by J. N. Chaney
Thorn took a long beat before responding, his face set in concentration. “It is…elsewhere. Ma’am.”
Narvez gave a single nod but said nothing. With a small wave, she cast a spell that sent blue current writhing from the earth.
A distraction, Thorn mused, but continued his unrelenting command of the storm.
The earth charge sent twitches through his muscles, but Thorn never faltered. If anything, he grew stronger, sensing the shape of his magic with a clarity that had been missing moments earlier. He was learning. He was becoming something outside the control of others.
Narvez saw this and interrupted the storm like a signal. Thorn’s canteen fell to the ground, a rivulet of water pouring out, but he flicked a hand at it, ending the spill.
Narvez stood before him, a searching look on her face. “You have power.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Thorn said as a mild tremor shook his body. The effort had taken something out of him, but he bent his knees and regarded Narvez evenly.
“Imagine doing that for an hour. Or a day. Or three days, while the enemy breaks half an Oort cloud over your magical shield. Thousands of lives—millions, really—depending on you. That’s the difference between a little cloud…and a ’caster,” she said.
Thorn said nothing, and Narvez expected nothing. She moved on, and the cloud bloomed again in petite rage.
As each recruit after Thorn failed, Narvez berated them, adjusted their form, or shook her head in disgust, but she was changed. They all were.
They’d seen the bad in Tuck. They’d seen what was necessary in Thorn. And with that dawning came a release of fear, like a collective sigh.
Leaving the training field, the recruits squelched through mud where it had been dry that morning.
“Stellers, clean that up,” Narvez said airily.
As they began to file in for chow, Thorn turned to the field, his face a febrile mask. With a word, the mud sublimated in a demonic hiss of steam and dissipated. The field was renewed.
So were the recruits.
Val was dismissed from the medwing that evening and returned to the bunk in time to share dinner with the others. What should have been a celebration was more like relief. Val had lost muscle mass and was looking thinner, but she was cheered by her relative freedom. Her short black hair had a smattering of gray—a new feature—but she managed a rare smile as the meal went on in companionable fashion.
Whatever had been their reality before was gone, and Thorn was somehow a fulcrum for the squad. Just as Val had been changed, so had Thorn, and his arrogance was being replaced by confidence in a process so natural it was virtually unnoticed.
Val began the meal with a hesitancy that faded as she sensed the change in dynamics, and by the time it was lights out, the ’casters were changed yet again. In the morning, they were to prepare for a new direction in their training, and that was the extent of their information.
Thorn’s sleep was restless that night, his mind filled with anticipation. He no longer thought of surviving training. Now, his concern was on a much broader scale.
He—and his squad—had to become lethal. They had to gain traction as ’casters and surpass the wildest expectations of their officers, because one thing had become abundantly clear in the light of Thorn’s new outlook.
Failing here meant that humanity would be that much weaker, and Thorn hated the idea of losing to the Nyctus even more than he’d detested the muddy slop of his former life.
It seemed serendipitous that Val’s first day back in training happened to be another field training day. While not a practicum, they were informed over a harried breakfast that this would be day one of pilot crafting and tactics. They were each assigned a heloplane and instructed to report to the clearing field, a buzz settling among the group at the thought of flying instead of slogging by foot. Soldiers of any era were experts in certain things; bitching being one skill that was raised to an art form in every military branch.
At the appearance of the heloplanes, no one complained.
The heloplanes flew in a formation that was no formation at all. In fact, Thorn watched with care as the helos landed in a haphazard tumble. Propwash lashed the air around the ’casters and then their orders were given according to color codes. Three teams, three colors, and Thorn was assigned yellow.
A prerecorded hologram of Instructor Hiroshi appeared in the center of the field, his spectral features remaining steady even in the tortured air. Thorn activated the audio recording and listened.
“Welcome to your first day in pilot crafting. Prepare yourselves for extreme energy depreciation. Your heloplanes are fully stocked with fluids for hydration and one thousand kcal macrobars,” Hiroshi’s avatar said, then the image disappeared and was replaced with an oversized notepad. Letters appeared as though they were being written in real time. The effect forced every recruit to pay close attention, even if they’d been inclined to let their minds wander. The tasks were blandly worded, but the overall meaning was clear.
