The boy’s face grew radiant. He grinned with obvious enthusiasm, which echoed from his unshielded thoughts. Byron took advantage of the distraction. He shoved a forkful of food into his mouth and gestured for the science officer to elaborate.
“A recent excavation revealed an ancient underground facility,” Mevine explained, his voice quivering with excitement. “Four days ago, a team gained access to the interior and found what they believe is the control room. The technology is so advanced, it’s beyond anything we’ve previously discovered. Why, the possibilities of its application are endless!”
The young man’s voice had risen as he spoke, accompanied by frantic hand gestures. The opportunity to dissect alien technology seemed to excite Mevine, but experience had taught Byron caution and a healthy respect for the unknown. He glanced at Garnce, who shrugged with indifference.
“Sounds dangerous to me,” the pilot replied, crossing his arms across his broad chest.
“Not necessarily,” protested Mevine.
“What do they know about it?” asked Byron. Despite Garnce’s apathy, he was curious. A little danger sounded appealing, especially after months of routine assignments.
Mevine pulled his dark brows together, his shoulders sagging. “Very little at the moment. They’ve been unable to translate the language. Of course, no one stationed on Tgren specializes in alien script. I’m hoping to receive an upload from the team before we break orbit, so I can get a head start.”
Byron regarded Mevine with surprise. “You’re a linguist expert?”
“Yes sir, I’m trained in alien dialect, print, and code.”
Garnce offered a skeptical guffaw. “You’re rather young for deep space exploration,” he observed, frowning as he reached for his glass.
“I’m twenty-three,” Mevine announced, straightening his back and dropping his hands to his lap. “And I completed training at the top of my class.” Indignation flashed through his thoughts before the lad abruptly shielded his mind.
“What he means is we don’t see many men your age out here on the edge of space,” Byron offered in an attempt to sooth Mevine’s agitation. “You must be damned good to finish your training so quickly and acquire this assignment.”
Mevine nodded, his wide eyes fixed on Byron. “You were young when you began active duty, sir.,” he observed. “I understand you were one of the best pilots to train on Guaard.”
“I suppose.”
“Is that why you were assigned to the flagship Sorenthia?”
Byron shoved the last bite of food into his mouth. “One of the reasons,” he said, swallowing without chewing. He sensed the conversation’s direction. Byron wanted to escape before it drifted too far.
“Wasn’t your navigator accomplished as well? I forget his name…”
The boy’s question, while innocent enough, sparked anger in Byron. He’d grown accustomed to deflecting questions regarding his involvement in the Vindicarn War, but inquiries involving his navigator cut deep. That Mevine couldn’t even recall the man’s name was an affront to the senior officer’s memory.
“Bassa was the most decorated navigator in the fleet and a true legend,” he replied, rising quickly to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get out of this flight suit.”
Mevine leaned away from the table, mouth open in surprise. Byron nodded at Garnce and exited the dining hall, his mental shields secure. He slipped into the first available telepod. Envisioning his destination, he transferred to the officers’ level.
He began yanking off his flight suit the moment he entered his quarters. The fabric felt melded to his muscles as he peeled it from his body. Dropping into the room’s only chair, he removed his boots, allowing the air to circulate around his warm feet. Byron dumped his suit into a bin located within the wall and retreated to the bathing room for a much-needed shower.
Dressed, refreshed, and hunger sated, Byron pulled the chair closer to his workstation. He updated the logs for both spacecraft, reviewing each one’s flight recordings in detail. Neither revealed numbers outside of the safety parameters, although the shuttle’s rapid acceleration had pushed the limits of the vessel’s capabilities. Scanning the passenger list once more, Byron glanced at his personal record. Despite Vorsan’s threat, no complaints were listed regarding today’s flight. Byron smiled as he recalled the man’s request for a smooth ride. Those words had almost demanded a response, and his fighter pilot instincts were too strong to pass up the opportunity.
