Undazzled

by Chance Maree

  UNDAZZLED

  A novel by

  Chance Maree

  Undazzled

  First Edition, February 2013

  Copyright © 2012 Chance Maree

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 1470014610

  ISBN-13:978-1470014612

  ASIN: B00BL3YPBK

  For Mr. Astrophysics Head

  Give me the splendid silent sun,

  with all his beams full-dazzling.

  - Walt Whitman

  I'm tired of my human disguise.

  - Roberto Salinas

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 2 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 3 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 4 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 5 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 6 - Ata

  Chapter 7 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 8 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 9 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 10 - Ata

  Chapter 11 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 12 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 13 - Doctor Jacob Reynolds

  Chapter 14 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 15 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 16 - Ata

  Chapter 17 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 18 - Doctor Jacob Reynolds

  Chapter 19 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 20 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 21 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 22 - Geoff Byrd

  Chapter 23 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 24 - Doctor Jacob Reynolds

  Chapter 25 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 26 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 27 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 28 - Geoff Byrd

  Chapter 29 - Doctor Jacob Reynolds

  Chapter 30 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 31 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 32 - Tyr Dovmont

  Chapter 33 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Chapter 34 - Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Chapter 35 - Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Every novel needs a cheering section, those people who inspire the author to dig a little deeper, stretch a little further, and persist, persist, persist in developing a plot with characters that will resonate with a diversity of readers. On behalf of Undazzled, it is my pleasure to thank Cathy Carignan, Eric Schlegel, Sean Delauder, L.H. Thomson, and Clark Thomas Carlton for their advice and encouragement. Each one of them is a writer of great talent and I highly recommend the reader explore their collective works. Also, a special thanks goes to this novel’s editor, Ashley Davis. To all these folks, I extend my utmost gratitude.

  CHAPTER 1

  Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  “Pilot! Alpha Horizon is not moving!” Commander Gunner Dovmont's voice blasted through the com receiver, nearly blowing out Pots's right temporal bone.

  “Don't you think I know that?” Pots snapped. Truth was, Alphie had been drifting in space for 7 minutes. She hadn't reached the launch coordinates, and the worm-mole showed no interest in tunneling.

  The commander growled, “Do your job, Pilot! Get her going. Now!”

  Pots tried to remain calm. Alpha Horizon responded better when her pilot was calm. “Kutabare! Baka-ne!” Pots yelled. “Where is Captain Montalbam? I want to speak to the captain. Immediately!”

  Over the com, Pots heard, “...frost my baking balls, that goat crouching crone...”

  Pots snorted and cut the connection. If only she could see the commander now: those fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows would be smashed together and that square-jawed military-billboard face, red and steaming. Gunner should know better—crones don't take orders from the military. Not directly, anyway.

  The thought of the commander gnashing teeth in the command center made Pots smile. Gunner was formidable and was accustomed to everyone hopping at his command, but Pots remained determined not to be cowed by him. Her decisions concerning Alpha Horizon mattered more than any other on the ship—at least while she occupied the pilot seat.

  Pots opened the pilot's secure-com, but the connection was dead. Too bad. Gunner would be crescendo cussing by now. Pots's stomach tightened a little. Had she pushed the commander too far? I hope so! Pots snickered. I'm a crone, and worm-mole spaceships need crones to fly.

  Moments later, the secure-com beeped.

  “Captain Montalbam here at your command, Pilot Pots.” Montalbam's voice had a comforting mixture of humor and indignation—quite an indulgence, given that it came from a seasoned NASA captain who had just answered the summons of a greenhorn pilot. “What appears to be the problem with Alpha Horizon?” That second sentence was all business.

  Pots relaxed into the soft cocoon of Alphie's control station. The pink organic chair was warm and fleshy, pulsing, easing the tension in Pots's muscles. A new connection formed, linking the pilot with Alpha Horizon.

  Pots felt her and the worm-mole's stomachs begin to gurgle and churn. Bile burned the tunica mucosa of their food tubes. The experience was alarming, given that Pots drank only water during her shift.

  “I bet Alphie has indigestion!” Pots gasped into the com. “That last expanse was dense with ammonia—it tasted horrible. Even so, Alphie and I are confident the tunnel is stable.”

  Worm-moles were thought to be mindless organisms on the same cognitive level as insects. Claiming that such creatures could have confidence seemed a little beyond their mental capacities. However, Pots reasoned that Alphie was a huge creature whose brains—both the forward and the posterior ones—were exponentially larger than any human's dollop of gray material, even the combined cranium matter of the brilliant Itou brothers who had discovered and hatched the space creatures.

  Pots imagined that on some level, Alphie might be wiser than humans, but as a scientist, she acknowledged that evidence of the worm-mole's intelligence had yet to be observed. Nonetheless, Pots enjoyed being a worm-mole pilot—it was an elite job requiring pilots who had been able to show rapport with the bizarre creatures from space.