“Your tasks are as follows,” intoned Hiroshi, as the holographic orders were drawn.
1. Maintain altitude.
2. Disable your enemy Starcasters.
3. Last person standing wins.
Hiroshi’s disembodied voice returned. “When all other teams have been eliminated, the two remaining pilots will face off in a sudden death round.”
Thorn grinned to himself. This was easier than he’d imagined.
“Sounds too easy to be true?” Hiroshi continued as though he had a front row seat to Thorn’s very thoughts. “That’s because it is. As I said…prepare yourselves. Your electrical systems will shut down in T minus ten seconds.”
Our—what? Thorn furrowed his brows.
“10…9…8…” The voice initiated the timer sequence.
Thorn’s pulse quickened as he considered and discarded various ideas, none of which would keep his helo in the air.
“4…3…2…”
Thorn panicked.
He cast a blast of shimmering black that pushed the heloplane away from the ground, driving it higher into the sky. His control faltered and the plane began to wobble to the side, flying diagonally toward the other yellow heloplane. He wasn’t sure who occupied the vehicle, but he knew he was about to take out his teammate and handicap himself.
He closed his eyes and harnessed the power within his chest, bringing the oblong vehicle to a sudden stop. When he opened his eyes, he saw an energy globe splatter against his nav screen, the attacking plane not much further behind it. The scuffed silver heloplane that approached was sparkling with the blue-white energy, its movements tightly controlled.
Val. Thorn made a snap decision. Val was back to duty, and he would not treat her as anything less than a lethal threat. He sensed she’d demand it from him, given the chance, so he closed his eyes once again, feeling his power like an object in three dimensions. His swift exploration complete, Thorn reduced his magical output. When battle instinct screamed for more, Thorn somehow knew that subtlety could be a better answer.
With that realization, he adjusted the output and dropped like a stone, just in time for Val to streak over the canopy of his plane. Without the ability to spin quickly enough to see the wreckage, Thorn heard a collision and hoped Val had been able to slow her advance before crashing. He held his hand over the dash controls and then drew on the substances around him to reenergize the command center. He was already feeling drained, but the display flickered to life with grudging slowness. When his screen was stable, he pulled hard on the yoke to hover near his teammate, who he still hadn’t identified.
Flames shot from his partner’s hull, searing the treetops at the edge of the clearance. Drigo.
“Guess that answers that,” Thorn said, rolling possibilities around in his mind. He had Drigo. He had some magic of his own left, though Hiroshi had undersold the speed of how draining this day would be. There was already a chill settling over Thorn, deep in his bones and spreading.
> With the exception of Val, the heloplanes seemed to be gathering their bearings as they overcame the temporary loss of power. Val had already disabled one purple helo and was preparing for another attack. He couldn’t grasp the depths of her sudden magical reserves, unless it stemmed from lying inert in a hospital while she’d healed.
The battle rejoined when Drigo pushed forward in a stuttering motion, his helo cutting the air spasmodically.
“Drigo, save your juice,” Thorn muttered, then resigned himself to a role as wingman.
He saw Drigo dip toward the ground, and without thinking, he sent dark energy to lift the plunging helo away from an unpleasant impact. Guess I’m a Hammer, too, Thorn thought, but again, kept it to himself.
Thorn’s body began to throb with the weight of what he held on magical will alone. Pushing two heloplanes into the air was no light duty. Drawing on such an immense amount of energy, Thorn felt the first schism in—his source? His origin of magic? It was deep within him, and until that moment in the sky, it had been bottomless.
That was no longer true.
Not only was there an end to his magic, he could feel it approaching. His heloplane began to vibrate. The tremors intensified until the ship was cavitating in a wild undulation. He tried to get a grasp on it, but the crevice deep within his source only widened.
