by Chris Fox
Nara nodded. “I can handle that, but while we’ve got you here, and since we’re going to Ternus, I had something I wanted to address.” She glanced at Pickus too, as his input would be needed. “If we’re going to capitalize on this miracle, we need people to see it. This ship relies exclusively on magic, but we’re going to a system where the people are dead and the tech has been abandoned. We can take discarded cameras, drones, and transmitters and retrofit this ship to use both tech and magic. We can start broadcasting to everyone in the sector, to make sure they see you trying to save the sector.”
“I don’t like it.” Voria’s smile slipped. “But I admit the need. Pickus, is this something you can tend to?”
“Yeah. It will be nice to have a solvable problem, and I do miss working with tech. I’ll start getting crewes together. Sounds like we all got our work cut out for us.”
“That we do, Administrator, that we do.” Voria turned back to the mirror, a clear dismissal.
It was just as well. Nara had work to do.
10
Divine Terraforming
Voria appeared in the sky over a doomed world, the Spellship and the ragged remains of her fleet cupped in her hands as the translocation resolved. She stepped back, and took a moment to survey the system she’d arrived in.
It wasn’t the first time Voria had been to Ternus, but it was the first time she’d been here as a goddess. Her senses perceived so much more. Every life sign, no matter how microscopic. Every quanta, and every signal. The dizzying tapestry resolved into a simple perception of the universe around her, one she was already growing used to.
“Wow, kid, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” The Shade of Shaya materialized near Voria’s cheek, and she pointed down at Ternus, the world she’d come to save, if it could be done. “Those people are screwed. If you pull this off you’re going to have one heck of a fan club.”
Voria frowned slightly as she surveyed the rest of the system, including Ternus IV, the white world a good ways further into the system. “In my experience it’s best not to get attached to outcomes. The possibilities I’ve examined look promising, but if we successfully surprised Nebiat at Shaya, then there is no reason she can’t do the same to us here.”
“Or another god,” Shaya pointed out. “Talifax is out there.”
Voria was growing damnably tired of hearing that name. She drifted away from her fleet, toward the world she’d targeted to become the new Ternus homeworld. As she drew closer, she could feel the handful of life signs more closely. The world had no natural life, and all that existed was confined to a handful of installations dotting its frigid surface.
She extended a hand toward the world, though the gesture wasn’t strictly necessary. It harkened back to the magic she’d grown up with, though, and the familiar comforted her. A wave of life and water twisted toward the world, and flowed over every meter of the small planet. Wherever the magic passed the methane was remade into nitrogen, or oxygen. The process happened nearly instantly, and within moments the atmosphere became breathable to humans and similar species.
“It’s humbling, isn’t it?” Shaya gave a little chuckle, and nodded at Ternus IV. “You can literally reshape planets, and create armies to populate them. Life is powerful, and so is water, but together? Nature is amazing. I was never able to fully exploit it, but maybe you’ll get a chance to do what I never did.”
“I lack words.” Voria reveled in the power, drunk with it, she realized. Who wouldn’t be? “Let’s hope this works.”
This next part was tricky, but she’d given it a lot of thought. Changing a world’s orbit required immense magic of a very specific type. Using void to pull the planet would have been easiest, but Voria didn’t possess nearly enough void magic to pull it off. Her solution needed to come from life, water, or Nature.
The ultimate solution was only possible because there were so few lifeforms on the planet. She swirled life and water around herself in roughly equal measure, the magic mixing and flowing until it formed one azure whole. That magic coalesced into living ice, enough to form a hand, an arm, and then a torso.
Voria reached down and plunged her fingers into the unused arctic surface. They sank deep into the planet, far enough to get a solid hold. Then Voria pulled. She dragged the world from its orbit, slowly at first, then faster as she gained momentum.
The planet’s orbit became more elliptical, slowly tightening into a spiral as she dragged it closer to the orange star. She continued the process for long minutes, gradually maneuvering it into the right orbit. Voria tried not to pay attention to the sea of signals rising from Ternus, and from the small fleet arrayed around one of the few surviving stations, the one Austin had declared the seat of their governing body.
She heard her name over and over, sometimes in awe, and other times in rage or confusion. They were aware she was here and doing something, but most didn’t yet know that. That was by design, of course. Voria didn’t want to attempt this, fail, and then have to explain. This way they wouldn’t get their hopes up, unless she succeeded.
One final tug dragged the planet into a mostly stable orbit. It wasn’t perfect, but that would sort itself out in the first few revolutions. That might mean some wild seasons, at first, but they would calm, and the world would be every bit as habitable as the one Krox had doomed.
The first part of her work was now completed, but before she could go further she needed to consult with Nara. Voria concentrated, then teleported into the library where she knew Nara would be working.
As expected, the dark-haired scholar sat behind a desk, a knowledge scale playing images over her outstretched palm.
“I apologize for interrupting,” Voria offered as she approached the table. Nara sat alone, a testament to Pickus’s fierce insistence that no one bother her while she solved Voria’s problem. “Have you made any progress?”
