Star Kill

  Stars End, Book Two

  M.R. Forbes

  Chapter 1

  “Rozik!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “Rooooozzziiiiikkk!”

  I wait a few seconds, listening for any evidence of potential movement from another living thing. The freighter is nearly silent save for the lightest of hums from the reactors.

  “Rozziiiikkk, you son of a bitch!” I yell, before huffing and returning to the chair I moved to face the doorway into the stateroom.

  Yeah, Rozik was kind enough to imprison me in the nicest room on the ship. That doesn’t make up for the fact that he cold-cocked me with my own gun, carried me here, threw me on the bed and disabled the internal door controls so I can’t get out.

  All because I want to do the right thing.

  Son of a bitch.

  How could I let myself trust a lying Commie?

  I slam my head into the back of the chair, regretting the act the moment it makes contact. The battle on Warrick left my Lucier needle fused to my Direct Cortical Interface, so the end of the device is sticking out of the back of my skull like a knife or a light switch. It punches through the upholstery and hits the metal frame behind it, jamming it forward and causing me all sorts of pain.

  I wince and lean forward, jaw clenched, refusing to make a sound of hurt. The real pain is so much deeper than physical.

  The aliens—banshees as the Walton civilians call them—are sucking up the power of Warrick’s sun. Killing the star, and consequently destroying the planet. They already did the same to Spindle Station, where me, my wife and two of my kids were living. I fought my way off Warrick to get help for the people on the planet. To tell the Alliance of Planets that something came from beyond the Sphere, and they aren’t friendly. I let myself start to believe that bastard Rozik because I thought we were on the same page with regards to hostile invading aliens.

  Turns out, I was wrong.

  Turns out, I’m an idiot to have thought a Commune soldier would ever do the right thing for humanity instead of trying to gain an advantage for himself. Or his cause.

  The Commune has spent countless years at war with the Alliance, locked in a stalemate. A stalemate I personally stopped them from breaking. Rozik knew, before I ever ran into him, about the banshees and how they suck the life from stars. He led them straight into Alliance space so he could watch the process occur first-hand. I guess, if you can’t beat them, find some outer-Sphere aliens to do it for you.

  The thought forces me to my feet, and I grab the chair and throw it across the room. It smashes into a blue-painted wall, cracking the layer of thin plaster over the metal bulkhead and tumbling to the thick, carpeted floor.

  There are rules in war. Some of them written. Some of them unspoken, but understood. I’m pretty damn sure one of them is not to bring genocidal aliens to bear as weapons of mass destruction. I’m pretty damn sure it goes without saying—you don’t destroy stars and kill billions of innocents.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Roooozzziiikkkkk!” I scream again. I need him here so I can kill him.

  I need to believe he can hear me, but I’m probably wasting my breath. Well, not wasting it. Expending my angry energy, though my mentor at the Academy would chide me for how I’m getting it out. Skirmisher pilots need to learn to control their emotions. To manage their anger, hurt, fear, excitement. The wrong thought, the wrong feeling can be life or death when a machine is interpreting everything in your mind as active instruction.

  I turn around, breathing deeply and forcing myself to calm down. None of this is solving anything. It isn’t bringing Rozik. It isn’t bringing the freighter back to Warrick or returning Spindle from the dark, powerless tomb the banshees turned it into. I try not to think about Shae and the girls frozen and floating with the other three thousand souls lost inside. I try not to think about how frightening the end must have been for them, and how badly they were hoping their husband and father would end the threat.

  “He’s Odin Longknife,” I can imagine Shae saying to the girls. “With him here, this is the safest place in the Sphere.”

  I lower my head and huff again. As if that were true. I would give anything to make it so.

  I look up again to the small viewports lining the back wall of the stateroom. Windows are a rarity on any starship that isn’t a pleasure cruiser, because while the latest iterations of aerosteel are impressive, they don’t offer the level of impact protection of modern alloys. In a galaxy that’s been at war as long as ours, piracy, privateers and the like are all too common, and traveling outside of safe zones with something as simple as a window is a risk most ship captains won’t take.

  In this case however, it’s to my benefit. I can see the universe outside is pitch black. No light. No stars. No anything. We’re in the middle of a jump, though I have no idea to where. Rozik wants to take us back to the Commune, to alert his superiors that his mission is a success and the banshees are here, killing stars and destroying the AOP. He’ll be a hero. Congratulations all around.

  Son of a bitch.

  I know the first jump won’t take us all the way back to Commune space. Mandelbrots are limited by the complex fractal equations and quantum physics that govern their use. You can’t just go anywhere from anywhere. The dimensions are continually shifting, the wormholes, folds and shortcuts always moving and reconfiguring. There’s a pattern to it, of course, or it would be useless.

  Order out of chaos. Some of the destination points are relatively fixed and therefore are able to be monitored and garrisoned, defended and ambushed. That keeps life interesting. Other destinations can move up to three light-years within a few weeks, meaning you’d better have enough juice to make two or three jumps if you’re going to attempt the first one. That keeps life interesting too.

