The Star Wizard

by Benjamin Douglas

  Lucas opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again. It sounded so absurdly simple, it might actually work, given his limited experience with Hive’s brash, child-like logic.

  “We gain Hive’s immediate trust by dressing our coding up to look like this. But then the actually executionable files command the drones to disarm, disband, fly into the sun—whatever we want.”

  Before Lucas could respond, the room comm opened. “Captain Odin to the bridge,” a young voice said. Lucas frowned and answered. “Tompkins, that you? Where’s Randall? What are you doing out of engineering?”

  “Ah, he, ah, he’s visiting the toilet, Sir. I just came up to see the sights, you might say, and got roped into babysitting the Fairfax for a half-minute. Just a short one.”

  Caspar held her head in her hands, groaning. Ada looked at her from the sides of her eyes. “That one sounds bright,” she muttered.

  “Shut up,” Caspar said.

  “What’s so important, Private,” Lucas said, stressing the rank, “that requires my immediate attention?”

  “I’d rather you came out and saw for yourself, Sir, in case I’m wrong.”

  Lucas stood, sighing. “Keep working this problem. I want as many options coded and ready on the ship’s computer for Moses to work with as possible for the next time we meet up with the drones.”

  Caspar and Ada nodded.

  Lucas stepped through the conference room doors and out onto the bridge, stopping in his tracks. Behind him, Ada cursed. Caspar stood frighteningly still.

  On the viewscreen before them, the drones were ripping a Kuiper Fleet ship to shreds.

  ---

  “Helm, bring us about portside!” Lucas barked, hopping into his chair. “All hands, stations! Ada, here.” He tossed her the earpiece. “Lieutenant Caspar, let’s get those Rome armaments fired up and ready to roll.”

  Caspar stood in the hatch still, unmoving.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Her eyes were locked on the screen, wide, staring, and flickering with something else Lucas had never seen in her before.

  Fear.

  “Caspar!”

  She shook out of it, tearing her gaze away and looking at him. “Sir?”

  “I need you at munitions. Can you do that?” He meant it in earnest. He didn’t want to put her through the hell of reliving her past, and he needed to know she could respond to orders. But he didn’t have a whole lot of options for replacing her, either. He recalled that Tompkins and Mulligan were gunners, but she was the best.

  “Sir.” She waved a salute and ran to her station.

  “Tompkins?”

  “Sir?” The kid snapped to attention.

  “Get down to engineering! Aren’t you in charge down there now?”

  Tompkins’ face went ashen. Apparently he hadn’t realized how much responsibility he had inherited from Adams. Lucas returned the salute, and the kid tore off the bridge in a flash.

  “Moses,” Lucas said. “Combat sitrep. What’s that vessel, and how is she fairing?”

  Beep. “Kuiper Fleet ship Darkwing, gatling-class. Not a regular billing. Optioned for special liaison to the Fleet, Junior Councilman Kyle Kepple.”

  Lucas frowned. A Councilman, here? Coincidence? They were still a ways from Pluto.

  “The drones have penetrated shielding and breached the hull on engineering and subengineering levels. Loss of all souls beneath deck five. Most of the crew is above, and remains alive. Engines partly operational. Bridge control, operational.”

  “What are they doing here?” Lucas murmured.

  “Odin! Sir,” Ada said. Lucas spun at his name. Ada looked sheepish. She wasn’t in the Fleet. What was she supposed to call him? And more pressingly, why was she sitting at the comm station?

  “Where’s Mulligan?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “I just came because Moses told me about a signal. Listen to this, Sir.” She swiped at the console, and the ship’s comms crackled to life with a broken, garbled message.

  “…aker! Cease your at… …once! Repeat: this is the… … at once!”

  Lucas frowned, shaking his head. “Can you clean it up at all? Amplify the signal?”

  Ada nodded, hunching over the console. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How about codes for the drones? Got anything ready yet?”

  “No, Sir. I’m sorry.”

