Parallax

by James David Victor

  The tunnel opened into a connecting point, a nexus of tunnels that snaked through the ship.

  It was then that Bayne first saw his ghost—a fifteen-year-old boy with long black curls and olive skin. His eyes were almond-colored and looked to have seen more than they should have. He wore a tattered white shirt and a simple pair of black trousers. No shoes. His hands were calloused, scarred on the knuckles. He was skinny, but not alarmingly so, and had a sturdy frame.

  The boy stood tall and still, like he was waiting for something.

  As Bayne opened his mouth to ask what that something was, another boy dropped from an air filtration port several feet above them. This boy wore much the same thing as the other, rags for the most part. He was thicker, a little more meat on his bones, but more muscular. His hair was shaved close to the scalp but would be a deep red if it grew out. His skin was so pale it seemed bluish in some places, like the veins beneath were showing through.

  The two boys exchanged a look, each fluent in the other’s unspoken language. “Let’s go, then,” the pale boy said, and he shoved past Bayne and Sig and ducked into one of the tunnels.

  Bayne had little time or reason to object. He could follow these boys who seemed like they had a vested interest in the captain’s survival, or he could wait and die in two minutes when the ship exploded.

  They scurried like rats through the tunnel, not talking, not breathing, anxiety clogging their lungs, until the olive-skinned boy kicked open a grate. They stepped into the open and found the shuttle waiting for them, engines rumbling to go.

  The boys didn’t wait for an invitation. “Two and counting, Cap,” the pale boy said. The shuttle doors opened, just as a crew of pirates appeared in the hangar bay. Smythe opened fire, keeping them back long enough for the party to board.

  Blaster fire ricocheted off the hull.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Bayne said to Patch. “Just get us out of here. Everyone strap in.” Sigurd helped the boys into their seats.

  “Captain to bridge,” Bayne said into the shuttle’s comm. “Brace for impact.”

  The shuttle shot like a bullet out of the hangar bay. Bayne sucked in a breath and held it, watching the Blighter in the rear monitor. He admired the thing. Prettied up. Made to look intimidating. A bucket on the inside, but it did its job admirably. And, as much as it made his guts turn considering he was leaving two good men aboard, he admired the man still spilling his blood on its bridge. A piece of filth, to be sure, but a man who took no orders.

  Still, Bayne was glad to see the Blighter erupt in a burst of light and sparks.

  4

  The trunk under Bayne’s bunk had grown thicker with three years’ worth of dust, and the indigo color of the leather had faded. It had been a gift. He had only ever sailed under the banner of one other man during his time as a Ranger—Alexander Kyte.

  Drummond Bayne was never one for blind loyalty. Even now, as an officer in the Navy, he was more dutiful than loyal. He followed orders because it was expected of him, not because he felt any sense of loyalty for his superior officers. But that had been different with Kyte. He was the sort of man who inspired adoration, not demanded subservience.

  Bayne was begging for scraps on a moon around one of the core planets, Io, if memory served, when Kyte made port. He was an unassuming man at first glance. No different than any other Ranger who’d passed through. Further study showed him to be different. He took his time both in movement and speech. Not in a cold and calculated way, but mindful.

  It was because he moved so slowly that Bayne believed he could pick his pocket. He was wrong, of course. Kyte snatched him up by the wrist before he could get his fingers near Kyte’s wallet. Instead of killing him on the spot, which would have been his right, Kyte brought Bayne aboard his ship as a deckhand.

  The Supernova was Bayne’s home for years. He worked his way up from deckhand to leader of the boarding party. He was the best in the system. Could pilot a spaceflight suit across open space, through an opening of no more than a meter, and disable a ship’s shields in under five minutes. Until he decided to venture out on his own. This trunk was Kyte’s parting gift to him. Not much of a thing at all, really. Seemed like an old piece of junk that was likely just taking up room in Kyte’s closet, but Bayne had kept it with him ever since.

