Star Fire

by Buffi BeCraft

  Kiev’s hand shot up, fastening around Beaches’ throat. The operative gurgled, eyes bugging and rolling in Sasha’s direction as Kiev sat up with a snarl. The lights on the med-lab unit showed he was in the clear, and the nano-bots were shutting down so the body could finish healing on its own.

  Sasha wanted to throw her arms around his neck. She slapped his shoulder. His head swung in her direction as she switched to the ancient Arosan language. “Don’t ever do that to me again, you idiot.”

  “My Star Fire.” More tears threatened to overwhelm her as his face softened, then clouded with confusion. “I died. What happened?”

  “Grrrgh.” Beaches prised at Kiev’s hand.

  “No. You nearly died. But dying was your brilliant plan all along, wasn’t it?” She pointed a finger at his nose, her fear channelling into anger. “And I’m pissed about that.”

  “I had to make sure you survived to disable the device.” He touched her face. She swore she wouldn’t give in to the absolute adoration shining in his face. Sasha slapped at his fingers, not giving him an opening to crack through her armour. “I would have waited to find you again,” Kiev said.

  Beaches wheezed, his face turning blue as he slapped at the bed.

  “Waited for me? Waited?” Righteous fury burned in her chest. “So if it doesn’t work out this time around, you’ll see if the next version is better? Or were you going with the whole romantic tragedy theory where I live my whole fucking life without you, only to be reunited in the next life?” Her voice rose in pitch as the idea of living without her big, nerdy warrior hit her again. “Because that plan fucking sucks, you jerk. What about my plans?”

  Kiev let go and reached for Sasha. Beaches gurgled again, falling to the floor to gasp for air. Kiev grasped her cheeks between his palms and pulled her lips to his. With his thumb, he wiped at her tear tracks. “You are right. It was a terrible plan. Yours was better.” When she blinked at him, he kissed her again, lips tracing the outlining edges of her mouth. “The one where I was supposed to marry you. I’ll come with you this time.” Kiev’s smile looked a little strained. “We can do whatever it is your position as Captain requires.”

  ”I’ll just leave you two alone,” Beaches gasped and stumbled out of the door. It slid shut behind him, leaving Kiev to pull Sasha onto the table with him.

  “You’re still not listening,” Sasha huffed. “I don’t want all that. Not anymore.”

  He brushed his hands over her hair. Sasha’s heart caught in her chest at the naked emotion in his eyes. For some stupid reason, she couldn’t stop the tears.

  “Are you turning me down again?”

  She couldn’t answer either. When she shook her head, he frowned. Pressing her fingers against his lips, she found the words. “Tasha was a fool. I love you.”

  “Good. For a moment, I thought Lala might have misinterpreted…” He shook his head, as if clearing random thoughts. “Then what do you object to? I am not allowing you to travel through space alone. You need me. I’ve seen the substandard survival equipment your people use. My people may not be as advanced, but with the right materials, I can—”

  Sasha traced a path on his cheek. “You can do a lot for your people. We both can.” Letting him take her hand, she wiggled, trying to find a comfortable spot on the edge of the bed, then finally slipped off it to pace the room as she thought.

  “My place isn’t with the Northern Star Trading Company anymore.” Flinging her hands out, Sasha encompassed the room. Excitement made her talk faster. “Aros is on the edge of the Galactic Interdependence frontier. Our people need to accept that change is coming.” She stopped and met his eyes, not quite understanding his solemn expression. She really wanted him to understand. “We need to be prepared. We need more hosts to teach everyone about the past. Then they don’t have to be afraid of the future—of technology. Aros won’t be alone for much longer. Atmos, too.”

  Alarm silenced Sasha as Kiev struggled to sit up on the side of the bed. She let him pull her close.

  He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “I agree,” he said. “Does this mean you will be my ‘chick’? That we will have a house full of babies?” Kiev touched his forehead to hers. “I want all of that with you, Sasha. To grow old with you, in this lifetime. And the next. You are my everything.”

