Star Bridge (Chaterre Trilogy Book 1)

by Jeanne Foguth

  Star Bridge

  Copyright 2014 Jeanne Foguth

  Published by Jeanne Foguth at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Books by Jeanne Foguth

  Connect with Jeanne Foguth

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my faithful beta readers, without whom my work would have 'rogue commas' and 'renegade spelling', not to mention strange formatting anomalies. Thank you, Kensleigh, Robin, Paul, Kaj, and Debbie, I don't know what I would do without you grammar-nazis.

  Thank you also to Kiara Graham for her prowess with digital design.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Published, except where permitted by law.

  Cataloging in Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  Chapter One

  Larwin dreamed of sun-drenched meadows bending in the breeze around a glistening pond. He removed his spacesuit and walked barefoot to the water’s edge. Heart pounding with anticipation at the unheard of luxury of immersion in water, he paused on the shore. As he raised his foot to step into the pond, squeals of twisting metal jerked him awake. Horns shrieked. Messages screamed from the every corner of his space-fighter.

  DANGER HULL BREACH

  WARNING

  EXCEEDING HULL SPEED LIMITATIONS

  LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS FAILING

  Larwin shook free of the cloying remnants of his dream. “What in Radzuk did you do to my ship?”

  “Debris damaged the starboard thruster,” GEA-4 said.

  He grabbed the gyrating command-stick and re-centered it. Then, he carefully counted off the seconds. “A-thousand-1, a-thousand-2, a-thousand-3,-” A matte-black empty space in the center of his viewscreen and GEA-4’s snow-white reflection were the only fixed things in the wildly whirling cockpit. Moment by moment the blackness grew in size. I’m going to crash on whatever that is. “A-thousand-4, a-thousand-5, a-thousand-6,-” Every fiber in his body wanted to do something, now, to bring the ship out of its spin, but the only way to recover from this type of situation took patience. “A-thousand-7, a-thousand-8, a-thousand-9,-” The circular dome of Larwin’s environmental uniform fogged. Sweat burned his eyes. The space-fighter’s roll began to stabilize, but the rock-solid blackness centered before him now took up more than half the viewscreen.

  “Colonel Atano, you are on a collision course with a planetoid.” GEA-4’s voice sounded sensuous as a wet dream. “Alter course to trajectory Delta-one.” He glanced to his right. Her silver-clad. petite, curvy body looked lush, where her regulation jumpsuit covered it, but her stark white synthetic epidermis looked dead. Obviously the android’s designers either had been dealing with a cost issue when they had failed to add color to the plastoid covering or they had liked white. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the viewscreen. GEA’4’s eerie silver eyes seemed to stare at him as her shoulder-length hair brushed back and forth across her silver-clad shoulders.

  A-thousand-10, a-thousand-11, a-thousand-12. “What do you think I’m trying to do?” Larwin said through gritted teeth. He continued to count silently. At a-thousand-19, he eased back the pressure. Though the control stick moved freely, the Pterois Volitan continued to rocket toward the black orb. If he knew what the damned prototype had done, perhaps he could correct it. “What happened to my ship?”

  “When The Shimmel exploded, debris damaged the starboard thruster.”

  Shimmel? His hands clenched inside his thick, black gloves at the mention of the high commander’s ship being anywhere near the quadrant. Everyone knew The Shimmel had been moored in the Baleen Maintenance Facility for repairs after the pounding it had taken during the Frieberg Revolt. “Of all the infernal, malfunctioning, stupid,” Larwin muttered. “If I survive I’ll vaporize your designer. He or she should have spent less time on your voice and more on your prudence program.”

  Larwin raised a fist and looked for something to hit, but the android looked too much like a woman. Worse, all the gray surfaces within reach were covered with delicate bubble-ports, LEDs and readout boards. He had enough trouble; giving in to anger would only make his situation worse.

  Assuming that anything could make it more serious.

  The android’s competency encoding should have had priority over the mold-makers and speech programmers.

  He gripped the command-stick in a strangle-hold, wishing he’d never trusted the programmers. Wishing he could throttle them. Wishing he’d never succumbed to sleep.

  “Colonel Atano, your course alteration was inadequate. Collision will occur in five point three six minutes. Five point three five minutes. Five-”

  “Shut up!”

  He moved the command-stick to the left. Nothing happened.

  Larwin pressed the starboard thruster’s activator. Nothing.

  He punched it a second time. Still no response.

  He hit the port thruster. An ominous rumbling sent a chill down his spine. Then the circuit light for hull pressure burst in a tiny red spurt.

  The space fighter tilted left. Not good. Then, it slowly rotated around, as it dove toward the planetoid. He blinked sweat out of his eyes. Instead of featureless blackness, the viewscreen now showed jagged black mountainous ridges and uneven plains.

  His suit’s air supply smelled like bile.

  GEA-4 ticked off seconds until impact.

