The North Star
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Author's Letter
Chapter 1 - Space Rat
Chapter 2 - No Enemies
Chapter 3 - Unexpected Guests
Chapter 4 - Low Roller
Chapter 5 - The Shadow
Chapter 6 - Stork V-3
Chapter 7 - Old Locker
Chapter 8 - Stay Strong
Chapter 9 - Eyes Closed
Chapter 10 - The Artifact
Chapter 11 - Barracuda V-3
Chapter 12 - Dead Or Alive
Chapter 13 - Rolling The Dice
Chapter 14 - Gate Six
Chapter 15 - A Puck So Rare
Chapter 16 - BT-12-7HL99
Chapter 17 - Much Anger
Chapter 18 - Gut Feeling
Chapter 19 - Unlucky Number
Chapter 20 - Knives & Bullets
Chapter 21 - The Bunker
Chapter 22 - Hold The Gate
Chapter 23 - Bones
Chapter 24 - The Gray Tower
Chapter 25 - Into Darkness
Chapter 26 - Poker Face
Chapter 27 - The Tank
Chapter 28 - Belonging
Chapter 29 - Stacking The Deck
Chapter 30 - The Breach
Chapter 31 - Count Your Ammo
Chapter 32 - Double Or Nothing
Chapter 33 - Xerocorp Labs
Chapter 34 - The Way Up
Chapter 35 - The Elite
Chapter 36 - Fury
Chapter 37 - Around The Table
Chapter 38 - Starting Hand
Chapter 39 - The Hangar
Chapter 40 - Tools Of The Trade
Chapter 41 - High Roller
Chapter 42 - A Better Gun
Chapter 43 - Experimental Implant
Chapter 44 - En Prison
Chapter 45 - Project Zero
Chapter 46 - Straight Flush
Chapter 47 - Flight
Chapter 48 - Fight
Chapter 49 - Sentinel Station
Chapter 50 - High Places
Chapter 51 - El Natural
Chapter 52 - The North Star
Contact
THE NORTH STAR
GALACTIC SENTINEL
BOOK ONE
KILLIAN CARTER
Copyright © Killian C. Carter
First published in Great Britain by Arcane Pages, in 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
Any person who makes any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims and damages.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
First edition 2018 v1.0
Published by Arcane Pages
www.kccarter.com
Though at times a lonely affair, creating a book requires a team. This is where I would like to thank those people.
My undying gratitude belongs to:
My family and friends. You know who you are.
Meg Jolly for designing my incredible covers and being a downright awesome friend.
Brandon Ellis, Jon Cronshaw, and Lynn Sheridan for being sounding boards, putting up with my insanity, and not being afraid to say how it really is.
B. Allen Thobois, Bethany Cousins, Dan Loving, and Harold Trammel for being an incredible team of beta readers.
And last but certainly not least, all you readers for giving this dreamer a chance.
This book is dedicated to my dear wife Kayleigh, without whom it would not have been written. Behind every good man is a good woman. Behind every good writer is a glorious angel.
Dear Human,
Thank you for picking up The North Star. It is my sincerest hope that you will find herein an enjoyable read.
Being my first published novel, I’m sure you can understand my trepidation when hitting the “big red button”.
Despite valuing certain stoic principles, setting this bird free has been one of life’s most frightening experiences, not least of all because I know that a new writer is rarely a stellar writer. And trust me when I tell you that my life has demanded its share of unexpected underwear changes.
Do you know what the most powerful magic on the planet is? It isn’t black magic, white magic, or even blue magic (I’m looking at you Final Fantasy V). It isn’t the magic you find on that FM radio station, the crazy shit that Houdini guy pulled off, or the stuff inside Rivers Cuomo.
The most powerful magic in the world is storytelling, and magic – like anything one seeks to master – requires practice. And if I’m entirely honest with you, this book is writing practice as much as a practice in writing.
So, consider this a warning that you will not find airs or graces here. You will not find literary genius, and you most certainly will not find a Shakespearian play. Now there’s an idea for you, Shakespeare in Space. Would that be called Shakesabre?
I digress. I do hope that you find in this novel a good story. And I shall make you a promise, dear human.
I will keep practicing, and publishing, and therefore improving. I will eventually tell stories that will shake the foundations of your world. Not because I have an innate desire to cause earthquakes or conquer your planet. My therapist made me give those things up. But because you deserve to experience the best kind of magic.
Wishing you and yours a magical year,
Killian Carter.
SPACE RAT
On any other day, she would have taken the abuse in her stride. Having grown up on Morigan, Ensign Clio Evans was no stranger to ridicule. Hell, as a Confederation Fleet pilot, it came with the territory. But while eating lunch aboard the starship Bakura, en route to Colony 115, she snapped.
Riley and his cronies dined at their usual table, across the floor from Clio’s lonely spot. They looked over their shoulders and laughed. Twice they even muttered her name, believing her unable to hear from less than twenty feet away.
