Crossroads of Fate (Cadicle #5): An Epic Space Opera Series

by Amy DuBoff

  “Taelis said he sent something over.” Wil pulled out his handheld and located a message from the High Commander. Several personnel files were attached. “It’s a pretty short list.”

  “He does seem to always get straight to the point.”

  “That he does,” Wil agreed. He projected the files on the nearby wall viewscreen.

  Saera smiled. “All right. Let’s pick our crew.”

  * * *

  Haersen followed Tek along an upper grated walkway overlooking the hanger below. Rarely would they leave the planetary headquarters, but such a momentous occasion called for the Imperial Director’s presence.

  The rows upon rows of matured hybrid clones beneath them in the warship’s hangar made for an impressive display. Their chestnut hair was sheared to stubble, blending in with their coarse skin that appeared more Taran tanned than a distinctly orange tint like their pure-blooded Bakzen counterparts. Each drone bore a constant scowl beneath their sorrel eyes. All of them had been risen to their full telekinetic potential—ready to fulfill their purpose in the war.

  It was a shame they were only made to die.

  Between the center rows, a sleek barrel one meter in diameter extended the length of the hangar, with one end pointed toward the exterior door. Fitted with pods to hold one of the clones, the device would launch its payload into space. When the pod depressurized, the clone would become fodder for expanding the rift.

  “A magnificent army,” Haersen commented to his commander.

  “They are,” Tek agreed. “Your first generation of Bakzen brothers.”

  That was a fair assessment, given that they were only one generation removed from their Taran origin. Haersen’s own transformation would always make him an outsider, but at least he was advancing toward a more evolved state. In many ways, the hybrid clones were a step backward. The idea of willingly incorporating the inferior genetic matter of a pure Taran would have been an atrocity under any other circumstances. Except, Wil was different. Whatever selective pairings had led to his creation, it was enough to unlock a trait that the Bakzen had never been able to replicate. Though the Bakzen line would be diluted, it was to shape an even better future. When the next iteration of the hybrids was perfected, an even more powerful era for the Bakzen would begin.

  Tek stepped to the railing and looked down upon the hundreds of clones who were about to be sacrificed for the greater Bakzen cause. “Such genetic potential wasted on mindless drones. We’ll eventually find out what they can become, but not today.” He strode down the elevated walkway toward the exit door.

  Haersen jogged to catch up, cursing that the Bakzen hadn’t been able to modify his small stature.

  They made their way to a lift, which carried them to the Command Center at the top of the ship. Suiting its warship designation, the entire vessel was simple and utilitarian to the Bakzen extreme, lacking any form of ornamentation or more than the most basic padding on seats. Walls were either riveted metal or plastic sheeting, and lights were placed at bare minimum intervals to cast the necessary illumination. After so many years among the Bakzen, Haersen was used to only having the essentials.

  As soon as they entered the Command Center, Tek took the seat at the center of the room, leaving Haersen to sit in one of the four guest chairs along the back wall, two to either side of the entry door. The two Bakzen soldiers stationed at control consoles in the front of the room bowed their heads to Tek while four others posted at stations wrapping around the side walls of the oblong room rose to greet him.

  Tek waved them back to work. “Ready the first drone.”

  The domed viewscreen encircling the ceiling and floor shifted from a perfect rendering of the surrounding starscape to show the side of the warship and the exterior hangar door. A barely perceptible force field covered the opening, and the barrel of the launching tube thrust forward through the barrier.

  “Bring up the rift map,” Tek instructed, straightening in his chair.

  With a shimmer across the viewscreen, a purple overlay appeared, displaying a graphic representation of rift pockets in the surrounding space. The warship was positioned at the edge of the purple mass representing the rift.

  Haersen gripped the armrests of his seat, his breath shallow with anticipation. If the test was successful, the new Bakzen drones without natural telekinetic ability inhibitors would be able to expand the rift far more efficiently than their previous brethren. With the rift corridors serving as guided tunnels to their destinations, no navigation beacons would be needed—the Bakzen could travel without detection and launch their attacks on the unsuspecting Taran worlds. The faster they could complete those pathways, the better.

