CassaStorm

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

  Leaning forward, Byron tapped his computer pad. “We are working under that assumption. If the races can come to an agreement and declare peace, we’d just need a way to communicate that to the probe. My science officer said there is an encoded signal sent out by the alien ship that must also be answered. They are working to locate that coded reply.”

  Scanning Mevine’s latest report as he spoke, Byron noted no new developments. He hadn’t expected a breakthrough in the last hour, although it would’ve added a measure of hope to today’s meeting. Mevine’s team was working as fast as possible. Byron could only pressure them so much; however, time wasn’t on their side.

  Several men moaned and angry murmurs erupted around the table. Byron decided to take control before chaos ensued.

  “Prefects, I do not want a mass panic,” he said, projecting his voice to silence the group. “I will not have the resources to enforce peace in every city if that happens. We need to keep the population calm and begin planning now–the actual evacuation doesn’t need to begin for several days.”

  “How long did you say before the probe arrives?” someone asked.

  “At its current speed, eleven days,” said Byron.

  “I’d need to start evacuations within the next two days,” said one of the prefects, his words punctuated with a gasp. “The only caves capable of holding the bulk of my people are six days away.”

  “Each of you will need to make your own decision as to when to evacuate.” Byron placed his hands behind his back. “Those traveling on the Nacinta and Doorthmore will need to be here in seven days.”

  “Who gets to go?”

  Enteller’s mocking tone caused Byron to frown at the man. If forced to evacuate, Byron would not miss the prefect one bit.

  “In order to preserve the diversity of your people, you are each to select a dozen people from your city. It should be an even mix of men and women and the sharpest, most talented you have to offer. And,” he said, squeezing his fingers behind his back in anticipation of the objections, “no one over forty.”

  The requirements caused a ripple of protests, both verbal and mental, across the table. Accusations of prejudice and unfair advantages flew at Byron and the mood of the room plummeted further. One spark of sorrow penetrated the onslaught and he glanced at his mate. His own thoughts were shielded, but he didn’t need to connect with Athee to realize she was upset her uncle didn’t qualify.

  There are still twenty slots open, he told her in a private thought. I will do everything I can to ensure Orellen is on the Nacinta with us. If I can gain passage for your cousin and his family, I will make certain they are as well.

  Athee nodded, the back of her hand brushing at one eye.

  Scanning the room, Byron decided he’d had enough of the confusion. “Do you want to ensure your race survives or are you just looking to save your own skins?”

  Delivered in a booming voice, Byron’s question brought silence. The prefects altered between staring at him and one another, casting accusing glances.

  “Those are the conditions,” he continued, scooping his tablet from the table. “We all have a lot of work to do in the next eleven days. Our shuttles will be available on a limited basis for the next week. If you require assistance, contact Officer Athee. I will keep you updated as the situation develops. In the meantime, prepare for evacuation, maintain the peace, and send Officer Athee your twelve selections as soon as possible.”

  Byron stepped away from the table and refrained from making a dash for the door. Several conversations began at once, and the prefects rose to their feet one by one. Byron caught Ubarce’s eye before the man departed.

  Fill your twelve slots wisely and do not include yourself, he thought. Your family’s place is already reserved.

  Ubarce acknowledged Byron’s request, his thoughts still skeptical. Byron harbored no doubts though. After dealing with the prefects during the past two weeks, he could think of no better man to lead the remaining Tgrens. If the probe destroyed the planet’s surface, and those in the caves and alien ship were lost, Ubarce would find himself the leader of three hundred and twenty-eight full-blooded Tgrens. Byron hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  After fielding a few more questions, the room thinned and Byron was able to escape. He’d ignored the grumbles and murmurs as the prefects departed, aware that several of the men reviled his decisions. Once in the hallway and away from the hostility, Byron let his long strides and heavy steps pound out some of his frustration. The prefects had no idea how hard he’d worked to acquire the Doorthmore just so more Tgrens could be saved.