  “Happy late Lovers Day, my happily ever after.” She grinned and danced away to dig her day-planner out of the survival pack. She stared at the calendar and laughed. “Forget Abassan. Aros is my planet of love.”

  Kiev didn’t say anything and Sasha realised he’d stopped questioning her references. He sat on the edge of the bed, a bit unsteady as she waved her day-planner. Kiev raised one eyebrow, waiting.

  “It’s an old Earth holiday. The Day of Lovers. It was the day I died. Then later, when we made love, I fell for you. Again.” She settled beside him on the bed, not in a hurry. Plans and details spun in her head. She had so much to do.

  They’d have to talk to the GI authorities and she’d have to send in her resignation to the head offices at Northern Star. The core and memory components would be destroyed on Aros. Then there was her mom. Sasha really wanted Kiev to meet her mother. Something told her that Lala and her mom would get along wonderfully.

  For now, she was content to be drawn under his arm. “I still think your code being that particular day is weird.”

  “The code is the day of my birth.” He leaned in to kiss her. “Two days ago.”

  She pulled away. “Kiev’s or Dirrel’s?”

  He gave her a smug smile. “Both. Lala always told me dates of birth and death have great importance. And now, that date, the date of your death and rebirth. We are entwined.” When Sasha’s jaw dropped, he pressed a finger to her chin, gently closing her mouth. “Don’t you know, Star Fire? Our fate was written in the stars.”

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Conjuring Cal

  Buffi BeCraft

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  “Hey, Gennie? Why couldn’t the knights get the sword out of the stone?” Sixty-two, with balding grey hair and sagging cheeks, Stevie bounced on his toes, an aging, but sweet six year old. Smudged, thick-lensed glasses slipped unnoticed down his nose. He clasped his favourite book tight against his chest, his moss green gaze following her every movement as she turned to put the lid back on the pot of sauce.

  To Gennie Pendragon, the residents of Camelot House were not mentally defunct. Her charges depended on her to keep the order that they needed to lead productive lives. Gennie planned meals, oversaw medication, and kept the peace. Her guys were way more than a pay cheque every week. They were the children she’d never have. Smiling, she held out a hand for book number two of The Round Table Children’s Readers, The Boy Who Would Be King.

  A few Christmases ago, her grandfather, Merle gifted the guys with the entire series. The gift was another blatant play on her guilt for abandoning her studies. Oh, Merle could play hardball with the best of them, but she appreciated the gesture on her guys’ part. Stevie loved King Arthur’s story best. After that, he claimed to love Gennie most. She had little doubt that by having his hero’s surname went a long way in keeping the peace on her shift. Gennie had been dubbed official house mascot years ago. With Merle’s bag of magic tricks and big heart, the guys adopted her grandfather as their own.

  “Gen-nie.”

  She stifled a laugh at Stevie’s persistence. A stranger would never guess that she answered the same question every afternoon. “You know, Stevie. You could just read it for yourself.”

  “I like the way you read it.” Following her to the ‘Round Table’, a huge oak monster that took up most of the dining area, they sat while Gennie found the correct page.

  Tracing a finger over the lovely caption, Gennie marvelled anew at the artist’shandiwork. Merle’s books held all the detail and rich artwork of an ancient tapestry. Young Arthur Pendragon, a gangly tow-headed teenager struggled to pull the sword from a bou
lder. That sword, Caliburn, would later be remade into the legendary Excalibur. Above, Merlin presided in fine robes and the traditional trailing white beard. Below, the crowd of knights and ladies pointed and laughed.

  “See. Only the old king’s son could get the sword out.” Gennie traced the picture with one finger. No artist could truly capture the power and beauty of Arthur’s sword. At night, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the warm metal of the oversized hilt in her child-sized palm. The giddy rush of magic always woke her, yearning for more.

  Another resident sidled up behind her, pulling her out of the reverie. Ben peered over her shoulder at the book. His pudgy body leaned into hers. Ben had almost no concept of personal space. In a slightly slurred voice, he began his favourite argument. “No, no, no. That’s not what Merle said.” Ben patted the pages with the hand curled from his stroke last February. “Tell me what Merle said, Gennie.”