  “Deploy when ready,” ordered Tek.

  The barrel of the launch assembly illuminated as a pod rocketed out into space. At the horizon of the rift, the pod burst apart, exposing the Bakzen drone to open space.

  Any other living being would quickly depressurize and freeze in the vacuum, but the drone instinctively formed a subspace distortion around itself—just enough to maintain consciousness as it clung to life. It thrashed in weightlessness, contained in the bubble that spanned the spatial planes.

  Eventually, it could hold on no more. The subspace distortion began to collapse, but as it did, the drone released all of its telekinetic potential in one last vain attempt to save itself.

  A burst of white light flashed across the viewscreen. When the image resolved, a new purple extension appeared on the rift map overlay. The drone was gone.

  “Two-hundred-eighty percent increase over previous benchmarks,” the soldier at the front right console announced.

  Tek stroked his chin. “Nearly three times the impact of our previous drones. We had hoped for four.”

  “Improvements for the next generation,” Haersen offered.

  “Indeed. This will still speed our progress toward enveloping Taran territory in the rift.” Tek gazed out at the new tendrils of the rift extending before them. “Maybe the drones can even serve another purpose.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Tom stared out the window of the transport shuttle at the new temporary residence he would share with the other pilots in the Primus Squad. The cruiser was berthed next to the most advanced flight training grounds available within the TSS. Wil had talked about the facilities before, but the sporadic descriptions hadn’t done the course justice.

  A sea of programmable obstacles and dummy ships stretched out as far as Tom could see. Six jets were presently weaving through the course—taking a shot before jumping to subspace and reappearing hundreds of meters away. Had he not performed such maneuvers himself before, it would have seemed remarkable. Understanding the tricks, however, he could tell that the pilots were either new or just not very good.

  “They’re hung up on forward momentum,” Tom commented to the other members of the Primus Squad. “All of the jumps are still ‘forward’ compared to the previous location, even when the jump is horizontal or vertical.”

  “You’re right,” Sander agreed from the seat next to him. “Not once have they jumped behind an enemy that’s trailing them.”

  Across the central aisle, Andy snorted. “Basic stuff.”

  Tom studied the pilots’ movements in the obstacle course. “They’re probably thinking in terms of line-of-sight.”

  “And they can’t see behind them,” Rey completed the thought, staring out his own window next to Andy on the other side of the ship.

  “Exactly,” Tom nodded. “We’ve spent so much time blindfolded in a spatial awareness chamber that it doesn’t matter to us anymore.”

  Sander grinned. “That’s right. And I’m betting the Bakzen don’t move like us.”

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on a real IT-1…” Andy said as he gazed wistfully out the window.

  “I’d wager you won’t have to wait long,” Tom replied.

  The transport ship was on its final approach for docking with the cruiser, lining up the main entry door with a temporary
gangway attached to Deck 5 of the cruiser. With a slight shudder, the transport ship locked into place.

  Tom jumped to his feet and grabbed his travel bag from under his chair. “Let’s go.”

  They walked down to the central aisle past rows of empty chairs—the only four passengers on a craft designed to carry twenty. Along the back right wall, the exit door hissed open when they approached.

  Beyond the door, the temporary gangway formed an enclosed, windowless tunnel to the other ship. Light shone from the open hatch at their destination five meters away. A female figure appeared in the doorway.

  “Welcome. Come aboard,” she called out.

  Tom led the way across the gangway. As he neared the cruiser, he saw that their greeter was wearing a Militia uniform.

  She appeared to be in her early-forties, and her dark hair was pulled into a short ponytail at the base of her neck. Deep brown eyes evaluated Tom and the other Primus Elite pilots. “I’m Chelsea,” she greeted. “I’m the Lead Engineer here on the Concord, and I’ll assist with your orientation to the IT-1 jets.”

