CassaStorm

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

  Don’t worry. Once I’ve sent my message to the prefects, I’ll require a distraction.

  The walk provided him a moment to reflect. Byron composed his message on the way home, restructuring his words more than once. He read it over three times, trying to anticipate every reaction. Regardless of his intentions, more than one prefect would protest the proposition of Ubarce as Tgren’s representative. The man’s inclusion in those Tgrens escaping the planet’s surface wouldn’t sit well with the other prefects either, but he met all the criteria. Byron hoped the other prefects would see the logic in his proposal and allow Ubarce to attend the meeting as Tgren’s First Prefect.

  We don’t have time for debate, Byron thought, sending the message at the same time he arrived home. We can discuss it later after we’ve saved Tgren.

  Athee played a game with Bassan while Byron inhaled his meal. Her mind swirled with distractions as she continued to add to her list of duties for the evening. Byron appreciated her attempts to provide Bassan a few moments of normalcy.

  As predicted, his computer pad announced several urgent messages demanding replies while he ate. Confirming each message originated from a prefect, Byron chose to ignore them. He’d included a need to prepare for this conference in his message. If they couldn’t honor his request for five minutes, then those prefects didn’t deserve the courtesy of an immediate reply.

  Swallowing the remainder of his drink, Byron turned his attention to his mate and son. Bassan laughed as he tapped his computer tablet and looked up at his mother. Athee frowned before touching the screen. Uttering a triumphant cry, Bassan tapped the screen twice. Athee leaned back in her chair and held up her hands.

  “You win,” she said.

  Bassan turned to his father and grinned. Byron held up his empty glass.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You didn’t beat her too bad, did you?”

  “Hey!” said Athee, rising to her feet.

  Byron winked at his mate as she retrieved his empty plate and glass. Bassan gathered his tablet in his arms and stared expectantly at his father.

  “Are you going to speak to all of the leaders tonight?” he said.

  “I’ll be with Prefect Ubarce when he speaks with the leaders,” said Byron, ignoring yet another beep from his computer pad. “Hopefully we can get them to declare peace tonight.”

  “Will that stop the probe?”

  “Coupled with the code in your memory, I hope so.”

  Bassan’s brows came together. “I told Drent about the code. It wasn’t a secret, was it?”

  “It’s all right you told Drent, but don’t tell anyone else.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bassan. He straightened his shoulders. “Drent was really impressed. Think he was jealous. I wish I could tell the others.”

  His son’s enthusiasm touched Byron. Perhaps this would provide the opportunity for Bassan to gain some respect among his peers.

  “You can tell them when it’s over, all right?” said Byron.

  Bassan slid from his seat. “Yes, sir. When it’s over, will I be a hero like you?”

  Those words caught Byron by surprise. Heroics at that level came at such a heavy price. He stared at his son, aware Bassan wouldn’t understand. Besides, the burden he carried was already cumbersome.

  “Come here,” he said, gesturing Bassan forward.

  His smile fading, Bassan approached. Byron grasped his son’s shoulder and gave him a light shake.

  “No matter what happens, you’re already my hero,” he said.

  Delight burst from Bassan. Touching his son’s mind, it struck Byron the joy didn’t originate from the title itself. Bassan’s happiness stemmed from his father’s pride.

  Another loud beep emanated from Byron’s tablet. Patting his son’s head, he rose to his feet and reached for his computer pad.

  “I need to prepare,” he told Athee. “Ubarce should be arriving shortly.”

  Athee followed him to the door. “I can respond to those messages.”

  “No, I’ll take the heat for this one. You have enough on your plate tonight.”

  The door slid aside and Byron stepped out into the cool evening air. He looked back at Athee, her thin frame silhouetted in the doorframe.

  I’d tell you I’ll give you an update when I return, but I imagine you’ll be listening in on the conference.

  Who, me?

  That’s what I thought.

  Taking advantage of the distance to the main complex, Byron checked his messages. As predicted, several prefects protested the choice of Ubarce. He was pleased to note an equal number offered words of encouragement with their vote of approval. He tallied the replies in his head. Just a few more in his favor…

  The final two messages sent the tally over in favor of Ubarce. He was officially the Tgren representative for the meeting tonight.

  At least some of you possess a measure of sense, he thought. He composed an official message and announced the results of the vote.

  Entering the hangar, Byron glanced at the open doors. The lights of a shuttle were visible in the deepening twilight as she glided low over the runway. He waited while the pilot set the craft down not far from his position and powered down the engines. The shuttle door opened as he approached the ship.

  “Commander,” said Roesaw, offering a tired but proper salute.

  The pilot stepped aside and Ubarce appeared in the doorway. “Good evening, Commander.”

  “Prefect Ubarce,” said Byron, offering the man the courtesy he deserved. “We’ll have twenty minutes before departing for the Nacinta. I’d like to use that time to brief you on the situation.”

  The Tgren fell in step with Byron as they moved toward the closest door. Over the constant wind that blew through the hangar, Byron heard his name called. He looked up just as a voice rang in his head.

