Star-Born Mage

by David Estes

  The man offered a sideways glance before looking away once more. “Boredom. Fun. Something to do. And I’ve never been there.”

  Dacre sensed a lie in the man’s casual response but hid his skepticism behind another question. “Really? It’s so close.”

  “I’m not sure five hundred thousand kilometers can be defined as ‘so close,’ but the distance isn’t the biggest factor.”

  “What is?”

  “The Grem,” Coffee said. “They don’t much like visitors. They don’t mind trading every now and again, but they don’t exactly invite anyone down for tea and biscuits.”

  “Fair enough. So you’re just coming to sightsee?”

  “Something like that. Let’s just say I’ve always wanted to see the red planet up close.”

  “I’m traveling with a bunch of Jackals. Assuming you didn’t…”

  “Kill them? I was tempted, but no. Not exactly good business. Plenty of their ilk wash up on my shores to buy, sell and trade. I might not like them that much, but I can’t go around playing exterminator if I want to maintain my reputation. Anyway, I’ve fallen in with worse lots before. I ain’t dead yet.”

  Dacre stopped. “Look, I appreciate your willingness to repair our rig, but we’re not really looking to add any additional passengers.”

  “Well, tough. You want my help, you get me too. It’s a package deal. Nonnegotiable.”

  Dacre didn’t know this man, nor his motivations, but he also wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse. “Fine. We’ll drop you back here once we’re done in Urkusk. Agreed?”

  “Yup,” Coffee said.

  “When do I sign the contract?” Dacre said, anxious to be done with the transaction.

  “Contract?”

  “You know, your repair services in exchange for priceless information to sell to the Alliance?”

  Coffee stopped, spit into his palm, and extended his hand. Dacre looked at it, somewhat disgusted, but then shook.

  “That’s how we do things in Coffee’s Alley,” Clay said. “Double cross me and I’ll remove your arms and legs and keep you alive on life support. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer, striding off down the corridor.

  “I quite like my arms and legs,” Dacre said.

  ~~~

  When they reached the landing strip, Dacre was surprised to find his rig already being repaired by an army of service bots. “I had them start on it as soon as we left the strip,” Coffee said before he could ask.

  “How did you know we would come to an agreement?” Dacre asked.

  “I didn’t. But it didn’t matter. One way or another, the rig needed to be fixed.”

  Dacre finally understood the man’s complete confidence. This was his domain. If they hadn’t made a deal, none of them would’ve ever left the asteroid field and Coffee would’ve stolen the rig anyway. Though Dacre had already suspected it, this confirmed his understanding of the situation: He’d climbed in bed with a snake, a venomous one.

  “Status?” Coffee asked one of the bots. The bot turned its head 180 degrees without stopping its work—one of its arms was shooting sparks as it patched up a scrape in the rig’s hull.

  Seventeen minutes to completion, the bot said, its voice clear and almost human.

  “Good. Prepare for launch.”

  “That fast?” Dacre said.

  Coffee shrugged. “You want to wait a day or two?”

  Dacre didn’t have even an hour or two to waste. “Seventeen minutes works for me.”

  Coffee nodded and met two of his henchmen near the rig’s gangway. They were hauling heavy, military-style packs. Dacre was about to ask how many of Coffee’s crew would be coming with them, but then thought better of it. It’s not like he would be able to say no, not if he wanted to keep his arms and legs.

  A few minutes later the captured Jackals emerged from the asteroid, surrounded by the rest of Coffee’s crew. Though they didn’t look particularly happy, they were also unharmed. General Kukk’uk clicked, What is happening? her gaze flicking to the rig, which was looking in better shape by the second.

  “I made a deal. We’ll be leaving for Urkusk shortly.”

  What’s the catch?

  “They’re coming with us.”

  Who?

  Dacre sighed. “All of them. I think.”

  The general clicked out a curse as several of Coffee’s crew approached, each carrying a few of the dart guns they’d confiscated a couple hours earlier. The Jackals accepted them eagerly, immediately checking them for damage. They’re in pristine condition, Kukk’uk said.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. The grav-field, remember?”

  It was a mistake, the general agreed. I’m sorry. We aren’t used to human negotiations. On our planet, we handle things differently.

  Dacre assumed she meant with force. “I understand. But please, we have an agreement with Coffee now. Don’t do anything to jeopardize it.”

  I won’t, the general said, passing the order on to her soldiers. Turning back to Dacre, she said, But I’ll also protect my crew if needed.

  That’s exactly what Dacre was afraid of. Even the enormous star-rig wasn’t big enough to keep Coffee’s and Kukk’uk’s crews away from each other for long.

  There’s nothing for it, Dacre thought, heading toward the gangway.

