From beside the podium, Wander heard the boy seated next to Consuela’s station mutter, “Another outworlder.” He felt great shame for her until he saw her settle into her place, turn, and fasten the boy with a fathomless gaze. The boy held it for a moment, then wilted.
Wander turned back to the podium and felt his pleasure mount when he saw Pilot Grimson’s thin lips curve into a small smile of approval. Wander cleared his throat and said quietly, “Pilot, I believe—”
“Your place awaits you, Scout Wander,” the pilot replied coldly. “If you have business with me, I suggest you arrive before the entire class has gathered.”
Wander knew he was taking his life in his hands, but he had to try. “Pilot, if you please—”
Grimson swiveled, looked down from the dais, and froze Wander with his glare. The scout had no choice but to retreat to his seat.
“Now then,” Pilot Grimson said, his scowl following Wander into his seat before dropping to the podium’s controls. “Today we begin the second phase of your training. As many of you have already surmised, the first three weeks have primarily been a time of culling. It is not enough for you to have talent. You must also have the ability to direct, to focus, to orient both yourselves and the ships that will one day be placed under your care.”
Wander sensed the sudden change which swept the room. Spines stiffened, bodies leaned forward in anticipation. They had made it. Over two-thirds of those who originally entered the scout squadron were now gone. But the culling was over. Port scuttlebutt had predicted this would happen. A point was reached when each scout squadron was deemed ready. Those remaining were the ones not only sensitive to the higher energies, but able to use them.
From this point on, they were almost assured of a position. Some would become port communications officers, directing incoming and outgoing ships. Others would be assigned permanent duty as interstellar communicators, manning stations throughout the Hegemony and beyond the Rim. Others with greater clarity might act as backup navigators. Some would escort passenger vessels flying the permanently channeled inner-Hegemony spaceways. A few might have the abilities required to direct the flight of long-distance freighters. And perhaps one candidate in three or four squadrons might have the abilities required to rise to the highest honor of all—Senior Pilot, Navigator to Starfleet Command.
“All of you have demonstrated the ability to draw upon the power placed at your disposal and identify what remains unseen to the physical eye,” Grimson droned on, watching his panel lights flicker to green as the hall’s amplifiers reached full power. “Now begins the process of learning control. You must learn to override the physical senses and focus entirely upon the data being obtained through your headsets. You must set aside all distractions, all random thoughts, all outside sensations, and focus.”
He scanned each eager face in turn, then nodded. “Very well. Attach your headsets and connect.”
Wander watched as Consuela grappled with the unfamiliar equipment. When she finally looked his way, he raised his own headset and slid it around his forehead like a padded headband, fitting the two cushioned points to his temples. She followed his example and gave a smile of thanks. He pointed to the single black switch set to the right of the writing pad and thumbed it to the “on” position, but when she did the same, he felt a rising sense of alarm. He reached under his desk and fingered the override switch, which only his desk had. As he did so, he hoped fervently that his premonition was wrong. And just as strongly hoped that he was right.
“For the next few days,” Pilot Grimson continued, “there will be no downcheck given to anyone who wishes to withdraw from the lesson. If you feel yourself losing touch, withdraw, re-orient, then continue. Therefore it is suggested that you rest your hand near the power switch. I urge you, however, not to retreat unless absolutely necessary. Five days from now, when we enter our first simulation exercise, you will be downchecked for retreating.”
He checked the controls set in the curved podium and went on, “Today you will be expected to find your way through a maze, charting your course on paper. This means that you will no longer be able to keep your eyes closed at all times. You must begin to learn to see visually while focusing. Marks will be given both for finding the quickest route to the goal, and for doing so in the shortest amount of time.”
Grimson flickered a glance toward Wander, who understood perfectly. He was not to be the first to finish. Wander swallowed his qualms over Consuela and replied with a minute nod.
“One important clue,” Pilot Grimson offered. “It is possible to reorient your perspective and see the entire maze from above, but only if you are able to reach beyond the perspective of barriers and first identify the goal.”
Wander risked a glance around the chamber. The squadron’s study hall was a domed structure, shaped like a broad shell, with curving half-rings of tables rising up before the pilot’s dais. Wander saw many confused looks among the forty or so scouts. He knew a moment’s sympathy.
Up to now, their most difficult task had been to correctly identify some item that was not visible with the physical eye. Now they were to be presented with a maze that they could not even see, and not only were they expected to find their way through it but to identify the goal before they started. Wander understood the purpose behind this task, but knew that few others would be able.
A pilot was required to focus upon both the starting point and the destination at all times. It was only when both were held in tandem that a safe interstellar transport was possible.
“Are there any questions?” The class had by now learned that the offer was symbolic and obediently remained silent. “Very well.” Pilot Grimson reached down and began coding in. “Prepare for vision. I will begin the countdown from five, four, three, two, one.”
Instantly the silence was shattered by a bloodcurdling scream.
Before he was even consciously aware that he had moved, Wander was on his feet and tearing off his headset. Consuela fell writhing to the floor, shrieking so loudly the student beside her toppled from his chair. Wander fought his way around the circle, shoving other scouts out of the way.