Having lost her appetite, she forked a white protein cube indifferently, and it sprang off her plate.
The cadets in the far corners joined the mockery, one boisterous girl even having enough nerve to point.
Clio was about to take her leave when Riley made a loud announcement.
“Someone better tell the chef, there’s a rat in the mess hall again. Maybe he’ll send it back to that shit-hole planet it came from.”
That was when her fork snapped, splintered points scattering onto the table and empty seats.
Childish insults didn’t bother her at the best of times, especially when uttered by lumbering fools like Riley. She preferred to fly under the radar, which she knew was part of the problem. Had she taken care of him early on, he would have known better.
However, her restraint was thin on account of receiving news of her biological mother’s death.
Having been raised by the Morigan state, Clio barely knew the woman. She wouldn’t even have known about her passing had an old acquaintance not messaged her. Clio wished he hadn’t, for despite only meeting the woman several times, she spent the rest of the morning untangling conflicting emotions, an exercise she found more taxing than a bankrupt monarch on a spending spree.
Riley was right about one thing. Morigan was a shit-hole back-water colony. But it was Clio’s shit-hole, and no one was allowed to bad-mouth it but her.
She braced herself, rose from her chair and walked to Riley’s table.
Silence descended as she swept across the mess hall. Before she could reach out t
o tap his shoulder he rose up, his head climbing a foot higher than hers.
“Please tell me the sniveling rat-bitch isn’t standing behind me,” he mocked before turning to face her — or look down on her as the case was.
He was of robust stock, with broad shoulders and roped muscles; somewhat handsome, if a little rough around the edges. He wore an insufferable smirk that made one cheek dimple. His unintelligent eyes peered down from under a heavy brow.
“If you’ve got something to say, ass-hole, say it to my face.” She poked Riley hard in the chest, and he knocked into the table behind.
He shoved her shoulders with both hands, forcing her back several steps.
“Don’t come anywhere near me, bitch. I’m allergic to rodents.”
“I wish I could see things from your point of view, Riley.” She smiled nonchalantly. “But I can’t get my head that far up my ass.”
The mess hall erupted with laughter, and Riley’s cheeks flared red. Embarrassment quickly turned to rage, and he stepped forward, fist drawn.
“I’ll teach you to watch your mouth, smart ass.”
He threw a punch at her face, but she sidestepped it with ease.
A silver medallion swung on a chain about his neck. It bore the O’Donovan family crest. Riley often boasted about them being one of the most affluent families on Mars.
“Your family tree must be a cactus to have such a large prick on it.”
A mix of giggles and swearing rolled through the gathering crowd.
Riley ground his teeth and swung a right hook.
Clio blocked it with her left and slammed her free palm into his chin. Riley’s head snapped back, and momentum sent him falling. His legs got tangled in a chair, and he landed in a comical position, his limbs sprawling at ridiculous angles.
A cheer erupted, followed by another roar of bloodthirsty mirth.
The palm-strike would have knocked out a weaker man, but not Riley.
He extricated himself from the furniture and tossed a chair at her. It went wide and almost took out another officer whose objections went ignored.
Riley charged like a raging bull and unleashed a wild series of punches.
From Clio’s perspective, he may as well have been swinging his arms through molasses, and she dodged each jab with barely so much as a thought.
“Stand still, you slippery bitch.”
Riley kept punching, and she kept evading, until he began to slow, his forehead gleaming with sweat.
Realizing it wasn’t working, he changed tack and kicked out with his right foot.
Clio caught it with both hands, twisted her body, and kneed him hard in the lateral femoral nerve.
He crumbled against a table clutching the crippled leg in agony. It was bound to leave a violent bruise and have him limping for days.
“What’ve you done to my leg?” He spat, and a thick blob struck her on the lips.
Clio wiped the saliva off with the back of her sleeve. Being spit upon was something of a tradition when growing up on Morigan, and unfortunately for Riley, it brought back one unpleasant memory in particular.
Clio couldn’t recall how she got there, but she was suddenly straddling his chest and smashing his nose with her fist. His face cracked under the force. Her second blow knocked his head into the ground. She hit him again and again, and the room became a blur until someone dragged her off his unconscious body.
It occurred to her that she may have killed him. Worry flickered in the back of her head, barely tangible, like an elusive shadow behind flames of anger. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d killed someone in a blind rage.
Through the legs and arms milling around Riley, she caught a glimpse of his chest rising and falling and sighed with relief.
Those who pulled her across the cold floor scattered as she got to her feet. Her legs wobbled, the adrenaline having dissipated.
“Let this be a lesson to you dumb shits!” The person speaking did not feel like the Clio Evans she knew. “Never pick a fight with a starship pilot. Or did you forget that we have neuro-optical implants?”
She sneered at the cadets, and they recoiled under her gaze, averting their eyes as if they were innocent bystanders in the whole affair.