  ~~~

  From a distance, Urkusk looked red and featureless, but the closer they got, the more the planet transformed into a rich, rusty brown, the landscape speckled with various features—deep canyons and runnels, towering mountains and cliffs. There was very little flatland, which, Dacre realized, might be a problem when it came to landing the rig, especially because they weren’t planning on arriving at any of the legally permitted landing zones. Like Coffee had said, the Gremolins didn’t exactly welcome visitors with open arms.

  General Kukk’uk had already pulled up a topographic map, and was studying it intently, one clawed hand gently maneuvering one of the control ropes more out of habit than anything else. The rig was currently set to autopilot.

  As soon as they’d boarded, Coffee had sent his crew to the back to inspect the tank’s cargo, and, Dacre suspected, to keep them separated from the Jackals, all of whom had remained in the control room. Dacre had expected the man to demand the priceless information he’d been promised, but instead Coffee had shot him a lazy grin and briefly studied the flight plan, offering Kukk’uk a few minor suggestions based on things he’d heard.

  Then the master of Coffee’s Alley had settled into one of the jump seats, closed his eyes, and promptly gone to sleep.

  Dacre wished he could do the same, the four-hour flight a perfect opportunity to get some rest. Instead, he’d paced, done pushups, checked on Coffee’s crew to make sure they weren’t breaking or stealing anything—they were all sleeping, too—and then returned to the control room. There were still three-plus hours to go. Now, he approached Kukk’uk, desperate for a distraction from himself. “How’s it look?” he asked.

  I’ve landed on worse terrain, she clicked, still studying the map. Our planet is worse in some ways.

  Dacre was curious about what it was like on her planet. Though there was some information about the Jackals, almost all of it was written via secondhand accounts. He also knew it was inherently biased, as it was filtered through the Alliance’s propaganda machine. Then again, he’d witnessed firsthand just how vicious and cold the Jackals could be. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  Her sharp eyes flicked to him and then back to the map. If all goes according to plan, you’ll be able to see for yourself soon enough.

  “Is it cold? It’s the furthest planet in your system from the godstar, right?” Dacre knew it was a dumb question with an obvious answer—yes—but it had the intended effect.

  She started talking—er, clicking. It’s cold. And gray. And bleak. Is that what you want to hear? The Jackals go around fighting over scraps of meat and plotting their next terrorist attack on anyone who supports the Alliance.
r />   “I want to hear the truth,” Dacre said, somewhat surprised by the intensity of her outburst.

  She clicked more rapidly now. A laugh. No humans want the truth, Kukk’uk said. All you want is what will make you feel better about the things you do. And the truth would make you feel bad, at least until you decided not to believe it, in which case you would reassume your haughty prejudice and hate.

  Her words stung, even coming through his translator. They stung because they were true. After all, he had his own preconceived notions as to who and what the Jackals were. Terrorists, violent creatures, bloodthirsty aliens…these were the terms that drove him to contact them in the first place. They were perfect partners for his plan, at least up to a point.

  And yet he felt bad for misleading them from the start, even if they did want to destroy the Mage Academy in a massive magical explosion that would be seen throughout the entire Godstar Galaxy.

  “You’re right,” he said. “None of the humans truly understand you. But it’s not just them—us, I mean—it’s the other races too. You have to meet the Alliance halfway or nothing will ever change.”

