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  STARFIRE

  BOOK ONE OF THE STARFIRE WARS

  JENETTA PENNER

  STARFIRE

  Copyright © 2018 Jenetta Penner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locals is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781983319990

  Printed in the U.S.A. First printing 2018

  CONTENTS

  STARFIRE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Final Thanks

  Chapter 1

  My father named me after the stars. But I’ve always preferred to keep my feet on the ground.

  Ironically, I’m hurtling through space in a gigantic starship twenty thousand light-years from Earth. The only life I’ve ever known was there—school, my friends . . . Mom. This journey was Mom and Dad’s dream, not mine, and she’s the one we left behind.

  I fumble for the simple gold band encircling my right ring finger, and twist it. Now all I have left of her after she died is this piece of jewelry.

  I’d rather have her.

  The muscles in my stomach tighten and I exhale loudly. I glance at a glass computer panel, which displays a glowing image of Arcadia—the new Earth—our destination. The planet pretty much looks like old Earth but the continents are all mixed up, and it boasts two moons. The planet’s atmosphere also glows a strange shade of cyan. On the occasional night, the atmosphere creates amazing patterns like the aurora borealis. Or so I’m told. The planet is uninhabited except for wildlife.

  Ten years ago my mom, Isabel Foster, discovered how the atmosphere was similar to Earth’s. My parents had worked tirelessly alongside the World Senate to streamline Arcadia’s settlement and were told, repeatedly, that the process would take a minimum of fifty years before the first permanent international colony would set foot onto a new planet. Yet, we’ll temporarily disembark at the Skybase orbiting above Arcadia in less than eight hours.

  Arcadia is a perfect Earth 2.0—ripe for the picking. I sigh while twisting the ring on my finger once again. Theory had always claimed how humans would need to make an inhospitable environment capable of supporting human life by completely restructuring a planet through terraforming. But this planet was just dangling out in space, waiting for us. And here we are. This discovery shifted Dad’s plans for Arcadia to an urban development focus since it was considered an Easily Terraformable Planet.

  Most days, Dad remains excited, but, without Mom here, his moods are typically mixed. Though, since our starship voyaged out of the Turner Space Fold, I’ve barely seen him; so, I wouldn’t know his mood today. To ensure safety, the captain of our starship, Pathfinder, had programmed our exit point for a seven-day lightspeed journey to new Earth. Since then, Dad has been too busy making all the preparations, or meeting with people I’ve never met or don’t care about. I guess when you’re the man who envisioned every aspect of how humans plan to live on Arcadia, people seem to think you’re important or something.

  His importance is evident by the cabin we were assigned, which consists of two good-sized rooms plus a small office for Dad. There’s even a little eat-in kitchen with a set of barstools at the counter, and a living room. The refrigerator is stocked with food and, if the supplies start to dwindle, a cute delivery guy shows up to replace the missing items.

  Most of the people down below are lucky to receive a bunk and a nutritional food pack for the day. Ninety percent of these individuals probably felt like they had won a lottery ticket to the planet when they came out on top of their job testing. But, the privilege also entitles them to a lifetime of indentured servitude on our new “Eden.” I doubt many will ever repay the debt incurred just from the ticket price alone. Arcadia needs ready workers, however, and most had lived in slums and were starving while on Earth; so maybe being indentured was a better option.

  The remaining voyagers bought their way onboard. They’re the types who typically have piles of money to spend, and were no doubt bored with Earth. Coming to a new world was hyped up as the chance of a lifetime and, if you have the cash to blow, why not blow it on building a new colony?

  Princes and paupers. Not many passengers in-between.

  I return my attention to my Earthscape lesson. Apparently, in my distraction, my entire simulated society suffocated from a lack of oxygen in their domed city. Poor planning on my part. I sigh and tap off the program. When both of your parents specialized in terraforming and creating urban development, the expectation is that you’ll do the same, especially when you began to understand the concepts before you were five. I do have a knack, but not the passion— when I want to focus, that is. I’m only seventeen; why am I required to know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life? Maybe I want to be a painter. Don’t need to travel across the galaxy to make that dream a reality. Mom never pushed me to make important life choices before I was ready.

  I stand, brushing my wavy, strawberry blonde hair off my forehead, and go over to the nightstand beside my twin bed to search for a clip. Mom’s jewelry-making tools—colorful beads and glistening gems and an array of metal fasteners—cover the surface. She was in the middle of teaching me her hobby when . . . when we ran out of time. We did fashion a few pieces together though, and I even managed to partially cobble together a ruby tie tack on my own. After it’s done, I plan to give it to Dad when we reach Arcadia. I might not be excited, but he is, and I love him.

  I pick up a sapphire clip Mom made and affix it to the right side of my hair. Then I grab my green sweater hanging across the chair’s back and run my arms through the sleeves. This particular shade of green—a deep emerald—not only matches my eyes, it’s also my favorite color. Fashion and matching eye color aside, there’s an odd draft that always seems to be present in the corridors. I’m not sure the mystery breeze is a good thing, but the colonization site on Arcadia tends to lean toward tropical. I’ll never be cold again.