“Make it stop! Make it stop!” Consuela screamed. Wander leapt over the neighboring student and ripped the headset from Consuela’s head.
She gave a final cry, whimpered, and fainted in his arms.
Pilot Grimson tumbled down beside him. He pressed two fingers into the pulse-point at the base of her chin, concentrated, then permitted his shoulders to slump slightly in relief. But not for long. Swiftly he collected himself and rose to full height. “I want to know who did this,” he said, his voice an ice-bladed knife. “I demand to know who sabotaged this scout’s controls.”
The class remained frozen in gaping silence. Wander struggled to his feet, holding Consuela’s limp form in his arms.
“Can you manage?” Grimson asked.
“Yes, Pilot.” He could not stop his voice from trembling. It was all his fault.
“Straighten up,” Grimson snapped. He turned back to the room. “Very well. If the culprit refuses to give himself up, you may all consider yourselves downchecked. You will remain here until I have returned, and you will remain silent.” He wheeled about. “Come with me, Scout.”
Wander followed the pilot from the room. Once they were outside and the door closed, Grimson hustled down the hall. “To the infirmary. Quickly. Do you wish me to help?”
“No thank you, Pilot. She’s not so heavy.” And it was his fault. He could not release her.
“Did you suspect this?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“And was this what you wished to tell me about?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
His hairless face blazed with cold fury. “Your habitual tardiness has almost cost us the life of a Talent.”
“Yes, Pilot, I know.” Wander’s misery could not have been greater.
Grimson keyed the infirmary door, snapped for lights, then helped Wander settle Consuela’s inert
form on the padded stretcher. Harshly he ordered the communicator to locate the duty medic and send him up on the bounce. He checked her pulse once more, peeled back one eyelid, seemed relieved to hear her moan.
When the white-robed medic popped through the door, the pilot growled, “What took you so long?”
“Pilot, I—”
“Never mind. This girl has suffered an extreme amplified mental shock. For the record, someone tampered with her headset.”
The medic’s eyes widened to round moons. “A Talent?”
Grimson hesitated, then nodded. “Perhaps. But you are ordered to keep this strictly confidential. We have not yet confirmed anything.”
“Yes, Pilot, I understand.”
“I want a report as quickly as possible. You will find me in the squadron’s training hall.” Pilot Grimson motioned toward the door. “Come with me, Scout.”
The infirmary door sighed shut behind them. Wander felt hollowed and weak, capable only of the thought that it was all his fault.
The pilot finally said, “I see that you are punishing yourself far better than I ever could.”
Wander swallowed. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“You suffered a similar shock, if my memory of your records is correct.”
“When I was eleven.”
“Then you know what she is feeling, and what will happen when she awakens.” His tone was surprisingly mild. “Tell me why you suspected her abilities.”
“Last night we watched a transport launch together.”
“Where?”
“Beside the reservoir.” Wander could not take his eyes from the door. “I think she could hear the countdown with me.”
There was a long silence, then, “Look at me, Scout.”
Wander tore his eyes away, looked into Pilot Grimson’s penetrating gaze. The man searched his face for a long time, as though seeking something only he could see, before asking, “You can follow ship communications without amplification?”
Wander started, realizing he had finally let go of his long-held secret. Then he decided it really did not matter, not with Consuela unconscious inside the infirmary. It was all his fault. “Yes, Pilot.”
“Without amplification?”
“Yes, Pilot.” The man’s eerily soft voice helped him focus. “But not through a shielded structure like the port. I have to be outside somewhere.”
The hairless face inched closer. A trace of the customary coldness returned to his voice. “You had best not be trying to trick me, boy.”
“I’ve been going out there and watching ships depart and following them in my mind since I was five years old,” Wander said, not caring anymore. All the years of scorn and derision, all the shouts of laughter when as a child he would respond to voices only he could hear. The punishments, the scoldings, the accusations by teachers and family that he was imagining, lying, insane, that he was a troubled little boy. All the anger came rushing to the surface. “It’s all I know,” he said, his voice as hot as his face. “It’s all I’ve ever done.”
Surprisingly, the pilot seemed unfazed by Wander’s outburst. “Your record mentioned this ability when you were young. It is rare, but not unheard of, in children. I recall seeing no indication of this in your later tests, however.”
“I lied,” Wander replied flatly.
“I see,” Pilot Grimson said slowly, then straightened. The gray eyes showed no reaction whatsoever, they just continued to hold him fast. “Can you hear Control Tower from here?”
“Whispers,” Wander replied. “The tower doors are shielded. I hear the whispers all the time. If I concentrate, I can make out the individual voices. But I try not to. It’s hard enough when I’m on duty.”
“Why haven’t you told me this before?”
“I haven’t heard of anyone else being able to hear like this. I know the others can’t. The highborns give me a hard enough time as it is.” Wander took a breath. “And to be honest, Pilot, I’m scared of you.”
“And well you should be,” the man replied, but without menace. “So how do you work on tower duty?”
