Starfire

by B. V. Larson

  SF Books by B. V. Larson:

  The Undying Mercenaries Series:

  Steel World

  Dust World

  Tech World

  STAR FORCE SERIES:

  (In chronological order)

  Swarm

  Extinction

  Rebellion

  Conquest

  Army of One (Novella published in Planetary Assault)

  Battle Station

  Empire

  Annihilation

  Storm Assault

  The Dead Sun

  Outcast

  Exile

  OTHER SF BOOKS:

  Element-X

  Technomancer

  The Bone Triangle

  Z-World

  Velocity

  Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

  STARFIRE

  by

  B. V. Larson

  and Thomas LeMay

  Copyright © 2014 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 0

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 0

  “Landing in sixty seconds,” said a dispassionate voice. “Initiate final harness checks.”

  Lev’s eyes rolled up, and he stared through the only triangular window he could see. Vapors roiled outside. Troika was venting something.

  “T-minus thirty seconds.”

  The ship shook with uneven acceleration and rolled over, aiming its belly toward the alien world outside.

  The shaking increased as the ship thrust hard to slow itself. Lev gripped the armrests of his chair.

  “T-minus fifteen seconds… All systems green.”

  Lev’s teeth were showing now. He knew that, but he couldn’t help it. His heart pounded and sweat crawled in his hair like insects.

  “Ten…”

  “Nine…”

  Something touched his arm. It was Kira, reaching out to him. He twisted against his harness, and they looked at one another, their eyes only barely able to meet due to the curvature of their closed helmets.

  “Six…”

  “Five…”

  He clasped Kira’s hand. She relaxed and lay back. He did the same.

  “Three…”

  “Two…”

  “Ground contact…emergency—”

  The ship heaved and a crashing roar struck them. Lev knew then, truly knew, that he was dead.

  Kira gripped his hand with fingers like iron bands, and she didn’t let go.

  “I do not know what I seem to the world, but to myself I appear to have been like a boy playing upon the seashore and diverting myself by now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay before me all undiscovered.”

  —Sir Isaac Newton, 1727 (his last words)

  Chapter 1

  Aptos, California

  Morning

  Dr. Jacqueline Linscott—Jackie to her friends—answered her doorbell. Before she got there, the person who’d pushed the button had already left. Looking down, she discovered a package that was wrapped in brown paper and sealed with two plastic bands.

  She knew at a glance that she’d have to cut those bands. They were the tough kind that resisted every effort to tear them apart or pull them off. Picking up the package, she turned to head back inside—but she stopped. Some part of her mind had read the address on the package. 1351 San Miguel.

  That wasn’t right. That was her neighbor’s address, not hers. There was no name on the label to clarify the situation, either. The return address was equally obscure. Something about a “Care Center” in Oakland.

  Jackie frowned. This had happened before, but not often. San Miguel Road was winding, narrow and steep down here near the sea. Her house sat at the foot of a cliff, nestled between the stony land and the Pacific Ocean’s waves, which were crashing rhythmically on the beach less than a hundred yards to her west. Jackie had often speculated that something about her remarkable location tended to rattle delivery people. She had plenty of experience with these matters, as she regularly ordered things online and had them delivered to her home.

  Whatever the cause, delivery people definitely screwed up now and then when they came to her house. Maybe they felt the urge to crane their necks to look past the row of mid-twentieth century bungalows to see the crashing waves. Or maybe the hanging plants and twisted pines that grew here in profusion blocked their view of the house numbers.

  Jackie’s home was the very last one on the road. After her place, there was nothing but the dead-end of the street, a weathered circle of asphalt to allow U-turns. The pavement there had more than its share of potholes, each of which had been filled in by sand blown up from the beach.

  She was wearing her jogging outfit, the same one she wore every day to run along the beach. Navy polyester shorts—not too tight—a matching windbreaker for the September weather and a pair of running shoes.

  She tucked the package under her arm and walked to the road itself. There was only one vehicle in sight at the far end of the street, a non-descript gray van that was already accelerating with the usual haste exhibited by all independent delivery drivers. As she watched, the van whipped around the bend and started the switchback route uphill to the top. She didn’t see any recognizable insignia that would give her a clue as to who she should call.

  Jackie shrugged and walked to her closest neighbor’s house. It was Tom Mackle’s place, a big
house with a big gruff man inside.