  Lucas cursed beneath his breath. “Moses, have you attempted to contact Hive?”

  “I have, Sir, but Hive is choosing to ignore me at this time.”

  “Convenient.” Lucas strapped into the chair. “Alright, everyone, buckle up. Lieutenant, guns ready?”

  “Yes Sir, all kinetics online and ready to go.”

  “Helm, inch us closer.”

  Randall brought them in from port, angling to cover the most surface area with their guns. Lucas bit his lips. How exactly, he wondered, does one shoot flies off a friend with a shotgun?

  “Caspar, how’s your targeting?”

  “Precise,” she said coolly. He glanced at her. She was leaning back in her chair, her gunning stick hardwired to the station and held firmly in her grasp. Her eyes were locked on her own tactical readout. Lucas wondered that she had shown such vulnerability a moment ago. Now she looked ready to murder her own mother.

  “Remind me never to cross you, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, Sir. And Sir?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  Her lips curled into a sneer. “Never cross me.”

  Lucas titled his head in assent. “Fire when ready. Not a scratch on the gatling.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.”

  The Fairfax edged into the sphere of battle. Drones swarmed around the Darkwing, passing through the lower decks. Some that disappeared within did not re-emerge. Lucas shuddered to think of what they might be up to inside.

  A little flash on the viewscreen, and Caspar cursed. “I got one, but no damage. Switching to heavies.”

  Lucas watched with baited breath as she rotated her gunning array and took aim again. This time when she squeezed the trigger there was an almost imperceptible lurch of the deck beneath him. He whistled through his teeth. “Must be some gun,” he muttered. He watched the flash as the bullets whizzed away. This time one of the drones—it had been hovering over the topside of the Darkwing—disintegrated in a fiery explosion.

  A little celebratory whoop went up on the bridge. It died down when a small pack of drones—no more than half a dozen—broke off from the swarm and moved toward the Fairfax.

  Chapter 11

  Erick wasn’t even surprised anymore. Cyclops had, apparently, friends and spare ships in every corner of the system. From the wreckage of the conscript ship, they found a long-range comet hopper, and docked their shuttle in its cargo hold. Once aboard, they set a course for the outer system.

  Pluto.

  He’s right, you know. Rylea’s voice was starting to seem normal jutting into his thoughts. Weird.

  I know you think so, he thought.

  I can’t fight this other man. Not on my own.

  He wanted to tell her she wasn’t on her own, that she never would be, that he would look after her always. But even the thought rang hollow. He was in far over his head here, but Rylea seemed to be finally in her element.

  Erick flew the ship, letting her conserve her strength. Cyclops said she would need it for the trials to come. Erick just wanted her to get as many opportunities as possible to feel normal. He was scared—terrified, if he admitted it to himself—that she might forget what that felt like. Forget what he was.

  Just a man.

  The were heading out-system in pursuit of the drones that had torn the Empire and Rome ships apart. Why, Erick had asked? Because the drones were the only weapon capable of presenting a real threat to their now common enemy, Cyclops answered. Who was the enemy, Erick asked? Stop asking so many questions, Cyclops had offered.

  The one who took The Prophet, Rylea told him. The one w
ho took it to become powerful. And he is so powerful, Erick. I could feel him back on the ship.

  More powerful than you? He wondered.

  Much more. She sounded sad. He wondered at that, too.

  They had a couple of days in the hopper together. Cyclops spent a large portion of the time trying to explain nanobots to Rylea. Erick listened in with increasing boredom, unable to fathom the reason for the conversation. At times the hopper fell silent, and Erick got the feeling that the two of them were continuing their discussion, but in Cyclops’ head. He always had to visit the toilet and take a few deep breaths when that happened. The thought of Rylea bouncing around inside Cyclops’ thoughts still made him sick to his stomach.

  Some forty hours into their flight, Cyclops and Erick found themselves bunking down at the same time. Erick lay in silence, biting his tongue to stop from interrogating the man. It would be useless, anyway.