  He hadn’t spoken to Kyte or any of the Rangers since he took the Navy up on its offer to become a commissioned officer. Those that refused took off for the borderlands, as far from Central as they could get.

  He took a key from his belt, unlocked the thick, copper-colored lock, and threw open the lid. Anything worth anything to Bayne was inside, which wasn’t much. A few trinkets from home, mementos from his early days as a Ranger, and now, the blue and black swords that once belonged to Wex Shill.

  He locked the trunk again and fell onto his bed. His eyes fluttered the moment his head hit his pillow. He didn’t even try to fight it.

  He was back aboard the Supernova. A deckhand. Invisible until something needed cleaning, but he saw everything. He heard every conversation that officers had when they didn’t notice him sweeping the floor, and he had never felt freer. He came and went. He did his chores well, and then he spent the rest of his time on the observation deck watching the stars pass. He was the lowest man on the ship, and he felt like a king. Now he was floating free in the infinite, on his way to take what he pleased.

  He couldn’t have been asleep long. That vague sense of a fading reality still lingered in Bayne’s head when Delphyne’s voice woke him.

  “A message from Central Command, sir. They’re waiting on your action report.” Her voice raised in pitch at the end. “And they’re rather curious about the missing time from the ship’s logs.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth, sir. A malfunction in the mission recorder.”

  A mile-wide smile stretched across Bayne’s face. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He splashed some water in his face and rubbed some aftershave on his cheeks even though he hadn’t shaved, hoping the alcohol smell would revive him. The hazy grip of sleep was firm, but the sight of himself in the mirror was enough to pry it loose. Patches of graying hair along his temples. A deep look in his eyes that gave the impression you could fall in and never find your way out of again, like black holes opened up to suck you in. Vast, encompassing, and empty.

  He remembered Shill’s words. Then he turned off the vanity light and marched out of his quarters.

  The communications room was Bayne’s least favorite on the entire ship. It could have been the smell of electricity on the air, the ever-present tingle of it on the tip of your tongue. It could have been Communications Officer Okeemo, a tight-lipped and surly sort whose resting scowl put Bayne ill at ease. Most likely, it was the fact that Bayne only came to the communications room for one purpose: to talk to Central.

  “Officer Okeemo,” Bayne said with a nod and as courteous a smile as he could muster. Not that it mattered. Okeemo never returned his smiles, no matter how genuine. “Connect me to Central, please.”

  “Channel is already open, sir.” Okeemo tapped the keys on his panel, and a figure of shimmering light began to take shape over a round disc on the floor.

  Bayne stared at Okeemo expectantly. Okeemo returned the stare without expectation. Bayne was never entirely sure whether Okeemo was being intentionally resistant, or if he was just obtuse, totally oblivious to the norms of the situation. “I’ll have the room, please,” the captain said.

  After a moment, Okeemo grumbled, the expectation finally reaching him. He left, but the communications room felt no more comfortable to Bayne in his absence.

  The light solidified into the form of Admiral Shay Ayala. She was a tall woman in her mid-fifties, but the projection distorted her size. Her dark chocolate hair was tied up in a tight ponytail and hidden further beneath the grey and yellow cap that was part of her admiral’s uniform. Protocol dictated the full uniform was to be worn during all communications.
/>   Bayne tugged at the brim of his cap. “Admiral,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I wish I could say the same, Captain Bayne.” Even tinged with the hollow sound of the projection, Ayala’s voice was solid enough to cut. “But it seems like we just had one of these conversations.”

  “The ship takes a beating out here, ma’am. It’s not uncommon for certain systems to malfunction at times.”

  “Certain systems,” she repeated. “It appears to be the same system.”

  “The mission recorder is dated and used often, ma’am. It may be time to have it upgraded.”

  Admiral Ayala’s dissatisfied moan came through like a robotic hum. “Yes, it may be time for some upgrades. You are to make preparations immediately and return to Central Command. The Royal Blue is due to dock for a while.”