  Commander Byron, a word with you!

  Enteller stormed toward him, his stocky body shaking every time his boot struck the ground. One of the prefect’s security personnel trotted behind the man, followed by a Cassan officer. Byron scowled and slowed his pace. They didn’t have time for this interruption.

  “Prefect Enteller,” he said with force, “we’re preparing for the conference. I will speak with you when we return.”

  “I demand to be included in this conference,” Enteller said in a huff. He rocked on his heels as he came to an abrupt stop. “I have seniority over Ubarce.”

  “The decision wasn’t based on seniority. Prefect Ubarce possesses the qualifications to govern should the worst come to pass.”

  “Who made this decision?”

  Byron turned to face Enteller, hoping his towering stance would force the enraged man to back down. Regardless of his rank, the prefect was out of line.

  “I made the decision. And the other prefects voted to ratify it. Now, if you will excuse us,” Byron said, taking a step toward the door.

  “I will not be excluded!” said Enteller.

  “Only one prefect is to represent Tgren,” Byron said over his shoulder.

  “Yes, and I am First Prefect!”

  Byron paused, infuriated by Enteller’s statement. The man was a mockery of that honor. Fed up with the Tgren’s attitude, Byron no longer felt the need for diplomacy.

  “Orellen was First Prefect. You have not earned that title,” he said, allowing his contempt to seep into his response.

  Enteller’s eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets. A gasp escaped his lips and was cut short by a choking sound. His face flushed and Byron prepared for the ugly retort.

  The prefect’s right hand gnarled and went to his chest. A wave of panic escaped the man’s mind as he dropped to his knees. Before Byron could react, Ubarce rushed forward and grabbed Enteller’s arm. The Tgren security officer moved to assist his prefect and they lowered the man to the ground.

  Medical team to the hangar now! thought Byron, broadcasting his thoughts loud and clear.

  Other men moved in to help. The sound of boot
s pounding across the hangar floor echoed in Byron’s ears. With so many surrounding Enteller, Ubarce relinquished his hold. He rose to his feet and turned to Byron. The young prefect’s concern pulsated from his mind. He genuinely cared about Enteller’s well-being. His empathy solidified Byron’s convictions regarding Ubarce as Tgren’s representative.

  Four medical personnel arrived and shoved aside those gathered around Enteller. Byron waited, his mind counting the minutes as they ticked past. He needed time to brief Ubarce. If he left too soon though, it might shatter the young prefect’s faith in him. Byron didn’t dare jeopardize that.

  Will he survive? thought Byron, directing his question at the medical officer in charge.

  Yes, sir, the man replied, glancing up at Byron. He’s stable now. We’ll move him the moment the gurney arrives.

  The officer shifted to the right and Byron caught a glimpse of Enteller. His face obscured by a mask, the man’s expression lay hidden. His eyes were open wide though.

  Prefect Enteller, thought Byron, sending a private message to the man stretched out on the hangar floor. Head rolling to one side, Enteller’s gaze met Byron’s.

  You will receive the best possible care in our facility, thought Byron. I truly want the best for your people. The person who represents Tgren must possess stamina and endurance as well as a vision for the future. Ubarce is more than capable of governing your people. He won’t let you down during the conference tonight.

  Just save our people…

  Enteller’s words were weak but not without conviction. Byron nodded, relieved the battle with Ktren’s prefect had come to a halt. For tonight anyway.

  Turning on his heels, Byron strode toward the door. Ubarce followed him down a short hall and into an open room. Striding to the tall table in the center, Byron set down his tablet and touched the surface. A display of the vast space surrounding Tgren appeared.

  “I need to bring you up to speed on the events leading to this war,” Byron said as Ubarce joined him, “and run down the list of leaders that will be present tonight.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry about what just happened,” the prefect said, “ and I hope Enteller will be all right.”

  “He’ll receive the best possible care. Obviously the events of the past week have put a strain on his heart.”

  “Enteller was out of line, but he does possess first right as Ktren’s prefect.”

  Turning his head, Byron met the man’s remorseful gaze. “This conference requires someone who is quick witted and can think on his feet. That is why I suggested you, and the majority of prefects voted in your favor. Now, we don’t have much time.”

  Ten minutes later, they boarded the shuttle. Byron instructed Athee to notify Enteller’s second he would be in charge of Ktren until further notice.

  You like to make things interesting, don’t you? she thought.

  Just make sure Enteller’s second is informed and prepared. I’ll speak to you when I return.

  The shuttle launched into the night sky. Byron glanced past Ubarce. He’d positioned them with a clear view out the cockpit. The teleporter hummed in his chest, surging in strength as Roesaw performed the jump.

  Have you ever seen a flagship up close, Prefect Ubarce? he thought.

  The man turned to him, his mouth open to speak. He hesitated and followed Byron’s gaze just as the Nacinta came into view. Excitement burst from Ubarce’s mind as the massive form of the ship floated past the cockpit window. The flagship’s surface glowed from Tgren’s sun. The exterior weapons cast long shadows that extended across her shell. The steel hull presented an impenetrable surface that stretched forever. Ubarce’s unshielded mind filled with awe.

