Vox Astra: When Clouds Die

By James Chambers

The Stars Will Sing Our Songs Long After We Are Gone... 

 

...but who will remain to listen? Who will hear the stories they tell of the wisdom of species dying to protect worlds against a cosmic threat, to witness the crisis of warriors faced with un

• Language: English
• Publisher: eSpec Books
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781949691986

James Chambers

James Chambers received the Bram Stoker Award® for the graphic novel, Kolchak the Night Stalker: The Forgotten Lore of Edgar Allan Poe and is a four-time Bram Stoker Award nominee. He is the author of the short story collections On the Night Border and On the Hierophant Road, which received a starred review from Booklist, which called it "...satisfyingly unsettling"; and the novella collection, The Engines of Sacrifice, described as "...chillingly evocative..." in a Publisher's Weekly starred review. He has written the novellas, Three Chords of Chaos, Kolchak and the Night Stalkers: The Faceless God, and many others, including the Corpse Fauna cycle: The Dead Bear Witness, Tears of Blood, The Dead in Their Masses, and The Eyes of the Dead. He also writes the Machinations Sundry series of steampunk stories. He edited the Bram Stoker Award-nominated anthology, Under Twin Suns: Alternate Histories of the Yellow Sign and co-edited A New York State of Fright and Even in the Grave, an anthology of ghost stories. His website is: www.jameschambersonline.com.

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Vox Astra: When Clouds Die

James Chamber

eSpec Books

Pennsville, NJPUBLISHED BY

eSpec Books LLC

Danielle McPhail,

Publisher

PO Box 242,

Pennsville, New Jersey 08070

www.especbooks.com

Copyright © 2022 James Chambers

ISBN: 978-1-949691-99-3

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-949691-98-6

All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Copy Editor: Greg Schauer, John L. French

Cover Design: Mike McPhail, McP Digital Graphics

Interior Design: Danielle McPhail,

Sidhe na Daire Multimedia

www.sidhenadaire.com

Cover Art: astronaut floating with glowing jellyfishes in space, digital art style, illustration painting © Tithi Luadthong, www.shutterstock.com

Interior Icon: Star Symbol Set2 © tichaporn, www.fotolia.com

Again, for my Dad, who introduced me to science fiction

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to the editors and publishers who gave me the opportunities to write these stories and first published them. Much gratitude goes to the readers who supported the various anthologies in which they appeared and those who continue to support my writing and read my books. Endless thanks go to my family for their unflagging encouragement and patience in selflessly allowing me the time and space an author needs to write and for listening to me ramble about story ideas and publishing drama.

Contents

Introduction

The Pyres of Galeb-Hannastur

Mother of Peace

When Clouds Die in the Sea

Trade War

The Meth Moths of Kraken Mare

Eight Million Strong

Previously Published

About the Author

Introduction

A Multitude of Voices

Vox Astra: When Clouds Die is a deceiving title.

That is probably an odd way to talk about a book, especially in the introduction. But I mean it in the most complimentary, sincere way.

I have the good luck to be very familiar with James Chambers’ work. We came up through the ranks together and over the years we’ve had the opportunity to read, and even edit each other’s works. When you do that long enough, you begin to recognize a writer’s style, their voice, that ‘something’ that tells you this is a James Chambers story no matter whether it’s about far away planets or mythical beings under the Earth’s ocean.

Which brings me to this collection.

On the surface, vox astra translates as ‘the voice of the stars.’ But really, we’re dealing with multiple meanings here. The first one is pretty obvious: this is a collection of space-based science fiction/dark fiction stories. But like so many of James Chambers’ stories and books, there are layers beneath that surface.

Next, there’s his voice, which, as I mentioned earlier, somehow manages to remain constant despite a diverse range of stories. James has a way of capturing the feel of a story or scene; he allows you to experience it in an almost visceral manner. And yet whether it’s a lighthearted gambit, a tense thriller, a supernatural encounter, or a battle, he imbues it with a certain indefinable ‘something’ (there’s that word again) that makes it uniquely his.

And then there are the stories themselves, which move from quietly discomforting to weird to military as smoothly as a starship warping through the void. From undersea adventure to future superheroes dealing with real-life issues, from soldiers trapped behind enemy lines on strange planets to a first contact on Titan, this book serves as a showcase of Chambers’ skills as a writer and gives readers a teasing glimpse of his extraordinary imagination, which never fails to entertain.