  Captain Montalbam's voice boomed, deep and authoritative. “Indigestion, is it? Right. Understood. Get Alphie moving as soon as she feels better. Okay? Remind her of the importance of our mission.”

  Ten billion lives in jeopardy, the totality of humanity. “No need to remind me,” Pots whispered through clenched teeth.

  Montalbam continued, “Timing is critical at this stage. We must launch those satellites soon. Our entire schedule is rather...”

  “From my calculations,” Pots cut in, hoping the captain wouldn't mind being interrupted, “we can launch our relay stations from here.” She typed into her link console. “I've been working with Chief Engineer Wu to modify the launch parameters with new coordinates. If Wu and her team agree, we can launch the cluster ahead of schedule.”

  “Good work, Pilot Pots.” The captain's tone betrayed a smile that must have been beaming. “Launch those babies and let's give Alpha Horizon time to get over her tummy ache. Let us know if any other problems crop up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pots snorted, suppressing a ridiculous grin. “I'll keep her on schedule, s
ir.”

  Gunner was probably listening on the com, so Pots made a special effort to be respectful to Captain Montalbam. Montalbam deserved it—he had always been courteous to civilian pilots. Besides, displays of etiquette by Pots showed that her lack of respect towards Gunner was entirely intentional.

  One standard hour later, the communication relay satellites had been deployed and proven functional. As Pots leaned back onto the pilot chair, a news item from Earth projected through her personal com:

  BETA-2-NUN HEADED FOR ATLAS.

  100K PASSENGERS ABOARD.

  The second worm-mole ship had been launched ahead of schedule, and it was carrying ten times the number of passengers aboard the Alpha Horizon. Why?

  Production and mounting of carrier modules had been abruptly and dangerously accelerated. Had catastrophic events accelerated on Earth faster than expected, or had the change in plans been yet another decision by government and corporate politicians to ignore recommendations from the science committee?

  One person privy to Earth's activities was Barbara Percy, the ship's government liaison. Whispers going around ship suggested she was actually a corporate spy. Barbara and Pots were on rotational sharing of the same sleeping pod. While they weren't friends, Barbara might share what she knew about Beta-2-Nun's premature launch. Pots mouthed a com message to Barbara, “Meet after my shift for a drink?”

  Data from the ship's sensors rolled over dimly lit monitors while Alpha Horizon continued to drift in a fitful slumber. Pots must have dozed off—she bolted upright when an alarm erupted on the overhead console and nearly jolted her from her chair. She blinked at the blazing neon-green message: ETA 5038 SEH.

  No news there. They were due to arrival at Ostara in 210 days. Messages like that were normally withheld from the pilot control chamber. The message must have been sent by Gunner.

  “Onara atama!” Pots muttered. “I don't need a fracking alarm bot.” Pots had to admit that Commander Dovmont's desire for a rapid voyage was justified. The sooner the ship arrived, the sooner Alphie could return to Earth for a second round of evacuation.

  Pots swiped her hand to clear the console screen. Alpha should be tunneling, but the Itou brothers were adamant that worm-mole pilots understood one thing: their job was to assure the survival of the ship. Without the worm-moles, they could not enter hyperspace, and without hyperspace, immigration to Tai Ceti would be impossible. Earth was beyond saving, and humanity was doomed to perish with it.

  Pots drew in a deep breath. Her aptitude for piloting had been lauded, but intuition had secured her place in the pilot's chair. Pots verified that all systems were functioning normally—nothing was wrong with Alphie. Regardless of Gunner's prompting, the best strategy was to leave the ship alone. She raised her fist and shouted the secret pilot salute, “Power to the crone!”

  Pots hated the term ‘crone.’ Eight women, all childless and over forty, had been chosen to pilot Alpha Horizon. The media announced Alpha Horizon's launch and profiled each pilot, referring to them as The Crone Squad. The name had been embraced throughout the world like an uncorked genie.

  Pots raised her arms and cupped the back of her head in her palms. Think! Gunner was right—life on Earth was dying out—but worm-moles die, too. Patience. Pots sat back and watched a video of Ostara. Natural, unspoiled land. Clean water. Clear air...

  From a light doze, the worm-mole reached towards Pots, tapping her mind, innocent and needy, like a child. “I'm here, Alphie,” Pots whispered. The fleshy chair—which resembled a bag of brain matter, mushed, like cooked beans—began to throb.

  Pots sunk back and relaxed. Dressed only in a thong, she felt the command chair warm against her skin, covering the back of her head, the sides of her face, and hugging her shoulders, arms, hips, and legs. The chair billowed around Pots's body, keeping her stationary, which was luxurious on a ship without gravity. Only the pilot's face, forearms, and hands were visible.

  Encased by organic matter that linked with the foremost of Alpha Horizon's two brain stems, Pots was able to physically meld with the creature's sensory input and corporal impulses. The control tablet was a supplementary instrument used only to enforce the pilot's commands.