  Athee fell in step beside him, the sound of her boots striking the floor in rapid succession as she attempted to keep up with her mate. Her mind remained closed, which was a relief to Byron. He checked his messages as they strode toward his office, leery of who else might be vying for his attention. Only the message from the Doorthmore remained unanswered. Byron composed a quick note while they walked and sent it just as they stepped into his office.

  Setting down his tablet, Byron leaned against the desk to gather his thoughts. His gaze drifted to the far corner and a form lying under a blanket on the floor.

  I’m sorry, thought Athee, moving to his side. I didn’t have time to take him home after we visited medical. He was so tired, I knew he’d just fall asleep.

  Byron nodded, his eyes on the stock of black hair protruding from under the blanket. The rest of Bassan lay hidden, including his feet. The entrance of his parents hadn’t disturbed his son, and the blanket rose and fell in a gentle, even rhythm.

  If he slept at all last night it was only for a few hours, she thought.

  I don’t think any of us slept well, thought Byron. He turned to face his mate. Athee, there are still several open slots. I will see to it your uncle is on board one of those ships.

  His mate reached out to touch him and hesitated, tears in her eyes. Athee’s mind churned in turmoil, the direness of the situation taking hold in a mad rush. Byron grabbed her hand and pulled his mate closer. He couldn’t offer much comfort, but he had to calm the distraught creature in his arms. Her shallow breath filled his ears; the only evidence of her tears.

  Byron closed his eyes and let the silence of the moment settle his own nerves. The past two weeks had beaten at his senses and run him ragged. He just didn’t have the same endurance anymore.

  Don’t know how you did it during the Vindicarn War, Bassa, he thought as memories of his fallen navigator filled his head.

  Athee stirred and Byron released her. He waited while she composed herself and straightened her uniform. Meeting his gaze, she lifted her chin and offered a nod of thanks. Byron reached for her hand.

  Did medical clear you?

  Yes, she thought. Athee glanced at Bassan. And after last night’s horrible nightmares, I took Bassan with me so they could examine him. No, they didn’t delve into his mind, but the medical officer talked to him for a few minutes and finally suggested a sedative to help him sleep.

  It wasn’t ideal, but Byron had grown tired of the nightly ritual. If it gets him through the night, it’s worth a try,

  It’s not a permanent solution though.

  No, but we need to get through our current crisis first.

  Athee squeezed his fingers. Only three hundred and twenty?

  That number seemed so small now, but it was far greater than the nine Tgrens residing on the base with Cassan mates. Byron knew the Tgren race wouldn’t have a chance otherwise.

  I had to really pull some strings to acquire the Doorthmore, he thought. But it’s better than the hundred and twenty extra the Nacinta will hold. And certainly more Tgrens than we took from the surface last time.

  That elicited a faint smile from his mate. And you had to drag me into that shuttle.

  The tablet on Byron’s desk chirped the arrival of another message. With a moan, he picked it up and stared at the screen.

  Enteller, he thought with disgust. He can wait a moment.

 
I’ll try to intercept any further messages, thought Athee, releasing his hand.

  Byron helped rouse Bassan and got the boy to his feet. Athee led their son from the room, his gait wobbly and slow. Byron watched them leave and wished he could join Bassan in a long nap. His tablet chirped again just as the door closed.

  “Yes, Enteller!” he said, seizing the computer pad. Collapsing into his chair, Byron touched the screen.

  I wonder if the aliens would accept you as a sacrifice? he thought.

  Dropping onto the long couch, Byron scrolled through the options on his computer pad. He yawned and shook his head.

  I shouldn’t have bothered going to bed for a few hours, he thought. But by the time this ends, it will be close to dawn anyway.

  Locating the correct feed, he pulled up the image. The swirling blues and greens of Arell filled the screen. A gentle haze covered the planet, like wisps of mist rising from water in the morning. Arell had long held the mystique as a place of peace, as had her people. The fair-skinned race even appeared cool with neutral flesh tones, almost to the point of a pale blue frost. Arellens were slow to anger, as evidenced by a history of tolerance. However, the race possessed the strongest weapons in the galaxy. Byron had only witnesses the Blueseth weapon once. That was enough to know he never wanted to be on receiving end of such power.

