Soldiers are important, but even after the world burns, humanity will still love, imagine—create.
Astra Wildstar sits in her university advisor's pristine office, tense hands folded in her lap. A projected news feed fills the top corner of the art professor's desk. Headlines include, "Alien invasion on the horizon," "Military recruits 15-year-olds," and "Save Earth: Enlist."
"Your mid-year evaluation is in two weeks, Miss Wildstar," says Astra's professor, Agnes Merkel. The middle-aged woman's straightened brown hair falls to her shoulders like limp, burnt noodles, and her crimson lipstick stands out too much. "I'm not seeing the kind of progress I'd like with your studio work." Professor Merkel taps her comm, and from the little device springs a three-foot high holographic gallery of Astra's endeavors from the past few months.
Astra's heart thumps as Professor Merkel flips by an intricate metal sculpture of a flower, a load of sketches featuring classmates and strangers, and a digital painting of the starry sky overlooking her parents' house in Japan.
Please, God, let her like one thing. Mom and Dad are doing their best to protect Earth from that horrible woman Sarsenonne and everyone following her. I want to protect it too—by preserving as much of it as I can in everything I make.
Merkel stops at a collage. Images of Astra, her parents, and her siblings meld together, fade, reappear, and weave in and out of sight to create Astra's favorite piece.
The skin between Professor Merkel's eyebrows rumples, and she shifts her bottom lip an inch to the right. "Simplistic. Childish. Altogether lacking originality. You won't make it here at Marie Harkins." She shuts off the holo gallery and pockets her comm. "There are few enough artists left willing to pursue their talent while facing the imminent threat of alien invasion. Most of them have shipped off to the military with nary a backward glance because it's what society expects. I'll not waste my time on someone who's only here to avoid carrying a blaster rifle or getting shot at. What have you decided on for your evaluation piece? Not that it matters at this point."
I'm not here because I'm afraid to fight. I'm here because I want to create things, not destroy them! She wants to growl at Professor Merkel, but last time she did that, Merkel's fiery expression could have nuked the entire mid-western North American States. Astra's hands tremble as she tugs out her comm and shows Professor Merkel a holographic digital canvas.
Merkel snorts and crosses knees and arms. Her black pantsuit, pointed-toe shoes, and red nail polish say Astra's comfy shirt, loose skirt, and slip-ons are on par with the presented blank canvas. "You haven't even started?"
The comm's connection to the projector in Merkel's office flickers, and the canvas blinks, but Astra holds the device a little higher, and the connection stabilizes. "I have!" Astra blurts and flicks the display setting from regular light to the UV spectrum. The trunk of a tree and a few dangling leaves appear in tones of yellow, blue, and purple. Light sketching of a vast landscape spreads out beyond the tree and into the distance.
Merkel rubs her chin with a perfectly manicured finger. "Fine. But be sure this is much less derivative than usual, Miss Wildstar. This isn't kindergarten. When this piece is finished, I expect it to rival Rembrandt. And even then, you should apply elsewhere for next year." The sharp light in her eyes says she is not joking. "Reserve a studio before they're all taken, and you have to work out of your dorm—like last time." She emphasizes the last bit, shoving Astra's occasional forgetfulness in her face as she shoos her out.
The studio lights are harsh. At least with this project, she doesn't need them. She sets her purse nearby, comm atop it so the finicky device's connection to the school's holoprojection system won't drop again.
Without Merkel's critiquing eye boring into her, Astra concentrates on filling the foundational sketching for the painting's background elements. A forest stretches behind the tree, and in the distance, great mountains touch the sky. One in particular looks suspiciously similar to Mt. Fuji back home.
Stylus in hand, Astra erases one corner of trees and redraws them… three times. It needs something. But what? Her shoulders sag. She doesn't have time to waste on indecision, so she swaps the stylus' light pencil stroke for a brush and focuses on the foreground.
The hill supporting her tree forms beneath each new stroke of vibrant purple. Wispy yellow grass adds patches of light to an otherwise dark swath of picture. What's it like to use real blacklight paint? She traces the hill's curve with one finger. The hologram leaves a faintly glowing line where the digit ran, but the light fades a moment later. Is it thick like oils? Thin, like acrylic? Does it leave a trail of the same sharp chemical odor other paints do?
The dark studio seems to swallow her little tree.
I wish this semester were over already and I could just do what I want without Merkel looking sideways at me all the time. I don't know why I'm even trying. She's not going to pass me, no matter what I do.