  After a while, Cyclops said, “You’re oddly silent all of the sudden.”

  Erick huffed. “No point asking questions you won’t answer. I’m sick of being dragged around the system by you, Cyclops. I haven’t forgotten who you are. Rome’s been no friend to me.” He stared at the underpinnings of the bunk above him—the dull gray of unpolished chrome, the monotony of the pattern in the support lattice.

  After a moment of silence, Cyclops said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you still technically in Rome’s employ?”

  “How?” Erick laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve no ship, no weapons, no goods, no crew, no contacts left alive, no port of call at Ceres, no… I’ve got nothing, Cyclops. Nothing for you.”

  “You have your breath.”

  “That’s not yours.”

  Cyclops sniffed. “I beg to differ.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad for you, isn’t it? In your big rush to save your super-secret weaponized mind-reader, you saved my only friend in the world. I’m betting she’s got my back if I walk away.”

  “Perhaps.”

  There was another stony silence.

  “Erick,” Cyclops said, his voice much quieter now. “Do you know the tale of the first Earth Emperor?”

  Erick groaned and rolled over onto his side. “I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “Just so. Emperor Reginald Dold, the first man to reign supreme over an entire planet.”

  “Didn’t he go mad? All that power, went to his head, scrambled things up?”

  “Some say so.”

  “Hm.”

  “Some say there were mitigating factors.”

  Erick sighed. Another storytime with Cyclops. Great. He shifted his weight and brought a knee up, trying to get comfortable. Cyclops, whose bunk was beside the wall console, reached over and dimmed the lights.

  “Bit dramatic,” Erick said, “don’t you think?”

  Cyclops sniffed. “I intend to sleep soon. And anyway, a little drama never hurt anything.”

  “Huh.”

  “Emperor Dold… yes, yes, he went mad, it’s quite true.”

  “Killed his own son before passing out and slipping away in a fit of remorse—isn’t that what they say?”

  “Some say so.” A silence. “But some are aware of the source of the immense wealth of the House of Dold.”

  “I’d have thought that was obvious. Political power.”

  “Nooo, no. One follows the other, but you’ve got them turned around. Dold bought his way to the throne, you know. His family had made their fortune long before he cemented his legacy. With Prophet.”

  The word cut through the air like a poisoned knife. It simultaneously made Erick want to hear more, and to stuff a pillow over Cyclops’ face and end him. Before they had gone for Wally’s sister, the word had meant nothing to him. An illegal drug he’d never seen. Now, it was shaping his every waking moment.

  “That was the genius of his fortune, his success, and his downfall.”

  Cogs turned in Erick’s head. “He was a user,” he said.

  “Just so. And a man with very little self-control. Tends to happen to those who find themselves in unchecked positions of power. In the end, Dold had little ambition for overseeing his planet, or caring for the colonies, or much of anything other than lying in bed and shooting himself up with as much of the stuff as he dared.”

  Erick, beginning to see where this was going, grew even grimmer than usual.

  “Care to guess what happened next?” Cyclops asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s alright; I like to tell it, anyway. Historians say he murdered his son because he was high, but it was more than that. Reginald had developed some unusual abilities, you see. He started doing things with his mind. Opening and closing doors. Levitating his dinner tray. Hearing people’s thoughts.”

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Those who know the truth say that the undoing of Reginald’s son stemmed from some treasonous thoughts he dared to have in his father’s presence. Probably nothing unusual for a royal—the sort of “what my reign will be like once this old fart has died and rotted” sort of fantasy—you know, things better left unsaid. But for Reginald, the thoughts seemed very real, very prescient, and very treacherous.”

  “So he killed him?”

  “Mmhm. Then, overcome with grief, he shot himself so full of Prophet that even his own highly acclimated system couldn’t handle the load. He winked out in a storm of the stuff. Our only eyewitness account of his passing—handed down from a servant, of course—says that he was actually floating in the air over his bed before he died. I mean, levitating. Like a wizard.” He chuckled. “Like magic.”

