CassaStorm

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

  Up and down the court they raced. Three steps and pass. Bassan was open several times, but no one bothered to look his direction, let alone pass him the ball. Growing impatient, he shoved his way through the crowd. Stepping in front of a taller teammate, Bassan shifted to the side. No one was guarding him. Noting the opportunity, he held up his hands and waved at the boy with the ball. His teammate hesitated, his eyes scanning the crowded court. Turning toward Bassan, he bounced the ball in his direction. Calculating the ball’s trajectory, Bassan stepped forward to catch it.

  A rough shove on his left side knocked Bassan to the floor. He braced his body for impact even as his gaze remained fixed on the ball. The boy who’d knocked him to the ground caught the ball and turned to shoot at the goal. Bassan hit the floor hard, the force jarring his head. He gasped as much from pain as indignation. His own teammate had pushed him out of the way.

  A buzzer indicated a break. Bassan rolled over and pulled himself to his knees. Placing one foot on the floor, he leaned on his leg and prepared to rise.

  Guess you tripped.

  Bassan looked up. The boy who’d knocked him down now hovered over him.

  Klutzy half-breed, Senge thought, sneering at Bassan before turning to join the others on the sideline.

  His father’s words returned to him. Find the strength. Anger welled up inside of Bassan. Clenching his fists, he launched himself at Senge.

  Wrapping his arms around the larger boy’s middle, Bassan threw his weight into the motion. A burst of surprise escaped Senge’s thoughts as they fell. Bassan’s elbows slammed into the floor and he managed to adjust his position enough to avoid crushing his hands. His chin racked against Senge’s back bone, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. Bassan uttered a muffled cry.

  He didn’t have time to think about his aching jaw and elbows though. Serge’s body twisted and Bassan caught an elbow in the face. The force shoved him off the boy’s back, but his left arm lie trapped. Using his free hand, he swung at Senge. His blows connected, including one to his opponent’s face. The boy punched back, catching Bassan in the stomach.

  Someone grabbed his arm. Bassan swung again, but this time he connected with empty air. Several boys had seized Senge and pulled him off Bassan. An arm wrapped around Bassan’s middle, holding him in place.

  “Stop at once!”

  Officer Tarcon’s voice drilled into his head. No longer able to reach Senge, Bassan ceased all movement. Moisture gathered on his upper lip and his stomach ached from the blows. Bringing his knees closer to his chest, Bassan reached for his nose.

  “That is enough,” said Officer Tarcon, stepping between the boys. “Who started this?”

  “Bassan jumped me!” said Senge, brushing off the restraining hands.

  “You shoved me to the ground to get the ball!” Bassan countered, removing his hand from his nose. As expected, he was bleeding.

  “Is that what happened?” Officer Tarcon asked, turning his attention to Senge.

  The boy scowled. “I was just going for the ball.”

  “I saw you shove him to the floor,” said the boy restraining Bassan. He recognized Drent’s voice.

  “Is this true?” Officer Tarcon took a step toward Senge.

  Bassan glanced over his shoulder. Drent’s anxious expression greeted him.

  You’re a mess, Drent thought. He patted Bassan’s shoulder. Damn, didn’t think you had it in you.

  Wiping his nose again, Bassan sat upright. Got tired of being called a half-breed.

  What?

  His friend released him and rose to his feet. “Senge, I dare you to call me a half-breed to my face!” said Drent, stepping over Bassan’s body.

  Mevine’s son had everyone’s attention now. Senge glanced at his friends, as if looking for support.

  “Drent, stand down,” warned Officer Tarcon, holding out a restraining hand.

  “No, you wouldn’t dare call me a half-breed,” said Drent. “Coward!”

  Senge leapt forward. Drent was ready for him and ducked as the other boy swung his fist. Shoving his shoulder into Senge, Drent began wailing on his classmate’s body. Bassan gasped, distraught that his friend was now involved in the fight.