  “We’re eager to get into the real thing,” Sander said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Chelsea replied, flashing them a warm smile. Her eyes, though, spoke to a deep weariness—teetering on the brink of defeat, like so many others Tom had seen during their brief time in the rift.

  “Where should we store our things?” Tom asked, raising the strap of his travel bag slung over his shoulder.

  “We have quarters set aside for you on Deck 8.” Chelsea gestured toward a lift down the hall. “Drop your bags in your rooms and then meet me in the hangar.”

  “See you soon.” Tom set off with the others down the hall.

  The corridor’s metal walls were bare, and a thin industrial carpet covered the floor. Recessed lights in the ceiling cast harsh shadows as they passed underneath—a distinct contrast to the ambient illumination and decorated halls he was used to back at Headquarters.

  Rey scanned the hallway with distaste. “This place is pretty bare-bones.”

  “It’s a battleship,” Andy pointed out. “No need to give a false impression that anyone would actually enjoy being here.”

  They found their assigned rooms in the center of a hall on the port side of Deck 8. Unlike on the Conquest, the rooms each held two bunks.

  “Dibs on Sander as my roommate. He doesn’t snore,” Tom announced as soon as they’d assessed the two chambers.

  “Agreed,” Sander replied with a somewhat apologetic smile toward Rey. “Sorry.”

  Rey groaned. “I’m used to it by now.”

  Andy shrugged. “I don’t know what you guys are complaining about.” He headed into the room on the right.

  “Yeah, it’s a mystery…” Tom muttered as he entered the room on the left, thankful that he would no longer have to endure the equivalent of a vacuum pump operating next to him all night.

  The room was tiny compared to their former quarters back home. Narrow bunks were pressed along the wall to either side of the door, and a sliding door along the back wall led to a small washroom with a sink, shower, and toilet. The dark blue linens on the beds were the only breath of color among the monotone gray of the other surfaces; clearly aesthetics hadn’t been a high priority. Between the foot of each bed and the back wall was a full-length cabinet.

  Tom dropped his travel bag on the left bed and went to investigate the cabinet. Inside, he found several empty hangers and a flight suit with matching helmet. “All right! Now we’re talking.”

  Sander dropped his bag on the other bed and opened up the corresponding wardrobe. “We’re heading to the hangar, right? I guess we should bring these along.”

  “With you one-hundred percent. I’m in the mood for some flying!” Tom gently removed the flight suit from its hanger, rubbing the silky metallic fabric between his fingers. He tucked the lightweight helmet under his arm with the clear half-dome facing forward. The nameplate on the back was still blank, awaiting an owner’s moniker.

  They met up with Andy and Rey in the hall and headed down to the hangar, following a directory posted in the lift.

  The hangar was like any other Tom had seen over the years, with a three-story ceiling and exposed bulkheads arcing above squads of jets. Extra parts and supplies hung overhead in racks that could be lowered near one of four service stations dotting the expansive open floor. The key difference was that rather than TX-70 jets, the hangar was filled with a fleet of the new highly maneuverable IT-1s Wil had designed with a revolutionary neural interface. Their sleek frames were finished with matte black plating to blend in with the surrounding starscape, and the aerodynamic wings meant the craft could be equally at home in open space or in a planet’s atmosphere, if necessary.

  Tom grinned at his companions. “Now the real fun begins.”

  Chelsea was waiting for them in the middle of the hangar near four IT-1s pulled out from the main line. She waved them over.

  “I see you found your flight suits,” she commented.

  “Seemed worth bringing,” Tom replied.

  “I should have mentioned them, yes,” Chelsea nodded. “We’ll get you lockers down here for storing the suits in the future. Please, dress and we’ll get started.”

  Tom removed his dark blue jacket and then slipped on the new suit over his remaining clothes. The fabric automatically adjusted around him to form a pressurized barrier that conformed to his body right up to the neck collar. He kept the helmet off, waiting to connect to the air supply within the jet.

