Ghosts & Ashes

by F. T. Lukens

  PRAISE FOR

  THE STAR HOST

  F.T. LUKENS

  “Lukens writes a satisfying balance of action and romance in a science fiction setting that will feel familiar to fans of the genre…. Add this title to young adult sci-fi collections, and expect readers to eagerly anticipate the next book in the series.”

  —School Library Journal

  “I continued my science fiction kick with a YA novel I have been eyeing for quite some time. The Star Host by F.T. Lukens hooked me from the blurb. It still hasn’t let me go, and I finished reading it hours ago. I want more… like right, the heck now. I need more Asher and Ren in my life. You need more Asher and Ren in your lives.”

  —Prism Book Alliance

  “The short version is that this book is amazing, and I am hard-pressed to be more coherent than ASKLJFDAH and OMGFLAIL.”

  —D.E Atwood, author, If We Shadows

  Copyright © 2017 F.T. Lukens

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-18-4 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-31-3 (ebook)

  Published by Duet, an imprint of Interlude Press

  http://duetbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book design and Cover illustrations by CB Messer

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  To the heroes of sci-fi—past, present, and future

  When your bow is broken and your last arrow spent, then shoot, shoot with your whole heart.

  —Zen saying

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  In all the days Ren spent dreaming about leaving his home planet and venturing to the stars, his imagination had never conjured a scenario like this.

  “What do you think?” Penelope asked, holding up two shirts. “The blue or the black?” Her fingers curled over the stiff collars, and the fabric wrinkled under her grip. Her lips pulling tight over her teeth, she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “The black,” Jakob said, from his position on Ren’s bunk. He lounged on his elbows with his booted feet dangling over the edge. “It’s subdued.”

  “But the blue matches Ren’s eyes,” Penelope said. Then she bit her lip, realizing her misstep. “Or… well… the black then.”

  Ren’s small room on the Star Stream was crowded with the three of them in there, but he couldn’t begrudge the company of his friends. They thought they were helping.

  Ren leaned against the wall, dressed in his sleep clothes with his dark hair hanging in his face. He was half-awake; his senses were fogged, and he was processing slower than usual. The rumble of the ship vibrated through the soles of his bare feet and settled in his middle, where it soothed the pinpricks of panic that were starting to well within him.

  He took the shirt Penelope handed him. “Thank you.”

  “Now, how about trousers?” She opened the small chest of drawers in Ren’s room and rooted about.

  Jakob yawned. “Weeds, Pen, I think Ren can dress himself.”

  “Yes,” she said. She pulled out a tan pair and shook them. “But we want to make sure he is at his best for this meeting.”

  Ren raised an eyebrow. “General VanMeerten isn’t going to care about my clothes.”

  “No,” Jakob agreed. “She’s going to be more interested in the circles under your eyes and that you’re awfully pale for a duster.”

  “We’ve been in space for months. Of course I’m pale.” Ren didn’t mention the nightmares, the anxiety attacks, or the call of the ship—all of which contributed to his appearance and his mental state.

  Jakob sat up and crossed his arms. “I know. Speaking of, are you going to ask today?”

  The shirt fluttered from Ren’s slack fingers. His mouth went dry. His pulse ticked up.

  “Tact, Jakob,” Penelope said, picking up the shirt and smoothing it. She folded it and placed it on Ren’s pillow, next to the trousers and a pair of socks.

  Ren licked his lips and focused his gaze on the floor. “I don’t know. I don’t think… It was hard enough to…” Ren trailed off.

  Frowning, Jakob nodded. “Right.” He took a breath. “Sorry,” he added, his tone softer.

  Ren lifted his head and managed to give Jakob a conciliatory half-smile.

  “I think we should leave Ren to getting dressed. Asher will be here soon, I’m sure.”

  Ren’s heart clenched; the smile dropped from his face.

  Jakob stood and stretched his hands over his head. He yawned again, acting as tired as Ren felt. “Sounds good to me. I need a nap.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “Come on then. See you later, Ren.”

  “Good luck, buddy,” Jakob said, clapping his hand hard on Ren’s shoulder. “Try to keep the power under wraps.”

  “Tact,” Penelope said again, as they left the room. She closed the door softly behind them.

  Ren took a few calming breaths before crossing the small space and fingering the fabric of the shirt. It slid through his fingers, slick and cool, and finer than anything Ren had ever owned before. His new clothes were gifts—thank-yous from Asher’s mother for bringing him home from the prison cell.

  Ren shook his head and squinched his eyes shut to banish the memories before they could interlace and overwhelm him.

  He padded to his connected bathroom and washed as fine tremors snaked up his body and into his hands. He dressed, sat on the edge of his bed, and tapped his foot against the deck plate. He stood again; his potential energy demanding to be kinetic.

  Ren paced. He stalked the length of his cell—no, his room—it was his room on the Star Stream. He had to remember that. He couldn’t become mired in memories, not now, not this time.

  He shook his head and pressed his palms against his ears to try to silence his swirling thoughts, but they mounted, escalating into a cacophony. Panic choked him, and his inhale sounded reedy. His body was a live wire, a string pulled taut. His muscles were tense, and he shook out his hands to release the excess energy.