  Halfway? More rapid clicking. You are so young, so naïve. The Alliance has no halfway. It is their way or no way. Do you even know what we call ourselves?

  Dacre blinked. “I don’t understand the question.”

  Of course not. Because the only term you’ve ever heard is ‘Jackals’, a name invented by the Alliance to paint us the way they want others to see us. Dark creatures of the night, animals, hunting in the shadows, tearing with our teeth, our claws.

  Dacre had not once considered the Jackals had a different name for themselves. “What are your people called?”

  Now that’s a question I don’t get every day, the general clicked. We are the Cir’u’non, she said.

  “After the godstar?” The purple godstar of the Godstar VII System was believed to be the undying heart of Cir’u, goddess of shadows.

  In our language, the Blessed, because the gods left us with so much of their blood on our planet.

  “You mean liquid aura?”

  You can call it what you want, but to us it’s a sign.

  “Of what?”

  That we have not been forgotten. Not by the gods at least.

  Dacre was surprised. He wondered how many others knew this about the Jack—the Cir’u’non. “I didn’t realize your kind worshipped the godstars.”

  Because we’re godless Jackals, Kukk’uk clicked, each sound like a sharp, anger-filled pop now.

  “I’m sorry I never asked. I’m sorry no one ever asked. Tell me more about your people,” Dacre said.

  My people didn’t start this war, the general began.

  Dacre shook his head, finally understanding the intelligence of this creature, the way she mixed truth with lies so seamlessly. Or perhaps she was delusional. Maybe they all were. That would explain why they never gave up when all the odds were stacked against them.

  You don’t believe me. This time, it wasn’t anger but disappointment that settled into each click.

  “Everyone learns about the Battle for Fell Station,” Dacre said. “I was still in primary school, long before I knew I was headed for the Mage Academy. The”—he caught himself—“Cir’u’non descended on the staging station like wraiths in the night, while the inhabitants slept. Even the night watch wasn’t aware of the attack until it was too late, because of the cloaking suits your people wore.”

  Then what happened? Kukk’uk asked.

  Dacre didn’t know what to make of the question—how could anyone not know?—but he continued anyway. “The fight would’ve been over before it really started if not for the actions of one brave soldier who managed to act quickly and take out three Jack—of your people in order to give one of her comrades the chance to sound the alarm. Despite being ill-prepared for the suddenness of the attack, the Alliance soldiers battled back, the fight raging for hours. And then, finally, it was over.”

  We won.

  “You killed everyone in the station.”

  Yes. At least that much we can agree on.

  “What else is there?” Dacre said, feeling frustrated. He was trying to listen, but sometimes actions spoke louder than words.

  You learned nothing of our motivations for the attack? What came before and after?

  Dacre opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, considering the question. The attack had come out of nowhere, hadn’t it? Unprompted. Random. Terror. The start of a terrible war that remained on the front screen of the holonews on a daily basis, even thirty years later. Although the war with the Machinists was considered equally brutal, the military actions against the Jackals were more important because of the—

  Dacre stopped cold, his eyebrows narrowing. “Aura,” he murmured.

  Godsblood, Kukk’uk agreed.

  “That’s what this is about?”

  What else?

  “Terror. Protecting the innocent. Doing what’s right.”

  Kukk’uk’s long jaw dipped in his direction. Like I said—naïve. Are you helping us destroy the Mage Academy to do what’s right? When you came to us, you said you were angry with the Alliance, that you wanted revenge, but you don’t speak that way now. Why?

  “I just want it to all be over. The violence. The instructors at the Academy want more destruction, not less. They train young, talented magicians to use magic to destroy. That needs to stop.”

  The general nodded once more. And after?

  “I expect you and your people to back off. To stay on your planet. To hold up your end of the bargain—stop the violence.”

  Unfortunately, that’s not the way the world works. The Alliance will rebuild their precious Academy.

