The Dream Voyagers

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Exercising control over pilots is one way Starfleet holds the reigns of power. Which means that an urgent request from some inbound freighter for a pilot to help track down rumors goes unheeded. Three lost vessels per Standard year on certain routes is a small price to pay, when the Hegemony struggles to control outworld regimes with too few ships. The empire is constantly fraying along the edges, and there are never enough sensitives to staff every point. Am I getting through?”

  “Yes, Captain,” they intoned.

  “Not to mention the fact that pilots scorn inbound duty. They consider it beneath them, even when their absence means that my ship is at threat every time we traverse a danger zone. Every one of my shipmates has friends who have been lost to the pirates, killed, or sold into slavery. So perhaps you can now understand why your presence is not so welcome.”

  He dipped a finger in his cup, and drew a straight line of coffee across the table. He then stabbed the line’s midpoint and said, “Many of us have wondered why it is that these pirates attack only at certain points along the lightways. And why our inbound police vessels have had such difficulty in tracking them. What if, we ask, it was because they did not use the lightways at all. What if they had their own routes which only intersected ours.”

  He drew a second diagonal line across the table. “What if they were forced to remain upon their shadowlanes just as we must upon our lightways. We have rumors that this is so.”

  “Rumors,” spat the senior weapons officer. “Rumors and lies and the tales of paid informants who would swear the lost golden moon of Altinthor has appeared above my homeworld, if only I would pay to hear it said.”

  “Yet rumors are all we have,” Captain Arnol replied. “It is said that tribes of thieves have burrowed deep into rogue worlds, sunless balls of ice which in eons past escaped from solar orbit.” He moved his cup to one side and leaned across the table. “We and other ships who think there might be something to these rumors have been begging Hegemony for Talents to see if the shadowlanes can be detected. We find nothing suspicious on our instruments, nothing at all. And this is why we who think the rumors might hold truth are opposed by many who think otherwise.”

  “I for one,” the weapons officer said. “The pirates must have learned a way of shielding their ships, nothing more. We know for a fact the slavers have stunners strong enough to break through our shields without cracking our skins. Their cloaking devices are a new technology, I warrant, and nothing more. They stay clear of our detection until they attack, and they attack only when we’re too far from help.” He looked scornfully across at the pair. “I for one say keep the sensitives off our ship, and good riddance to the lot of them. What we need is to stop spending time on these overbred overspoiled prima donnas and build ourselves better ships with more powerful weapons.”

  Rick nodded his agreement. That made sense to him. The guy sounded like his coach giving the same pre-season speech year after year—strive for strength, sweat for guts, go for glory. Besides, maybe this would wipe that superior attitude off Consuela’s face.

  The senior weapons officer’s gaze flickered in Rick’s direction, but all he said was, “We don’t need to analyze these pirates, Captain. We need to have Starfleet build us better weapons so we can blast them out of the sky.”

  The captain calmly waited until the senior weapons officer was through, then said, “Any officer on this ship is welcome to voice his or her opinion at mess, as long as the captain’s decision is fully obeyed and his orders willingly carried out. Is that clear, Guns?”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” came the growled reply.

  “Very well.” He turned back to the pair. “Now tell us what you felt at the zero mark, Scout.”

  “Like a hundred metal fingers were digging under my skin,” Wander replied.

  “It was horrible,” Consuela agreed.

  The captain turned and gave the senior weapons officer a very long look. Then he asked, “Signals, when is our next suspected strike point?”

  “Five hours, plus or minus.” He automatically checked his chrono, then continued, “We have our first null-space crossover in one hour and fifty-one minutes. Following that, we start the countdown. But it’s a questionable, Skipper. One freighter missing, no communications prior to loss.”

  “Scouts, I cannot order you to stand another watch,” the captain said, his eyes still locked with the weapons officer’s. “But I would ask you. Could you endure the experience again?”

  Wander exchanged glances with Consuela, then replied for them both, “If it would help the ship.”

  “It might,” the captain replied. “It very well might.” He released the weapons officer and turned to the chief petty officer. “Do you see why I asked you to stay, Tucker?”

  “Yes, Skipper,” the burly man replied, his astonished gaze flickering back and forth across the table.

  “See that word spreads through the crew. Let them know we have a couple of sensitives who are standing double watch to help us out.”

  “They won’t believe it.”

  “Perhaps not. But it may give them pause before making trouble.” To the pair he said, “Watch yourselves between decks. I am hereby ordering all my officers to assist you, and granting you full access to the officers’ quarters. You are also granted temporary pilot’s status on the flight deck, which means you may come and go as you please.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Wander replied, the exultation clear in his voice.

  “Skipper,” the senior weapons officer interrupted. “I’d be willing to take the ensign here under my wing for a spell.”

  That brought a smile to Captain Arnol’s face. “This is indeed an officer’s mess I won’t soon forget. Does the offer pass muster with you, Tucker?”

  “It’s a bit early in the game, Skipper, but as I’ve said, this lad shows all the makings of a good officer.”