Her comm chimes quietly.
A reminder.
Three months since Dad left for deep space on Siren's Call. I hope he's okay… especially after that fight with Mom before he left. She grips her stylus tighter. Since Astra left for Marie Harkins University, her mom calls every week—sometimes more than once. Mom's still being a mom. Can't really blame her with a war going on in space—one the whole family's involved in. Every day that skirmish line drifts closer…
She adjusts brush width to add broad strokes of color to the tree's trunk in vibrant shades of light blue.
Her comm chimes again—more urgently—a video call this time.
It isn't even 4 A.M. yet over there. She tucks her stylus behind one ear, and it nests in straight blonde hair. "Hey, Mom. You're up early. Just got into working on this blacklight painting after two days of listening to Merkel's usual critic—"
Red ringed eyes, puffy cheeks, and a trembling mouth replace her mom's usual smile.
"Are you okay?" Astra turns up the studio lights with a wave of her hand. They aren't bright enough to make her squint, but they let her mom see her better.
"I'm okay, sweetie. It's—it's your dad."
Astra's gut squeezes into a fist. "He got hurt, didn't he? I knew they should have sent somebody else. EDF command probably put Dad with a crew of kids even younger than me. What is wrong with them? I get that seasoned officers have to train new people, but spreading them out like they are now is idiotic! Dad should be captaining a ship or commanding a fleet, or doing something important, not babysitting a load of children who don't know the business end of an astro automatic from a hole in the bulkhead!" Angry tears prick her eyes, but she sniffs them back.
"It's nothing like that." Her mom sucks in a shaky breath. "I can't say any more over the comm, but you need to come home. Now."
Merkel's gonna be so mad… Astra pockets her stylus, grabs her purse and closes her painting. Maybe she'll give me a little extra time if I explain. "Consider me there. I'll drop Professor Merkel a note and be home tonight. At least campus is close to the Des Moines spaceport."
Still on the comm with her mother, Astra hurries to her dorm, stuffs a duffel, and books a ticket from a travel app. "Got a flight leaving in thirty."
"Be careful. Public safety could ground you if they think another attack is coming too close to Earth." Her mom barely keeps back tears now.
"It's okay. Don't worry."
"I'm your mother. I'm always going to worry about you."
"I'll meet you at the house—hopefully before midnight."
"Not the house. Come to… the bunker."
"The bunk—No one's used that in almost thirty years—not since the sun almost went nova."
"It's the safest place for your father right now."
"Please, tell me what happened." If they're in the underground city bunker, this is really serious.
"I can't." Her mom holds a handkerchief up to hide tears and regather composure. "You'll understand when you get here."
Astra boards her flight. As she squishes between two loud kids, she prays. Please, God, let Dad be okay.
After two layovers, Astra disembarks in Japan's Great Island Spaceport. The clock creeps toward 2 A.M. as she hikes from the terminal to the front entrance and hails a cab.
When they reach the entrance to the underground city—where her parents wait in the emergency bunker—Astra signals the cabbie to stop.
"You sure, Miss? Nothin's about. And it's dark. Not a good place fer people ta be out alone at night." The man's concerned face is kind, but Astra shoulders her duffel and gets out.
"Thank you, but I'll be all right."
Her gut churns as she takes the sidewalk down into the dark sublevels. She uses her comm as a flashlight until two uniformed public safety officers—one man, one woman—meet her at the top of the elevator shaft that will take her to her parents.
"Astra Wildstar?" The man checks a registry on his comm and presents the device to her. "Thumbprint and retinal scan."
Astra complies, and the officers escort her into the elevator.
The ride down lasts twenty minutes. As they descend, giant shadows of old buildings, military, residential, utilities, shops, schools—everything humanity needs—whisk by. This city once housed all living things. Please, God, don't let it happen again. Don't let this war force us into hiding down here like scared animals.
Astra presses one hand to the clear, curved glass wall. Its warmth infuses her skin. Once, refrigeration units would have pumped cold air into the city—to keep the temperature down to something bearable. Now, the heat rises as they descend into the planet's crust.
The elevator hisses to a stop at a landing hundreds of floors down.
Both public safety officers nod to Astra and take the elevator back to the surface.
A few lights burn on the landing, and a trail of bulbs leads her to the bunker door, buried inside the old military headquarters building. She buzzes herself in with another thumbprint and retinal scan. Two officers—these from the military—guard the door from the inside.
