The Alpha Choice

by M. D. Hall

  They had all spent the last three days at the villa that had been in Cyrar’s family for over fifteen hundred years, but today they returned to the home of Jaron and his family, on the outskirts of Ardrang, a town on the coast of the Crystalline Sea. Those three days had passed too quickly for the parents, and not quickly enough for their sons.

  Within three minutes of boarding their gondola, bound for Ardrang, they were walking through crowds made up of families just like them, well maybe, not quite like them.

  They ate at a small restaurant overlooking the Bay of Dreams. Legend had it, if you looked down at the sea, from the highest promontory during a clear night, and saw the reflection of the North Star, your most fervent wish would be granted. Gorn had found it more times than he could remember, but his wish, the same wish every time, had never come true.

  After a meal that was punctuated by stories of the boys’ exploits in the zagball cuboid, they walked through the small town, which was buzzing with the excitement of young people, who had eyes firmly fixed on the canopy of stars that was the repository of their dreams.

  The boys made sure the adults savoured every moment of their celebration, for while they were dizzy at the thoughts of what awaited them, they were not oblivious to the pride felt by their parents, or at least those who came.

  All too soon, the time arrived when they were to return home, the part of the night both boys dreaded, to receive the obligatory lecture on how not to blot their copybook at the Academy.

  Walking towards the villa, Genir turned to Gorn. ‘Think they’ll have a decent team?’ He was, of course, referring to zagball. ‘Absolutely,’ replied his friend, ‘but don’t think it’ll be as easy as school, we’re not automatic shoo-ins.’

  Genir shook his head and smiled. ‘I think you’ve forgotten just how good we are!’

  ‘We are pretty good,’ Gorn agreed, as he recalled their introduction to the game. By law, students could not participate in zagball until they were in their sixth year at school, this usually meant they were eleven. As soon as they left year five, the two of them volunteered for the school team.

  Their coach, Zaran, observed them closely as he taught the fundamentals of the game. Slowly, but surely, he manipulated the team selection until eventually, the two were paired together. To the coach, it was clear from the moment they first entered the cuboid, they had an almost telepathic rapport.

  For Genir the joy of competition lay in being the best. Even in team sports, he needed to excel over, not only his opponents, but also his teammates and this he achieved comfortably with everyone, except Gorn, in whom he found an equal. In reality, they were not equals; no matter what Genir did, he was unable to better his friend, but sooner than anyone else, he had come to realise that Gorn was different, unique and the gulf between them became a source of pride, not resentment. In seeking to emulate his friend, Genir became better than he ever thought possible, achieving what would otherwise be just beyond his grasp.

  Gorn had an uncanny ability, from the time he first hovered within the cuboid, to read the speed of the ball as it came off the deflectors, varying from level to level and constantly changing intensity throughout the course of a match. He could, on occasions, perform the hitherto impossible feat of scoring from three deflections. Until then, the maximum deflections utilised in scoring had been two, if the rumoured achievements of Zaran were ignored!

  Genir found he was able to anticipate his friend’s intentions, and place himself at just the right position, without any obvious indication being given by Gorn as to which deflector he was targeting.

  Physically, both of them were of almost identical height and build, but they differed in that Gorn was fair skinned and fair-haired. Genir, on the other hand, had jet-black hair and an olive complexion. Unlike his friend, his looks and stature were very similar to his father.

  For Gorn, merely getting into the Academy was not enough. He needed to prove himself to his father and brothers, long since concluding that only by excelling as a cadet would he earn their respect.

  When he was with Genir’s family, he would regale them with the stories he had heard from his brothers, Jaron simply smiling and nodding, never talking of his own experiences in the military - his experience at Gallsor had been edited for public consumption, so that very few outside the service, realised who he was, or what he had done. Instead, he encouraged the boys to tell of their adventures. They duly complied, and despite Gorn's own stories being limited to the goings on within the cuboid, and the latest scientific experiment he was conducting, Jaron appeared to be fascinated. He enjoyed his son’s stories no less, which Genir carefully steered away from any accounts of academic studies and, when under the watchful eyes of his mother, girls.