  “Very well, I approve.” The captain turned to Rick and said, “You should know, Ensign, that you are being accorded quite an honor. First of all, Chief Petty Officer Tucker is known through the Hegemony as a tough taskmaster, and he’s had nothing but praise for you—something that has little to do with your book learning.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Rick said, glorying in the fact that Consuela was there to hear it.

  “And secondly, this is the first time in my memory that our senior weapons officer has volunteered to work with any ensign on this ship. He is known as the best marksman riding the inbound lightways, and I am constantly fighting off attempts by other ships to lure him away. You will do well to listen with care and obey with alacrity.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  Arnol glanced at the wall chronolog and rose to his feet. “All but those whose watch begins now are dismissed until T minus fifteen minutes.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I take it you don’t have any more time for these sensitives than I do.”

  “No, Senior Weapons Officer.”

  “Call me Guns.” The senior weapons officer marched down the passage with all the grace of an impatient bull. He was not a big man, but Rick would not want to tangle with him. Muscles corded up taut under every square inch of exposed skin. His knuckles were as knotted as gravel, his nose looked twice broken, and a pouch of scar tissue split his left eyebrow.

  Guns was a man who liked to fight, with or without his weapons. “Sensitives, pah! Wouldn’t give a barrel full of space for the whole lot of them. They can’t even sit in a powered chair, you know. Saw it happen once when I was about your age. Novice sat down without disconnecting, the skipper powered up for takeoff, and next thing anybody knew the sensitive was fried. Wouldn’t shed a tear if it happened to the whole lot of them.”

  Rick felt as though he were barely touching the deck. He was still junior officer on the ship, but here he was, being treated like one of the crew. It reminded him of how he had felt when he had finally made the varsity team.

  There were still vague whispers circulating through h
is mind and heart, questioning where he was and what he knew. But this place was real. He no longer doubted that. Real as anything he had left behind in Baltimore. He could not explain what was going on, and to be honest was caring less and less about the hows and whys with each passing hour. The challenge was great, the action fast, the opportunities tremendous.

  Rick was having the time of his life.

  The senior weapons officer cast him a canny glance. “You look like a fighter to me, lad. Am I right?”

  “There was a sport I played before—” Rick stopped and corrected himself, “Back home. It was called a contact sport, but it was really a stylized battle. I loved it.”

  “Thought so,” Guns said. “Others mighta been fooled by that pretty face of yours, but I know a warrior when I see one.”

  A warrior. Rick thrilled to the sound. “I really appreciate your giving me a chance.”

  “Earn the privilege,” Guns replied. “Do well and make me proud.”

  The flight deck was structured as four pyramids of platforms set like great steps. Chromed railings and curved flight consoles separated each dais. The captain’s chair stood isolated upon the central and highest dais. Before and below him were the helmsmen’s three chairs. Engine, Power, and Signals claimed the three other pyramid bases—curving embankments interconnected by joined consoles like petals of three flowers grown together into one. At the crest of the signals platform was the pilot’s chair. At the top of the power pyramid stood the weapons console.

  Guns relieved the duty officer, then maneuvered the dais’ second chair up close to his own, clamped it down, and flicked the power switch. “You won’t be sleeping much these next few weeks,” he warned. “I’ll be expecting you to spend your off-duty hours on your hands and knees, getting to know our weapons better than your mother knew your father.”

  “I can do without sleep, Guns.”

  “That’s the spirit. I’ll be assigning you a gunner’s mate who’ll walk you through the lovelies. You’ll come to know them by name, or I’ll know the reason why.” He pointed at the two arm-consoles and the three-tiered structure, which could be raised over the chairback. “Next few days we’ll do some dry-firing runs, let you get a feel for the triggers. But first we’ve got to see if there’s a match here.”

  Consuela and Wander chose that moment to enter the flight deck. Although she did not look his way, Rick found himself acutely aware of her presence. She spoke to Wander in the low tones of two people concerned only with each other. He found himself growing hot with anger.

  Guns noticed his reaction, glanced over, and grunted, “Aye, they get under my skin too. But they’ve got the captain’s blessing, so you’ll do well to ignore them. Arnol’s not a man to brook an officer going against his bidding.” He patted the arm of Rick’s chair. “Now set yourself down.”

  The chair conformed to Rick’s contours as he settled, then extended two bands that Guns pulled up across his shoulders and fastened to the chairback. “We don’t normally bother with the straps unless we’re on alert.”

  “What are they for?”

  “You’ll see.” He settled into his own chair. “Weapons can’t be learned from a book. Either you’ve got what it takes to be a gunnery officer, or you don’t. Ready?”

  Rick shrugged as far as the shoulder straps would allow. “I guess so.”

  “Watch my actions.” He keyed in his console. “Green light for all systems. But they’re separate. We call this resting at arms. Standard ops for non-alert.”

  “What do you mean, separate?”

  Instead of replying, Guns flipped his comm switch and demanded, “If that was a snore I just heard, I’ll have you swabbing down the outer hull while we’re under power.”

  “No need to talk that way, Guns,” came back the laconic reply. “You know I don’t snore.”