  He hated these meetings. He hated waiting for these meetings.

  Standing in front of General VanMeerten, the senior Phoenix Corps member who decided his fate, was nerve wracking, even when Ren was well. But now that he wasn’t well, the daily meetings were worse—so much worse.

  He grabbed his brown hair, tugged on the long strands, and focused on the pain to drown out the fear. He needed to be grounded in his body, not tangled in the ship. He needed an anchor. He needed Asher, but…

  Ren pressed his fingers against his eyelids while visions and memories flashed through the black. He took another breath, shorter, gasping. Dread was a crushing weight on his chest. Bile crawled up his throat. Terror twisted his insides. His breathing was too rapid; he was on the edge of hyperventilating. The scope of his vision darkened on its edges. His heart pounded.

  Ren’s legs gave out, and he fell heavily to the deck plate; his knees banged on the metal. He hunched, wheez
ing, feeling as if he was drowning on land. He pressed his sweaty hands to the floor, took comfort in the thrum of the ship, and allowed his senses to fuzz out.

  * * *

  The blaring of alarms wrenched Ren out of the panic attack. It was quickly followed by the sound of someone pounding at his door and calling his name. The voice was frantic, hoarse, and painfully familiar.

  Cheek pressed to the floor, heart beating hard in his ears, Ren came back to himself. Drenched in sweat, he panted as he rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He took a moment to remember where he was; the fog of panic was thick in his head. In the glow of emergency lights and the red flash of claxons, he saw taped above him the stupid picture of a spaceship Jakob had drawn. The reminder jolted Ren to the present.

  He was on the Star Stream. He was safe. He was safe. Well, relatively so, if the alarms were any indication.

  Ren’s chest was tight and his throat was raw, as if he’d been screaming. Maybe he had been. His grasp of reality was tenuous recently. Taking stock, Ren noted the air was cold in his lungs and on his skin—it tasted stale. That wasn’t right.

  Oh, yes, the alarms. Something was wrong with the ship. He could fix it. Untangling his consciousness, Ren pulled his attention to the situation at hand.

  Damp shirt twisted around his body, he sat up and pressed his palm to the metal of the hull by the comm. He entered the systems and found the problem instinctively. Life support was failing, the air recyclers had stopped, oxygen levels were falling rapidly, and the temperature had dropped to freezing.

  Ren fixed the glitch and restored power to the systems that had been blocked. The high-pitched whine of the ship’s warning system was replaced by the rapid cadence of a fist striking the door.

  “Ren! Ren! Can you hear me?”

  Asher.

  There was a time when Asher’s voice, his presence, his touch, could snap Ren back to his corporeal self. A remnant of that remained, but it was a memory, an echo.

  The deck plate was cold against the soles of Ren’s bare feet when he stood, and his skin prickled with goosebumps. How had it become so cold so quickly? How long had he been out? What had he done to the ship?

  With a thought, Ren sent a blast of heat through the air vents to all the crew areas as an apology.

  He crossed the room to open the door. The lock disengaged without Ren touching it. Asher stood on the other side. His fist was raised in mid-movement, and Ren was certain only Asher’s military training kept him from accidentally punching Ren in the nose.

  “I’m all right,” Ren said.

  Asher dropped his hand. “That’s debatable.” His breath puffed out in a cloud.

  Ren nodded and pushed his hair from his eyes. It fell right back. “Is everyone okay?”

  Asher leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. His muscles bulged. His cheeks had flushed from the cold; twin lines of pink showed along his cheekbones. He looked tired when he raised his eyebrows. Ren saw smudges of blue under his eyes. He frowned. “I assume so. The alarms stopped. That means everything is fixed. Right?”

  Ren shrugged. “I don’t think the crew is going to die gasping if that’s what you mean.”

  Gasping.

  Ren took a step back, and rubbed his chest. Gasping. The word triggered a sense memory from the attack, of Ren not being able to breathe, of not being able to get air.

  “Ren,” Asher said, expression going soft. “Are you okay?” He reached out but stopped, curling his fingers in toward his palm.

  Lost in the implications, Ren stared at the aborted movement. He nodded. “I felt like I was drowning.”

  “Ah, that… makes a morbid kind of sense.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ren pulled at the collar of his shirt because he found the fabric suffocating, and then he shivered as sweat dried on the back of his neck and left him cold. His skin tingled. “I couldn’t breathe and I guess I made it so the rest of you couldn’t either. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. Did anyone see?”

  “It wasn’t on the vid screens this time.”

  Okay, that was… okay. A small victory, at least.

  The comm by Ren’s door crackled to life.

  “Shipwide,” Rowan’s voice cut through the static. “Everyone okay?”

  Ren listened intently as a chorus of voices rang out over the comm system. Penelope and Jakob were fine in the common room. Lucas shouted through from his bunk. Ollie and Millicent answered from the cargo bay.

  Asher pressed the small button next to Ren’s door. “Ren and Ash checking in. All is well.”

  “That’s questionable,” Rowan said. “But all right. As you were, everyone. Except you, Ren. Let’s try not to break any other valuable parts of the ship today.”