Fucking kids!
She stormed out of the room in the direction of the gym. An innate urge to punch something still burned inside of her. Pretending the punching bag was Riley would have to do.
The altercation would no doubt cause trouble with her superiors, but it would also be the last time anyone on the Bakura called her a rat.
The thought of being compared to the mammal made her cackle involuntarily and earned her a troubled look from a passer-by.
Why a rat?
Perhaps it was because she was slight in stature. Or maybe it was just what people like O’Donovan thought of people from planets like Morigan.
Either way, it was ironic that of all the insulting animals available, they choose to call her a rat. It was a good thing they didn’t know how close to the truth they were, or Clio would have more than a fist-fight on her hands.
NO ENEMIES
The Bakura groaned as her deceleration engines fired. Clio Evans knew how the starship felt. She had been summoned before Commander Grimshaw regarding the fight in the mess hall. He read the report behind his desk, as Clio awaited the inevitable reprimand.
Their breathing, the Bakura’s deep hum, and the grim tick of the old clock on the wall were the only sounds.
Clio fought a shiver, and her breath escaped in warm puffs. The Commander gave no sign that the cold bothered him in the slightest. Some said he kept his office chilled to make those unfortunate enough to visit him uncomfortable. Others claimed it had something to do with an old injury. Clio figured it was nothing more than a show of power, but she’d been in the room enough times to know what to expect, even to grow accustomed to it.
The walls bare – save for a scattering of awards and decorations behind the Commander – felt like old friends. She even remembered the titles of each accolade and how they were spread out to appear more significant than what they were.
Sparse metallic furniture amplified the frigid atmosphere. There wasn’t much more to the Commander’s office other than the clock.
That ticking contraption always tempted her eyes. It hung above the Commander’s trophies like it was master over them, just as time was master over everything. It was a testament to Earth’s ancestors and their craftsmanship, a masterpiece from the days before humanity touched the stars.
When summoned to his office, the clock reminded Clio that it was just a matter of time before she could leave the Bakura and the Confederation forever.
She kept her primary focus on the Commander’s eyes as he scanned the incident report. Her peripheral focus allowed her to simultaneously analyse other things in the room. It was among the many benefits of her neuro-optical implant. To focus on and process multiple images at once was vital for a Confederation pilot.
The Commander’s gray uniform jacket was drawn tight across his chest, supplementing the tense atmosphere. Neck muscles trembled subtly like twisted cables under his conditioned skin. He was physically sound but long past his prime. Silver-black stubble peppered a resolute jaw, and his short black hair was dashed white at the temples. A hard life had cut deep lines into the corners of his eyes.
He looked up from his compad, and his cold-denim eyes drilled into hers as though they sought to inflict pain.
Clio understood why some found him intimidating, but she wouldn’t break under that gaze — no matter what. She ignored the beads of sweat collecting at the nape of her neck and the throbbing vein in her left temple. She would show him that her will was just as strong, if not stronger.
A sudden bang sent her jumping back in the aluminum chair.
She blinked several times, ears ringing and heart racing. For all her enhanced eye-sight, Commander Grimshaw’s fist slammed the table-top so fast she barely saw it move.
&n
bsp; Was that eye twitch intentional. To lure me into a false sense of victory?
She dismissed the idea with an invisible wave. That would have required too much thinking on the Commander’s part. Nonetheless, his speed was impressive.
“What the hell is your problem, Evans?”
“As I explained, sir—”
“Less of the bullshit, Evans. I accepted your transfer off Morigan under the condition that you learn discipline and show your fellow crew members respect.”
“I am—”
“Then why am I holding a report stating that you broke Officer O’Donovan’s face so badly he needed re-gen in sickbay.” The compad in his left hand trembled.
Saliva gathered on the back of Clio’s tongue, but she refused to swallow. “With all due respect—”
“Respect belongs to those who’ve earned it, Evans, and you have shown nothing but contempt since boarding the Bakura.”
He looked down at the compad, and she took the opportunity to gulp quickly. His eyes flicked back to hers, and the boring commenced, at which point she was on the back foot. It took all she had not to swear.
“Six months, and you already have the longest disciplinary record on file.”
“Officer O’Donovan started it.” They were child’s words, and she regretted uttering them before they departed her lips, but she couldn’t help herself. The Commander had teased them out of her, of course, and Clio wanted to curse him for knowing what buttons to press.
“The report says that Officer O’Donovan didn’t throw any punches.” He gestured with the compad.
“He didn’t land any,” she corrected him. “It’s not my fault Riley’s a slug. He should choose his enemies…”
Commander Grimshaw slammed his compad on the table and rose from his chair with the purpose of an erupting volcano. He was much taller than Clio remembered, but she fought the urge to divert her gaze.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Evans? Our enemies aren’t in here; they’re out there.” He pointed a thumb at an imaginary porthole behind him. “This is a Confederation starship, not a correctional facility.”