“I rewired a training headset,” Wander replied, glad to have it all out in the open. “My father was a miner. I cut strips from his lead-lined protective garment and pasted it to the headset. With my temples covered and the band across my forehead the noise is cut down to a level I can stand.”
“I see,” the pilot said again. “Did you know there is an attachment available to Tower amps called a desensitizer?”
It was Wander’s turn to stare. Slowly he shook his head. So there were others. There were others like him.
“No, of course not. But had you not been so secretive, you might have saved yourself and the young lady inside a great deal of distress.”
The infirmary door slid back. “She appears to be okay,” the medic announced. “All vital signs check out. I’ve given her something, and she’s resting peacefully. But if she’s a Talent, you know how disoriented she’s going to be when she wakes up.”
“Thank you, Medic,” the pilot said, and stopped Wander’s forward motion with one upraised finger. “We will join you momentarily.”
“Yes, Pilot.” The medic stepped back, and the infirmary door slid shut behind him.
“Very well, Scout. I want you to remain by Scout Consuela’s side until she is fully recovered.” A glint of frosty humor surfaced in those probing gray eyes. “I assume that will not be too harsh a duty.”
“No, Pilot. Thank you.”
“We will discuss all this further once the incident is behind us. For now, I have a class I must see to.” Grimson granted him a slight nod before striding down the hall.
Wander turned back to the infirmary and called the door open. His heart twisted at the sight of Consuela’s pale form. The medic stood and dropped his magazine. “You been assigned watch over the patient?”
“Yes.”
He walked to the door, then turned and smirked down at the sleeping girl. “Pity those looks have got to be wasted on a Talent.”
“They’re not wasted,” Wander replied.
“She’ll be locked up like all the others,” the medic told him. “A waste, just like I said.”
Wander raised his gaze. “Like what others?”
Suddenly the medic realized with whom he was talking, and his smirk slipped a notch. “Just rumors, Scout.”
“You know something,” Wander insisted. “Tell me.”
Consuela chose that moment to moan softly. “Better see to your patient, Scout.” The medic sidled toward the door. “That’s a lot more important than bandying rumors about.”
Wander waited until the door had slid shut, then took Consuela’s hand. Her hair looked impossibly dark, strewn as it was across the white covering. Wander tucked the blanket around her shoulders, then sat back, his gaze fixed upon her face, and gave himself over to memories of the past and yearnings for the future.
Chapter Six
When Consuela did not show up for school on Monday, Rick could calm himself no longer with vague hopings that all was as it should be. One minute he was angry with her for making a fool of him. The next he was worried that something really bad might have happened. One minute more and he was completely baffled.
He stopped by the principal’s office before lunch and used charm by the bucketful on the school secretary. By the time he was finished, the poor woman no longer knew whether she was coming or going. She made not a whimper of protest as he scribbled down Consuela’s home address from her permanent records.
After football practice he drove straight to the Westgate subdivision. But the first three people he stopped had never heard of Loden Boulevard. Then one old geezer out walking his dog told him, “Sure I know Loden. But you won’t find it in Westgate.”
“That’s where my friend said she lived.”
“Then either your friend is lying or she don’t know the name of her street,” the old guy said, stooping down to quiet his dog. “I’ve lived in these
parts all my life, and the only Loden in Baltimore runs right smack dab through the middle of Sutton Park.”
Rick reached over and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence he felt things falling into place. Sutton Park was one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. It bordered on Westgate, and the locals were always after the city to either clean the place up or tear it down. Yes, it was making sense.
He turned back to the old man, who was watching him with a shrewd gaze. “Girl made herself out to be something more than she was, did she?”
Rick found himself unable to let that one pass. “She’s one of the finest people I’ve ever met.”
“Then you better grab hold, sonny,” the old man replied, not in the least put out. “Anybody who can pull themselves outta Sutton is a prize. She pretty?”
“Yes,” Rick said, his face growing hot. “She is.”
“That’ll have made it all the more hard for the young lady.” The old man nodded sagely. “Yessir, if I was the one driving that fancy car, I’d make a beeline over to that gal’s house and put a padlock on her heart.”
“How do I get there, please?”
“Turn yourself around and head down this very road about a mile to the first major intersection. That’s where Westgate ends. Go through that light, and your next road is Loden. You got a street number?”
“Twelve seventeen.”
“Then you’ll want to go right. It’s bad up there, but not as bad as it is down southward.” The old geezer grinned at him and patted the Corvette’s roof. “Gal from those parts, she’s gonna think you’re her knight in shining armor.”
Rick found the street and paid to park his car in a guarded lot, which was a lot cheaper than having to buy a new radio, side window, and four new tires with rims. He walked the cracked and buckling sidewalk past tawdry shops with barred windows and loud rap music thumping through open doors. It seemed as if every corner had a liquor store. The people were a mixture of white and black and Latino and Asian. His height and his clean-cut features and his nice clothes earned him a lot of looks, none of them kind. Rick picked up his pace almost to a trot, counting off those house numbers he could spot, and vowed to be out of the area before nightfall.
The Dream Voyagers Page 4