Thorn lost focus on the second plane for an instant—
—and watched in horror as a bolt of magical energy blasted into Drigo’s hull. His helo went into the tree line, where it slashed through the canopy in a shrieking of metal. Thorn let his magic wane, but not at a rate that would send him out of control. In agonizing seconds, he lowered his own helo with a hard thump and sprinted across the clearing. One by one, everyone else did the same with varying degrees of delicacy until the entire squad was down, every ’caster pounding across the turf to reach Drigo’s wreck.
Thorn reached the wrecked plane gasping for air; not because of the distance he’d just sprinted, but because of the fear he felt growing inside of him. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew that his lack of focus caused the crash. The hole in the bottom of the plane sparked with severed electric wiring, and Thorn dove on top of the tipped metal cabin.
“Drigo!” he called, tearing at the door. “Drigo! Answer me, dammit!” The dented aluminum had locked the door into place. Thorn smelled noxious fumes wafting from the broken hull.
“Drigo—whatever you do, don’t Scorch. Do. Not. Scorch!” Of all things to avoid right then, casting fire was at the top of the list. Thorn jumped down from the cabin and searched the ground for something to pry the door open with. Rodie was the next to arrive on the scene, and he slid to a halt in the leaves.
“Rodie, get me a branch—anything—to pry the door open.” Thorn jumped back on top of the downed plane. He heard a muffled groan from inside and pounded on the door.
“Drigo, hey, buddy! You awake in there?” Thorn pressed his ear to the metal.
In his dazed state, Drigo cut loose with magical fire, and the helo burst into flames.
Thorn, blasted with incendiary heat, threw his arm up to cover his face. Drigo screamed behind the expanded door, a high wail of pain that made Thorn jerk savagely at the handle, now searing to the touch. Thorn tore his shirt off and wrapped it around the handle, then he placed both boots against the hull and leaned back like he was trying to snap the helo in two, corded muscle standing out in desperation from every part of his body.
Streya arrived on the scene, waving her hands in short, economical motions as clouds gathered overhead at her command. Instantly, rain began to sluice down in a torrent, the fat drops spitting and sizzling as their sheer volume began to lower the metal’s temperature. With a hideous whine, the door opened and Thorn saw Drigo.
Or what was left of him.
Unger took one look and turned to run to his helo to summon more help. Among the rolling smoke, Drigo sat, swaying, one arm a black mass covered by mottled shreds of fabric. Ignoring the heat, Thorn lifted Drigo out with ease, freeing him to where they could both gasp in the cleaner air some meters away from the wreck.
Drigo whimpered in pain, but it was an infrequent, hideous sound, as he was in and out of consciousness.
The Nebula emergency medical team landed in the clearing. Without ceremony, they hauled Drigo away on a stiff board without even acknowledging the recruits, but Streya grabbed the nearest medic as they passed.
“Will he—” she began, but the medic shook his head.
“I don’t know,” the medic said, but it wasn’t unkind. It was honest. Even generous that he spoke at all.
Drigo was loaded into their helo without ever regaining consciousness, and the plane leapt into the sky at fierce acceleration.
Thorn watched and swayed. He coughed a crimson spume of bubbles and noticed a raw, acrid scent overwhelming his senses.
The helo had burned, and it was loaded with deadly chemical components. Thorn knew his lungs were a mess. With each labored breath, he could sense things breaking down inside his body.
“Oh—shit. Not—” Thorn said, but his voice collapsed into a crackling wetness that sounded like thunder in his head.
He coughed again, and this time stars flashed across his vision.
In agonizing slowness, Thorn began to fall. Every limb collapsed—his body limp with betrayal as the toxins spread through his lungs, then his blood, and finally, taking his will to stand. The ground didn’t rush up, because he couldn’t see a damned thing.
All he felt was the darkness made real, and then he felt nothing at all.
He awoke in the medwing and bolted upright, yanking at his mask and tubes with desperate hands. The machines alongside his bed began to beep in an irritating rhythm, the combined alarms summoning a nurse who walked into the room with a sympathetic look but no words.