  The lights in the court grew bright. Bassan dropped his chin and closed his eyes. To his dismay, it didn’t block out the blinding light. Bassan’s heart pounded in his chest. The sound reverberated in his ears, drowning out all other noises. The light pulsated faster, sending images flying past his eyes. The same images as his nightmares. Engulfed in fear, Bassan cried out for help.

  The light faded. Still unable to see, Bassan reached out with his hand. Someone grabbed his arm.

  “Are you all right? Bassan!”

  He gasped as the haunting images vanished from his mind. His body shaking, Bassan dropped his forehead to his arm. It was then that he realized he was face down on the floor.

  “Officer Tarcon, something is really wrong!”

  Bassan recognized Drent’s voice. He recalled his surroundings and pressed his eyelids together even tighter.

  Don’t cry, he thought, balling his hands into fists. Not here.

  Aware of the many bodies pressing closer, Bassan buried his face as a single tear dropped.

  Please make it stop, he thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Byron strode through the double doors, his fingers locked around his computer tablet. The medical officer in the hall jumped at his sudden appearance.

  “I’m looking for my son,” said Byron, reigning in his annoyance.

  “Commander!” the officer replied, fumbling with the bottles in his hands. “He’s down here, sir.”

  Byron followed the man, his boots striking the floor with force. He did not have time for this nonsense. The probe’s position within the Torbeth’s solar system was a far greater issue. The fate of an entire race might be decided within the hour. And here he was retrieving his son from medical because of a fight.

  Why did I send Athee to speak with Ubarce this afternoon? he thought.

  The medical officer paused and gestured toward a room on the right. Byron rounded the corner, still seething. His pace slowed when he caught sight of his son seated on the edge of the examining table.

  “Commander Byron,” said the medical officer attending to Bassan.

  The man stepped aside and Byron approached his son. Bassan lowered the cold pack from his face, revealing dark circles forming under his eyes. Every part of the boy’s body sagged, threatening to melt right off the table. Thoughts of remorse flooded from Bassan’s mind, tinged with embarrassment. Bassan had never appeared more forlorn or dejected. Viewing his son in such a condition caused Byron’s irritation to subside.

  “How is he?” Byron asked the medical officer. He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder and Bassan cringed at his touch. Byron frowned, stung by the reaction.

  “Sir, he’ll have some bruising, but nothing is broken.”

  Tearing away from the pain in his son’s eyes, Byron turned to the medic. “His instructor said he was convulsing. He’s also experienced nightmares the past few nights. Any connection?”

  “Sir, not one we discovered. We ran several tests and found nothing out of the ordinary. He’ll bruise under his eyes due to the hit on his nose, but otherwise he is fine.”

  Byron nodded. The man returned the gesture and departed. Turning his attention to his son, Byron discovered Bassan’s head down. He squeezed his shoulder.

  Father, I’m sorry, Bassan thought.

  The tremble in his mental voice told Byron that his son avoided speaking for a reason. Byron shifted the position of his hand to the back of Bassan’s neck and pulled his head back. As suspected, tears had formed in his son’s eyes.

  “Bassan,” he said, trying to find the words that would soothe his son’s nerves. “Your instructor told me what happened. I’m not mad at you.”

  Bassan swallowed and a single tear escaped. Averting his gaze, he raised the back of his hand to his face. Byron g
ave his neck a squeeze.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Now, Officer Tarcon said he’d sent your class uniform and tablet as well?”

  Bassan pointed at a spot near the door. Locating his son’s bag against the wall, Byron retrieved it from the floor and assisted Bassan from the table. Draping an arm around his shoulders, Byron led his son from the room.

  The medical unit sat next to the main building, providing easy access between the two. Byron was grateful his office resided closer to this end. He needed to check the latest development concerning the alien ship. Already the tablet in his hand held three messages. None had emitted an urgent beep upon arrival though, and Byron continued walking with his son.

