Galactic Storm

by Morgan Blayde

“Red-shell transit the load through sub-space to my coordinates when you receive my call. I will need this done with speed and accuracy to a league vessel. Can you manage?”

  “It will be done.”

  Mitron nodded. There was one more stop he needed to make before launching the mission. He returned to his quarters where a shielded sub-space corridor was hidden, his access to a very personal secret he wanted to spare his queen; she had enough concerns.

  He sealed himself in and went to a small wall backing a holographic image of Ashere. She regarded him with a haughty sneer. The image’s white skin was teased with the palest of blue shadows, her eyes were the darkness of death, and her smile shone silver, an expression of vicious delight. Mitron’s gaze absorbed every sweet detail, for a moment.

  Then he stepped into the glowing projection, through it, and entered a tunnel of red-hued sub-space. He shot along and hit a crimson wall that offered no resistance. The barrier returned him to the ship. To a lost chamber with no other access. Here lay a secret laboratory, drawing power from the ship that never showed up as a loss in engineering. He’d had this chamber built and closed in before the ship had even been commissioned. He had been the one to close it off, and made sure no trace of it existed in any databases.

  Ashere would be furious if she knew what he kept here, behind the holo-shrine. True, she might be flattered as well, but she would doubtless kill him for it anyway.

  He walked over to a table that glowed green from the stass light of energy projectors. Untouched by time, a female form lay exposed in that light, her white skin bathed emerald, pale jade highlights and deep green shadows giving her nakedness texture.

  Her eyes were closed. She slept. This was a clone of Ashere, a forbidden thing, because unlike the official one in engineering, this one didn’t have an empty brain. The engineering version was an emergency body, kept in case of cataclysmic system failure and severe damage to the original. A dying Ashere could swap out cores and live again in a new body identical to the old. Such a copy was only supposed to exist until the reigning queen produced an heir with an acceptable mate—which Ashere resisted, liking the idea of an emergency double.

  What she wouldn’t condone was that this hidden version wasn’t mindless. Mitron had made his own copy and filled her with false memories, creating an Ashere utterly devoted to him. Her dreams were rich with data flow and simulated experiences with him. They had a life separate from the one he experienced serving the real Ashere.

  He was tempted to kill the stass light and speak to her, to touch her, to feel the warmth of a heart that had no box. A heart that beat only for him.

  He satisfied himself with her image, her beauty. There was no time for anything else. He had a mission to finish for the sake of his people’s place in the League.

  “Until later.” He turned to the instruments that tracked her dormant systems and her active core. Assuring himself she was doing well, he left, retracing his path through sub-space to his quarters. From there, he summoned an elite force of warrior to assemble near the shuttle bay, and then went to meet them.

  He found the warriors assembled, waiting for their briefing. He looked them over. All were stripped of the white false skin, preferring the functionality of living metal. They bristled with weapons that grew out of their bodies, along with stealth systems that should hide them from enemy sensors.

  Disciplined, they waited for him to speak, knowing he spoke for Ashere.

  He quickly outlined the mission, designating which League ship they were taking, and the fact that no alarm must be given, and no crewmember left alive. He reconfigured part of his right arm into a holo projector. It created a three-dimensional map of the League ships, illustrating his plan. He pointed out the first target, and named a second as a backup in case the infiltration didn’t come off first time and they were forced to destroy that ship and try again.

  “Any questions?” Mitron asked.

  The six man team remained silent. Death was after all a very simple thing to give to someone else.

  “Once we have the vessel,” Mitron said, “we shall break from the ships gathered here and drop toward the planet for the second stage of the plan. All communication during the mission will encoded in the language of the Lorsingh pirates. It is a necessary deception to keep retribution from spilling back on our queen, or our world.”

  The six nodded their understanding.

  Mitron paused. “There is a strong likelihood that we shall find ourselves in combat with Light Born. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  The silent ones nodded again, but this time, they were smiling. Every warrior likes a worthy challenge to test themselves against.

  Mitron’s holo projector created the image of a high-grav planet species with four muscular arms and two legs. The specimen had lumpy gray features and whiskery antennae. There was also a mane of sapphire hair. The figure wore a mishmash of technology and space armor. A Lorsingh pirate. One of only a few thousand to outlive their home world.

  “Should you leave the captured ship to battle Light Born, or for any other reason, you will take this form. Should you be captured or near death, you will destroy yourselves so that no trace can be recovered.”

  They looked at each other, then at him.

  “It is to protect our world and bring prosperity to our race. Return as heroes, and the queen will be magnanimous with her rewards. My word on it.”

  The six nodded.

  Mitron stepped close to the group. “I will be sliding us over on a sub-space shift. You are not familiar with this technology. It is new, used by a select few.”

  Basically only me.

  He shifted into the Lorsingh tongue, letting them know the mission was underway. “You need not be concerned.”

  * * *

  Twila stood in the school’s offices. The lid of her inner box cracked; sloppy dribbles of frustration splattered out, tainting her spirit an acid green. That’s not helping. None of this is helping. She pressed down on the lid, cutting off the emotion, so she could focus her mind with laser sharpness. She’d gone through the student personnel records. There were no knew transfer students from Finland or anywhere else.