  Dacre shook his head. “No. Public favor will turn against them. Mages will be shunned. Non-magical citizens will demand that use of magic be controlled more strictly. The sheer power we will demonstrate will convince them that magic should be outlawed completely.” Dacre knew none of this would ever transpire, but he needed the general to believe he was nothing more than an idealist on a mission of peace.

  Our conversation comes full circle, it seems, Kukk’uk said. Peace. What a nice word. Makes one feel warm and tingly inside. But it takes two sides to both desire peace to make it a reality. The Cir’u’non have always wanted it, but we are far beyond any hope. So now I will tell you why we attacked Fell Station all those years ago. I will tell you the truth.” She paused, her thin, forked tongue darting across her needle-like teeth. The Alliance wanted our reserves of aura, and they were coming to take them from us by force.

  Dacre’s first instinct was to deny, deny, deny, but…what if it was true? “How do you know? The Alliance hadn’t so much as fired a single rocket when your preemptive strike occurred.”

  We intercepted coded intelligence. At first we believed it to be useless chatter. In fact, it was, even after we cracked the code.

  “Then why?”

  Because there was another code. A code within a code. We discovered it almost by accident. Our generals—this was back when I was but a fledgling soldier—hardly believed it at first. Eventually, however, they came around. They realized what every Jackal now knows: The Alliance will never stop hating us, not until we are all dead and our aura is theirs.

  “They are trying to stop the war. End the cycle.” Even to Dacre’s own ears, his words rang hollow. Because of the things he knew.

  You think just because they form an Alliance and call themselves peacekeepers that their motivations are pure? They desire one thing: power. So don’t mourn the deaths we will cause. Rejoice in the lives we will save.

  With that, Kukk’uk turned away, clearly ending the conversation.

  Dacre took a slow, deep breath, trying to process this new information. If what Kukk’uk had said was true—and he wasn’t certain it was—the rest of the Godstar Galaxy needed to know. Then again, none of that mattered if his mission wasn’t successful.

  No one would be alive to tell, h
imself included.

  They are coming, he thought. They are coming to destroy us all.

  Chapter 22

  A past revisited

  We’re not going to make it, Vee realized, watching the viewscreen.

  She’d hoped they’d be able to enter Urkusk’s atmosphere before Miranda’s ship caught them. The chase, however, was swiftly coming to an end, and the red planet was still a great distance away. Only one option remained:

  Fight.

  “Turn the ship around,” she said.

  Frank mewed a question, his furry head cocking to the side.

  “Do it,” Vee reiterated. “Al, Layla, whatever your name is,” she said to the A.I., “full defensive posture. Shields up. Weapons primed.”

  Yes, ma’am, the A.I. said. Shields blazin’. Weapons cocked and locked. We’re in business. Time to go a-huntin’.

  Vee glanced from side to side. This was a large starship, state-of-the-art. Not one mage seat, but two. “McGee. Can you help?”

  The man didn’t respond but stood slowly and headed for one of the ladders. Satisfied, Vee headed for the other.

  Terry said, “I should—” but Vee stopped abruptly and cut him off.

  “No. You need to rest. Leave this to us. We can handle it.”

  “I’ll man the pulse cannon,” Minnow said, licking his dark lips.

  “This is insane,” Frank muttered as Vee climbed the ladder to the mage seat. “We can jump into hyperspace, slip away before that crazed mage knows what we’re doing.”

  “We’re not running,” Vee said, reaching the top and clambering into the seat, one hand resting lightly on the spellscreen while the other brought the mag-cannon around. “Dacre is still somewhere in the system, which means this is where we need to be. I can handle Miranda.” I think, she added in her head. At the same time, she wondered how the warrior mage had found them so quickly. There must be another tracker, she guessed, feeling foolish. One even the A.I. didn’t know about—or was programmed not to know about. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought.

  Slowly, Frank turned the starship, the final crimson edge of Urkusk falling to the rear, a sea of stars replacing it. Somewhere far to the right was the asteroid field, while dead ahead she located the lights of the military transport vessel as it raced toward them. “Stop,” she said to Frank.