  Jaron attended the boys’ first zagball match and it came as a surprise to both of them when their coach invited Jaron to sit in during the pre match tactical planning. The proud father sat rapt, and said nothing. After the game, the two men spoke and embraced. Jaron then beckoned the boys over. ‘You lads are good, but you’ll be going some to match Zaran,’ he clasped the bigger man’s shoulder and added. ‘The best player I've ever seen, probably the best there ever was.’

  The two boys managed to resist smiling, as the coach reddened to a shade brighter than their scarlet tunics.

  ‘You know each other, Dad?’ asked Genir.

  ‘Since we were boys, but that story can wait.’ He looked at Zaran and smiled, but Gorn noticed there was sadness in the man’s eyes. Turning back to the bemused youths, Jaron added, ‘I’ll wait outside until your coach has finished with you,’ and with that he left.

  Gorn was jolted back into the present, literally, when his friend nudged his arm and indicated the three adults ahead of them, who had just walked through the gate of the villa. ‘Dad’s talking to your mum, I reckon we’ve got minutes before we’re bombarded with dos and don’ts. Why can’t we just tell them we already know?’

  ‘Because,’ replied Gorn, ‘it would spoil it for them. It’s…I don’t know…custom, that wisdom is passed down from generation to generation on the eve of induction. He probably knew everything when your granddad told him, how many centuries ago?’

  Genir laughed so loud, the adults turned. Jaron smiled and asked. ‘What was so funny?’

  ‘Nothing!’ they replied in unison.

  Jaron, still smiling, nodded, giving Gorn the distinct impression he knew exactly what his son was laughing about.

  Ω

  Once inside the Villa, Jaron moved into the sitting room, beckoning the others to follow. The two women seated themselves side by side on a settee, while he sank into his favourite chair, and looked at the two boys standing in front of him. ‘Well, sit down lads.’

  The friends did as they were told then, without warning, Ciarra stood and walked out of the room. Gorn and Genir looked at each other perplexed, but before anyone had an opportunity to say anything, she had returned carrying a small black folio case. Gorn noticed it was emblazoned on the front with the emblem of the Navy. Ciarra handed it to her husband.

  For a long moment Jaron simply looked at the case, as though debating whether to open it. Eventually, and with a long sigh, he undid the clasp and looking at the boys, said: ‘Tomorrow you embark on a journey. It’ll be one of the most important of your life, not an adventure, as some might tell you, it’s more than that. What you learn in the next few years might save not only your lives, but also the lives of the men and women who serve with you.’

  Gorn had never seen Genir’s father like this, serious, sombre even and from the look on his friend’s face, neither had he.

  Without taking his eyes off the boys, Jaron opened the case, leaned forward and handed it to his son. Genir held it so both he and Gorn could see what it contained.

  What Gorn saw failed to register immediately, but when it did, his friend’s gasp mirrored his own feelings, he was stunned. The case contained a plain medal on one side and opposite, a letter from the Supreme Council, addressed to
Jaron, which read:

  ‘In recognition of the actions of Commander Jaron when, during the encounter at Gallsor, and in the face of overwhelming enemy forces, he commanded his vessel, Starseeker, so as to save the lives, not only of his crew, but of all aboard her companion vessels Plasma Trail, and Nebula.

  We, the Supreme Council, confer upon Commander Jaron, the order of Nova.’

  Gorn looked, more closely, at the medal, a dull grey irregular disc with the simple words: ‘Commander Jaron, of the Cruiser: Starseeker’.

  From what he had read, this was the greatest honour that could be accorded any serving member of the Navy. The official version of events at Gallsor was common knowledge, the award was not. From the point of view of youngsters such as Gorn and Genir there was no shortage of exciting stories of naval exploits, but there was no denying it, the encounter at Gallsor was the stuff of legend.

