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A Sea of Stars and Trouble
by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
“Who am I?” For some people, this is a philosophical question. For “Trouble” Matthews, it’s an existential one. And knowing the answer could be just as deadly as not knowing.
Ridley “Trouble” Matthews is a blank slate when he walks into the city of Porphyry on the planet of Herron’s Hope. All he has are the clothes on his back; all he knows of himself is his name … and that he’s running from something … or someone.
Shanghaied onto a smuggler’s ship, Trouble is swept up in a blur of intrigue, piracy, and danger, complicated by his emergent memories … and an array of obviously augmented physical and mental skills of which strength, quickness, enhanced vision and hearing are merely the tip of the iceberg.
The good news is, Trouble does get off the planet. The bad news? His growing list of specialized skills raises an urgent question: Why? Why would he have had these particular mods done … or why were they done to him? As he tries to peer deeper into his own memories, Trouble is less and less sure that he wants to know the truth about them or discover why his dreams are haunted by a child’s laughter.
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Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff is the New York Times Bestselling author of The Antiquities Hunter and Star Wars Legends: The Last Jedi (with Michael Reaves). She writes science fiction and fantasy as the result of a horrible childhood trauma involving a robot named Gort. Maya performs, and records original music with her husband, Jeff.
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1 / Birthday
He was born as he walked the road into Porphyry.
At least, that’s where he was when he remembered that his name was Ridley. Three steps later, he remembered that Ridley was his first name and that Matthews was the surname that went with it. Other than that, he knew of his newborn self only that he was wearing a once-blue shirt, gray breeks, and tall boots covered by a disreputable knee-length coat of indeterminate color that was vented at the sides and back.
He patted the vents over his thighs and had the vague sense that something was missing. A money pouch? A holster? A scabbard for a laz-blade? He glanced down at his hands. No rings. No tattoos. Nothing but a faint scar that ran along the inside of one wrist. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten it.
The air roared with the distant lift-off of a starship. He stopped and watched it soar toward the clouds—through them—its keel gleaming blue. The port was straight ahead, behind the walls of a city that sat on and among a range of low, rolling hills. He estimated the distance to the wall at about 400 meters and change.
Ridley knew something else about himself then—he wanted to get to the spaceport and off this world.
Which was … what?
He did a 360 on the shoulder of the unnaturally smooth road. It had no potholes, cracks or blemishes and somehow he knew the surface was smooth to the millimeter, though he had no idea how he knew it. Beyond the road lay chaos; brackish fields and wetlands stretched out behind him; a forest of towering, crooked trees lay on one side of the road; a fen with waving reeds twice his height spread out on the other. Ahead of him, the dingy gray walls of the huge citadel rose in front of him and disappeared into the equally gray distance in both directions.
Ah. There was a sign over the gate this roadway led to: Welcome to Porphyry.
Right.
Porphyry. A port town on … he racked his brain.
Nothing.
His lack of coherent memory didn’t bother him too much. It would come to him eventually, he figured. He faced the city gate and began walking again, assiduously trying not to be mowed down by a variety of vehicles that were scurrying out of the twilight into the safety of the city.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the tall, waving grasses of the fen. Why was everybody in such a hurry? Did the gates—
He heard a siren go off ahead. Yellow lights flashed along the top of the gate that bracketed the roadway.
—close at dusk?
He ran, the tails of his coat flapping in the dank air. As he slipped through the pedestrian gate, barely saving the tails of his coat, he remembered something else about himself—he was running from something. Not whatever lived in the marshes beyond the city, but something else. Suddenly, his lack of coherent memory bothered him a great deal. He stepped into the shadow of the wall and searched his pockets. He found nothing. Not a credit tab, no ID, no weaponry.
The gate he’d entered through had been roughly three meters wide and constructed of aging stone with a newer metal insert. Clearly not a main access to the city. The section of Porphyry within it was a maze. This might be good, given his impression that he was on the run from … something. The streets were narrow, the buildings old, huddled together, and decrepit. Their layout was jumbled and confusing—like a random scatter of toy blocks.
He knew about toy blocks, he realized. Knew small children played with them. Knew the sound of a child’s laughter. He scrambled after the happy/sad thought, then let it go in favor of dealing with his immediate situation. He seemed to recall that he trusted his sense of direction, but as darkness fell, he found he’d gone around in a convoluted circle without having realized it. It was like being lost in another dimension where the normal rules of geography did not apply. Or maybe the problem was in his addled brain.
He had apparently wandered into a dead zone. There was a distinct lack of lighting. Only the full moon, hanging huge and bloated in the sky overhead, cast its pale green light here. It was enough light to inform him that there was no one around to ask for the quickest route to the spaceport. There was no traffic. The shops were shuttered. The streets were deserted, as if the denizens of Porphyry had as much to fear within its walls as beyond them. Yet, in the distance he could hear the hum of a main thoroughfare, far-off sirens, the thunder of starship launch engines.
He looked up, scanning the facades of the buildings nearest him. Standing on a balcony some yards down the street was a cluster of robed figures, several of whom were looking right at him. Well, at least their hooded heads were turned in his direction. He couldn’t see their faces. Unsettling. The ones that weren’t looking at him were speaking into communicators of some sort.
P-comms, said his piecemeal memory. Short for … something that started with a P.
The hair on the back of Ridley’s neck rose, tingling, and he knew with sudden certainty that someone was behind him. He turned just in time to catch the merest glance of a gray-robed figure gripping a static-spitting staff before a jolt of freezing energy took him down. He hit the roadway like a rock and curled into a ball, bracing himself against the chill, tingling shock. Oddly, after a moment, the shock morphed into something eerily pleasant. In fact, he felt better than he had in a long time … or at least for the past hour or so.