  “You’re familiar with the properties of the IT-1 jets?” Chelsea asked when the Primus pilots had finished dressing.

  “Yes,” Tom confirmed. “I assume you mean the neural interface.”

  She nodded. “Precisely. And specifically, the more time you spend with one particular craft, the stronger your bond.”

  “We treated the simulator the same way,” Andy told her. “Not nearly as significant of a bond, but enough that we’re used to the idea of syncing with a ship.”

  “Good. These are the second generation IT-1s,” Chelsea continued. “We’ve made some tweaks to the interface and interior based on pilot feedback over the last couple years. I think you’ll like them.”

  Sander smiled. “Can’t wait.”

  Chelsea placed a headset in her ear. “Climb in and we’ll get started. There isn’t any live ammo onboard, so fire at will. The computer is synced with the training grounds to relay targeting accuracy stats.”

  Tom selected the jet on the right end of the row and approached. When he extended his hand toward the first handhold, he detected a slight telekinetic hum emanating from the ship. As he made physical contact, the hum intensified and a spark shot up through his arm. He recoiled.

  “It’s just feeling you out,” Chelsea assured him. “Go on.”

  He returned his hand to the hull of the jet and gripped the first handhold. The spark shot through him once again, but then settled into a gentle pulsing of energy. To free up his hands, Tom placed the helmet over his head but left the seal open. He climbed up the five steps on the side and peered into the cockpit.

  The primary controls for the craft matched the manual setup from the simulators. A yoke was positioned in the front center for most maneuvering, and physical buttons along the front console would control the more specialized functions.

  Tom swung his leg over the edge and dropped into the seat. It had virtually no give, and he found himself sitting up far too high above the controls. Really, this is where they skimp on the finishes? He was about to voice a complaint to Chelsea when he realized he was beginning to sink into the seat and the backrest was adjusting to his posture. He assumed a flight position and secured the flight harness as the seat continued to customize to the contours of his body. Of course it would, he realized, his cheeks warm.

  With his comfort established, he turned his attention to the controls. He swiped his hand over the main console. Immediately, the holographic overlay and the heads-up disp
lay appeared, just like the simulators he was used to. Hopefully the handling was the same, as well. Feeling along the right side of the seat, he located the oxygen supply tube and hooked it into the port by his neck. Once in place, he twisted his helmet to lock it against the suit’s neck ring. A jet of cool air rushed across his face as the suit sealed.

  “Initiating pre-flight check,” Tom said into the helmet’s comm.

  “Keep your hands on the controls during the check,” Chelsea replied over the comm. “It will calibrate to your neural patterns.”

  Tom gripped the yoke, and an electric tingle ran through the capacitive gloves on the flight suit. He concentrated on the ship like he’d practiced with the simulator, trying to sense the controls. The neural interface solidified in his mind’s eye, complete with a visualization of the navigation, weapons, and environmental settings like a holographic wheel overlaid on his consciousness. Blue flashed across his vision as the pre-flight check concluded. “Ready,” he told Chelsea.

  The other Primus pilots acknowledged completion of their own checks.

  “There’s no better way to get a feel for the jets than with actual flight. Just take it slow,” Chelsea instructed.

  A section of the hangar wall slid to the side, revealing a force field across the main door out to open space.

  Tom maneuvered the jet toward the door using the manual controls—there’d be plenty of time to test out the neural interface in a less confined space. As he neared the door, he accelerated to break through the force field. The engine hummed through the floor of the jet as it spun up in response to his commands. With a smooth lunge forward, it rocketed out of the hangar.

  The power and fluidity of the craft’s controls left Tom breathless for his first several moments of flight outside the hangar. A grin spread across his face as he steered the craft in a curve to pass above the cruiser while the other Primus pilots made their exit. “It’s even smoother than in the simulator!”

  “Stars, this is awesome!” Andy agreed.

  “Let’s try some formations,” Sander suggested as he popped up above the cruiser near Tom.