Shifting his weight, he leaned back in his chair. Byron’s gaze traveled to a photo resting beside his console. The dark metal frame showed signs of wear around the edges despite the durability of the alloy. Fortunately, the picture within was untouched by time. Over twenty years old, it was a memento of his days as Cosbolt pilot. His image revealed a much younger man, but Byron did not linger on that thought. It was the other man in the photo who held his attention.
You would’ve advised against my stunt today, he thought, recalling his navigator’s views on discipline and proper procedures. However, Bassa had never denied his pilot the pleasure of an outlandish maneuver.
But, it would’ve amused you, Byron concluded, a smile tugging at his lips.
Mevine’s comment returned to his thoughts. The boy had meant no disrespect. However, it annoyed Byron that the young man knew so much of his past accolades while Bassa’s accomplishments were lost to memory. At one time, every man in the fleet knew the navigator’s name and regarded Bassa as a living legend. Byron could not think of another man he’d admired more. He would always consider Bassa his closest friend and brother in spirit.
He reached for the photo, his hand lifting it with care into his lap. Byron stared at the figures leaning against the Cosbolt and felt a pang of regret. If only Bassa were alive to experience the life of exploration they’d planned. Byron had continued the course, but it was not the same without his friend and navigator.
Grasping his computer pad, Byron pulled up an image of Tgren. The planet looked similar to Cassa, although less water dotted her surface. The site of the alien ruins was clearly marked and situated next to a city called Ktren. He needed to read up on their next destination, but fatigue overwhelmed him and he could not focus on the information. Yawning once, his eyes returned to the photo in his hand.
So, what awaits us on Tgren? he thought, arching one eyebrow. The remains of a superior race? A weapon, perhaps? Think I might finally meet my match on this assignment?
No reply echoed in his mind. The silence was as complete as the day Bassa had died.
Byron sighed and returned the photo to his desk. Slapping his knees, he rose to his feet.
I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we brother?
Chapter Two
By the time Byron awoke the next morning, the Rennather had broken orbit and was proceeding to the edge of the solar system. Once it reached that point, the ship would perform its first jump. Checking the timetable, Byron calculated the exact moment the teleporter would engage. The incredible amount of power required to jump a vessel the size of the Rennather resulted in an internal vibration unlike any other. He relished the sensation and planned his day around the event.
Most of the science personnel were missing during the morning and midday meals. Byron inquired into their absence. Senior Science Officer Seheller explained that they were working on transcribing the alien language.
“The transmission came through late last night,” the man informed him. “We spent half the night processing data and started again early this morning. I don’t think Mevine ever went to sleep. He’s certainly dedicated.”
Byron shook his head, amused by the young man’s eagerness. He suspected they would find Mevine this evening draped over a workstation in a heap and unconscious from exhaustion. However, the diversion was well timed. Mevine’s focus now resided on his work rather than Byron’s past glories.
Before the evening meal, Byron visited the ship’s grav court. He’d delayed h
is daily regiment to coincide with the Rennather’s jump. He longed for privacy and hoped to find the court empty this time of day.
Better not be occupied, he thought. I’m in no mood for competition tonight.
Noting the green light above the press plate, he entered the court and sealed the door. A slight change in pressure signified a reduction in gravity. Byron shifted his feet, allowing his body to adjust. The alteration was minor, scarcely affecting his movement. He was still able to put a fierce spin on the ball, though.
Grasping the racket, he squared his shoulders in preparation. Clasping the ball, Byron hesitated before dropping it to the floor. Striking the surface, it sprang into the air and hovered near the release point. Before the ball could drop, he snatched it out of the air. Pivoting his body, Byron raised his racket. He tossed the ball toward the tall ceiling. With a resounding whack, his racket connected with the small object, and the ball shot toward the far wall.