  Pots cajoled Alphie until the creature's agitation subsided and Pots felt shared contentment wash throughout the length of the worm-mole's body.

  If Alphie were a puppy, her tail would be wagging. We're hungry. Pots tapped the stomach fluid secretion key; the command would amplify hunger by transmitting the sensation to the rear brain stem. Alpha Horizon's tail and body wiggled like a snake, propelling the ship forward. Alphie opened her great mandibles and resumed chomping.

  Leaning back into the chair, Pots could taste space. The sensation in her mouth was at once acrid, pungent, and quite tart. Variations occurred, of course. Pockets of what Pots could only describe as an aroma of honey were sometimes encountered, a welcome relief from some of the other cosmic flavors.

  Pots's next task was to keep Alpha Horizon on track towards Ostara. She glanced at the star map projected overhead that marked Alphie's direction and progress. If the creature veered from the plotted course—which happened mostly due to whiffs of space-honey, then the pilot had to override the worm-mole's drive for sweets. Pots relaxed. Alphie was chomping happily on course.

  Cheers from the crew erupted over Pots's personal com. Fear had subsided—Alphie had not gone belly up; she'd not stranded them in space. Pots turned off her com. As the worm-mole munched, Pots felt a sensation as though her body was brimming with energy, swelling, bursting like a spectacular nova, and then a release, and when her mind felt as though it had expanded in all directions, like tendrils of light into sideways dimensions—they entered hyperspace.

  CHAPTER 2

  Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Once Alpha Horizon resumed boring a passageway between Earth and Ostara, Commander Gunner Dovmont relinquished the command deck and headed for the gym. Sparring with crones was irritating. Gunner felt the need to punch something.

  On Earth, the 57-year-old Commander had worked fanatically hard to keep his body military-fit. Now, traveling on a ship with zero gravity, he risked a serious depletion of bone and muscle mass. Gunner doubled his already rigorous workout routine, which included a combination of resistance band training and cardio exercises. Like everyone else on board, he also ate a foul tasting Zina nutrition bar daily, which the manufacturer claimed would bolster bone density.

  Gunner was changing out of his Batten-Downs—ship-walking boots—to the lighter, exercise version, Star-Catchers, when Tyr peeked his head into the gym. Like everyone on board, Gunner's com unit included an enhancement chip that allowed his brain to control the electromagnetic fluctuations in smart-boots. Different boots supported a variety of activities, such as corridor walking, ladder climbing, and tread running, all in zero gravity. While the smart-boot enhancement was useful, other com features were less so.

  “You Loc-catting me, boy?”

  Tyr inched inside the room, keeping his back to the wall. “No, sir.”

  The boy had been equipped with Stevenson's own, non-standard, com customization. The kid probably uses his Loc-cattor without realizing it. Gunner stood, synchronizing his com with the Star-Catchers. “Have you had any of these hallucinations I've been hearing about—the ones where people look like they have animal heads?”

  Tyr squatted and began loosening his Batten-Downs. Without looking at Gunner, the boy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “They bother you any?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Gunner carried on with his daily routine, ignoring Tyr's attempt at exercising as he would ignore his own shadow. By the end of the hour, Gunner was perspiring. He watched beads of water float towards a liquid collection filter. Tyr, Gunner noticed, hadn't broken a sweat.

  “Have you learned everything in the universe yet, Tyr?”

  Tyr's eyes widened. “No, sir.”

  “Then get back to your room a
nd crack the console.”

  Tyr grabbed his Batten-Downs, dashed for the door—not bothering to change out of the workout boots—and scurried out. Gunner heard the boy bounce into the corridor wall and then bump his head on the ceiling. Light from the corridor dimmed. I'll be glad when the kid's coordination gene kicks in.

  Gunner stood for 12 seconds in the shower pod before returning to his sleeping quarters. The Commander's room was as small as a modest walk-in closet, but still, it was more spacious and private than all others on the ship.

  In one corner, Gunner fastened out a mat, large enough that he could strap himself down, cross-legged. Gunner closed his eyes and quieted his thoughts. The meditation he had chosen for the day was an ancient one: The Taoist warrior seeks to cut through the empty core without touching the bone.

  That would work nicely.

  ⁂

  When Pots's shift was scheduled to end, the commander stood waiting outside the pilot control room with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder length apart.

  “Commander.” A short, squat woman with a wispy blonde bob chirped as she maneuvered her way through the narrow hall. The crone hesitated before passing by Gunner—gathering courage, no doubt.

  Due to the pilot's quick head duck and clumsy attempt at a sprint, Gunner caught sight of her thinning hair and gray roots. The crone looked up and frowned, thereby drawing the commander's attention to the fine, downy mustache on her upper lip. Four months in space, and this crone was already looking too au naturale.

  She kept a wary eye on the commander, opening the door barely a crack. “You can't come in here.”