"Astra!" Her mom rushes through a second thick door connecting the entryway to the rest of the bunker. She hugs Astra fiercely, and tears well in her eyes. Along with an emergency access keycard, a gold wedding band hangs on a chain around her neck and digs into Astra's skin.
Dad's ring. "Where is he?"
"In the other room. But you shouldn't see him before I expl—"
Astra bursts through the second door into a holding area big enough to accommodate fifty people. A floor-to-ceiling, transparisteel wall sections off a quarter of the room. Storage cabinets, locked, stand in rows near the back of the bunker.
Inside the transparisteel, a middle-aged man huddles as far from the door as possible, knees pulled to his face, covering his eyes. He shivers and sobs. Loose sweats and a plain shirt don't seem to keep him warm, even though the room is the same temperature as the landing outside the bunker. He doesn't wear shoes, only dirty socks. Scars run up both arms, and ugly, healed puncture wounds circle both wrists. One scar snakes up his neck, and a piece of one ear is missing.
"D… Dad?" Astra steps to the clear barrier. The instant she touches it, her father's eyes shoot to her. They're wild. Several days of stubble add to his crazed expression.
He vaults upright and lunges at her. "You!" He slaps open palms to the transparisteel. Bloody, ragged nails and nicked fingers curl into fists. His clothes are covered in sweat stains and blood flecks. "Isn't this enough?" he growls and glares at Astra. The rage in him leaves her pulse pounding in her neck as she shrinks from the barrier. "I'm sorry! Let me die but spare them!" Wrath turns to pleading, and he falls to his knees, fists squealing as they slowly slide down the transparisteel wall. "I'll do… whatever you want from now on… if you stop this slaughter." Her father descends back into sobs and seems to lose track of Astra as he hides his face.
Her mom's arm circles her shoulders and pulls her toward the door, but they don't leave the room. "He's been like that since he woke up three days ago. The rest of Siren's Call's crew… They're dead. I wanted to tell you what happened before you saw him." New tears spring from her mom's eyes, and she stifles a sob. "All he's done since he woke is plead with Sarsenonne not to murder his crew, and no matter who approaches him, he thinks they're her."
"Even… you?" Astra forced back bile.
Pain bloomed in her mom's face as she nodded and buried her face in a much-used handkerchief.
"Dad would never ever forget you." Astra hugs her mom this time. "Not after everything you've been through. He died for you once, for goodness' sake!"
"But he has forgotten," her mom chokes. "He doesn't know anyone. It's like that witch trapped him in one moment, and he can't break free of it."
"Is he okay otherwise?" Astra wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
"I checked him myself. He's… been through a lot. He has healed wounds—some serious, and Sarsenonne cut her mark into his back, but he's all right. Physically."
"The mark is those same triple claws as before?" Astra pulls out her comm and finds an image of one of their previous encounters with Sarsenonne's victims. In the picture, three ragged gashes bloody the back of an unfortunate engineer.
"Exactly."
"But why leave Dad alive? She's killed everyone else she's marked." The thought of her dad ripped and torn by something so foul as Sarsenonne kindles ire enough to heat her face and turn her vision a tinge of red.
"I don't know. Maybe, she thought he would be… dead… by the time anyone found the ship. It only came back once the automated homing beacon activated."
"Where's Siren's Call?" Astra says.
"Commander Singleton locked it in the shipyard until she can send a forensics team tomorr—Astra, no. Wait! Don't go down there!" Her mom grabs for her arm but misses. "It's sealed!"
Astra hurries out of the bunker and down ten flights of stairs to the old underground shipyard. Her flats—the same ones she's been wearing all day—clatter on each metal step, and one hand runs down the smooth rail.
Like her mom said, the shipyard door is locked.
Astra offers her thumb to the print reader mounted beside the door, but it refuses to click from red to green. Even her emergency override keycard won't give her access. She kicks the door and yells at the stubborn reader. Her frustration fills the twisting stairwell and echoes in her ears.
"I told you. Only a few people are allowed inside until that ship's examined." Her mom is coming down the last flight of stairs behind her.
"I want to see it." Astra swipes her eyes clear again. "I want to see what that monster did to Dad's crew."
Her mom shudders. "No, you don't. I've seen death, cruelty, even torture victims too often in my profession, but this… This was savagery." She takes Astra's hand. "Come back to the bunker. He might not know who we are, but we should be with your dad."
"Do you have access to the shipyard?" Astra faces her mom.