  “That you, Simmer?”

  “Now who else would it be, this watch?”

  “I’m taking a new boy through a dry run. Stand by with power.”

  “Power standing by,” came the droned response. “Hope you singe his eyebrows for waking me up.”

  “What should I call you, Ensign?”

  “Rick.”

  “All right, Rick. Grab hold of your socks.” With both hands Guns pushed up two parallel series of levers.

  Rick gripped his armrests in an uncontrollable spasm as the power flooded in. But it was not power as he had known in the ensign’s duty chair. This was power with focus. Power with purpose. Power with menace.

  His awareness coursed through the ship, directed by the instruments under Guns’ control toward the four great chambers flanking the ship’s thrusters. The weapons were situated beside the thrusters, he realized, because they drew from the same power source. Shield, thruster, and weapons, all powered by the same miniature star burning fiercely at the ship’s heart.

  “Shield,” Guns said softly, and Rick could scarcely see his hand touch the controls. He was drawn inexorably out to the force-field that surrounded the ship, watched it mount from standard power to full attack status, and felt the power surge through himself as well. He felt it.

  “Tracking systems,” Guns intoned, and Rick felt himself connect to the signals station, then move outward, sniffing the boundaries of space for incoming threats, anything that he could fasten onto and attack.

  “Weapons,” Guns said, and Rick bucked against the straps as the spasm locked his muscles. The power was enormous. The dampers were lifted, and a shining arm of the ship’s star reached out to awaken the dormant might. Rick felt the same strength course through his own limbs, and he wanted to roar with the primeval lust for battle. He was no longer a puny human, formed of mere flesh and bone. He was a warrior knight of old, encased in battle armor, shielded and armed and ready.

  “Enough,” Guns said, and swept the levers back toward him.

  The power and the image faded. “What did you do that for?”

  Guns inspected him carefully, then nodded. “Just as I thought,” he said approvingly. “I’ve got myself a natural on my hands.”

  But Rick was not ready to let it go. “Can’t you just—”

  “One step at a time, lad. One step at a time. Can’t be having you hooked to weapons through a n-space push. Not ’til you’re good and trained.” The weapons officer flicked the console to standby. “Release yourself from the straps and go fetch me a mug of coffee. You’ll find the makings in the alcove beside the portal.”

  Rick fumbled for the catches, then raised himself with difficulty. His legs were as weak as after the first practice of the season. But the sensation of power stayed with him. He walked to the alcove, surrounded by the mantle of force that he had at his command.

  A dulcet voice behind him asked, “How is Guns treating you?”

  Rick turned to find himself facing the assistant signals officer, an auburn-haired beauty whose feminine form could not be disguised by the austere uniform. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever known in my life.”

  She smiled with eyes the same burnished shade as her hair. “Maybe we could meet after watch and you can tell me about it.”

  The surging might awakened by the weapons system took on a different focus. Rick felt his entire being vibrating with the strength of his desire. It enflamed him. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice as shaky as his legs. “Very much.”

  The young woman noted the change with a welcoming smile. “I’ll come by your cabin,” she said softly, and turned away.

  When Rick returned to the weapons station, Guns accepted his mug and said, “She’s a pretty young thing, that one.”

  Rick slumped back down in his chair and mumbled, “Don’t tell me that’s off limits.”

  “You are ordered to keep up with your duties and learn the weapons systems backward and forward. If you’ve still got the strength to do anything besides sleep after that, then what you do off watch is nobody’s business but your own.” The weapons officer took a sip, then grinned, exposing
teeth worn to flat stumps by constant grinding. “Gunnies have a reputation to uphold on and off the flight deck, Ensign. Remember that.”

  ****

  “Ten minutes to null-space transition,” droned the helmsman.

  Wander watched Consuela settle into the chair beside him, and asked, “Did you notice how it felt with the amp on before we hit the shadowlane?”

  “As if I were expanding,” Consuela replied. She picked up her headset and fitted it on. No one paid them any attention. The countdown to null-space transition kept everyone on the flight deck fully occupied.

  “Right. That was less than one-tenth power, and with the headset damping mechanism on full.” Wander scanned the flight deck. “But there won’t be any noise here on the sensitive level until after we make transition.”

  “So?”

  “So I’d like to stay hooked on while we make the passage through n-space.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a ship, and the first time I’ve been someplace where it’s quiet. I want to try out this amping system, see what it does. How else am I going to learn how to guide a starship through uncharted null-space?”

  Consuela thought it over and decided, “Then I want to do it with you.”

  He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.” She fitted on her headset. “One tiny bit of power at a time, okay?”

  “Don’t worry.” He unfastened the damping box from both their headsets, fitted his headset to his temples, and switched on the pilot’s console. “If you start feeling anything unpleasant, tell me and I’ll power down. Ready?”

  She settled back in her chair. “Yes.”

  “Here goes.” He nudged the amp dial.

  “Oh, my.” Immediately her senses were extended to the ship and beyond.

  Wander turned the dial back to zero just as the helmsman chanted the five-minute call. “That was pretty strong, wasn’t it?”