  There was one inescapable conclusion: she’d been lied to by the boy in art class, which begged the question: Why? She saw the answer clearly. He knows her, the girl who became the next Guardian. He’s protecting her.

  Her infrared gaze cut through the darkness, letting her move with sureness as she left the office area and ghosted through an empty hall toward the front door. The high school had no nighttime security. She had no concern over being stopped, but she might be seen. Therefore, the pale, polyurethane skin over her face had been reshaped into masculine features, her hair shortened, her breasts morphed into manly pects. Beefy muscle swelled her once-petite frame. She didn’t like the esthetic, the shift in her center of gravity, but it was a necessary precaution; if sighted, no one would be looking for a high school girl.

  She reached the front doors. They were unlocked as she’d left them. She stepped out and shut the door behind her. One finger elongated, becoming a key. She locked up and walked away, heading for the street.

  A patrol car pulled over. A policeman exited the vehicle, calling over to her. “Hold it right there. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Apparently, a neighbor had seen her going in and had called the police. Not a problem. Twila lifted her hand slowly into the air, waiting. The police man approached, his gun out, a flashlight pressed against it so he could see what he might have to shoot. He walked in a crouch, poised for action, prepped for danger.

  But still only human.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Twila shrugged. Her throat reconfigured to deepen her voice. “Saw some kids here, chased them off. I was just checking to see if the building had been broken into. It’s fine. I wasn’t even going to call the cops over something so small.”

  “I’ll decide how small it is. Are you carryi
ng any weapons?” He moved closer.

  “No, sir.” I don’t need to carry a weapon, I am one. Her finger tips thinned, becoming needles. She crafted a human weapon, what they call a Taser. A charged capacitor held 50,000 volts.

  The cop circled, patting her down. He faced her again. “Let’s see some ID. Slowly.”

  “Yes, officer.” She moved in a blur with speed human eyes couldn’t follow, jabbing him in the stomach. Her hand expended the electrical charge. There was a flash and crackle, then the sound of falling. The cop lay at her feet, his gun beside him, while the flashlight rolled rapidly away.

  Twila walked past the unconscious man, to the patrol car, and stood in the headlights. She allowed the car’s camera to capture he current image. The cops would be looking for a dangerous male. They’d never find him. In minutes, he’d no longer exist.

  She walked away, seeking the closest obscuring patch of shadows. They welcomed her. She changed back to her usual look, reconfiguring her clothes to be age and sex appropriate, and went home. Her hand changed back from being a Taser. Using that type transformation had been novel. Threats were nebulous; she’d never been hunted, had never been prey. She moved through the night with no concern over muggers or rapists. For such a contingency, she had schematics in memory to fashion her arm into directed-energy weapon. Other options were available. She could have been a professional warrior like her brother. She’d taken another path simply because knowledge for its own sake had proven the greater draw.

  I am an alien and a scholar. It’s logical to follow one’s strengths through life. The metaphorical heart can be so deceptive.

  She reached home, a silent, empty place full of shadows. She went to the keyhole in space, her access to the hidden dimension provided her by the League University. She poured herself through, into the bubble that held her research station and its comm center. A blinking light caught her attention. Someone had left a message.

  Twila went to the console and played the message. A blue-green image of her brother’s head and shoulders appeared over a glowing plate of glass. An uncommon smile stretched his lips. His recorded voice spilled into the air. “Twi,” a pet name for her he hadn’t used in years, “I was just thinking of you and I realized it’s been years since I told you I love you. You’ve always me proud. Goodbye.”

  The message ended. The light-play shut down. Twila continued to stare.

  How very odd.

  Odd or not, the lid of her emotions lifted. A warm radiance shone like a star escaping its grave. For the present, the light drove away the possibility of sadness and all other shadows that might have lurked in the box.

  EIGHT

  Star awoke seeing bright light strobing in through her window. The colors splashing on the wall and across her headboard were gold, red, and occasionally blue. Her first thought was that they’d already had a Fourth of July that year. Her second thought was aroura borealis.

  The third thought wasn’t really hers, but one insinuated into her brain by the necklace she’d worn to bed: Let it go. Not important.

  She frowned, still half asleep. But what is it?

  Sleep, max. Sleep!

  Stubbornness held her awake despite the lulling. What are you hiding from me?

  Your city is under attack by the, um, pirates it seems.

  Max had a mental image of Long John Silver’s Seafood Restaurant. They have good fish, but I hate the malted vinegar. Then she flashed on the book Treasure Island and old-time pirates like Long John Silver.

  Space pirates, dear. Lorsingh Pirates, once thought to be nearly extinct and no threat at all, especially this far from League worlds.

  Sleep finally cleared from her mind. Every cylinder of her brain began firing. Maybe someone should have told that to the Lorsingh pirates. She threw off her coverings and slid out of bed. Stripping away her nightgown, she gripped the necklace in her right hand and concentrated on her gold and black outfit, but the power to change didn’t come.

  Don’t do this, Max.

  What is your problem? Max thought.