  Upon entering his office, Byron pulled one of the chairs into a corner behind his desk. “You’ll have to wait here until your mother can get you,” he said, indicating Bassan was to take a seat. Pulling the tablet out of the bag, Byron handed it to his son when he was situated. “Work on your studies and do not interrupt me, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bassan, his eyes on the items in his lap.

  Byron grasped the hand that held the cold pack and lifted it to his son’s face. “And keep this on your nose,” he said in a gentler tone.

  Pouring a glass of water, Byron set it on a shelf beside his son, and returned to his desk. He skimmed through the messages, noting one from Mevine. Saving it for last, he responded to the others before reading the transcript from his science officer.

  Mevine found another transmission? he thought. Why isn’t this marked high priority?

  Punching the keyboard on his main computer, Byron summoned the senior officer. Mevine answered without delay.

  “Commander, I was just about to contact you,” the science officer said, his voice wavering with excitement.

  “Officer Mevine, tell me more about this transmission,” said Byron, leaning forward on his desk.

  “Sir, we tried to intercept a message sent from the alien vessel to the ship on Torbeth, but it was faint and out of range. However, our ship on Tgren and the one on Cassa just received a message from the Torbeth’s alien craft. We believe it involves all ten ancient ships.”

  “All ten vessels?”

  “Yes sir,” Mevine said, the view behind the science officer passing in a blur. “I’m up here at the ship. A single transmission came in, followed by nine going out. There was a pause and then another lone transmission.”

  “And the origin of the single transmission?”

  Mevine spun around. “The Torbeth’s ship. We’re already working on translations,” he said, the background changing yet again.

  Byron rubbed his forehead. “Officer Mevine, can you hold still for a moment?” he said, distracted by the movement.

  “Sir! My apologies.”

  Mevine adjusted his computer and the whirlwind of scenery ceased. Gathering his thoughts, Byron touched the corner of his tablet. “What about the first transmission?”

  His science officer leaned out of the frame a moment. “The ship’s com detected a single transmission.” Mevine reappeared. “It was just a trace though and we weren’t able to capture it.”

  To Byron’s dismay, another scientist approached Mevine and his senior officer leaned away again. Growing impatient, he sent a private thought.

  Mevine, hold still before I order someone to strap you to a chair!

  The scientist’s face loomed large, his wide eyes occupying a generous portion of the screen. Sir, I’m sorry, he thought.

  “Any idea as to the source of that transmission?” said Byron, resisting the urge to pull back from the giant face on his computer.

  “Sir, we think it came from the probe. Due to the vast distance, we can’t accurately triangulate the source. But, if we were closer to the probe…”

  “If we were closer, we’d be on the Torbeth’s home world, Mevine. And I doubt we’d want to be there. The last message from the Nacinta indicated the alien ship has taken up orbit around the Torbeth’s planet.”

  Mouth slightly ajar, Mevine tilted his head away from the screen. The muscles in the scientist’s neck twitched, as did his jaw. After years of working with the man, Byron knew that expression. It did not bode well for the Torbeth.

  “Translate those transmissions, Mevine,” he said, setting his right fist on the desk in front of him. “Find us answers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The screen went black. On cue, another message arrived. The report from Officer Mard was expected and Byron pulled up the information. He glanced once over his shoulder. Bassan appeared engrossed with his tablet. He still held the cold pack to his nose and right cheek, his shoulders hunched as he stared at his computer screen.

  Good, Byron thought, turning his attention to the report.

  Fifteen minutes later, an urgent message arrived from the Nacinta. His stomach muscles growing tighter, Byron answered. Ganter’s face appeared on his screen, the lines in his skin tight and pronounced.

  “Commander, we were just notified of a communication from a Cassan scout ship patrolling the outer sectors of Torbeth space,” he said, his words slow and deliberate.

  Grasping his armrests, Byron’s body tensed. “The probe launched an attack?” he said with grim certainty.

  Ganter nodded. “The alien ship sent thousands of drones to the surface. Torbeth defenses eliminated over half of them, but there were just too many. The drones impacted the surface and burrowed toward the planet’s core. Our scout ship reported the temperature on the planet rose within minutes. As a result, storms formed over most of the planet, growing stronger as the temperature rose. The planet is dying from the inside out.”