"I… yes."
"Then let me in!"
"I'm not letting my daughter walk into something that horrific."
"You'd let Hitomi or David!"
"No, I wouldn't." Her mom's hands shake as she takes Astra by the shoulders. "I wouldn't want any of my children—soldier or not—to see the horrors aboard that ship." She pulls Astra toward the stairs. "We need to get back to your father."
"All right…" Astra glances at the small window set into the shipyard door. Through it, Siren's Call seems to taunt her. Its dull gray hull is pocked and boasts three ugly puncture marks where an enemy ship forcibly boarded. Her dad's crew is still entombed onboard.
Hours of waiting inside the bunker in an uncomfortable metal chair with only her mom's crying and her dad's incessant pleas for his crew's lives pick Astra's sanity. She taps the chair frame with one short fingernail until she finds a nick in the paint and scratches deeper and deeper until she's ripped free a thumb-size stretch of enamel.
She gets up to pace and flips through classmates' work on her comm to distract from the gnawing in her brain.
"Those are good." Her mom dabs wet eyes on one sleeve since the overused handkerchief isn't an option anymore.
"Yeah. Wish they were mine." She scuffs a toe against her chair leg and stuffs her free hand in one skirt pocket. "These are the pieces Merkel liked best from our midterm show." She passes over a glazed vase shaped like a cat and painted in a kaleidoscope of colors.
"Your eval! Sweetie, I'm so sorry!"
"It's okay. It's not for another two weeks. She said she's not going to pass me, anyway. Dad's more important." Astra pockets her comm.
"I'm sure she just wants you to do your best."
"She told me to apply to other schools."
"Then she's a fool. You're a born artist. If she can't see that, she's blind. Will you show me your project?" Her mom nods to Astra's comm. Her lips tremble, but she manages not to look at Astra's dad.
"Is it okay to turn out the lights?"
"I don't know. We've had them on the whole time."
Astra dims the lights but doesn't turn them all the way off. Nothing immediately changes with her dad, so she opens her project—a smaller version that hovers in the air between her and her mom.
Her dad's pleas turn to disturbed murmurs, then fade completely.
"I've never seen anything like this." Her mom stares at the UV painting and reaches out to touch it. Her fingers leave tiny patches of glowing light for a moment. "I just want to step into it. Can you share the file with me? That way, I can see you working on it."
"Yeah. Sure." When Astra turns the lights back up, the bags under her mom's eyes seem deeper, and her dad is moaning again. It's almost 5 A.M. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I can't—"
"Yeah, you can. You're gonna keel over if you don't, and Dad needs you." Astra spreads a blanket over a temporary bed in the corner. She fluffs and cases a pillow and makes her mom take off her shoes. "Get in, and I don't want to see you up for at least four hours."
"All right. But only four." Her mom sets an alarm on her comm, pulls the blanket to her chin, and sinks into the saggy cot. She's asleep within two minutes.
"Told you…" Astra mutters. As she reaches for the light dimmer, her mom's keycard, still hanging from the chain around her neck, peeks from under the blanket.
She inches toward the bed.
Her mom shifts in her sleep, and Astra freezes.
The keycard tucks between her mom's cheek and pillow.
Astra carefully edges the card free. Singleton's gonna flip, and Mom's gonna kill me, but I have to get aboard Siren's Call. Astra fiddles with the metal hook attaching the card to the chain, and it slips free. She tucks it in one pocket.
Before she leaves the bunker, Astra turns the lights all the way down. If her mom wakes up, maybe she won't notice the keycard missing.
"Gonna take a walk. Be back in a bit," Astra says to the guards as she leaves.
The shipyard door's reader flickers green.
Yes! Astra steps inside.
The vast underground dock reaches so far above her the ceiling disappears into blackness. No other ships are here, only Siren's Call.
Her flats click on the metal flooring, and musty air swirls around her. This place is a lot like the shipyard at the military headquarters building on the surface, but something about it sends shivers up her back. It's too quiet for one. No maintenance guys are sanisteaming the docks. No repair crews cluster around ships. No officers scurry to board their assigned vessels. It's just Astra. And a dead ship.
The boarding ramp is closed, and a red seal surrounds each entry point. But it doesn't matter. She has to get inside.
A sign posted on the nearest door reads, "Ongoing Investigation: Do NOT Enter," in bold red letters.
A rack of cold suits sits beside the door along with controls for a cryo-generator.