  Larwin turned and glared at the malfunctioning piece of scrap metal. “Some Anthropoid-Guide you are. Experimental version four be damned. If you’re the latest and greatest, I’d hate to have tested your predecessors.”

  “...Four point zero six minutes. Four...”

  The starboard thruster’s red light LED burst sending tiny red shards across the control panel. The oxygen sensor’s LED blew. Then like miniature fireworks discharging at the climax of a light show, the entire array erupted. Within a heartbeat, the interior filled with plastoid splinters.

  At least the cockpit’s ominous crimson glow had plunged into darkness. Though black didn’t look much more promising than red.

  “...Four point zero minutes. Three...”

/>   Though the softness of GEA-4’s voice could barely be discerned over the din of the warning sirens and the wailing of Pterois Volitan’s overstressed hull, the G-series’ sultry tones were all Larwin heard as pressure and blackness encompassed him. He’d never imagined dying while listening to the android count off the last hundredths of a minute to his existence.

  Larwin quit fighting the inevitable. Closing his eyes, Larwin forced himself to think of his limited future. Then, he dedicated his essence to the Creator. Next, he petitioned Kues, the God of War, for a quick, painless death and an honorable reception. If Larwin had been telepathic, like his mother, he would have sent a message to her, but he wasn’t, so he couldn’t.

  “...Point zero three minutes...”

  At least he’d died on duty.

  “...Point zero two minutes...”

  The hull sounded like madrox claws were ripping it asunder.

  “...Point zero one minutes...”

  Larwin sensed a sudden decompression and knew he’d never see a meadow or swim in a lake.

  Then the ship tilted sharply to port. He hung by his flight-harness and waited for the hull to collapse. Death waited a moment before the Pterois Volitan imploded.

  Black oblivion engulfed him.

  ~0~

  Nimri tilted her head back and studied the harsh face of Sacred Mountain. Her marrow-deep sense of foreboding intensified. No one in her lifetime had ever returned from the holy journey.

  As the sun dipped toward the treetops, a balmy breeze fanned the perspiration from her forehead. Oblivious to the mingled scents of mint, pine and rich humus, Nimri weighed the consequences of predestination. She shook her head at the thought of the impossible task she’d been dealt. Then, rubbing the aching muscles at the back of her neck, she gazed around her high plateau garden, pausing over each patch of medicinal plants.

  This may be my last look.

  She knelt among the foliage, burdened by the worry that she didn’t have the courage to keep the promise she’d given her great-grandfather, Rolf. Burdened by the anxiety that even if she tried, she’d fail to carry his ashes to the holy grove at Sacred Mountain’s peak. Burdened by the knowledge that her best had never been good enough for Rolf while he lived and it wouldn’t be good enough now.

  Yet, she dare not disobey for fear he would rise as a vengeful spirit and seek retribution for the broken oath.

  Since she had no mystic power, which would make it possible for her to fulfill her destiny, death by avenging spirit might be the best alternative.

  She collapsed onto the fragrant ground-cover. If only she had never been born – at least not born a Tramontain, the last Tramontain in the ancient line, which made it impossible for her to avoid her hereditary duty. She sighed. How could she serve and protect her Tribe, when she couldn't even protect herself? Nimri tried to swallow the knot of misery in her throat.

  The lump didn’t budge.

  A pine-bough waved across the face of the sun. Even the plants, which had been her one certainty, were mocking her. She closed her eyes.

  The combination funeral and induction ceremony would begin at sunset. She wished she could hold the sun in the sky, as her great-grandfather had. Her heart thudded frantically against her ribs.

  She knew the healing powers of plants, but no one really valued the small bit of knowledge she had. Worse, those that remembered her great-aunt Violet, still looked at her feeble attempts to cure and asked when she would learn to myst-mend.

  Even if she had learned the lost art, with her great-grandfather gone, it wouldn’t be enough to save her Tribe.

  Tears burned her closed eyelids. The pain of failure wracked her body. Nimri rolled into a fetal position and shuddered.

  Surely, she would die before dusk.

  But if she did, she doomed her Tribe.

  If she didn’t, they were still doomed.

  Tears scalded wet trails down her cheeks and saturated the aromatic thyme.

  Wind gusted against her back. Her white ceremonial robe whipped her shins like a lash. The current of air also brought distant voices.

  “What are we going to do without Rolf?” a high-pitched voice asked.

  If she died, now, she would only be the first of many. And she would pass on without even trying. Nimri summoned her waning strength and rose to her knees. She feebly wiped away her tears, but she couldn’t rub out the throbbing pain in her chest. She crawled to a foxglove plant, plucked a leaf, and laid back down as she chewed it. Slowly, the spasms subsided.

  No one else knew how to make the medicines the Tribe needed. If she died, that meager bit of knowledge would be lost.

  Heart steadier, Nimri rolled onto her back and squinted past the treetops. The gloom deepened. Still, the rugged face of Sacred Mountain seemed to mock her. What were they going to do without her great-grandfather?