  The view pulled back and Byron’s chest tightened. The silent death march of the probe continued as the vessel drew closer to Arell. He stared at the alien ship in morbid fascination. The device was the same craft that had threatened the Tgrens twenty years ago. From the angle of the feed, he could even see the indention near the nose that housed the scanner. He and Athee had hovered in that indention, enticing it to scan her mind and confirm the development of Tgren mental powers.

  What are you scanning for this time? he thought, gripping both edges of his computer pad. If we establish peace, how do we convince you?

  Tapping the screen, he brought up the conversation feed. The ongoing discussion recorded between those still on Arell and a nearby Arellen battle cruiser, the text displayed below the main image. Those on the ship confirmed a few stragglers continued to flee the planet despite the proximity of the probe. Byron tried to focus on the exchanges, but the sight of the silent alien device approaching Arell continued to steal his attention. In nine days, it would descend upon Tgren with no mercy for her people.

  Reaching out, he touched his senior science officer’s mind. Mevine, I’m watching the feed now.

  Commander! Very good, Mevine’s mental voice crackled with energy.

  How can you be so alert at this hour? Byron thought, rubbing his tired eyes.

  Sir, we’re recording every transmission from Arell. They are sending out numerous feeds.

  We?

  Yes, sir. Five of us are here in the lab.

  Sliding down farther on the couch, Byron shook his head. Mevine’s crew was dedicated. That included the two Tgren scientists who worked closely with his senior officer. Byron made a mental note to place both men on the list for evacuation. Their brilliance shouldn’t be lost.

  Commander, we are ready this time.

  Keep me posted, Byron said, suppressing another yawn.

  He stared at the screen, mesmerized by the deadly scenario unfolding before his eyes. Byron couldn’t believe he was going to witness the destruction of an entire planet’s ecosystem. According to the vague reports from the Torbeth’s home world, the storm continued to rage across the surface. Within the hour, Arell would suffer a similar fate. The destruction of the Vindicarn teleportation vessel, now many years in the past, paled in comparison.

  A noise reached Byron’s ears. He glanced at the door leading to his bedroom and touched the mind of the occupant within. Athee still slept. His shoulders sagged and Byron reached for his son’s mind. As expected, Bassan was caught in another nightmare.

  So much for the sedative working, Byron thought with disgust.

  He set his tablet aside and rose to investigate. The sound of Bassan’s whimpers drifted from his room. Raising the lights in the main room, Byron slipped into his son’s bedroom. Bassan’s body trembled, most likely from the images in his head, and he lie curled in a fetal position. Dropping onto the bed, Byron touched his son’s shoulder.

  “Bassan,” he said, projecting with his mind as well. Giving his son a light shake, he tried again. “Bassan!”

  With a gasp, the boy awoke and sat up. Byron caught the tail end of the dream as it vanished from his son’s mind. He frowned, puzzled by the fleeting abstract images. Never clear enough for him to identify, the visuals appeared connected and repetitive. Just what nightmare plagued his son every night?

  Bassan, he thought, steadying his son. You’re all right. Just another bad dream.

  Muscles tensed, Bassan opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Averting his eyes, he leaned forward. His small hands balled into fists as he grasped the blanket and uttered another gasp.

  Slipping an arm around his son’s body, Byron pulled him closer. He stroked Bassan’s matted hair, hoping he could soothe the boy quickly. At least he hasn’t woken up screaming and delirious the past two nights, thought Byron.

  Bassan grasped Byron’s arm. I’m sorry.

  You can’t control your dreams. Glad I was awake and caught you before the dream got worse.

  Bassan pulled free and peered up at his father. Did you just get home?

  No, I was… Byron paused, hesitant to admit the reason for his nighttime activity. His son’s nightmares were already brutal. But, he never wanted to hide the truth from Bassan.

  I’m watching updates on the probe’s arrival at Arell.

  Oh, thought Bassan, his tone sad.

  Go back to sleep, Byron thought, patting his son’s shoulder.