  Jaron could see the look on their faces and, before speaking, glanced at both his wife and Cyrar, who both looked resolute. ‘What I'm about to tell you is known only to a few, outside of those who were directly involved. Despite your age, perhaps because of it, we believe you’re entitled to know the truth, but I need you to understand that nothing you hear can be repeated outside,’ he waited for confirmation from the boys.

  They each nodded their agreement.

  ‘You know the story of Gallsor?’

  Again, both boys nodded.

  ‘Until this moment, you had no idea who the commanders were. Do you know why the identities were kept secret?’

  Genir spoke up, ‘To protect you from Balg spies.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of any Balg spy being arrested?’

  It was now the turn of the boys to shake their heads.

  ‘That’s because there has never been, so far as we can tell, any Balg spy in our territory. The story you, and everyone else knows, is just that, a story and bears very little resemblance to the truth,’ he stopped talking and Ciarra continued, speaking to Genir, but addressing both young men. ‘What your father is about to tell you is the truth, and may serve you well in the future, if you heed it.’

  Jaron retrieved the baton from his wife. ‘For you to make any sense of what follows, I need to fill in some background. To say we were defending ourselves from a belligerent foe, is wrong…’

  ‘But…’ Genir’s question was halted, when his father held up his hand.

  ’The Balg, during the war, never ventured beyond their local star cluster. They did not begin Hostilities.’

  As Genir looked at his friend, open mouthed, Gorn was engrossed, his mind already racing ahead, if we started that war, what else have we done?

  ‘By the time of the Gallsor incident, the Navy knew we couldn't defeat the Balg in open conflict…’

  ‘But,’ Genir managed to say, ‘the enemy ships were destroyed!’

  Jaron shook his head. ‘That didn’t happen,’ he paused again, almost as though giving them a chance to withdraw, to say they wanted him to stop, but they were fascinated. ‘There’s a good reason you both should know the truth. As with all the best stories, there’s a modicum of truth in the populist version that you know,’ he was looking at the folio case, still in his son’s hands. ‘As you can see, I was the commander of one of the ships, the other two commanders were good friends of ours,’ he glanced at Ciarra and Cyrar. ‘One of them was a man neither of you know, Denaa, who commanded Plasma Trail. The commander of Nebula was…’ he now looked straight at Gorn, ‘Bakir, your father.’

  Gorn was dumfounded. A look at his mother elicited no comment, there was no need, her eyes confirmed the truth of what he had heard.

  Jaron waited a few moments, until satisfied both boys were ready to hear what else he had to say. When they visibly began to relax, he told them everything that transpired at Gallsor, up to the point when the Balg ships left Starseeker alone.

  By the end of the story, Genir was totally confused. Throughout the tale his father had moved from hero, to coward, then back to hero again. His confusion was less about what his father was, he was a hero, but why he had not been told earlier. But Gorn’s mind was hastily rewiring everything he had been taught about his people, and their struggles.

  Jaron spoke again. ‘What you're about to hear is known only to some of my crew, and not all of it is known to the Supreme Council. Not even Bakir, or Denaa know the whole story,’ the silence from the two mothers was their implicit approval that he continue. ‘Before we returned to the battle, I had my tactical officer carry out a brief scan, which led me to rethink what was happening. I’d hoped, unrealistically, that someone might have escaped the spy ship before it was destroyed. The results weren’t what I expected.

  ‘After the Balg left, and we were totally alone, I gave the order to carry out an exhaustive examination of the area. Other than trace residue along the spy ship’s route from the debris cloud, there was nothing, not even subatomic residue. Why was that? If the ship had been destroyed, surely there would be something left behind? I had no answers, only more questions, and in particular, how I got the drop on the Balg? Nothing made any sense to me, least of all why I chose not to destroy them, when I had the chance…’

  ‘Perhaps, sir,’ suggested Gorn, ‘you never had a chance to destroy them.’

  Jaron smiled. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think that through, and came to the conclusion, a long time ago, that destroying them was never an option, I was just allowed to think it was, especially as they could fire without showing themselves to us. The truth is, we never stood a chance that day.’