  “Who will protect us?” A child’s distant voice whined, as if reading her thoughts.

  “N-ri,” a woman’s wind-buffeted voice answered.

  Nimri's heart gave a panicked lurch. She gasped and clutched her chest. If only she could protect them. “Auuuuuuughhhhhhhhhh!” Her high-pitched keening startled birds from the surrounding trees.

  “How come we need a–a–a whatever?” the child whined.

  “A Keeper of the Peace,” a deep voice said.

  Searing pain exploded in Nimri’s gut. She rolled over, landing face-first in mother-of-thyme.

  “Old Rolf never even come down ta’ the village, how come he was so important?”

  “Seen or not, the Lost knew Rolf was watching.” The bass voice sounded confident.

  “For now they wait until they find out if the rumors of his illness are true.” Zurgon’s contralto tones were unmistakable. “Once they discover he’s dead, they will attack.”

  “Isn’t Cartwright as powerful as Rolf?” a soprano asked.

  “He’s stronger,” a tenor said. “I don’t understand why Cartwright hasn’t given the Lost his blessing before now. I’ve been prepared for an attack since Rolf became ill.”

  The child wailed.

  Nimri gagged.

  “Don’t listen to Talon,” said Pearl’s unmistakable singsong voice. “Fighting isn’t always the way. Cartwright knows that, just as our peacekeepers always have.”

  “Before he left this realm, Rolf assured me that Nimri would be a worthy Keeper of the Peace,” Zurgon said.

  “But how can she carry the Staff of Protection and be our healer, too?” Pearl asked.

  Pain wrapped Nimri in suffocating coils of knowledge that she could not kill to save them any more than she could myst-mend.

  “No woman will be able to protect us from the Lost,” Talon said. “Since Rolf’s illness they’ve tested our defenses. They found my farm invincible, but what about the soft-muscled merchants? What will happen when they’re tested?”

  “There have only been petty paybacks when the sellers bartered defective merchandise. No one has been hurt.” Nimri recognized Tansy’s hesitant voice. “Some of the Lost are nice.”

  Talon’s guffaw sounded disparaging.

  The breeze died and with it, the conversation, but Nimri could still imagine shy Tansy cowering under Talon's condescending look.

  “Rolf assured me Nimri would be a worthy Keeper of the Peace.” She shivered at the lie. How could she protect her Tribe, when she couldn’t even protect herself?

  At least she could die trying to keep her vow. Nimri pushed herself upright and glared at Sacred Mountain’s imposing granite face.

  If she kept the vow she’d made to her great-grandfather, she had to climb that rock. Head tilted back so far that her long dark braid nearly hit the grass; Nimri stared upward at the impossibly high, smooth rock face which she had promised to climb. Bile rose in her throat. Tomorrow she would die. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Rolf assured me Nimri would be a worthy Keeper of the Peace.” Why had her great-grandfather demanded the vow? To test her? If by some unexpected fate, she p
assed the test, would she be worthy to hold the Staff of Protection? The twisted black staff, which focused power, seemed impossibly slick to hold, but Bryta, who had no more myst power than a frog, picked it up with ease.

  If she failed, would death come quickly?

  Did it matter?

  Nimri struggled to her feet and squared her shoulders.

  Behind her, a door groaned open and soft footfalls padded across the garden path. Moments later Kazza, her feline companion, rubbed against her thigh, nearly knocking her over. Nimri placed her palm on the back of his neck to steady herself. Energy seeped into her. She tickled the base of Kazza’s tufted ear and the inner pain receded further.

  Kazza purred deep within his massive six-hundred-pound body.

  Nimri breathed in through her nose, then out through her mouth as she stroked Kazza’s powerful gold, black, and white striped flanks. His tail wrapped around her waist in a companionable caress.

  “You left the door open.” Bryta’s accusation carried across the garden.

  Kazza snorted. Nimri tickled his ribs, as she turned away from the sheer rock to look at the only home she could remember. The spiral-shaped house twisted around and around the sequoia as if part of the tree.

  “You could learn to close doors if you wanted to,” Bryta taunted the feline from the kitchen window.

  Kazza’s ears flattened and his tail slapped Nimri’s leg.

  Bryta slammed the kitchen door, which was at the base of the series of chambers connected by stairs that spiraled upward around the massive trunk of the millennium-old sequoia at the garden’s center.

  Nimri gave Kazza a final caress, then trod over the dragon-grass covered path to her surrogate mother.

  “They’re coming.” Nimri swung her knee-length black braid back over her shoulder. Bryta looked at her, as if she were a mud-covered two-year-old. Nimri looked down; green stains splotched her robe.

  “More than the high council?” Bryta’s pudgy hands flicked away a leaf. She looked ready to drag her into the kitchen for a bath, but the wind brought more voices. “You must learn to rectify your appearance.” Bryta shook her head, at the untidiness, then touched her own silvery halo of braid as if to assure herself that at least she looked presentable. “With position comes responsibility. Not grass stains.”