My personal favorites were When Clouds Die in the Sea, Eight Million Strong, and The Pyres of Galeb-Hannastur, but really, they’re all excellent. Which isn’t surprising, because one thing I’ve noticed over the years is that, as an author, James Chambers is unusually consistent when it comes to the quality of his work. When you see his name on a book cover, you can be assured that you won’t be disappointed by what’s inside.

And speaking of disappointments, the only one I had was that this collection wasn’t longer.

So, strap into your flight harnesses and get ready to enjoy a true vox astra.

Sincerely,

JG Faherty

A life-long resident of New York's haunted Hudson Valley, JG Faherty has been a finalist for both the Bram Stoker Award and ITW Thriller Award, and he is the author of nine novels, eleven novellas, and more than eighty short stories. He writes adult and YA horror, science fiction, paranormal romance, and urban fantasy. He grew up enthralled with the horror movies and books of the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s, and as a child his favorite playground was a 17th-century cemetery. Which explains a lot.

Follow him at www.twitter.com/jgfaherty, www.facebook.com/jgfaherty, and www.jgfaherty.com.

The Pyres of Galeb-Hannastur

State your name and rank.

Sarah Nuhr FitzRose. Captain, Registered.

Thank you.

Doctor Allard gazed down at his network tablet and marked notes with a light-stylus. Sarah glanced around the white, oversized examination chamber, her eyes defining its cold, sterile limitations. She hated it, and she hated being here on medical leave even if only for her standard visit. The air chilled her; they never kept hospital stations warm enough. This one, orbiting the mostly rural planet Herous, did better than most, but her skin still prickled with goosebumps.

Are you proud of being a registered soldier? the doctor said.

It is what it is, Sarah said.

It’s a gold ticket through the service, the doctor said. Eligible for all branches, all special agencies, available to the highest levels of security clearance, simply because you can trace your ancestry directly back to Earth. Not a lot of you out there these days. You must be the envy of your unit.

Sarah listened, indifferent.

"So, are you proud of it? Allard paced the room. It’s a marvelous thing—the rest of us are all genetic mutts. Children of colonists and explorers with no clear idea of where the roots of our family trees have wandered, our links to Earth broken in the past. But not you. You know exactly who you are, and the entire universe is open to you."

Is this relevant to my check-up, doc? asked Sarah.

The doctor stiffened. I ask because registered soldiers sometimes have difficulty following orders. Some take their status very seriously, as if they answer to a higher authority or have obligations to mankind that trump their duties or the chain of command. It’s a well-documented psychological occurrence rooted in the ego of elitism.

Frowning, Sarah said, I know where my duties lie.

You have an excellent record, captain. No one disputes that.

Allard paused to scan the screen of his tablet. He nodded in satisfaction, switched off the device, and slipped it into the pocket of his lab coat. He seated himself across from Sarah and smiled. His forehead rippled in thick wrinkles, calling attention to a receding hairline, but the overall effect of his broad, open grin relaxed Sarah a small measure.

I’m going to dispense with your standard physical, Sarah. Thoughtful, Allard stroked his chin with two knobby fingers. Commissioner Pen Bouchard has requested that I put you through a csychological evaluation instead.

I don’t understand, said Sarah.

Bouchard’s concerned about your recent performance on Galeb-Hannastur. Apparently, you experienced some friction with your commander. Bouchard has great confidence in you and high hopes for your future, but he wants assurance that you’re fit for active duty.

The relatively new discipline of csychology and the notion that she required any kind of assessment by it repulsed Sarah. A poor csych eval laid the foundation for indefinite suspension of duty and assignment to a rehabilitation center. Certainly, she and her commanding officer had clashed over her unit’s actions on Galeb-Hannastur, but she’d done her duty, as she always did. She trusted Bouchard, but in war and politics, loyalties shifted, enemies lurked in every shadow, and as long as Commissioner Denman held first position among the Commissioners no one could take anything for granted.

Doctor, I’m fine. Galeb-Hannastur was a hard drop, true, but it’s part of my job. This exam is meaningless to me.

Not to me, Captain FitzRose. Or to Commissioner Bouchard. I can order you to submit to evaluation if I have to, but I’d prefer we keep this friendly. Allard rose and gestured to a door in the far wall of the chamber. This way, please.