She grabs the latch on the nearest door.
It isn't locked.
Somebody's getting written up.
The instant she breaks the seal, she wishes she hadn't.
Freezing air whooshes over her and leaves her tear-stained cheeks crinkled with lines of ice.
She grabs a suit and pulls it on over her clothes. The loose suit bags around her legs and arms and makes her look like a fat caterpillar. The only part of the suit that fits well are the gloves. The attached head covering includes a cold shield that protects her face and seals into the rest of the suit.
Her comm isn't built to withstand temperatures this low, so she tethers it to the suit's computer via cable, setting it to record everything. It'll condemn her, but at least she'll have a record of what she sees before and after she interacts with it. Lights mounted on the suit's head and forearms illuminate the way, and the soles of built-in boots grip the slick deck to keep her from falling.
She shuts the door, closing herself in the icy tomb.
God, help me find out what happened here. Dad and Mom are like two halves of the same person. He wouldn't forget her. Ever. I have to figure this out—help him get unstuck. Forensics isn't going to care about anything but the clinical details. Relationships don't mean a thing to them.
What would keep the leader of a league of intergalactic criminals from killing one more person? Why—of all the times she's attacked Sol Alliance ships—would she leave someone alive now?
She fights a gag as she steps over the first body, a woman twenty years her senior, face down. The woman's uniform is in tatters, though her executive officer's rank marking is still affixed to her shoulder; pieces of the body are missing, and not from decay. Three blackening gashes decorate the corpse's bared back.
More dead litter the hall she stumbles down, and if the cryo-generator weren't on, the reek would fill the ship.
Every crew member has the same mark as her father, but most of them are so badly mutilated she can't tell who they were. Only rank markings and names sewn into each one's uniform shoulder tell her their identities. Most of these people were ship's officers.
As she forges into the ship, she follows a line of bodies, like a grotesque compass heading. The crew members' rank descends the further inside she goes.
Crew quarters? She holds her gut to keep down rising acid. The closer she gets to the captain's cabin—her dad's bunk—the more corpses clog the hall. Each one exhibits deep stab wounds from Sarsenonne's mutated, taloned hands, and some show purpling, fang-punctured throats… or no throats at all.
A waist-high wall of bodies blocks her father's door.
She tries not to think about what she's doing as she takes a young woman's gray arm. She's not any older than me… It's rigid, hard, and doesn't budge when she gives it a ginger tug.
She pulls harder.
The body twists off the pile, and Astra jumps back to keep from touching it again as it clunks to the deck and slides over the icy floor to the other side of the passage.
Four more bodies, each heavier than the last, slip off the pile. The final body has no face.
Astra frantically fumbles with the face plate to yank it out, but the seal is too tight.
She tugs the head covering, still sealed, up and away from her face as she hacks up the meal bar wolfed down during her cab ride. Half-dissolved chunks ooze into the suit and soil her shirt front. The fabric sticks to her skin and makes her want to hurl again, especially when wet chunks splatter into her boots and slick the tops of her feet.
The cold suit's tiny HUD clock shows 7 A.M. has passed. Less than two hours left on her mom's sleep window. Not a lot of time.
She fights the urge to rip off the suit and tear outside.
Her dad's door stands half-open, a dead man's arm and shoulder keeping it from closing all the way—a good thing, since power's off, and she wouldn't be able to access manual overrides with the ship coated in ice.
The door is open enough to squeeze through, so she leaves the dead crewmember undisturbed.
Inside, dark spotlights cover the ceiling, half trained on one more body—a boy a year or two younger than her—hanging from the ceiling by razor wire. His back is marred too, and his chin sags to his ruined chest. A ragged hole sits where his heart should be. She finds the missing organ in a sad, black puddle on the floor. Something else is underneath it—probably another person's insides.
Heat rises in Astra's throat again. Repeated gulps shove it back.
Blood spray covers the room, almost as if Sarsenonne used it to paint her sick fantasies on the walls and sparse furniture.
The other half of the spotlights center on a second chair, also spattered, standing opposite the dead boy. Shackles, the inside of both cuffs lined with cruel spikes, sit open and empty in the seat. Blood crusts each sharp point. That accounts for the punctures on her dad's wrists.
Something else is on the shackles. Burn marks? She kneels and gives one cuff a tiny poke.
It disintegrates.
Cold wouldn't do that.