Byron raced from one side of the court to the other, challenging his skills with difficult volleys. Because of the size of the court, which was hardly large enough to house a Cosbolt, he felt the temperature rise as his body generated heat from his exertions. Sweat poured from his skin, running unchecked down his arms and legs, soaking his clothes. Byron paused several times to wipe his brow, pushing the damp hair away from his face. He’d forgotten a towel, but this far into his session it wasn’t worth the effort to retrieve one from his quarters. Certainly not with the ship’s jump approaching.
A wild shot sent the ball out of reach. Pausing to catch his breath, a familiar hum echoed within the depths of his mind. Staggering back toward the wall, Byron slid to the floor, still clutching the racket. Resting his head against the wall, he took a deep breath and cleared his mind. The hum had increased in strength; it vibrated down his spine, causing his nerves to tingle. Closing his eyes, Byron focused on the intoxicating sensation of the ship’s teleporter as it prepared for the jump.
His mental abilities had grown in strength over the years. In addition to his unique capacity to channel his own power into a ship’s teleporter, he was now more aware of psychic emissions from all sources. Byron sensed the Rennather’s pilot as the man tapped into the device to perform the jump. Concentrating on the teleporter, he felt the connection of man and machine as the pilot locked onto new coordinates. Even through lidded eyes, the room’s lights vanished, enveloped by darkness as the ship jumped. The teleporter’s power at its peak, he felt the surge of energy as the ship transferred to a new point in space.
The process complete, the device’s discharge began to fade. Byron dropped his chin to his chest, his eyes still closed. Had he chosen to pilot an exploration ship, he would’ve performed the jump instead. On occasion, he assisted with multiple jumps, but the Rennather was not his responsibility. He preferred the mobility of the smaller ships. Certified on five different models, including the Darten, his skills were in high demand. Coupled with his unique ability to jump, not to mention accomplishments as a Cosbolt pilot, Byron had his choice of any ship in the fleet. He’d chosen to remain here.
Flexing his muscles, he pulled himself upright and reached for the ball. The door panel chirped, breaking into his thoughts. Byron scowled, annoyed by the interruption. Only a dimwit would miss the red light that signified the court was in use. Normal gravity resumed and the door slid aside. Byron assumed an authoritative pose, prepared to take the intruder to task for not observing court protocol. A young man entered the room, his head down. At once Byron recognized the gangly figure. He cleared his throat, hoping the noise would alert the intruder of the court’s original occupant. The lad looked up, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Officer Byron, my apologies!” Mevine stammered, rocking hard on his heels. “In my haste, I didn’t notice the court was occupied. Forgive me for interrupting your game.”
By all rights, Byron should’ve scolded him, but Mevine’s unshielded embarrassment made Byron assume a less threatening pose. “I thought you were holed up in the lab.”
“Yes sir, I’ve been there all day,” Mevine replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The movement caused his unkempt hair to bob in rhythm, the curls swinging across his forehead.
“I understand you were in the lab all night, too.”
Mevine ceased his nervous movements. “Yes, sir. But I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Thought some exercise would rouse me. I’d assumed the court would be empty at this hour. I’m sorry I interrupted you, sir.”
The quaver in his voice tugged at the pilot’s sense of compassion. Byron could not miss Mevine’s red eyes or drooping posture, and the final traces of his irritation disappeared. Considering the boy’s exhaustion, Byron could forgive an honest mistake. It had not interrupted his connection with the teleporter, either. Now that the moment had passed, Byron felt less reclusive. Besides, Mevine’s presence provided an opportunity for a little competition.
Bouncing the ball once, Byron narrowed his eyes. “Well, as long as you’re here, you may as well lose a couple games.”
Straightening his back, Mevine’s face broke into a smile. “Sir, I’d be honored to play a round with you.”
Despite his fatigue, Mevine proved adept at grav ball. Byron relished the challenge. Pleased with the situation, he stepped up his game to match Mevine’s strategic hits. Experience prevailed, leaving both men gasping for breath and exhausted.
“Not bad,” Byron offered as he retrieved the ball before it rolled to the far end of the court.
“Been a few months since I played,” said Mevine, rubbing his sleeve across his brow.