  Erick’s thoughts went to Rylea. Could she levitate, he wondered? Was he witnessing the dawn of something like a fairytale? He shook his head, trying to clear it. He wondered how she was handling the strain of hearing everyone’s private thoughts. Better than Emperor Dold had, he hoped.

  ---

  He slept fitfully. When he had woken, washed his face, and pilfered the pantry for something to eat—ration bars, the backbone of interplanetary travel—he found the two of them up in the cockpit.

  “How goes the hunt?” he asked, leaning against the back wall. Rylea and Cyclops each sat in one of the chairs.

  “You’re just in time,” Cyclops said. “Have a look.”

  His voice betrayed an eagerness that made Erick uneasy, just as everything else about the man. Erick glanced at Rylea. She seemed uneasy, too. He looked at the console screen and saw a tiny flurry of blips ahead. Cyclops swiped at the controls, pulling up the front cam view and magnifying the zoom factor. Erick sucked in air through his teeth.

  There were two ships, both of a decent size, probably mid-sized battleships, he thought. One of them was covered in guns like a porcupine. Rome, he wondered? Looked like their handiwork. It still had some maneuverability, but was obviously in trouble.

  The other ship was on its last legs. A little smaller, without nearly as many armaments, and with more holes in its belly than there were pock-marks in the moon, it looked dead in space. The reason why made Erick’s blood run cold. The space around and between the ships was alive with the dancing drone-swarm. They passed in and out of the hull of the smaller ship freely.

  “We’re getting closer,” Erick said. It wasn’t a question.

  “That is correct,” Cyclops said.

  Erick looked from him to Rylea. “Why are we getting closer? Those things will eat through this hopper in seconds. We’ll get spaced before we even know what’s going on!”

  “Patience, Erick!” Cyclops said.

  It’s ok, Rylea said in his mind. Trust me.

  Erick thought of Emperor Dold taking Prophet, murdering his son, floating over his bed, collapsing in a heap of sweat and vomit.

  Trust me.

  Three of the drones broke away from the swarm and shot out to meet them. They fell into a tight V-formation on their way. Rylea closed her eyes and reached out with her hands.

  The drones, spinning and slicing through spac
e, suddenly froze in place.

  Chapter 12

  Gavin was going to die.

  He made his peace with it as best he could. He’d fight to his last breath, but he could read the signs well enough to know that none of them were walking off this ship alive.

  He’d left the bridge in chaos. He was useless there. Klaxons sounded and lights flashed red throughout the ship, but at least on his was to the armory he didn’t feel useless. He knew what he needed to do.

  Arm himself. For his last stand.

  As soon as he got there, he saw her. She was racked on the far wall, up at shoulder-height. A full Cobra, not those half-strength pieces of crap you might run into on the black market. “Civs,” he mumbled. They just didn’t understand. He reached up and lifted her from the rack, feeling the weight of her, letting her sink into him, coming home.

  This gun was an army unto herself. Phasing blasters for near-perpetual blast shot, up to three minutes continuous firing before she needed a recharge, and a rotating charge pod for quick reloads. Dual sights, one for “short” range (anything up to five-hundred meters) and one for anything farther than that, made it effectively both a monstrous hand-gun and an equal to a light ship’s gun. He slipped into the torso harness that hung from the stock. “Hello, girl,” he murmured, powering her on. She all but purred in his hands.

  The hatch slid open and Agents Van and Bryan rushed in, eyeing him for a moment.

  Bryan coughed. “I see you’ve met Stella.”

  “Stella?”

  He nodded at the prodigious weapon strapped to Gavin. Gavin smiled at the gun. “Hello, Stella.”

  Van wasted no time pulling blasting rifles from the wall. She handed two to Bryan, then took two for herself, one hanging from each shoulder. She also took a lighter phasing gun, not quite so impressive-looking as Stella, but still a formidable looking weapon.

  “You boys done objectifying Stella?”

  Bryan frowned. “But… she’s an object, Van.”