She injected something into a line that went—somewhere, Thorn only knew it led into his body. As she pushed the syringe, his vision tunneled again, like at the crash site. This was different. He was filled with a lassitude in seconds, eyes growing heavy and closing before he could open his mouth to speak.
The last thing he remembered was the alarms falling silent, replaced with a low hum as the machines resumed their steady beat.
Over the next few days, Thorn drifted in and out of consciousness.
Flashes of faces surfaced in front of him, bits and pieces of conversations swirled through his head. Commander Schrader stood over his bed, speaking in hushed tones with Narvez. Rodie and Streya visited in silence. Kira sat by his side and slipped his book beneath his pillow. Though he couldn’t read it, he took comfort in the knowledge it was there. Each time he woke, his lungs burned, until one time he regained consciousness with the late day sun filling his room.
He took a breath. And then another.
“Huh. Clean air,” he rasped.
Kira answered him from a chair nearby. She looked worn, and more than a bit worried. “You’ve healed some. It was your lungs. They were…not good. Heavy damage from the chemical fire.”
“Drigo?” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying in vain to generate some moisture. “How is he?”
Kira dropped her head, auburn hair falling in front of her face. That made Thorn try to turn his head farther, which he did, though he was stiff.
“I saw…” He fought to sit up. “Get me out of this bed. I saw his arm.”
Kira put her hand on his shoulder and handed him a small cup of water with a straw. When he took a sip, Thorn frowned slightly.
“What is it?” Kira asked.
“No flavor. I figured getting scorched would at least earn me some flavor drops.”
Kira snorted. “You get flavored water after you kill Nyctus. It’s all rather top secret, but there are five berry flavors, all with caffeine.”
Thorn grinned, although it was a creaky expression. “What do you get if you don’t kill Nyctus?”
“Artificial banana,” Kira said, arching a brow.
“So, torture. Got it. The incentive to succeed just got stronger.”
“You understand all too well. Okay, serious shit, Thorn—you’ll be out of this bed soon enough. For now, lie down and get your rest. You’ve been higher than a kite for days.” Thorn lay back and closed his eyes, nodding in agreement.
“I’m not going to lie. It was the best part of healing, if that’s what this was,” Thorn said. “But his arm? I know what I saw.”
“The arm is—it’s gone. Incinerated at the shoulder.” Kira pushed her hair behind her ear. “They think…” She sighed. “They think it was some combination of Scorch energy and a Lifer blast.”
“But that’s impossible.” He searched her green eyes, wondering if he’d heard her right.
Scorch was fire sorcery, straightforward and simple. Lifer was magic that manipulated the ability to heal, to live, and even the ’casters were learning the very communications within the human nervous system. The two things did not go together. They could not go together.
“Precisely.” Kira patted him on the shoulder.
“Kira?” Thorn asked with some hesitation.
She stopped, turned, and faced him, sensing his question was going to carry weight. “Yes?”
“Can anyone—can any of us break the rules? Combine magic?”
She paused, her lips working for a moment before answering. “Possibly. But so far, only one ’caster in the entire Navy has shown the potential to control it, and even that’s a topic of heated debate.”
“Who’s that unlucky bastard?”
Kira’s face flashed sadness, then bitter resignation. “Look in the mirror when you shave, Thorn. And heal. You’re going to need every spell for what’s coming.”
8
Thorn continued to recover.
With each passing hour, his lungs cleared. His body rallied, and then, in a final defiance, he managed to leave the anesthetic haze behind as his mind grew sharp again. As soon as he was able to stand with ease, he moved from his med unit to Drigo’s. He watched from a sculpted plastic chair as Drigo whimpered in his sleep. The bulky man’s shoulder was wrapped in bandages that slowly transitioned from stark white to rust brown. The nurses would come in and change the bandages, blocking Thorn’s view of the full catastrophe. In the time he waited, the nurses changed his bandages three times. Each process revealed a horrific scorch mark that scrawled across Drigo’s neck, like fingers clasping at him, trying to drag him from life to death.