  Byron lowered his head. He’d often wondered the outcome of the alien vessel’s first appearance had it not found the proper level of development in the Tgren’s minds. The true destructive power of the drone was more frightening than he’d imagined. Running from a storm of that magnitude would be impossible. There was no way to evacuate the planet before Tgren was reduced to dust.

  “Did anyone make it off the surface?” he said. They might be enemies, but the prospect of the extinction of an entire race was unthinkable.

  “Several Torbeth battleships were in orbit at the time, launching an attack on the probe. The instability of the ecosystem made escape virtually impossible, but the scout ship noted several ships departing before the drones struck.”

  “High Command knows?”

  “They received the information the same time we obtained it.”

  “Commander, did the scout ship record any transmissions from the alien ship?”

  “I can find out.”

  Byron leaned forward and snatched his computer tablet from the desk. “The ten alien ships communicated with one another not long after a faint lone signal was detected. If we could analyze that transmission, we might begin to piece together what the probe seeks. I’d like all of the information regarding what’s happening on the Torbeth’s home world as well,” he said, rubbing his right temple. They couldn’t evacuate even a tenth of the population of Tgren. “We need to start making preparations.”

  Ganter cocked his head. “Preparations?”

  Tapping his tablet, Byron pulled up the most recent information. “Yes, Commander,” he said. “Because according to our calculations, the alien vessel will travel to two other planets before it reaches Tgren. We’ll have barely a week to prepare.”

  The Nacinta’s commander inhaled sharply. “Which planet is next?”

  Byron rose to his feet and grasped the edge of his desk. “Arell. The Arellen’s home planet is next.”

  Judging from Ganter’s expression, the thought of losing their longtime allies sickened him as well. The Arellens had only a few days in which to prepare for an extinction level event. The man nodded and leaned forward.

  “I’ll get the information for you, Commander.”

  The screen went black. Byron dropped his chin to his chest. A thousand emotions tore at his heart. Hundreds of thousands of
innocent women and children would likely die today. And unless they could find a way to stop it, that force would reach Tgren in a week. Eventually it would reach Cassa. Plans were likely underway to evacuate the Cassan population to her sister planet, Harenna. But the Tgrens had no place to go. Even worse, they possessed no ships on which to escape.

  His eyes closed, Byron’s other senses grew in awareness. The sound of rapid breathing reached his ears. He’d locked his shields in place when the Nacinta contacted him, afraid Athee would pick up on his distress. Now he let them drop just enough for an underlying current of fear to register. Recalling he wasn’t alone, Byron opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Bassan stared at him, his mouth open. The items in the boy’s hands threatened to slide from his grasp.

  “Are we going to die?” his son whispered.

  Byron’s computer uttered an urgent beep. The information he’d requested from the Nacinta appeared. Reaching for his keypad, Byron pulled up the first message. Adding a notation to each piece of information, he forwarded it to the proper department with a mark of urgency. His men needed to work on a solution night and day if they were to survive.

  Straightening his back, Byron glanced at his son. Bassan had not moved from his seat, but his spine now curled forward. The cold pack was on the floor and his hold on the tablet tenacious at best. It was the thoughts of utter despair that projected his son’s fear strongest. Bassan’s young mind just couldn’t handle any more pressure. After the past week’s events, he’d exceeded his limits.

  You didn’t need to hear this, Byron thought.

  Approaching his son, Byron crouched in front of Bassan. He removed the tablet from the boy’s hands and set it on the floor. Bassan lifted his chin just enough to meet his father’s gaze. The haunted look in his eyes tugged at Byron’s heart. That same darkness had greeted Byron’s gaze in a mirror at one point. He’d spent most of his childhood trapped in a facility for troubled children. With his parents dead, he’d no one on which to rely. Byron was determined his son would never experience a similar loss.