  Ren stretched out with a shaking hand and hit the comm. “Noted, Captain.”

  “Rowan out.”

  Asher fidgeted in the doorway. He reached out again, but paused, retreated, and clasped his hands behind him. He straightened and pulled his shoulders back.

  Asher cleared his throat. “Your top button is undone.”

  Ren’s shirt had pulled from his trousers. His hair was a mess. He knew he had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. And Asher worried over a button, as if that was the one detail stopping General VanMeerten from taking Ren from the Star Stream and locking him away.

  “Thanks.” Ren raised shaking hands and fumbled with the buttonhole.

  After a moment, Asher stepped closer. “Here. Let me.”

  Ren dropped his hands. If they waited for his fingers to stop trembling, they’d be late to the meeting. At the thought, his breath caught.

  Asher’s fingers were strong and firm but cold when they grazed the skin of Ren’s neck. He smoothed a wrinkle over Ren’s collarbone.

  “There.”

  “Am I presentable now?” Ren’s voice was a croak.

  Asher assessed him. “We have time for you to freshen up.”

  So, Ren looked like absolute hell. Asher was gracious enough not to say it outright this time.

  Despite the early hour, Asher wore his uniform. The crisp black fabric did wonders for his muscular frame. The symbol of the Phoenix Corps blazed on the outside of his upper arm—a stylized red bird rising from flames with wings outstretched. Ren stared at it. Though it was an image that had intrigued Ren when he was a child sneaking into his mother’s things, and later had awed Ren when Asher wore it, he had begun to resent it. It invaded every aspect of his life, and sometimes he wished he’d never laid eyes on it.

  Ren went back into his room and into the en-suite bathroom. Asher sat on Ren’s bunk.

  “Have you slept recently?”

  Ren grasped the sink with both hands. “No,” he admitted. “Nightmares.”

  “Yes, we know.”

  Ren cleaned his gritted teeth and ignored the mirror, which reflected a person with bloodshot eyes shadowed by dark circles. He checked them and was relieved to see their familiar brown color and not the blue he’d seen far too often. He tried to fix his hair, which was much longer than it had ever been; its ends curled under his ears and at the nape of his neck. He gave up, and a lock of hair fell into his face. His wayward hair might hide how tired he looked, but he doubted it. VanMeerten watched him like a hawk at each report. Nothing slid past her sharp gaze.

  “Was it a nightmare this time?”

  Ren washed his face with a cloth. “No. Panic attack.”

  “I’m sorry,” Asher said.

  Ren peered around the bathroom doorframe. “If I didn’t have to stand in front of a vid screen every day and prove I’m not a threat to the Drift Alliance maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Not this again,” Asher muttered. He placed his hands on the bed and tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. Spying Jakob’s spaceship drawing, he snorted. “I don’t want to have
this discussion.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Asher sighed. He rolled his shoulder. “I won’t be drawn into an argument.”

  “It’s not an argument.”

  “It is an argument. It’s one we have had daily for the past three months. It’s the reason we’re not…” Asher trailed off. He looked away, staring at the doorframe.

  Ren swallowed the lump in his throat. Asher’s profile was as beautiful as the day he’d met him in the dungeon back on Erden. Then, he had been dirty and scruffy, and Ren had thought him handsome. Now, he was clean-shaven, and Ren had an unhindered view of the line of his strong jaw, the slope of his nose, and the beautiful green of his eyes. He was ethereal. He looked like an angel who had stepped out of myth. But he was a man, a soldier, and, on occasion, he was Ren’s friend. A few short months ago, they had been on the brink of more. But it was difficult to be more when Asher was his handler and Ren was desperately trying not to be a threat to his friends. He was failing. His panic attack and the subsequent attempt to suffocate the crew was evidence—the latest in a mounting pile.

  Ren’s heart ached. “You’re right. It is an argument and it is a reason.”

  Asher’s gaze flicked back to Ren, and Ren read the naked hurt. “We need to go.”

  “I need another minute.”

  Asher pursed his lips, but didn’t argue.

  Ren sat on the bed; the mattress dipped from his weight. Avoiding distraction, he maintained a careful distance from Asher. His body sagged.

  Ren put his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands across his face. He focused on his breathing, the inhale and exhale of air, the expansion and contraction of his lungs. He concentrated on the feel of the material of his shirt against his skin, the weight of his body, the deck plate beneath his feet. He flexed his muscles; his body was sore and stiff from a series of restless nights. Pressing the tips of two fingers against his neck, Ren counted the beats of his pulse until they slowed and he was certain he had slotted completely back into his body.

  The cataloguing of sensation had become a ritual, a way for Ren to know where he was, who he was. He needed it, especially when he woke up so often now emerging from vivid dreams, muddled from images and emotions, and partially tangled within the ship. Reality was fluid. Ren was both man and star, human and not, and some mornings, like this one, it was difficult for Ren to discern what he needed to be. Before, Asher’s presence, his voice, his touch could bring Ren back, could pull him from the thrall of the machines. But he couldn’t continue to rely on Asher anymore. “I’m ready now.”