“We’ll have to play when you’re not rusty then.”
The boy nodded, brushing the damp locks away from his face. Curls sticking straight out, his face reflected a youth beyond his years. Did I appear as immature and young when I entered active duty? Byron wondered.
“And sir?” Mevine asked, his brows furrowed. “I’m sorry if I offended you last night.”
Byron adjusted the racket in his hand. “Don’t worry about it. And we’re off duty, so you can drop the sir.”
“Yes…” Mevine replied, his voice trailing off before finishing the phrase. “I’m sorry, it’s just such an honor to meet you. Your part in the Vindicarn War is legend.”
Mevine’s observation sent a ripple of regret through Byron. “I’m just a pilot,” he muttered. “Besides, that was years ago.”
And I’m not in the mood for adoration, he thought. Byron certainly didn’t want his past accomplishments drawing attention to his current situation. Not wanting to hear more, he strode past the young man with a purpose. Mevine’s next words caused him to pause.
“I almost became a fighter pilot because of you.”
He turned to cast Mevine a skeptical look. “You think flying a Cosbolt is the path to glory? That facing death is what it takes to succeed?”
Mevine’s shoulders drooped, matching the grimace on his face. “At least I’d have a chance to do something brave and prove myself.”
A wave of dejection rolled unchecked from his thoughts. Byron sensed a desire to please and live up to expectations. Who in Mevine’s life had placed such a heavy burden on the young man?
Lowering his racket to his side, Byron approached Mevine. The lad met his gaze, his eyes brimming with resignation as he awaited the older man’s next words. Mustering patience he did not feel, Byron shifted the grav ball to his other hand. He touched Mevine’s shoulder.
“Don’t be so eager to throw yourself into the face of danger. It’s a greater sacrifice than you’d ever imagine.”
Mevine’s thoughts remained in turmoil, but he offered a curt nod. Byron patted his shoulder.
“Besides, who says you won’t do something heroic on Tgren?” Byron offered. “You might just be the one who cracks the alien code and unlocks a great discovery.”
Mevine smiled. A renewed sense of purpose colored his thoughts, although not enough to hide all traces of dejection. It was enoug
h to put Byron at ease, and his muscles unknotted. He gestured toward the door.
“Go get something to eat,” he ordered. “And I’d recommend a shower or your fellow officers might refuse you entry to the lab.”
“Men, I can’t stress the gravity of the situation enough. I want everyone on their toes when we reach Tgren.”
“Yes, sir!” all voices clamored.
Commander Korden leaned forward, his knuckles pressing hard against the surface of his desk. Byron and the other senior officers stood at attention as they received final briefing on their new assignment. Exploration carried many risks, but Byron sensed far more was at stake than just the lives of those aboard the Rennather.
“Despite the enthusiasm of our science crew,” Korden drawled, his gaze passing over Officer Seheller, “I want us to take every precaution. The alien technology on Tgren could be benign in nature, but it could also be a weapon. Until we’ve assessed the situation and confirmed its purpose, I am treating it as a threat. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Glancing at his computer screen, Korden punched the keypad with force. “Complicating matters is our current relationship with the Tgrens. Their initial gratitude toward our presence has waned with our refusal to share more in the areas of communication and transportation until their own technology advances. Since their planet boasts a large supply of the chemical compounds required to manufacture our teleportation devices, we’ve done our best to pacify the Tgrens by offering training for their pilots. That gesture will continue while we are present.”
The commander’s eyes fell on his senior pilot. Byron nodded in acceptance of his expected duties while on Tgren even as he cringed inside. Training a group of primitives who’d only recently taken to the sky sounded tedious at best. He hoped they possessed at least a basic understanding of aerodynamics.
Straightening his posture, Korden glanced again at his computer screen and raised an eyebrow. “After recent testing of the citizens of Ktren, the city closest to the ruins, it was discovered that the Tgrens possess minor mental abilities as well.”
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