  The Mandelbrot computer is more impressive than the drive itself. It has to run over ten trillion calculations for a short jump and the complexity only goes up from there. A single mistake can either leave a ship stranded in the aether or cast out hundreds of light-years from its destination. Without enough power to make it home.

  There are ships out there in the vastness of space. Cold and lifeless. Ghost ships. Like the banshee starship Rozik claims the Commune happened across. But I don’t know if his story is true. I don’t know if anything he’s told me so far is genuine.

  I remember the crystal he revealed to me. He said he doesn’t know what it does or what it’s for. Is he lying about that too?

  Son of a bitch.

  Rozik tossed me in here three hours ago. Depending on the length of the jump, we could be in the aether for minutes or days. That’s part of the calculation too, and why the data synchronizers are so valuable. Because size is also part of the equation, though it shouldn’t need to be. A small burst of data can hop through a web of synchronizers in almost real time, the flow of bits popping in and out of the aether as if they’re teleporting. A packet from Spindle can reach Earth inside of twenty milliseconds. Good enough to allow two people separated by an entire galaxy to play a combat sim in the VORN together.

  Yeah, it sounds like magic. It feels like it too, even to someone who’s lived with the technology his entire life. The Sphere is massive, but between the instant communications, the Mandelbrot drives and the fact that a so-called intelligent race is fighting for more territory inside, it sure doesn’t feel all that big a lot of the time.

  Except when you need help to come in a hurry. Then it feels impossibly vast.

  I turn away from the window. There’s nothing to see out there anyway. In the aether, the laws of accepted physics don’t apply. If you’ve ever seen a fractal, you have an idea of what it looks like, except it changes shape all the time. The important part is that it’s smaller than our universe, and at the same time larger than our universe, and it allows us to go in and out of it to get from point A to point B. And there’s nothing inside it except empty space. No matter at all, except the matter that we transport through or leave behind.

  It’s the greatest discovery of humankind’s existence. And in some ways, also the worst. The dimension that unites the Sphere divides its people. Creating chaos from order.

  And now there’s a third level of chaos. An external force acting on the internal tension. The potential end of the Alliance of Planets.

  And I’m trapped on a freighter in the middle of nowhere with my new worst enemy.

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter 2

  I spend another hour pacing the sitting area of the stateroom before retiring to the bedroom. The prior owner must’ve very much loved shiny things. The room is adorned with gold and silver everywhere I look, to the extent that being in this room hurts my already weary head.

  But the mattress…

  When I lay down on it, the only word that comes to mind is heaven. Whatever its composition, it supports me in all the right places, even adjusting for the needle sticking out of the back of my head. It lets my sore muscles sink in and relax without pushing too hard on the bruises, and within minutes I’m asleep.

  I wake four hours later. There’s a single viewport in the bedroom behind the bed, and I kneel on the mattress to look out. Still in the aether. Eight hours so far. This isn’t a short jump.

  I head to the bathroom, take a shower and then enter the closet looking for something that fits. I can still feel my emotions roiling beneath my currently composed exterior, but I’ve got them back under my command. I can’t change where I am now or the circ
umstances that brought me here. I can’t change what happened to Spindle or my family.

  What I can do is my best to get myself out of this room, find Rozik and kill him.

  I can’t cancel our trip mid-jump, but I can recalibrate once the freighter comes out and direct the ship to the closest Alliance port. Once I get there, I can send an urgent message to military command and tell them about Warrick. With any luck, they can get a fleet there in time to do something about the survivors. Rowdy and the people in Walton—especially Joie. It’s going to get cold on the planet without the sun, but they have time.

  I can only hope it’s enough.

  The closet in the stateroom is bigger than my apartment on Spindle, and I had three other people living there. It’s filled with all kinds of fashion for every occasion, from modern business attire to what looks to me like fancy hunting gear. As I go down the long column of hanging threads, I half expect to bump into a full suit of Invader combat exo—the latest stuff coming out of Army research and development. Too expensive to give to all but the most elite units of ground-pounders on the front lines, but great for driving profits to help keep the war funded.

  I’m slightly disappointed when I don’t uncover an Invader exosuit. I’m even more disappointed when I come across a gun locker tucked behind some shirts because, on opening it, it becomes clear Rozik’s one step ahead of me. The locker’s empty, though the padded inserts suggest there were a couple of handguns and a carbine of some sort resting inside.

  Not only does he have the run of the ship, but he’s also armed to the teeth. I can hear the fates laughing at me.

  This is going to be harder than I hoped. But I’m not giving up. I can’t afford to. Joie is counting on me, along with thousands of survivors who have no idea what’s happening in the space beyond their atmosphere. I’m going to save them or die trying.

  I finally locate the essentials, and I grab a pair of undies and pull them on. A little tight but manageable. The undershirt is the same. I go back along the racks of clothes, deciding what to wear. The expedition gear is probably the most mission-appropriate, but I hesitate to grab it. The prior owner of the freighter was a black market trader. A man who wined, dined, bought and sold with criminals. A man like that needs protection when he’s working a deal, and I don’t just mean the guns in the locker or the inevitable entourage of former military or mercenaries. It’s one thing to look good. It’s another to stay alive.