  Exiting my room, I amble through the silence of our unit. Once I enter the living area, I stop momentarily to stare at the blur of stars outside of our window. The blackness streaked with white light made by our forward motion takes me farther away from Mom and everything I left behind. With a gulp, I resume my pace to the door and tap my hand on the release. The door whooshes back and reveals a brightly lit hall.

  I step out of the unit and glance behind at the bronze placard on our door.

  Richard Foster

  Cassiopeia Foster

  The names are listed as if we are movie stars or something. It’s weird. No one else on our wing has names on their doors, only unit numbers. Maybe the other members of the Board do too. But I have not been to their units. I shake my head and veer to my left, toward Dad’s dedicated workspace. Maybe he has a few minutes for us to grab lunch and talk about tonight’s gala planned for a
fter our Skybase arrival. The party is a good distraction, and I’m sure he needs a break too.

  Halfway there, I check the time on my Connect: 11:17 am. I exhale in frustration. I know Dad. He’ll be engrossed in a project until closer to noon. My best odds for pulling him away are to waste the next twenty-five minutes. So, I take a right toward the atrium wing. The space is quiet, and the crowded plants spark memories of family trips we used to take to visit Grandma, who lived out in the country.

  The five-minute stroll and elevator ride a few floors up are worth every second spent. My shoulders relax a notch as I stroll through the gigantic, nearly park-like setting. I scan the space for any other people, but there’s no one. It seems like everyone else is working all the time. Looking up, I watch as simulated white, puffy clouds float across an equally simulated blue sky. Around me, buzzing worker drones called Agrowbots—roughly the size of pigeons—tend to trees heavily laden with fruits of all kinds. The bots pollinate, prune, and dispose of dead leaves and any overripe produce. If I squint hard at their white, pearly bodies, I can pretend that the bots are real birds, as if I’m outside instead of inside an artificial atrium. Even the soothing sounds of a rolling breeze and the chirping insects are fake. Not as if the pigeon drones would allow any insects into their perfect orchard.

  I approach a tree and reach for a blushing apple. With an easy snap, I pluck the fruit from the tree limb. I rotate the apple in my hands and study the impeccable skin before biting into the crispy flesh. Tart and sweet, the juice floods my taste buds. Pink Lady, my favorite. I grab a second and tuck it into the pocket of my sweater for Dad. They’re his favorite too.

  I take my time perusing the trees and manicured gardens, hard pressed to spot one blemish. But, with the lack of foot traffic, I’m not even sure why the ship is equipped with an atrium. Our journey is only one week and everyone is working eighteen-hour shifts. Work, eat, sleep. Rinse and repeat. No time for nature.

  Sighing, I toss the skeletal core to the ground. The second it hits the grass, a drone buzzes in and gobbles the apple into its belly’s trash compartment, where the organic components will break down into usable compost. In real life, I’d never litter. But it’s entertaining to watch the hungry pigeons. Even if the bots are not real birds.

  I glance at my Connect again. The clear device accomplishes quite a bit for a small piece of tech. If I tap the face, an interactive holograph will appear that I can use to relay communication, or as a computer. But mostly, I use the device as a watch. 11:38 am. Close enough. It will take me a few minutes to get to Dad, anyway.

  I exit the atrium and pass a few unfamiliar, busy looking faces along my way to meet Dad. Everyone holds such a serious expression. You’d think there would be more excitement. I hope once we arrive at Arcadia, people receive much-needed down time to enjoy their new lives. But, I have a feeling none of that will happen.

  I chew the inside of my lip as the elevator rolls up, releasing my lip when the doors slide open at deck twenty-five. From my vantage point, I spot Dad wearing a tan jacket and hustling down the corridor and away from me. He always complains about the mysterious draft on the ship, too. Even though no one else seems to notice the breeze. I open my mouth to call out to him, and then quickly snap my lips shut, realizing he’s too far away and I would need to yell to get his attention. But shouting is something the snooty people in charge look down on around here. As I step out of the elevator, my father makes a left down a wing I haven’t visited. Then a group of his team members come into view and follow him.

  I tap my Connect and bring up a hologram of his itinerary. No, he doesn’t have a conference scheduled until 3:00 pm. And Dad is a stickler for schedules.

  My stomach grumbles, ready for a more significant meal than an apple. I glance around for any signs the wing is off limits, but there are none. So, I head in the direction he took. I turn the corner just as the last of the group behind him files into an unmarked conference room. As the door slides shut I hear Dad’s angry voice rumble through a nearby wall. Just my luck, he is in there.

  Defeated, I decide to retreat and spend lunch in solitude. Typical. But the door makes a scraping sound on the track and then grunts when it sticks about a half-inch open. Once more, Dad’s voice, thick with negative energy, pipes out from the narrow opening. Grumbles from voices I don’t recognize step over whatever he’s saying.