She circles the chair, examining the remaining cuff without touching it. As she rounds the front of the chair, light from one forearm mount illuminates the floor. Two more piles of black ash, disturbed from Astra's perusal, sit where her father's feet would have been, and chains she didn't see before trail to the chair base.
He got free? She flicks a few specks of metallic ash.
She runs the light across the rest of the floor. Directly in front of her father's chair, two wide circles, almost like footprints, but too big to be her dad's, mark the beginning of a pristine path that leads to the door, with a stop at the discarded heart.
Astra follows the trail. It's so clean she doesn't want to step on it for fear of dirtying the shining bulkhead.
Lips clamped against another round of recycled meal bar, she edges a suited finger under the boy's dead heart. It tumbles aside.
With a squeal, she jerks back.
Under the heart lays a severed hand. Six gore-caked talons sprout from it like fouled buds from a rotting root. Each claw is still sharp, but the skin is shriveled, dark, and leathery, like a dead bat stripped of its fur.
Sarsenonne's right hand!
The edges of skin, metal-enhanced bones, and cartilage are evenly severed. Whoever did this managed it with one stroke. No one's touched her in close combat before, much less landed a blow like this.
Her heart pounds, and the air inside the suit seems harder to breathe. She whirls both forearm-mounted lights around the room, checking every corner and crevice, the small closet, under the bunk, under the tiny desk.
Nobody's here. Her breaths come slower, and her pounding pulse settles. Who could be strong enough to lop off Sarsenonne's hand with a blade? Who was here, God? Who…?
Instinct pulls a suited hand over her covered mouth, but it can't stifle the gasp. Ancient words came—words she's known since childhood. The angel of the LORD encampeth round about them that fear him… and delivereth them.
Dad didn't survive because Sarsenonne let him. He survived because she couldn't withstand an angel's sword. And that same angel freed Dad. But, God, why did she trap him in a nightmare? He doesn't deserve this! None of them did!
Her knees clunk to the floor, and she sobs into her suit. Tears cloud the face shield, wash away some of the residual ick on her face and soiled damp on her shirt, but they do nothing for the stench, or the sick squish in her boots…
It's 8:45 A.M.
Astra, now showered and in clean clothes and shoes, sits inside the bunker under the scrutiny of both her mother and Earth Defense Force Commander Wendy Singleton—fortunately for Astra, a family friend.
"What possessed you to steal your mother's keycard, sneak into a crime scene, and disturb evidence?" Commander Singleton props stern hands on hips. "If either of my sons did this, I'd have them court-martialed."
Sweat slicks Astra's folded hands. "I… had to know what happened to Dad."
"And I told you to wait for forensics," her mom says, eyes clear of tears for the first time since Astra's arrival. She's upset, angry, but at least she isn't sad. "You're not trained to do this. Whatever's on that ship is compromised now. And I didn't want you subjected to that!"
Images of her tour of horrors burn Astra's memory as she meets her mother's severe gaze. "I'm sorry I abused your trust, Mom. But I'm not sorry I broke into Siren's Call. I know you want to protect me, but I'm nineteen, not seven." The faceless crewman she moved hours ago seems to stare at her from the bunker's dark corner. "But I had to do it—for Dad. You're Central Hospital's director. You have trained on forensics teams. Tell me you didn't seriously consider doing it yourself."
Her mom's eyes drop to the floor.
Commander Singleton lays a hand on her mom's shoulder. "Nova, your daughter's not part of the EDF, so I can't court-martial her, but her actions are serious. She's tampered with—even destroyed pieces of—vital evidence. We may never know what happened now, why Sarsenonne left Derek alive."
"But we do know," Astra says.
Both her mom's and Commander Singleton's attention fasten on Astra.
"Sarsenonne's missing a hand. An angel cut it off, protecting Dad from her. That's why he's not dead. You both know full well angels exist. If you don't believe me, watch the footage. I recorded everything." She offers her comm.
Commander Singleton eyes Astra skeptically as she accepts the device and pulls up the suit feed. She mercifully keeps it in 2D. Her lips purse into a tight line, and she fights to keep her eyes on the screen. When her face adopts a greenish hue, she skips to Astra's discovery inside the captain's cabin.
Her mom keeps a doctor's hardened objectivity until they reach the boy's brutalized heart, then tears spill down her cheeks.
Singleton's color edges back into her face, and wonder sparks her eyes as Astra finds the withered hand. "Look at that cut." She points to the sliced bones.