  ‘But,’ ventured Gorn, ‘you thought you did, so why didn’t you try to destroy them?’

  ‘Every time I ask myself that very question - and it’s a lot - I get the same answer: it didn’t seem right. We had won the encounter, we had outfought them and I had nothing to prove. The rest of my squadron were given the chance to escape, and the Balg were powerless to harm us, or so I thought. Had they been destroyed in the heat of battle, I wouldn't have given it a second thought, but that heat dissipates quickly. The initial scan kept coming back to me, it was only thirty percent complete, and couldn’t justify what I did in the eyes of my superiors, but all I could think was, what if?

  ‘I could tell, when I appeared before the Council, that some of them wanted me court-martialled, and they were probably right. It was a time of war between our two races, and my decision could have resulted in the death of other Te’ans at the hands of those I let live. While the Council had the facts, I kept my theories to myself.

  ‘Unfortunately, for the Council, word had got out about the return of Plasma Trail and Nebula. So, by the time we arrived, even without knowing the facts, the multitude had created a heroic scenario. All they needed were some facts to support it, and a name to pin it to. The Council were afraid that if I was court-martialled it would polarise the populace. You have to understand, we were living through a time when the war wasn’t popular; too many resources were being used against an enemy as tough and resolute as us, with military technology superior to ours.

  ‘I’m straying from the point of the story. I couldn't say, I had a grand plan for peace between our races, because I didn’t, it just happened. The Council was in a quandary, the only answer to their problem was to decorate me. But that distinction would be a closely guarded secret, outside of my crew, the upper echelons of the Navy and the Council itself. I was to retire from the service in anonymity, and the truth would remain hidden. The public would get the story they wanted, but those who still needed to identify the hero, were left wanting. My crew were fiercely loyal to me, and would say nothing. Each of them took retirement, they were overdue anyway, and in these circumstances it was made especially lucrative. I still see some of them.’

  ‘What about my father?’ asked Gorn.

  ‘Initially, things seemed fine with Bakir. As I told you, we were friends and had been since before we attended the Academy. At that time there were six of us who were inseparable…’

  ‘
I know two are you and mum, and another two, Gorn’s parents. The fifth would be D…,’ he frowned.

  ‘Denaa,’ his father helpfully added.

  ‘Yes, Denaa, but who was the sixth?’

  ‘Your coach, Zaran,’ the look on the faces of both boys was of mute astonishment, there seemed to be no end to the surprises. ‘Gorn’s father and I were school friends with Zaran and Denaa…I can't quite remember when the girls joined our little group.’ If Genir and Gorn had been less engrossed, and looked over to their mothers, they would have seen two less than pleased women.

  Jaron continued. ‘Everyone thought Zaran would go into the military as he excelled at everything. Instead, he chose an academic career, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Then, as now, the talk of most young boys was of the military and doing heroic things, making our families proud. Not Zaran, it wasn’t so much that he was anti military, he was just more interested in philosophy, science and zagball, of course.

  ‘Your father,’ he said, looking at Gorn, ‘was a very light hearted and generous person in those days, and three of us advanced first, through the Academy then the Navy, side by side. As is often the case, when young men go their separate ways, Zaran and I lost touch with each other. It’s only since the two of you took up zagball that we’ve become reacquainted. Sometimes, when we talk, it’s as though we never left school.

  ‘The rest of us remained true and firm friends throughout our time in the service, but Gallsor changed everything. After our debriefing, upon our return to Te-ath, we three commanders met in secret to talk over what happened out there. We had been forbidden to talk of the incident, but ignored the edict, after all, we were there.

  ‘It soon became clear to me, that your father blamed himself for the loss of the spy ship. He ignored the fact that I was squadron leader and if anyone should have seen through the Balg subterfuge, it was me. The truth is, no one could have anticipated what happened. We were trained, as you will be, to rely totally upon intelligence provided by the Agency. On that day, we were told sweeps had detected no enemy within striking distance, and nothing we had previously encountered prepared us for the existence of cloaking technology to that level of sophistication.