  Somewhere outside, the sound of a small engine started up. This came as no real surprise. In the last decade, East Texas winters didn’t get started until January. Here in Tyler, a well-maintained lawn might have growth until then. Slow growth, but enough to make the yard Nazi next door haul out his equipment for that sparse one-inch ruining the symmetry of a perfect lawn.

  “Okay, just this once. Then, I have to start dinner.” Gennie still had her third charge to locate and find out if Rory was into anything.

  Rory liked to help…a little too much. He drove their neighbour nuts, hanging over the fence to give advice on lawn care. On more than one occasion, Gennie had to make amends for Rory ‘weeding’ the neighbour’s flower beds. A lot of people didn’t understand that mentally limited individuals like Stevie, Ben, and Rory wanted the same love and compassion as everyone else. People shun what they do not understand.

  Gennie turned the page. The next caption showed the wizard taking Excalibur from the old king, Uther Pendragon. She began to read. The artist had taken a lot of artistic license with the story, but he’d done an amazing job of simplifying it for young readers.

  “Excalibur can only be used by a good man for a good cause. You are not just or good.” The wizard ignored the king’s whining argument and thrust the sword into a small boulder. Once Excalibur is released, one of your line has three days to prove himself worthy. On the fourth, the sword will return to its stony sleep.”

  “Wow.” Stevie grinned. “I bet you could keep the sword, Gennie. Right, Ben?”

  Ben shook his head, always on the opposite side of the argument. “Gennie’s a girl. Only boys can be king.”

  Stevie took the book back, holding tight against his chest. “I bet Nick would help you keep the sword. He’s our friend.”

  Gennie laughed.

  Poor Nicholas Myra, better known as Nick, was one of her grandfather’s failed schemes to see her happily married again.

  Nick, a widower himself, sympathised with Gennie’s reluctance to move on. He was fabulously cover model sexy, an attentive date, and generous. Chumming around with him made the holidays fun. Too bad the sexual zing between them equalled zero. To her, it had been a bit like dating one of her brothers. Ick.

  “Yes, Nick is a good friend. But with Christmas only days away, he’s a little busy right now.” Gennie gave the guys a conspiratorial wink.

  Nick didn’t keep his job secret. If the world’s jaded attitude about magic bothered him, Nick never let on. That guy spread Christmas cheer for the three hundred and sixty-four days a year he worked at his other job raising exotic livestock.

  Making little shooing motions, Gennie cleared the kitchen. “It’s time to start dinner. Just in case Nick decides to drop by early to let us beat him at video games.”

  * * * *

  Merle jogged up the sidewalk, a scarecrow with white flyaway hair. The all important letter crushed in his hand. Bushy eyebrows drew together as he contemplated Agdern’s completely non-magical letter. The postal service was far more secure than conversing by phone or magic. And this news was critical, if not surprising, in keeping his oath to protect Arthur Pendragon and his line.

  Merle and the other wizards knew that worm Mordred was sneaking on their coattails at the turn of the century when Arthur or Art as he now thought of his long-time friend, and the remaining knights relocated to the colonies. It had been easy enough for the wizards’ ocean dwelling allies to drag the ship to the sea’s depths. The problem of King Arthur’s greatest enemy, Mordred, and the pirate crew serving the wretch, was presumed taken care of.

  Possibly, Merle should have told Arthur at the time—or the time before that—that the traitor was still alive. But, he and the other wizards had already taken care of the problem and Merle really didn’t want to bother the boy. Arthur blamed himself entirely too much for Mordred’s actions.

  What was he to say? I’m sorry Arthur. We had to kill your son. Again. No, like you, he managed to survive the Calamn battle. He’s not quite right in the head, you know. So, we tried killing him in the sixteenth century because we found him before he found you. Then again, when you moved here from the European continent.

  Merle sighed. Carefully, he took down the wards guarding his home from intrusion. Unlike his spells, which were words and some flash power, wards had to be crafted and put together with a delicate touch. Unmaking a ward was done in reverse, the same way one would unravel a complicated piece of crochet. Except that one did not have to worry about a crocheted doily triggering a nasty surprise when taken apart.