  Experience. I have lived as you do, and in my time, fought many battles. And those that have carried the Star before me have left their hearts, their memories, in this crystalline infinity. Every instinct I have is telling me this is a trap to lure you out. More may be lost by you fighting before you’re ready than by the enemy’s rampage this night.

  Max thought about that. She couldn’t say the necklace might not be right. But even so…

  These Lorsingh are going to hurt people, right? You’re saying I should just let others sacrifice themselves for me?

  Exactly. I’m glad you understand.

  I understand, but I don’t approve. This isn’t how a heroine acts. I’m supposed to be the Guardian, right. Guardians guard. They protect.

  The Voice said: You are not ready.

  Training will never be enough. Sooner or later, I need experience. I’ll need to take risks. You think I can live with myself if people get killed while I hide?

  You aren’t need. The Light Born who served the old guardian are out there. They are dealing with the threat. Part of being a battle commander is letting others fight for you. That takes strength. Letting it happen is also training for you.

  Thunder shook the city. The light of energy weapons seared the sky. Max ran to the bedroom window and peered out past tree branches. She threw up the window and leaned on the sill. A golden body sheath materialized on her, preserving her modesty, but she thought little about it. Cool night air curled past her face, bringing the sound of a sirens, the scream of firetrucks, and the wail of ambulances.

  “I’ll let them fight,” Max said, “but you’ve got to let me go. I can help with those who’ve been hurt.”

  You will draw the battle to those you are trying to help.

  “You shield yourself, or the aliens would have found you by now. Shield me, too, while I use my powers to help people. You can do that, right?”

  Maybe. As long as you limit the power you use.

  “I promise.”

  All right then. The necklace glowed. The golden fire spread out over Max. The rest of her battle suit materialized on her: the cropped black tee, gloves, and boots. When the glow dimmed around her body, Max noticed that her face was shining still bright. She wouldn’t need a mask to hide her identity.

  As her feet drifted several inches off the floor, the door to her room opened. Max twisted and looked over her shoulder.

  “Max, have you seen the weird lights in the sky? Max!” Tommy stood frozen, staring at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Gotta go. Cover for me.”

  “Max! Where are you going? Get back here.”

  She went out the window in a haze of golden light. Energy peeled off her, sweeping branches out of the way, letting them spring back in her wake. And suddenly, Max was looking through herself as if she was a glass figurine. Fortunately, it was a translucence that wrapped light around her without making her truly transparent so that she had to see her bones and muscles, arteries and veins in detail.

  “This is you shielding me?” Max asked.

  Yes. Someone will need to be close to see you, and then all they’ll perceive is a Max-shaped mist of gold.

  “And these aliens with their gizmos?”

  “They will detect nothing. Even the Light Born will have a hard time sensing you—from a distance—but you have nothing to fear from them.”

  “Light Born?”

  They who have been reborn by the light of the Star. I have been scanning for the largest concentration of radiant energies on the ground. I am taking you there.

  The streets and houses blurred past. Commercial buildings were growing in height and frequency. The streets were busy, especially ahead where the emergency vehicles were concentrating. And still, the lightshow in the sky raged where desperate battles were fought.

  For me. All for me. Max drew a deep, centering breath. It’s so hard to wrap my head around that when it’s only the Star that
makes me important.

  The Star’s Voice spilled into her awareness. No, Max. You are important. Not just anyone can be trusted with the power to shake galaxies. I had to look past billions and billions of souls to find you. To find a pure heart that wouldn’t be diminished by the loss of all limitations. You might yet become the brightest of all who’ve ever wielded the Star of Life.

  Then the time for abstraction ended. Max landed in the street where a twenty story apartment building was half blown away. The standing half was cracked, burning on the inside. Broken mortar, concrete, wooden beams, piping, steel beams: these were scattered on the lawn and street. Parked cars shrieked. Their alarms giving voice to dying. A fire truck parked by a hydrant, attaching a hose to it. Police kept back residents that still had family inside. Dogs howled along with sirens. Ambulances were arriving. And news crews, feeding on the deaths and disaster.

  Worst of all, Max knew this was only one of many trouble spots. Elsewhere, more were hurt and dying. She didn’t know the Light Born who were fighting to stop this, but she prayed for their success.

  “Where do I start?” Max asked.

  Survivors. We save as many as we can, because we can go where others cannot.

  The horror of it choked Max, but she forced out a response. “Right.”

  And then she zoomed into the smoke, heading for where the fire burned strongest. Flames engulfed her, blinding her. She settled on the lowest burning section of intact flooring and touched it. Golden light blazed around her, seeping into the structure, coating it, cutting off the heat, the fuel from the orange inferno. She walked the edge of the fire as her energy strengthened the building, refusing to let it crumble.

  She listened for screams, for coughing, for whimpering, for any sign of life. I child’s cry caught her attention. She moved through the fire, immune to its heat, its smoke. She wondered why that was, but didn’t have time to chase that rabbit. In an apartment living room she found a dead woman, her body on fire like the furniture.

  Seeing violent death for the first time gave Max the dry heaves. She felt shock like a kick to the gut. Her mind trying to wrench her gaze anywhere else.