"Radius and ulna, both severed with something sharper than any surgical saw I've ever seen. And it was quick—too fast to have been Derek, even if by some miracle he got a knife."
"Could an energy weapon have done it?" Singleton says.
Astra's mother freezes the image and enlarges it. "A precision laser, but it would leave cauterization. No, this was a blade—a perfect one."
"I'm taking this file." Singleton transfers the video to her own comm, erases it from Astra's device, and returns the borrowed comm. "You'll hear from me by tomorrow morning." She hugs Astra's mother. "Get some more sleep." With a glance at Astra, she adds. "And you stay in the bunker."
Commander Singleton leaves, and Astra's mom talks with the guards at the bunker entrance.
No more walks until Singleton is back.
Astra curls under a blanket atop a second cot. She wants to sleep, but when she shuts her eyes, horrible things creep into her mind. The lights being off doesn't help.
She sits up. She isn't tired, anyway.
Her mom is asleep again, but her key card is with the door guards. Only the wedding ring hangs from her neck now.
A reminder on Astra's comm chimes. Three-hour studio reservation block.
An image of her incurably unfinished painting springs from the comm to taunt her.
I am never passing this year. Merkel's kicking me out, and I'll have to finish my degree at some no-name college with profs who don't know the difference between composition and juxtaposition. Just because Merkel doesn't like my style shouldn't mean she won't let me learn. That's not teaching—that's dictatorship!
Eyes are on her.
Inside his transparisteel cell, her dad is looking at her, face still clouded, but he isn't muttering or crying anymore.
Astra closes her unfinished piece, and his murmurs begin again.
He rocks back and forth, knees to chin. "I'm sorry," he whispers to no one. "So sorry."
He got quiet last time I opened the painting too… She brings up the piece again, this time tying into the bunker's holoprojection system. An incomplete landscape appears in fluorescent blues, blacks, purples, and yellows. In the darkness, each detail is crisp, and it almost feels like looking at a bizarre constellation.
She mounts the device on the transparisteel barrier to keep the connection stable. "Not much to look at, huh?" Astra sits cross-legged beside the cell. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to be at Marie Harkins past the end of the semester. Merkel's got me on her bad list."
Her dad's eyes fix on the unfinished big tree in the foreground. He reaches toward the blue bark and traces roots down into the hill beneath. Each glowing line fades, but her dad doesn't seem to notice. His attention shifts to the distant mountains, and he stands. Shaky steps take him to the edge of the hill, but he can't go any farther.
What if he could? Mom said it earlier—wanting to walk into the picture…
She flips through her classmates' work again. Lots of pictures, sculptures, models, calligraphy, net site designs. None of that's right!
In a frustrated shuffle, she jumps into two drawing apps, a code compiler, old net bookmarks to articles about experiential art—and stops inside a 3D rendering program.
Astra leaves a copy of the image up for her dad to look at while she throws the file into another app. The image stretches, transforms. The hill rounds, and its sides dip into a valley where the edge of the forest begins. Trees blanket the ground, reaching toward the far mountains, but now, everything has a depth Astra never could have conjured with a flat image.
Six hours of silence pass as she adds basic texture, lighting, corrects perspective and composition.
Her dad stands beside the unfinished tree and studies leaves that haven't made it to the ground. He taps each one before sitting at the tree's base and watching her work. Not once does he seem distressed. Instead, he watches every purposeful stroke, enthralled.
She trades her dad's copy of the file for a 3D rendering of her painting. The UV setting is still on, and the colors don't change, but when she gives him the new image, he leaps to his feet and circles the great tree in awe. Branches in varying shades of purple and blue spread from the tree to cover him, and more leaves are slowly falling.
He looks into rough branches for a ten count before he locks eyes with her and says clearly, "I'm sorry I didn't listen."
"Mom?" Astra doesn't break gaze with her dad. "Mom, wake up! Dad's talking!"
Her mother rouses and stumbles shoeless from the cot. Her clothes are wrinkled and creased. Her hair rims her face, each lock twisting at a haphazard angle. "Derek?" She presses open palms to the barrier wall.
"I didn't listen… They died." Astra's dad approaches the wall. Grief, not anger, takes him, and heavy sorrow shoves him to his knees.
"Derek, what is it? Who didn't you listen to? Sarsenonne?" Her mom kneels in front of her dad.
"N-Nova…" He reaches for his wife's face. "Shouldn't have gone. Shouldn't have captained Siren's Call."