“I’ve solved it.” Nara set the scale down, and glanced up at Voria. “I’ve reviewed the spell countless times, and every case study of a sentient being after having their size radically altered. The data is clear. If we keep them miniaturized for no longer than four hours there will be no permanent cognitive damage. We might be able to press it to six, but I’d rather not test that.”
Voria considered that timeline. She could use a simple teleport to gather all the people inside the Spellship, which meant collecting them would be effectively instant.
“I don’t think we’ll need anywhere close to four hours.” Voria raised a hand and an illusion appeared. She showed the Spellship materializing on the surface. A wave of void energy pulsed out of the ship, and washed slowly over the entire planet. “We’ll need your mastery of void, but I think with the Spellship’s amplification we can pull it off. You teleport them aboard, and I translocate the ship instantly to New Ternus. If you’ve got strength left, then you teleport them out onto the surface, and then I return them to normal size.”
Nara bit her lip, a sign that the timid girl was still in there somewhere. “If my math is off by even a little, thousands of people could die. More. I need to spread them far enough apart that when they return to full size they won’t crush each other, and I need to determine where to put them all.”
“That’s where I come in.” Voria gave a confident smile. “I’ll determine safe locations, and you can set people there. There’s a chance we’ll take some casualties, but I believe we can save nearly everyone.”
Nara shook her head. “I’m not sure I really believe it. Nothing ever goes that easy for us.”
Voria prayed to—well, the universe, she supposed—that Nara was wrong. She wasn’t certain how much more failure and heartbreak she could endure.
11
Forgiveness Is Better Than Permission
Pickus braced himself as the scry-screen resolved onto the bridge of Ternus’s last remaining station. Admiral Nimitz’s granite features filled the screen, his narrow eyes locking on like missiles. He stared at Pickus for several moments
, then his eyes flicked around the room where Pickus stood.
Pickus had set up his workshop to look somewhat professional, but there were still half finished computers all over the room. In his defense he’d been trying to retrofit the ship, and there weren’t enough techs to delegate this stuff to.
“Son,” Nimitz rumbled like a dog making its first lazy bark after napping, “You had better have a damned good explanation as to why a goddess just manifested in our system and started mucking with one of our worlds. We don’t have many people on that rock, but it’s our rock, and there ain’t no Confederacy any more, which means we aren’t allies.”
Pickus squared his shoulders, and reminded himself that he was the chosen representative of a goddess, not just a JC-educated tech totally out of his depths. “I’ll make it quick, Admiral. Voria is going to try something risky—”
“Course she is,” the admiral interrupted. “Sorry. Continue, please.”
“She’s going to terraform Ternus IV, and move it into a sympathetic orbit.” That got Nimitz’s attention. The grizzled officer’s eyes widened, and Pickus continued. “The part that comes after is risky, and that’s why she didn’t want to explain ahead of time. She wants to save the survivors on Ternus, and then relocate them to the world she’s prepared.”
Nimitz just sat there. He sat there so long that Pickus was positive they’d lost signal, except that they were using magic and magic didn’t drop calls. The admiral removed his hat, and tucked it under his arm. “Son, if you can pull it off you have no idea what it will mean to the Ternus people. Many of those that have survived, well, they’ve been sending footage of their struggle. Colony 3 and New Texas can both see what they’re going through. Up until now we’ve been powerless.”
“I can’t make promises, Admiral.” Pickus folded his arms, like Voria would have. “She could fail. And I guess that’s where you come in. I need to know that you’re okay with her making this attempt, and when I say that, what I mean is I need formal permission to move those people.”
“You didn’t ask permission to move one of our planets, but you want it to save people? I will never understand that up-jumped Shayan you follow.”
“Respectfully, Admiral.” Pickus leaned in closer to the screen. “That up-jumped Shayan saved New Texas. Her high priestess saved Colony 3. If not for Voria, you’d be down to Marid, and whatever is left in this system. So how about a little gratitude, sir? As you’ve pointed out, there is no Confederacy. We don’t have to help you. We’re choosing to.”
“Except we just helped you fight off a god,” Nimitz pointed out, with absolutely no humor. “You owe us, son. Now if you can pull this off, you’ll have my apologies. But you want to know what I think? Voria’s going to screw it up, and my people are going to pay the price. Again. Austin has seen reason, son. Far as you’re concerned, I’m the gods-damned emperor of this planet. And so help me, if that woman screws us again, then I will declare your sanctimonious ass an enemy of the state.”
Pickus somehow managed to bottle up his response. It wouldn’t help. This man hated Voria, and had since the moment Pickus had first seen the two in the same room. Nothing would change that.
“Do we have your permission to make the attempt, Admiral?” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he waited for the response. This call wouldn’t be even close to the hardest problem he had to deal with today, so he should be able to get through this without complaining or losing his cool.
“You got it, son. If you can save those people, then do it.” Nimitz took on his most threatening scowl, which wasn’t really all that different from his passive expression. “Just know that if you screw this up, Krox won’t be your only enemy in this sector.”