  “But we haven’t made contact with Ore Town yet, ma’am. We haven’t made our inspection. We are a jump away. If the irregularities in their reports are any indication, and considering the proximity of Shill’s ship—”

  “You know the protocol, Captain,” Ayala said, shutting him down with a light-simulated hand. “You and your crew have been out in the Deep Black for nearly six months, the maximum time allotted for such a deployment. I will dispatch another ship to check on Ore Town. Frankly, the Byers Clan has made their bed if they hit any trouble out there.” The edge in her voice softened. “It’s time to come home and get your head right, Drummond. Remember that you’re part of something and not alone out there.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  The projection of Admiral Ayala faded.

  Okeemo entered the room, leading Bayne to assume he had been listening through the door and knew that the communication had concluded. The surly communications officer said nothing, but watched Bayne, silently telling him that he was welcome to leave now.

  As Bayne made his way toward the bridge, he remembered the last time he’d docked at Central. How it was a welcome sight at first, but how quickly he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Bayne knew Admiral Ayala would insist the Royal Blue remain docked at least a month. Just enough time to run a full diagnostic on the ship and its crew.

  No sense in fretting over it, Bayne thought. It was happening.

  The bridge crew looked to have been waiting for him, staring at the door like dogs waiting to be let out. Delphyne nearly squealed with glee, barely stunting the expression and letting out a stifled chirp instead. Only Mao was straight-faced, but even he clearly had something to say.

  “What is it?” Bayne said as he sat in the captain’s chair.

  The crew looked at Mao now, their chosen mouthpiece. “The captives, sir,” Mao said. “The crew is curious.”

  “I haven’t classified them as captives,” Bayne said.

  “They were aboard a pirate vessel, sir,” Mao said.

  “They helped us escape that pirate vessel,” the captain answered. “We would have died otherwise.”

  The XO shifted subtly, a blatant sign from the straight man that he disagreed. “According to Chief Tor’s report, they were able to assist in escape because they had intimate knowledge of the ship. One could assume—”

  “One shouldn’t assume,” Bayne said, cutting Mao off. “I’ll determine.”

  Mao relented. “Of course, sir.”

  Bayne pressed his palms into his eyes until the dull pain spread around to the back of his skull. He saw flashes of light like dying stars as he took his hands away. He stood, groaning, and ignored the looks of confusion and from his crew.

  “Sir?” Mao asked, again the mouthpiece.

  “I’m going to make my determination, XO. If that’s all right with you?”

  “Of course, sir. You’re the captain, sir.”

  Damn right, I am, Bayne thought. But he didn’t feel like it at the moment. “Make preparations to return to Central,” he ordered over his shoulder. “We make dock in one week.”

  A mix of moans and delight died behind him as he stepped onto the lift to the lower levels. Some shared his resistance to returning, but some had families and lovers and friends at Central that they wanted to see again. Some just wanted some leave, to have a drink that didn’t taste like engine solvent. He didn’t fault them for that. He could use a drink, too.

  The two boys weren’t captives yet, but they were still residing in the brig. Mao was right in his assessment of them. Bayne might have agreed if he wasn’t feeling contrary at the moment, but he also knew he wouldn’t be sucking air right now if not for them. That earned them something.

  Sigurd stood guard outside the brig, excited for something to do.

  “How are our guests?” Bayne asked.

  “Quiet,” Sig said. “Aside from a little whispering, they haven’t said anything. Haven’t asked for food or a toilet. Nothing.” Bayne’s eyes narrowed on Sig’s youthful face. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t offered and provided, sir. Fact is, those boys have eaten more than four grown men since they come aboard.”

  With that, Bayne’s stomach twisted in knots. He recalled his time after leaving the Supernova. It was a rough road, natural of a time when you are making your own way. Struggling to keep your ship fueled and your crew fed. Unhappy sailors thumbing the tips of their blades. Rumbling stomachs putting violent thoughts in their heads. It was always then that the other path seemed to open up. The path to quick money and an empty soul.