"Our fight before you left… I didn't want you to leave." Her mom unlocks the cell and sits beside her dad. "But that's not why your crew didn't make it. It isn't your fault—"
"Yes, it is!" Her dad's eyes turn strange again. "Wanted to stop Sarsenonne…"
"We all wanted that." Her mom hugs her dad tight. "It's all right. You're back with us now." Tears stream down her cheeks.
"God said… not me. Another job to do…"
Pieces of the past day click together. "He hasn't been begging Sarsenonne to spare his crew. He's been begging God to… He was so guilt ridden about what happened he couldn't break out of the moment… Mom, the angel! He saw the angel!"
Her mother lets go of her father and wipes tears. "That and the torture would scramble anyone. He's seen an angel before, but never like this—never because he disregarded an instruction."
"What brought him back?"
Her mom offers a sad smile. "You did, Astra. He's been drowning in destruction for so long. You reminded him what creation looks like. You're doing what you should be—pursuing the talent God gave you."
Her dad's eyes clear again, and he reaches for Astra.
She hurries into the cell, ignoring the stink of sweat, and throws her arms around both parents. "I love you both, and I promise, I'm going to finish this project. If a picture can help make my dad sane again, it's worth getting as perfect as I can make it."
When Commander Singleton walks in the next morning, she stops in shock as Astra's dad greets the woman with an outstretched hand. He still isn't speaking much, and what he does say is seldom a complete sentence. He grieves his crew frequently, but he isn't stuck anymore.
"Admiral Wildstar," says Singleton. "Good to see you… better. When you're ready, we can take you to Central Hospital to get those scars removed."
"No," says her dad. "Remember…"
"All… right…" Commander Singleton turns to Astra. "I showed your video to forensics. They found it fascinating. And, in light of…" she glances at Astra's dad, "… other developments, consider yourself free of any wrongdoing where the EDF is concerned. We'll be taking down that barrier within the hour, but we'll leave the guard detail until everyone's comfortable leaving the bunker."
"Thank you so much." Astra's comm buzzes. She waits to check it until Singleton leaves.
A message from Merkel.
Pulling stunts for sympathy won't get you a pass.
Astra deletes the message.
Once the barrier is dismantled and removed, she turns off the lights, sits in the middle of the room and opens her 3D creation. "Dad? You wanna help?"
Her father's hand winds tightly around her mother's, and he doesn't leave her side, but his eyes fasten to the glowing image.
"Mom…? You too."
"Come on, Derek." Her mom leads her dad to Astra's spot on the floor and coaxes him into letting go of her hand so they can sit to either side of their daughter.
Her mom wraps an arm around her and plants a kiss on her cheek. "Never stop being you."
A smile brightens Astra's face. "Love you too, Mom," she whispers. "So, Dad, this is gonna take a while. You up for it?"
Her father meets her gaze and nods once.
Beginning with a foundation of black, deep blue, and stunning violet, Astra builds. Every new nuance adds a spark of wonder to her father's eyes.
Two weeks later, at Marie Harkins' small amphitheater, Astra waits her turn to present her evaluation piece. Everyone else has passed, and the guy before her is getting high praise from Merkel. Astra doesn't know why. His piece looks like a clay monkey met a Salvador Dali painting. It seems to ooze through the air, reforming into different shapes—all skewed.
"Miss Wildstar." Professor Merkel motions her forward, looking bored. "What work of genius do you have for us?"
Astra connects her comm to the projection system. It stutters, and Merkel frowns until the connection stabilizes.
The image she reworked for her dad springs to life, but now, every detail is as perfect as she can make it. Merkel stands beneath the great tree, atop the hill. Leaves scatter around her in shades of gold. The forest shines, a multi-hued ocean, and the mountains beyond reach for the dark sky with their deep blue peaks.
Murmurs flutter through the other students, and several step forward to touch the rendering.
Merkel walks a circle around the tree and looks into its swaying boughs, just like Astra's dad did. Amber grass swishes under her feet as cicadas sing and a gentle breeze flutters over the scene. "Very… original." She gestures to the other seated students. "Join your fellow students, Miss Wildstar. Even I am willing to admit when the impossible has been achieved."
Author's Note: Written for the WA Never in a Million Years Challenge.
Astra's 3D rendering was inspired by J. R. R. Tolkien's Leaf by Niggle. Thanks, Freddo, for introducing me to it.
This piece would not be what it is without the amazing and thorough beta commentary of fanfiction.net user GrimmsterJ.