  He resigned himself to withholding the news from his greatest friend. Telling Arthur of Mordred’s survival would only raise the former king’s hopes of reconciliation, only to be dashed when Mordred literally placed a blade in his father’s back. Inside, he twisted the deadbolt into place and jiggled the lock. He never trusted those things. Any fool could jimmy one to open. Give him a lock-tight spell and solid oak bar any day. If anyone should break in, even Arthur’s traitorous whelp, Mordred, then Merle should have plenty of warning.

  The wizard shook his head as he dodged the hodgepodge of Christmas presents, wrapping paper, and stacks of magazines on the floor. A determined hop avoided crushing a video game left by one of his many ‘grandchildren’ as he hurried through the house for his basement workshop. He’d long since given up on figuring out the number of greats involved in his family relations. He liked being crazy old Uncle Merle.

  The paper crinkled in his hand, bringing forth more regrets than he cared to recall. He should have drowned Arthur’s brat the moment he learnt the truth of Mordred’s conception. But no, being the great Merlin, counsel to kings, he believed in free will. His foolish sentimentality caused them so much trouble before. Now, again, Arthur’s sins had come to haunt them again. Merle was getting too old for this garbage. Just when he thought he could make plans for retirement, Mordred made another bid for power and revenge. Would the unrepentant cur ever die?

  Merle slammed the basement door shut behind him, locking it with a negligent wave of one hand. “So how is Cal doing today, Grimmy?”

  The book on the podium ruffled his pages at the hated nickname. The tome’s clear, deep announcer’s voice filled the basement, irritation in every distinct syllable. “Excalibur is embedded in stone. The same as yesterday. The same as the day before that and the day before that. The same as every day for the past decade since. The same as the century before, and before that. The same as—”

  “Enough of that.” Out of self-preservation, he cut the book off mid-sentence with a wave of the letter. Civilised conversation and Grimmy weren’t going to happen in any century. “Mordred is back from the dead my paginated friend. Agdern’s already done a prophesy reading. And—”

  The grimoire interrupted, ruffling its pages once more, the sound reminiscent of a very large, very irritated bird of prey. “—And the Black Sword of Arthur contrives to hold Excalibur the Kingmaker. To be named the future king, the one not claimed must travel mist and time behind. Reprisal, swift and sure, to secure a place there was not before.”
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br />   “You knew the prophesy and didn’t tell me.” Merle waved a hand at the selection of copper pots hanging from the chef’s rack high over his worktable. His favourite pulled itself off the hook, floating down to be filled in the inset sink.

  “I know all prophesies. My place is to record them, not spend eternity reciting them,” Grimmy retorted.

  In the book’s defence, there were endless prophesies that may or may not come true depending on the choices people made. There were just too many. Merle couldn’t blame Grimmy for not pointing them out, when it was his job to scan them for relevance. The pot floated from the sink to the burner, which lit underneath as the pot set down. “I’d have expected something cleverer from Mordred besides a simple snatch and run.” Sprigs of dried herb floated down from tied bunches stored on clothesline crisscrossing the basement ceiling to Merle’s hand. “Let’s see if we can find where he’s hiding.”

  The grimoire thumped its cover, the irritable sound bringing the wizard to the present with the irritable sound. “Have you another task that requires my attention? If not, I will leave the guarding of one comatose magical sword in your mostly competent hands. I am quite sure monitoring energies of the universe, while as titillating as charting the migration patterns of tuna, can wait a while longer.”

  With his free hand, Merle made a shooing motion at the smart-aleck book. “Go, go. One would think that a sentient grimoire powerful enough to keep track of the universe’s magic would be a little more respectful of its creator.”

  “One would think…not.” The grimoire snorted and slammed shut.

  Merle dismissed the book. Grimmy had been full of itself from the day of its creation. Merle had no idea how that happened. He’d been the book’s sole creator and keeper. Magical constructs, like Grimmy, took on some of its owner’s traits, sort of like magical DNA.