  Sigurd made to follow Bayne into the brig, but the captain dismissed him. He sealed the door behind him and took a deep breath before turning to face the boys. Free from the chaos of the Blighter, he caught the familiar scent. The perfume of urine and body odor. The faint sweetness the body gave off when it started to consume itself.

  The boys watched him as he paced the front of their cell. Their eye lids were heavy, weighed down by the volume of food they’d just eaten. Sig was right—the empty plates were piled high, enough for a family, but their bodies were alert. The tension in their muscles, clenched fists, both with their backs to different corners, like this was routine.

  “My name is Captain Drummond Bayne.” The darker-skinned boy studied him. Bayne felt his almond eyes move over his face, taking in each tic of muscle, looking for meaning. The pale boy watched him the way a wolf watches a rabbit. “You are aboard my ship, the Royal Blue.”

  They continued to watch, silent.

  “What are your names?”

  The boys looked to each other. Bayne could almost hear the silent conversation pass between them. Looking for assurance from each other. Weighing every word and deed to ensure their safety.

  “Wilco,” the pale boy said. His voice was strong like his build, and defiant like his stance.

  The other boy’s reticence came off him like steam wafting from the skin of a swimmer on a cold night. “Hepzah,” he said, voice quiet, but not weak. Measured. “Hep.”

  “You boys care to tell me the nature of your roles on the Blighter?”

  “Don’t call us boys,” Wilco demanded. “We ain’t boys.”

  The forcefulness caught Bayne off guard, but wasn’t anything he didn’t expect. Their initial reaction would be to blindly swing the knife, defend themselves against the enemy, which, to them, now, was everyone.

  “All right,” Bayne said. “Gentlemen, what was the nature of your role aboard the Blighter?”

  “He dead?” Hep asked. “Shill. He dead?”

  “Yes,” Bayne answered.

  No reaction. They were careful to keep their faces blank.

  “You don’t care about the rest?” Bayne asked. “The crew?”

  The boys shrugged. “Not particularly,” Wilco said. “Nothing to us.”

  “You weren’t members of the crew, then?”

  Wilco’s blank face twisted up a little, a small enough movement that it could have been missed. “No.”

  “Then what was your role aboard the Blighter?” Forcing them to say it made Bayne’s stomach tighten, but he couldn’t lead them to an answer. He needed to be sure they were who he thoug
ht they were.

  “Cargo,” Hep said.

  Slaves.

  The Rangers had been an eclectic bunch before they were coopted. Without a unifying code of ethics beyond sailing free, beholden to no flag, they varied as much as a people could in regard to belief and content of character. There were those who valued wealth above decency, and slaving proved a tempting line of work to those sorts.

  Sigurd rushed into the room, blaster at the ready when he heard the cell door slide open.

  “At ease,” Bayne ordered. “These two are passengers aboard the Royal Blue and will henceforth be afforded all the amenities that entails. Take them to medical immediately so Doctor Simmons can check them out. Have the report sent to me as soon as it’s ready. Then get them a bunk and give them the tour.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sig said.

  “Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”

  5

  Engineering was Bayne’s second least favorite place on the ship. Stuffy in more ways than one. Swarming with intellectual types; uptight folks on a good day. Downright nasty on days when they were given the unexpected order to prepare the ship for a voyage a galaxy away.

  As head of engineering, Callet was responsible for keeping the intellectual types in line, but there were times when even he seemed to despise this place. He was deep in argument with one of the engine techs.

  “I don’t give one hot damn if you’re due for a shift change,” Callet said. “The coolant system is wonky, and we can’t be racing clear across the galaxy with a wonky coolant system, now can we?”

  “No, sir,” the tech said, and marched back to work.

  “Problem?” Bayne said.

  “No, sir,” Callet answered. “Unless you include entitled little snips who think their ‘me time’ is more important than the engine exploding.”

  “Will she be ready for the voyage?”

  “Aye, in about a day.” Callet scratched the top of his head as he spoke and looked off like he was calculating something in his head. “Give or take. We need to reroute some of the power to the endurance thrusters. Just figuring out now where to reroute it from. Cannons or shields?”