  Mackle was a lawyer and a blowhard. Like most engineering people, Jackie didn’t get along well with lawyers. She couldn’t imagine Mackle going online to order plastic junk from China—but it wasn’t any of her business.

  Reaching the door, Jackie paused. She didn’t like Mackle much. A few years back, there’d been an incident between them. A tree on the border between their properties had blown over and Mackle had sued her for the damages, despite the fact that the tree itself could’ve belonged to either of them.

  Her first thought was to simply set the package down and leave. She rejected this as cowardly. Her second plan was to ring the bell and walk off, disappearing just as the delivery people themselves always did.

  She almost did it—but then she spotted the camera. Round, white and ringed with sensors, it was aimed right at her. Of course Mackle would have security cameras. She wondered when he’d had them installed as she hadn’t noticed them before. They were small and discreet. There was a good chance the man had already spotted her on his monitor and was watching her with curiosity from the comfort of his kitchen. He had to be wondering what his chicken neighbor would do next.

  Flushing with embarrassment, Jackie pushed the doorbell button. Nothing happened for a second, so she did it again.

  Relief flooded her at the third try. Mackle wasn’t around. She put the package down and retreated. She’d almost made it back to her side of the property line when the door creaked open behind her.

  “What’s this?” Mackle boomed.

  Jackie turned and forced a smile. “It’s a package,” she said, “delivered to the wrong address.”

  Mackle glared down at the box as if it offended him.

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  Jackie shrugged. “It has your address on it.”

  Mackle eyed her for a long moment, then picked it up. “I hate these packing straps.”

  Jackie nodded with mock sympathy and got moving again, heading toward her door. Mackle looked after her as if he was about to say something else.

  Would he ask her inside? Would he offer some kind of apology for the lawsuit? They’d barely spoken for more than a year. She wondered if it was time to mend fences—literally—with Tom Mackle.

  Seeming to come to a decision, he stopped looking at her and turned his attention to the package. He produced a penknife, but didn’t cut the straps. He waved at her as he vanished inside, and she waved back.

  Jackie was both relieved and disappointed as she walked up to her door. Had she missed an opportunity? It was hard to be sure. She could’ve been friendlier, that was for certain. All throughout her long years of college and her professional life at various labs in Silicon Valley, she’d been hounded by countless people to be more inviting and approachable. Even though men found her attractive, she didn’t have a husband or even a steady boyfriend. Her mother worried about that constantly.

  What happened next was beyond Jackie’s experience. Her ears rang painfully, registering a terrific sound. Simultaneously, it seemed as if a tree had fallen from the cliffs above and smashed into her back. She was knocked flat onto her face. A wave of light and heat followed the initial blow, rolling over her and searing her bare legs.

  Gasping, she rolled onto her back and stared toward Mackle’s house. Her mind dully grasped the fact that an explosion had occurred. There was no other explanation.

  Mackle’s house had been badly damaged. The windows had blown out, and she thought a few glass splinters had found her. She had bloody spots on her legs.

  She got up unsteadily, watching in shock as the house flared into flame. Orange tongues soon licked from the lower floor’s windows up toward the second story. The house had been covered in decorative shingles of grayish-brown weathered wood. The fire greedily ate its way upward, climbing over the dry shingles that still clung to the building.

  When she was on her feet and her mind was functioning again, she looked for Tom Mackle. Maybe he’d been thrown clear. Maybe he was lying in the doorway and she could drag him free, preventing a horrible death. She circled around his small yard but didn’t see anyone, just fire and broken glass. She couldn’t get in close without being burned.

  Then a support gave way within the house. The second floor sagged down onto the first. She skipped backward into the road.

  The shingled house collapsed upon itself transforming into a burning ruin. Tom Mackle was surely dead. She stared at the scene from the roadway for a moment in shock before finally racing to get the garden hose. She battled the flames hopelessly alongside her neighbors until the fire trucks came whooping down the narrow lane to help.

  It all seemed like a dream, and throughout it all there was only one thought that kept ringing inside her head.

  What if I had opened that package?

  Chapter 2

  Northern Polar Icecap

  Day

  The ice was seemingly endless in its expanse. Lieutenant Lev Burkov looked south toward the dim sun, which hung near the horizon as it had for weeks. It was late “summer” in the Arctic, a time filled with blinding white light and deep cold. The combination caused a man’s breath to leave a frosty trail with every puff.