Pickus didn’t bother replying. He terminated the connection, and then he left his quarters in search of breakfast. He couldn’t do squat to help Voria, so he might as well stress out over a meal.
12
The Bad Guys
Skare smiled as he stepped onto the bridge of the single largest ship the Inuran Consortium had ever produced. The Dragon Skull was shaped exactly as its name suggested, and that shape was more than symbolic, as the sector would learn, to its peril.
The vessel was too small to be labeled a moon, but large enough that it did exert its own faint gravity.
Skare moved to stand next to the hologram dominating a quarter of the bridge, clasping his hands behind his back as he studied it. Several techs scurried from his path, their chrome gazes nailed to the decks.
The hologram displayed the ship’s interior, which never failed to trigger a swell of pride. The engineering required had nearly broken even him, but he’d somehow managed to create the marvel Talifax had demanded. It both infuriated and terrified him that he had no idea what the ship’s true purpose was. It wasn’t merely a focus for the rebirth, but something much more; of that Skare was certain.
“Yes, much more,” Talifax’s emotionless voice sounded from behind him.
Skare rounded to face the taller alien, made imposing by the black armor. He’d give very nearly anything to know what lay underneath, though he doubted Talifax would ever allow it.
He noted that none of the technicians had reacted to Talifax’s presence, which suggested they couldn’t see him. None were staring and no one had whispered, but he’d bet more than one thought him insane. The question was, did he care? No. Let them wonder. Skare faced Talifax, and listened.
“You have done well.” Talifax turned in a slow circle, his arms at his sides as he surveyed the bridge. “I can feel the strength of this vessel. It is all we need and more.” The guardian turned back to Skare. “Where do we stand on production? This vessel is a marvel, but the rebirth depends on the entirety of the fleet.”
Skare hesitated as he experienced an unwelcome, and rare, emotion. Embarrassment. “We’re not proceeding as quickly as I’d like. Currently we’ve produced sixty-three percent of the required ships.”
That got a stare. Several techs risked glances in his direction. They were responsible for many of the tasks related to producing the fleet, and rightly feared the consequences of failure.
“That isn’t enough,” Talifax growled, a rare hint of emotion. “Time grows short. If we do not possess the necessary number of ships, the ritual will fail. If it fails, Krox will devour you, your people, and this sector.”
“I am aware of the stakes,” Skare snapped, then remastered himself. He smoothed his jacket, and stared up at the senior partner in their little relationship. “I will ensure the ships are ready, somehow. But I’ve spent time studying Voria’s movements, and I’d say you have a much larger problem than my failure.”
Talifax reached up and carefully removed his mask. He tucked it under one bulky arm, and took a step closer. “You wished to see my true form, did you not? You would not recognize my species, though a remnant still survives.”
Skare studied Talifax’s strange form, which was disturbingly familiar somehow. Long ivory tusks jutted from a wide mouth, and a prehensile trunk lay where a human’s nose would be. Long, leathery ears covered the sides of his broad head. And then it hit him.
“I’ve been to the zoo on Ternus,” he found himself saying. “You strongly resemble a creature from their homeworld. An elephant, I believe. The implications are troubling.”
“The same species are propagated all over the galaxy,” Talifax explained. “Over many galaxies, in all likelihood. The same patterns are repeated over and over, with slight variations. Primates. Pachyderms. Reptiles. When you have seen as much of the galaxy as I have, you will understand this.”
It drove home how much of a child Skare truly was, when viewed through the lens of godhood. That had been the lesson Talifax sought to impart. Skare could not afford the luxury of arrogance.
“I will see that a workable plan is sent by missive,” he offered. “But I assure you…we will be ready. I will not be the reason the rebirth fails.”
Every last member of the bridge crew work
ed overtime to avoid looking in his direction, or giving any indication that they could hear what he was saying. He ignored them.
“Excellent.” Talifax slowly replaced his ebony mask, which snapped into place with an audible thunk. “And I will offer a similar assurance. I am aware of Voria’s movements. She seeks to save the refugees of Ternus, and undo Krox’s good work in that sector. This cannot be allowed to happen, and for more than the petty reasons you entertain. If I allow her miracle to stand, then she will capture the hearts of the sector. So she must fail. I will see to it.”
Just like that, Talifax was gone, and Skare was alone with his people. He shot a glare around the deck, then stalked back to his quarters.
13
Outmaneuvered
Voria hovered in orbit over Ternus, close enough now to feel the residue Krox’s presence had left. She could sense the lingering energies in the rock, the utterly incalculable amount of earth that must have been needed to alter the planet in such a way.
Likewise she could feel the millions of lives still trapped down there. Most of the wildlife had perished, though the canines Ternus seemed so fond of had survived in surprising numbers. She would save them too, of course, despite hating the way they smelled.
Voria extended both her hands, and concentrated. Water pooled in one, and life in the other. She clapped her hands together, and the energies exploded downward, rippling over the surface of the planet.
In the same instant Nara guided the Spellship down the gravity well, and made unerringly for the landing zone they’d designated.