  Settling Bassan in his bed, Byron returned to the main room. More alert now, he checked another feed on his tablet. The Arellens reported no sign of enemy ships, which had hindered evacuation efforts two days ago. Byron suspected the Vindicarn had retreated to their home world, as the ships occupying Tgren space were nowhere to be seen either.

  I bet you believe our warning now, Byron thought.

  Switching to the official feed, he skimmed the information. Thirty percent of the race had escaped the surface of Arell. Byron cringed and shifted his position on the couch. A million Arellens lived on the planet. He continued to read the report. Those who remained either took shelter underground or chose another method of protection. If the storm caused massive earthquakes or lasted longer than supplies of air, food, and water, then only 300,000 Arellens would remain.

  Far more than the three hundred plus I’ll be able to save though, he thought, depressed by that sad truth.

  Switching back to the first feed, Byron caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and noticed Bassan hovering at the end of couch.

  You should be in bed.

  I can’t sleep, thought Bassan, shifting from one foot to the other. Can I sit out here with you for a while? Please?

  Dropping his head against the back of the couch, Byron prepared to send his son back to his room. The boy would be so tired in the morning if he didn’t get some sleep. Bassan didn’t need to sit in on Arell’s deathwatch either. The thoughts in his son’s unshielded mind tugged at his conscience. Bassan just wanted to spend time with his father.

  All right, Byron thought, giving in to his guilt.

  Bassan moved to Byron’s side, pressing his shoulder against his arm. Tilting his computer pad, Byron angled the screen away from his son. He didn’t need to witness the destruction of Arell. When the moment arrived, Byron contemplated looking away as well.

  After a moment, Bassan shifted positions. Byron glanced down at his son. The turmoil of his dream now gone, Bassan’s mind revealed a sense of comfort in the presence of his father. Adjusting his shoulders again, Byron’s son looked up. His eyes reflected curiosity, offset by the bruising around his nose. The black patches were already changing c
olors as they healed.

  You know, I never had a chance to talk to you about the fight, Byron thought.

  Bassan’s gaze dropped to his lap and he rubbed his fingers together. Wasn’t much of a fight.

  Officer Tarcon told me Senge knocked you down and called you a half-breed. Is that why you tackled him?

  Yes, sir, thought Bassan. His fingers moved faster.

  Setting aside his computer pad, Byron focused on his son. I would’ve tackled him as well.

  Bassan looked up, his eyes wide. Really?

  Sure. I wasn’t afraid of a fight at your age.

  Shame washed over Bassan and he dropped his gaze. Byron nudged his shoulder.

  I didn’t say that was a good thing though. I lost as many fights as I won.

  Byron lifted his arm and placed it around his son. Bassan finally met his eyes.

  Fighting really doesn’t solve anything, Byron thought. But you should defend your heritage. Your mother is the former prefect’s niece, which is a prestigious position. She boasts mental powers stronger than most Tgrens and beyond what any Cassan woman possesses.

  Besides, he thought, squeezing his son, this is your home. You are part of Tgren. Those Cassan boys are just guests.

  Bassan offered a faint smile. I guess they are.

  Satisfied with their exchange, Byron glanced at his tablet. The alien ship had reached Arell and now hovered over the silent planet. Bassan nestled closer to his side and Byron wrapped his arm tighter around his son. He watched and waited with the rest of the universe.

  The feed below the image announced a transmission from the probe.

  I hope you caught that, Mevine, Byron thought.

  Beside him, Bassan’s body shook. Byron turned to his son, afraid Bassan was watching the screen. The trembling intensified and Bassan held out his hand as if reaching for an invisible object. Startled by his son’s behavior, Byron sat up.

  Bassan? he thought, peering at the boy’s face. Glassy, unseeing eyes met his and Byron grabbed his son’s shoulders.

  Bassan!

  His son didn’t respond. Byron leapt from the couch and knelt in front of Bassan. The boy gave no indication he knew where he was or what he was doing. Panic rose in Byron’s chest and he reached for his son’s mind. A stream of images flashed through Bassan’s thoughts, blinding in their intensity. The similarity to his son’s violent dreams struck Byron. He tried to grasp the purpose of the images, but it was beyond anything he’d ever encountered.