He’d had some expectation of the effects of the weapon based, he assumed, on prior experience—but the charge from this staff was causing his brain to explode, not with pain, but with a sense of contentment and well-being. He was suffused with a bliss so potent it was terrifying—or would have been if it didn’t feel so damn good. Even the fact that he was probably about to die failed to penetrate the (insane) conviction that Ridley Matthews was profoundly right with the Universe and was fulfilling a purpose that surely had been preordained since the beginning of his existence—perhaps even the beginning of time. Everything he had ever done or experienced, whether or not he could remember it, had led inexorably to this moment, had put him just where he belonged.
He no longer felt any need to escape.
Like hell I don’t, snarled a dissenting inner voice.
He ignored it. The thought of his imminent death cheered him; he wouldn’t have to run anymore. He simply had to be, to allow events to unfold as God or the Universe had planned. So what if he didn’t know who the hell he was? He was complete on every conceivable plane of existence.
Bull shit. Bull Shit. BULL. SHIT.
He wasn’t complete. He was in a dangerous position for anyone to be in, even if they weren’t a complete blank. His anger was as unexpected as the false joy, but at least it was an honest emotion, not forced on him by a neural weapon.
He was surrounded by robed figures now, all carrying similar meter-long staffs. They were swaying from side to side and chanting: “Burn, burn, burn away. Confusion, sorrow, doubt and pain. Burn away. Burn away.”
Ridley gasped. Suppressing the alien bliss with a will, he stood, shaking hair out of his eyes. “Who are you? What did you do to me?”
The tallest of the monkish men—the one who’d zapped him—stopped chanting and stepped forward, seemingly surprised that their victim was speaking to them. His robe was decorated with symbols: crosses, pentagrams, cups, swords, several different kinds of stars and moons—a mishmash of religious icons from a dozen worlds and ages. Ridley could see the glitter of the man’s eyes within the hood.
Good. He had a face … which Ridley was much inclined to punch.
“We are the Druud,” the monk told him gravely. “The Brothers of the Rapture. We have shared the Rapture with you. You are blessed.”
His companions—there were five, all dressed in similar attire—repeated the words, “Rapture. Blessed.”
“Feel the burn, brother,” the Druud told him. “Feel the layers of your soul sear away until your true self is revealed.”
His true self. Did he want to know who or what that was? Something told him he’d been running for a while now, and until he knew what he was running from he’d just as soon leave his true self out of it.
“Why?” he gasped, feeling the burn. “Why attack me?”
The monk made a gesture with his staff. “We do not attack. We mean only to help you, brother.” He sounded sincere.
Ridley understood. They just wanted him to join them—to be part of their cult. To belong. To them, this wasn’t an assault, it was a conversion, not by faith, but by technology. Belonging wasn’t bad. Belonging was good. It was necessary. He had belonged … somewhere. Hadn’t he?
Ridley locked his eyes on the glowing tip of the Druud’s staff. Carrot and stick—both at once. Had they all been converted this way?
He had to wonder what made the conversions “stick”—frequent and repeated applications to weaken the mind and make it susceptible to the irresistible lure of inclusion? Was it a manipulation of the obvious loner’s supposedly deep-seated desire to belong? Or was it addiction they were counting on—the mad urge to feel this overwhelming sense of wellbeing again and again?
Ridley eyed the staff, afraid the monk would use it on him—equally afraid he wouldn’t. “Your rapture is false,” he said through gritted teeth. He took a step, meaning to slip between two of the back-up monks, but the tall Druud cut him off, raising his staff menacingly.
“You must obey the law! Neither heathen nor holy may walk these streets at night without dispensation.”
“What dispensation? I don’t even live here, and I’m on my way off-world. For the love of God, just let me go!”
The tall monk looked him in the eye and lowered his staff slightly.
“I am not a cruel man. The Brothers of the Rapture is not a cruel order. We strive for justice and mercy—for harmony. Our streets are not to be walked by outsiders after the sun has set. This is the holy time, and our spiritual discipline is not to be disrupted by the presence of those who do not believe. This is the law. Therefore, you must believe.”
Ah, the logic of insanity. Still, Ridley was cheered by the fact that Rapture Monk had not ended the sentence with “you must die”. That was something.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re zapping me into a religious experience because of a zoning ordinance?”
“Zoning ordinance? No,” said the Druud. “These are the Proprieties of Herron’s Hope. Here, in this sector of Porphyry, they are law.”
Herron’s Hope. That was the name of the planet. Right. He’d known that, hadn’t he?
The Druud lifted his staff again and thrust it toward his would-be convert. This time Ridley grabbed it right behind the muzzle. Lightning crackled the length of his arm. He set his teeth against the overwhelming joy that came with it, wrenched the staff from the monk’s grasp, and aimed a roundhouse kick at his head. Ridley’s booted foot connected with a solid thud and the big man went down hard. A second monk leapt to his brother’s defense, but Ridley completed his spinning move with a fist to the defender’s face. He barely felt the blow on his knuckles.
When he finally stopped moving, he was outside the circle of monks, who stood and gaped as if they’d never seen anyone fight happiness with such determination. The man he had punched was warily pulling himself to his feet.
Ridley twirled the purloined staff as if it were a baton. “Go away,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble in his throat. He waited a beat, then added, “Please.”
They went, scattering across the empty street, into the alleys and around the corners, three of them dragging their groaning leader to safety. The men on the balcony, who had been watching these events, withdrew to the shadowy recesses of the building.
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