  I go over to the suits, taking the sleeve of a navy pinstriped number and feeling along the seams. I can tell by touch the stitching isn’t standard thread. It’s a little too slick. A little too thick. I know because they put me in something like it after Capricorn, worried somebody would try to take me down before the dust had settled. Nobody did. The war went on.

  The entire suit is hanging from the same hook. White shirt with a high collar to better protect the neck, jacket, pants and black shoes. It’s all a little too small, but the material is made to stretch and it expands to fit my slightly larger and better-toned frame. I come out of the closet somewhat bulletproof.

  I pass through the bedroom, across the living space and into a small office in the corner. It’s vacant save for a small desk with a pair of dark glasses resting on top and a simple task chair behind it. I’m surprised Rozik didn’t take the glasses too, until I close the door, drop into the seat and put them on. A simple message immediately floats out in the center of the room.

  SIGNAL LOST. PLEASE RECONNECT.

  I look at the desk, searching for a terminal. It isn’t here. The glasses are connected wirelessly to the freighter’s mainframe, just another client on the more powerful machine. I don’t need to think very hard to know Rozik shut down access from here. I pull the glasses off and throw them across the room, breaking them on the wall.

  I breathe deep, getting a fresh handle on myself. I need to find a way out of here, but the interior door controls are locked, the mainframe is off-limits and the ventilation shafts are too small. I know because I already checked in the bathroom.

  I leave the office, glancing out into the aether again, doing a double-take when my mind catches up to my eyes and I realize I’m seeing stars out there.

  Wherever we were going, we’ve arrived.

  I don’t see a planet. Not from this side of the freighter. I’m sure there has to be one nearby unless the best calculation brought us out of the aether a few AU distant from the target. Even then, if there’s a synchronizer in the system of which we’re in comm range, once Rozik tells his superiors about the banshees and that he has Odin Longknife...

  They’ll probably name a holiday after him.

  I figure Rozik’s smart enough not to bother coming to collect me on his own. Armed or not, there’s still a chance I’ll put up a fight and he’ll be forced to kill me to stop it. He didn’t bring me all this way alive to cut me down now. He wants to present me to his superiors. He wants to make me look small and weak, nothing like the legends of Odin Longknife that have festered over the years. I don’t blame him. If I were in his position, I’d do the same.

  We aren’t friends. We’ve never been friends and never will be. Our marriage was one of convenience, and it ended the moment the freighter climbed through the clouds and I saw what the banshees were doing to the sun.

  I turn around, my eyes sweeping the room. It’s gaudy and gross, more so because there’s nothing here I can use to bash open the door to the room. Where does that leave me? No worse off than I was before, but I’m looking for more.

  I keep scanning the room, noticing there’s a small intake on the ceiling in the center. I walk over and push aside a gold-threaded ottoman so I can get beneath it and examine it more closely. Then I grab the chair I tossed into the wall earlier and pull it into position, standing on it and running my finger along the seams.

  I find a small tab near the back and push it in, activating the release. The panel drops open, revealing an air sensor beneath. Did Rozik miss this, or did he think I wouldn’t know it was there or what to do with it? It has to be the latter.

  It’s a mistake. Maybe the only one he’s made.

  I hop down and return to the closet, grabbing an undershirt and returning to the sensor. If it were simply a smoke or toxic gas detector, I’d be out of luck. But this one happens to monitor oxygen levels too, and if they fall too far too fast, it’ll think there’s a hull breach and seal the door. That seems like the opposite of what I want, except Rozik already sealed the door through a trick of his own. A double-negative is a positive.

  I jam the shirt against it, folding it over multiple times and pressing tight. Then I shove my sleeve against it for good measure, holding it tight. Sensors like these don’t leave much margin for false positives, and a second later the thing starts screaming like a baby and the door tries to lock. Only the circuits are already closed, and it slides open instead.

  Victory!

  I crouch slightly, balancing myself. As soon as I pull away and let the air back to the sensor, the whole thing will reverse. I have to get across the room before it does.

  Well, not me, specifically. I just need to jam the door open.

  I hesitate a moment to finalize the plan. Then I hop down from the chair, grabbing the back of it as momentum pulls me forward. The screaming stops and the door begins to close, and I hurl the poor abused chair at it, nearly crying out in exaltation when the door hits it, crushing the metal before faulting and coming to a stop.

  I rush to it, shove the hatch back and climb over the debris to freedom.

  Now, where the hell is that son of a bitch?

  Chapter 3

  It would be easier to find Rozik if I knew where the stateroom was in relation to the rest of the freighter. Or at least in relation to the bridge. I was high on meds when Rozik helped me onto the ship, and the corridors, stairwells and elevators are like a maze in my head. One thing I know is that I can’t afford to linger in the passageway. The jammed sensor will have set off a warning on the bridge, and if he’s still there he might be on his way down right now.

  Yes, I want to confront him. No, I don’t want to do it head-on. I’m out-gunned, and even wearing the bulletproof clothes I would prefer not to be shot. The suit doesn’t cover my head.