Blackthorn (Monsters of the Nexus #2)

Prologue

Radcliffe

Colony Ship Endeavor

Deep Space

One Year Before Founding

“Explain it to me one more time.” It was the lingering effects of the cryo chamber, but Radcliffe felt sluggish both physically and mentally. He understood the captain’s words, but they did not make sense.

“The Unity sent a distress signal, which woke the vital crew from cryo,” Captain Beckford said. Dark circles hung under her eyes. She looked tired. More than tired. Exhausted down to her bones. “An asteroid field damaged life support. We might have been able to send a repair crew, but it seems our navigation system was also damaged. We’re not on course and cannot locate the Unity or the Hope .”

“We’re fucked,” another man groaned.

“We’re lost,” the captain corrected.

Reeve’s presence startled Radcliffe: he hadn’t realized the cartographer was in the room. Several people were in the room, now that Radcliffe bothered to look around. The second-in-command, security, communication, and navigation. The bridge crew, the vital officers. They all had the same exhausted look as the captain. Although why the captain woke the cartographer was curious. The colony ship had no need for Reeve’s skills until they landed.

“Why did you wake me? You need an engineer, not a medical doctor,” Radcliffe said. The vital crew were supposed to wake early, respond to emergencies, and go back into cryo. Radcliffe was only supposed to be awakened early to prepare the ship for landing. He was meant to be the only one to wake the passengers from cryo.

Despite having been asleep for literally years, he wanted to crawl back into the cryo chamber for at least another decade. His stomach churned, threatening to spill its contents, and his body ached.

That was cryo-sickness. Still sluggish, his mind worked well enough to tell him the grogginess was the drugs still in his system. As improbable as it sounded, more sleep was the answer.

“Because we don’t have the fuel or the resources to reach our destination.”

“But you found an alternative.”

“Indeed. The planet is less than optimal for humans. We must adapt.”

“Which is why you woke me,” Radcliffe said, comprehension dawning.

* * *

Calling the planet less than optimal for human life was being generous.

The radiation was a problem. The colonists would have to live underground or in protective structures. Every drop of water would have to be filtered. Soil would have to be cleaned to grow food, assuming anything grew.

It was impossible. The engineers, agrologists, and botanists all agreed. This was not new information.

Radcliffe ran a hand through his hair. His eyes burned. His body ached. He was hungry, but the thought of food soured his empty stomach. A nutritional drink kept his blood sugar from dropping too much. How long had he been awake now? Easily twenty-four hours. Injections got him over the initial grogginess of cryo-sickness, but now he needed sleep, real sleep.

Run more simulations.

They had to adapt to the new planet. It was why the captain woke him early. Humans had done it before on Earth, to cope with air pollution and rising global temperatures.

Hours later, exhausted and shaking, he had it.

“I have a solution,” he said, handing the tablet to the captain, interrupting the head of engineering’s little speech about arrays and dust.

Judith Scott tossed him a dirty look but continued to speak. “At this point, I can rule out damage to our communication array. If the Hope’s comms were in the same condition, it may take the AI bots some time to repair.”

Captain Beckford scrolled through the proposal, not giving his words the full attention they deserved. Radcliffe clenched his jaw, holding his tongue at the insult.

“Continue hailing the Hope . Even if it’s a ghost ship, let’s assume the AI is functioning. Once you establish contact, convince the AI to change course and meet us on the new planet,” Beckford said.

“The likelihood of anyone surviving is negligible,” Radcliffe said, no longer able to remain silent. Not that he had tried very hard. “Our efforts are better spent elsewhere.”

Judith leveled a freezing gaze at him. He expected her to scold him with some trite about it being worth the time, energy, and resources if only one life could be saved. Instead, she said, “It would be criminal to let a ship full of supplies go to waste. The matter printers alone will be worth the effort.”

“I agree,” he replied, surprised at her practicality.

They almost smiled at one another. Almost.

The captain interrupted, “Will this work, Doctor?”

He tore his attention away from the engineer and to the captain. She pointed to the tablet, meaning his plan to introduce a genetic mutation to all four thousand sleeping passengers.

“The simulations say yes, but complications are unpredictable. I will start with a small group of subjects. If it is successful, the therapy can be administered to all the passengers before they wake.”

“It’s completely unethical to administer this type of gene therapy on patients without their consent,” the captain said. “Find another way.”

Radcliffe frowned. “That clashes with the previous orders you issued. You wanted a solution. I have a solution.”

“You have a year. Find another way.”

Ethics. Moral correctness.

Radcliffe marched back to his lab, clutching the tablet.

It could be argued that it was more unethical to do nothing and let people suffer horribly and die from radiation poisoning. The mutations could have unforeseen consequences. Some would die before they woke up. That was inevitable and a reasonable price to pay if it meant the survival of the entire colony.

He never understood how people agonized over the so-called philosophical dilemma problems. Save one person at the expense of a larger group? Save the group even if it meant the individual perished? What is the moral and ethical choice?

Easy. One life to save many? Who even thought it was a dilemma? Sacrifices had to be made. Radcliffe knew this.

Captain Beckford did not wake him early to administer potassium iodide pills and wring his hands. That was no solution. The captain wanted him to make the unpleasant, necessary decisions. He understood.

Fortunately, he was a man never bothered by ethics.

Draven

West Lands

The Aerie

211 Years After Founding

The beast and his companion left at sunrise.

Draven watched from a tower window as they left his stronghold until they became dark smudges against the mountain. Eventually, they vanished in the distance.

The morning sun warmed his skin. The light did not harm Draven as it once had. Call it one of the few benefits of old age.

This morning felt significant, full of potential, like something could actually change. He had lived long enough to appreciate that true change happened rarely. He savored the anticipation.

The child was one of the Marechal hunters, come to reclaim his family’s heirloom. Draven opened his home to the travelers—the Marechal lad and the newly transformed beast with his tenuous anchor—and listened to the child’s plea. It was little more than begging, asking for the return of the imbued sword with nothing to offer in exchange.

Imagine Draven’s surprise that the foolish, danger-seeking family had not driven themselves into extinction. He had no need for the imbued sword, but he was not inclined to give away his treasure.

Not when he paid such a heavy price to capture it.

“This sword took my companion,” he said. “Find me a bride, and Blackthorn is yours. It is a fair price.”

More than fair. A century had passed since the last Marechal hunter tried to end his life on the grounds that Draven was a monster and abomination.

He had a condition that necessitated certain dietary requirements. While many found the consumption of blood unsavory, he had plenty of willing associates who would exchange a pint of blood for food and shelter. It was a fair trade. They were free to leave at any time. Draven was not so crude as to keep his…associates…chained in the basement. He hadn’t done that for nearly a century.

His food was not the issue. He had a steady supply and had learned how to gather the nutrients his body needed due to the Nexus mutation without bleeding a person dry.

He needed an anchor. He had been too long adrift without one. When the seasons cycled, he felt the surge of Nexus energy, and it pulled on him. He needed a companion to hold his mind in place, to tie him to this world, and to keep him from shifting into a bloodthirsty monster.

It was harder every season. Finding one the first time had been improbable. A second anchor? The statistics were grim.

Without a new anchor, he would soon lose himself completely to the monster.

If that happened, Luis Marechal was more than welcome to drive Blackthorn through Draven’s shriveled, undead heart.