electric blue. Val tried to harness the energy once more, but it only sparked.
Guess I’m not the only failure here. Thorn fought a chuckle and lost the battle. Burnitz stopped in his tracks. The recruits collided and tumbled over one another in the abrupt stop, like a train piling up in slow motion wreckage. Thorn’s legs twitched as if they itched to keep going, even as Burnitz’s eyes bore into him with that electric blue glare.
“Stellers, is it?” Burnitz demanded.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Thorn answered instantly. He was learning.
“I don’t recall seeing your pitiable attempt. Remove the hat from my head, recruit.”
Thorn bit back his first reply, then spoke. “I wanted to, ah…save up my energy for a legit try, sir.” A few of the recruits snorted uncontrollably at Thorn’s uncertainty and their own failures.
Burnitz grimaced back. “Not a fan of waiting. I like to get to the main event.” He tapped a finger on his rugg
ed watch, indicating time was wasting.
Thorn was about to respond when a blast of seafoam light singed the hair at the top of his head.
“Remove the hat from my head, recruit.” Burnitz’s voice now filled the space between the trees.
Thorn’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He chewed on his cheek and stood resilient, face placid.
“Oh, my mistake.” Burnitz began to turn forward again. “Thought you were a coward. You don’t have the fighter’s eye.” Burnitz gave him a look that slid away in disgust. “Or intellect, for that matter.”
The column of rage that boiled inside Thorn shot through every nerve in his body—a furnace of heat and energy that sizzled nerves into action before Thorn even knew what was happening. Without a thought, Thorn’s hands went up, wrapped in a malignant chorus of light, then he released it all in a single pulse of magical power that streaked forward faster than the eye could follow. The silent blast of dark, glittering energy had thrown Burnitz to the forest floor; his hat lay beside him in the dirt, curls of smoke rising from the seared fabric. Silence filled the empty space and the air burned with a sulfurous residue.
A harried breathing made the squad turn to see Narvez approaching from the rear. “Instructor Burnitz!”
“Lieutenant Narvez.” Burnitz bounced to his feet as if he hadn’t just been hit with the force of a truck.
“Which recruit?” Her inquisition was incomplete, but they all knew what she was asking.
Thorn stepped toward her before Burnitz could respond. “It was me, ma’am.”
Narvez turned to head back to the training field. “Follow me, Stellers.”
Still shocked at what he’d just produced, he fell in behind Narvez, his body gone cold with fear and uncertainty. He could hear Burnitz calling cadences as the rest of the recruits trotted on behind him.
Commander Schrader’s office was as cold as his skin was pale. Lieutenant Ashworth was already sitting in a high-back leather chair in the corner. Thorn sat in a state of rigid attention, more statue than recruit. His thoughts were simple—on the first day of training in the Magecorps, he was going to be discharged because his magic was too volatile for even the ON’s dark horse battalion. The Commander’s icy stare made Thorn hold his tongue for the moment while he sorted a response to the oncoming shitstorm.