Sarah followed him, their footsteps echoing thinly. Allard opened a wide steel door, and Sarah entered a dimly lit chamber. A row of four csych tanks occupied the bulk of the space, and opposite them stood a control deck on a raised platform. The csych gear sagged from hooks affixed at eye-level above each tank.

You’ve done this before? said Allard.

Sarah shook her head.

Right—it wasn’t mandatory for service when you joined. Well, it’s rather simple. Most of the equipment is self-explanatory. Please disrobe and put it on.

Sarah walked to a drooping tangle of apparatus and sorted through it. She separated a complete set of wiring and interfaces and draped it over an empty hook. Allard busied himself behind the control deck, initiating the evaluation programs. A faint hum throbbed as machines came to life.

Sarah unzipped her uniform and slipped out of it. She dropped her underclothes in a pile next to her suit then stretched, cold and bare in the ugly room. The csych equipment consisted primarily of spidery arrays of electrodes, all labeled with little graphics showing how and where to affix them. One set adhered to the primary joints of her limbs, another to her chest, a third along her lower back. Two more attached at either side of her throat. A band of thick elastic material fit around the palms of her hands and the pads of her feet. Soft tubes like kneepads wrapped her kneecaps. The breathing unit filled her mouth, and the nosepiece swelled within her nostrils. As the headset snugged over her skull, sound dimmed. Only the thin, transparent screen for her eyes remained askew, flipped up above her forehead. Garbed in the unfamiliar equipment, she felt more exposed than she had naked.

Allard appeared from behind the control deck. His papery fingers sent a shiver through her skin as he checked each of the electrodes to assure their connections and confirmed the fit of the headpiece. Finished, he stood back, satisfied, and said, Into the tank now, please.

Sarah lifted herself over the rim of the opening and descended into the barely perceptible liquid within, lowering herself to a narrow lip inside the entrance. The fluid matched her body temperature perfectly. She hardly noticed it unless she moved and felt its mild resistance and tiny currents. Allard reached down within the tank and drew up a thin tube, which he connected to her mouthpiece and locked into place. One by one, he connected the rest of the equipment plugs to their mates inside the tank, until lifelines tied every part of Sarah to the dull metal tomb.

"All right, we’re ready to go. Lower your eye screen, step back, and descend into the water. Breathe normally through the mouthpiece and the plugs in your nostrils. It’s better if you try not to breathe out through your nose, but don’t worry if you do.

The equipment allows me to deliver specific stimuli to your sensory organs. Cut off from other stimuli inside the tank, your body will respond to these as if they’re real. In effect, I’ll be able to control what you see, what you hear, what you taste and feel. Everything. Except what you think, but I’ll be monitoring that closely. The sensors watch all your bodily functions. We even analyze your exhalations for their content. I can determine, to within a few percentage points, exactly what you’re experiencing, and because I determine the input, I can control it, view it, and record it. In a way, Sarah, this is the ultimate lie detector and the ultimate form of hypnosis. I believe you’ll find it eye-opening. Allard gave a smug chuckle. Now, relax. There’ll be a few test patterns as I calibrate the machinery, then I’m taking you back to Galeb-Hannastur.

Unable to speak, Sarah flashed her eyes at the doctor one last time, then lowered her view screen and floated backward. The tank cover settled behind her, sliding her into darkness, and she experienced nothingness broken only by the gentle tug and pull of the fluid that surrounded her. The sound of her own heart grew louder, thudding rhythmically in her head. She counted off the beats. A green light flashed across the screen. It startled her. The pounding of her heart faded.

More lights followed—red, yellow, purple—swirling in kaleidoscopic fashion, drawing her eyes to their ambiguous, fleeting shapes like will-o-the-wisps seen through a mist. Sounds followed—buzzing, ringing, crunching in her ears like an orchestra without a conductor, noise after noise randomly stabbing into her head. A soft electric sensation tickled her body beneath the electrodes. The air in her mouth cooled, thickened with humidity, then turned dry again. The scent of lemons breached her nose then faded. One after another, each element of the equipment came online and delivered unpredictable, artificial sensory information to her body, their rate increasing, their intensity deepening until her mind burned with excitement. She twisted in the tank, chasing phantom figures, whirling on approaching sounds, kicking and swinging as her instincts struggled to identify her surroundings. Her body approached complete agitation as every part of it confronted separate and contradictory messages from her senses. They came too fast, too many, too different, too strange, too clear, too familiar for her to identify…. and then, without warning, nothing.

Her limp body floated in defeat. The sudden emptiness nearly stunned