  I shrug and peer around again. No one is here and I’ve got nothing better to do, so I might as well be a little bit nosey. What can the Board do to me? I’ll just confess I was here for lunch and searching for my father. Which is true. A slap on the wrist is the worst they’d dole out.

  I creep toward the door and position my ear as close as I can without being noticed. As an only child growing up, I had many opportunities to sneak around and listen to grown-up conversations that I wasn’t really supposed to hear. I always felt guilty, but I never could stand being out of the loop.

  “You can’t let her get away with it,” Dad pleads.

  Several voices meld together through the crack in the door, and I lean my ear in closer to discover just who her might be and what exactly it is she can’t get away with.

  The clop of heavy boots on flooring echoes from around the corner and my breath hitches. Luckily, ten feet away, a short hallway connects a grouping of offices. On my toes, I dash for the hall’s safety. Just as I round the corner, a woman’s frame comes into view.

  I let out a breath, knowing she didn’t see me, and then squat to peek from my hiding spot.

  Oh—her. Elizabeth Hammond. Mid-sixties, dyed white blonde hair, and a scowl as a permanent accessory. The President of the Board . . . and my Dad’s archenemy. I should’ve known from the disdain in his voice. The woman has spent her career mostly objecting to my father’s ideas. He’s always had innovative concepts, and the Board is conservative, especially Hammond. She’s a rule follower to the core.

  Oil and water.

  She slams her hand to activate the door and it slides back with a scrape. I grit my teeth from the sound and the hairs on the base of my neck stand on end. Hammond doesn’t flinch. And, instead of entering, she stands in the opening. The conversation inside goes silent.

  “Dr. Foster, I am unclear as to why I was not invited to this meeting,” Hammond says, her voice thick with venom. Then the conversation hushes to thick silence.

  “President Hammond,” Dad finally speaks up.

  His voice is strong, but I know him well enough to pick out a tinge of fear. He’s using the same tone as when he had told me a year ago how Mom had been killed in a vehicle accident. I’ll never forget every minute detail of the moment I heard him share that Mom will never be coming home again. An ache blooms in my chest and, for several beats of my heart, I forget how to breathe. Too much. It’s just too much to think about. Too incomprehensible. In that moment a year ago, I stuffed the feelings away as much as I could. Then something simple like the tone of a voice rushes fresh pain to the present. I gnaw on the inside of my lip and force myself to focus on the brewing argument just feet away.

  “You are not unaware of our . . . difference of opinion on this issue,” Dad continues. “And by the expression on your face, I get the impression that inviting you here would’ve been fruitless.”

  My pulse races in my ears. Everything in me wants to run to my dad and tell him everything is going to be okay. But doing that would get us both in trouble.

  Hammond crosses her arms over her chest and throws her weight to her right side. “Then it’s fruitless for you to call the meeting in the first place. No decisions are made without my consent.”

  “But my team has information I hadn’t even considered,” he says. “I needed to hear them out and compile the data. Any repercussions will emerge on the Earthscape program. When you see it, you might change your mind.”

  “I don’t need the data,” Hammond practically growls. “I’ve seen all I require to make the best choice for the people.” With those words she spins toward th
e door and marches out with weighty boot steps.

  Before the door scrapes shut I hear my father sigh. “Not all of the people.”

  Chapter 2

  I smooth out the skirt’s pale-pink silk on the full-length formal dress I chose for tonight’s Arrival Gala. In only a short while, we’ll drop out of lightspeed and Arcadia will come into view. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of “oohs” and “aahs” from the partygoers, but I’ve pretty much stared at Arcadia every day for the last ten years. I know this planet like the back of my hand.

  I glimpse at myself in the mirror fastened to my bedroom’s door. Tilting my head, I push away a fallen tendril of hair, loosened from a very amateur chignon over my left ear. Mom was always better at hair than I am. My lips dip into a frown and swallow back the familiar ache.

  “This will have to do,” I mumble, and then I adjust the thin dress straps on my shoulders. Everyone will be watching Dad anyway unless I do something stupid, like slurp my soup too loudly or take a tumble down the stairs.

  A tumble? Perfect reason to wear flats instead of pumps. Much safer. I spot the silver pair of ballerina flats in my closet, grab the shoes, and shove my feet in.

  Outside my room, I hear Dad groan a few curses. The sound makes my stomach clench. He only swears when he’s under extreme stress. Whatever happened today with President Hammond, plus Mom’s absence, must be weighing heavily on his heart. And there’s little I can do about it.

  No. I can do something. I reach for a small box I had wrapped in a red bow. I didn’t get to enjoy lunch with Dad today, so I spent the afternoon completing the tie tack for him.

  Clutching the gift in my hand, I exit my room.

  “Dad? Everything okay?” I call out.

  “Uh . . . fine,” he answers from the living room. I smile at the familiar sound of his deep voice, one I’ve always thought was kind. “I just can’t get this tie knotted right.”