  Ice—there was nothing else to see. No trees, no rocks. There were different varieties of ice, of course. He’d learned to recognize them all and their significance.

  There was older, denser ice which was an aqua-blue. You usually only saw that kind of ice when a pressure ridge rose up like a shark’s tooth to display it. Then, there was the thinner white ice that was semi-aerated and which encrusted the older ice. Lastly there was the crust, little more than hard-packed snow, a thick layer of which sugared everything else on the vast ice sheets.

  Warily, Burkov continually scanned to the left and then to the right. His transport was supposed to be here already, but delays were nothing he wasn’t familiar with. Waiting was part of the Russian military—a big part. He’d waited in inhospitable spots for days before, patiently surviving until his transport had arrived. Today would be no exception.

  Dressed all in white, which made him almost invisible on the ice, Burkov wore a coverall-type freezer-suit on top of layered undergarments. Except for having to draw breath through a frosty scarf, he was quite comfortable and would remain so until he had to piss again. That would be problematic because the wind was blowing now, and he was hoping he could hold it until his transport arrived.

  He checked his GPS every twenty minutes or so, making sure he was at the correct spot. There was no error. He dropped to one knee and waited.

  One more visual check. Right, left, then directly over the shoulder. Nothing. Nothing but white ice and snow. He cursed mildly and turned south again, toward the small bright point of warmth known as the Sun.

  The first hint the situation had changed came about ten minutes later. He was daydreaming about St. Petersburg and wondering what Nika was up to back home. He’d spent a long time out on the ice, a long time away from home.

  The ice cracked. It was loud, alarming. At first, he thought maybe someone was shooting at him. Standing up, he walked in a quick circle—then he saw it. A web-work of cracks at his feet.

  Cursing, he stood up and began to run. He almost didn’t make it. The Akula-class attack sub broke through with shocking speed. A tower of groaning steel shot upward, a shower of crumbling white clumps falling from it. Burkov was struck by clods of ice which pelted his back and his head. He kept running, his footing uneven in his heavy boots and with the crusty snow crackling under him.

  When he’d moved thirty strides away, the noise behind him stopped, and he turned. They’d been given his GPS coordinates, and they were supposed to come up a hundred meters to the south. They had chosen to zero in on his exact position instead. Lazy, incompetent or malicious? He didn’t know, but he planned to find out.

  The hatch swung open, and a man came up, shrugging into a parka. Burkov didn’t move. Soon, the sub’s marines spotted him and shouted a
challenge. He answered and was waved forward to approach.

  His transport had finally arrived.

  A few minutes later he was inside the submarine. It felt like entering a blast furnace compared to the crystalline surface world.

  “Lieutenant,” nodded Captain Chendev. He was a short man with a huge nose and unpleasant teeth. “Welcome aboard Vepr.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  The two clasped hands and went below decks. Burkov had met the captain before, years back, but he was nothing like a friend. In fact, he didn’t like the man much.

  When they were alone, Burkov waited for Chendev to apologize for making him wait fourteen extra hours on the ice, then almost killing him—but that didn’t happen.

  “Our plans have changed,” Chendev said the moment they were alone. “We’re going down to the bottom. Now.”

  Burkov’s hopes of seeing home within days faded away. He wondered if he would ever get back to see his girlfriend Nika in St. Petersburg. They weren’t married, and she was younger than him—how long could he expect such a woman to wait?

  To him, any delay in returning home seemed unwarranted. He’d been out here doing surface reconnaissance for weeks and training before that for months. He’d grown tired of pretending to take measurements on ice thickness while he located and tampered with U. S. remote sensors. The Americans had placed hundreds of them on the ice over recent years to measure the effects of warming on the Arctic. The Americans had been curious as to why the northern icecap had melted so much more than the larger mass in the southern polar region.

  Russia’s generals had taken a dim view of this supposedly benign curiosity by the west. It had been Lev’s task to locate each transmitter and replace the batteries with weaker, dying batteries of the exact same model. That way, they would not fail all at once. A manufacturing defect would be assumed, and since reaching the remote devices was problematic, it may well be years before the devices were visited and put back into operation again. It was not a permanent fix, but it was almost untraceable sabotage that would give the Russian science teams a few more months at least, maybe longer. Hopefully, they could complete their studies under the sea by the time the Americans penetrated their secrecy.