  That never grows old, Byron thought, leaning back in his seat.

  The shuttle docked in the Nacinta’s hangar and an escort awaited them. They followed the man, moving at a rapid pace. Ubarce kept his face forward, but Byron caught the man’s gaze wandering as they passed Cosbolts and Dartens in formation and awaiting the next call to action. Byron recalled the short time he’d served on such a flagship with fond memories. Save for one tragic moment, of course.

  Taking a telepod to another level, their escort led them to a room with a large, oval table. Computer screens lined one side of the table, awaiting connection with the other leaders involved in the conference. Byron was surprised to find Ganter waiting. He exchanged greetings with the man and turned to Ubarce. Byron gestured the Tgren forward.

  “Commander, let me introduce First Prefect of Tgren, Ubarce,” Byron said.

  The title obviously surprised Ubarce, but he stepped forward without hesitation. Dressed in his finest Tgren attire, Ubarce looked the part of leader, and his greeting was eloquent. Ganter stepped back and nodded at the men.

  “The conference will commence in ten minutes,” he said, gesturing to the chairs on their side of the table. Two glasses of water awaited them. “May we meet with success tonight.”

  Ganter departed, leaving Byron and Ubarce alone in the room. Byron indicated the prefect was to take a seat.

  “I assume the greatest obstacle will be the Vindicarn?” said Ubarce, easing into his chair and placing his computer on the table.

  “Yes,” answered Byron, taking his seat. “The Torbeth and Jerril have already declared their desire for a truce. Cassan intelligence suggests the Lorvendera will follow suit tonight. Our holdouts will be the Narcon and Vindicarn.”

  “But the alien ship is bearing down on the Vindicarn’s home world…”

  “We can only hope that is incentive enough.”

  Ubarce tapped his computer pad. “I’d think that would provide sufficient motivation. And we hold the cards,” he said, looking up and cocking one eyebrow. “We hold the code that can stop the probe.”

  “That may be our only advantage.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Ubarce tapped the armrest. “The race that sent the probe wants us to maintain peace,” he mused. “We hold proof the races can do more than maintain friendly relations.”

  “We have proof the races can intermingle in the carrier of that code,” said Byron, “and evidence of the eleventh race.”

  Byron wondered how difficult it would be to convince their enemies. They could hardly argue with the facts. Cassans and Tgrens shared similar traits, and close proximity over the past twenty years had resulted in several pairings. Seven children now stood in evidence of their ability to cross breed, including his own son. If Mevine’s translations were correct, those children marked the emergence of an eleventh race.

  Most important, his child carried the code that could save them.

  “We should be able to use that to gain an edge,” Byron conceded, rubbing the surface of the table with his thumb.

  “Commander,” said Ubarce. “I know I am representing Tgren, but I hope I can count on you to speak when my thoughts fail me. You are as invested in Tgren as I am. I trust you to represent my people fairly.”

  The prefect met his gaze. Ubarce did not bother to shield his gratitude–or admiration. Byron found himself in a unique position, one he’d not experienced since Orellen ruled as Ktren’s prefect. Tgren’s youngest prefect trusted Byron with his life and with his people.

  The computer screens across from them crackled to life. Turning his attention to the other side of the table, Byron waited for images of the leaders to appear. He’d never spoken with a Vindicarn, let alone met one in person. The closest he’d come to the Vindicarn was viewing the core that powered their disrupter ship. That moment in time, burned forever in his mind, lay in the distant past. If they were to succeed today, it had to remain buried.

  One by one, the screens came to life.

  High Command’s lead chancellor appeared first, dominating the middle screen. He nodded at Byron and Ubarce and folded his hands in his lap. Byron had met the man only once, many years ago. A new addition to High Command, Sorth had taken an interest in the first Tgren entering Cosbolt training. He’d even visited the training facility on Guaard. A
t the time, Byron’s thoughts were for his new mate and navigator, and he’d protected Athee from Sorth’s probing questions. Viewing the man now as the leader of the Cassan empire, Byron wondered how well he remembered the only Cassan-Tgren team to pass Cosbolt training.

  The Arellen leader appeared next. His solemn expression, drawing his long, bluish face even thinner, revealed the hardships he’d endured the past few days. Byron marveled at his stamina. He doubted the man had slept since the attack on his planet.

  The other leaders began to make their appearance. The Fesell man held very still, his pale fingers folded in front of him. Narcon’s leader boasted a scowl, his eyes nothing but slits. He fidgeted in his chair, his gaze scanning those present. The Torbeth representing his people wore a military uniform in desperate need of a wash. Recalling his notes, Byron remembered the man commanded one of the few surviving battleships and had assumed the role of leader after the probe attacked. With most of their race gone, the Torbeth were in a desperate predicament.

  If we don’t stop the probe, the Tgren will be in an even worse position, Byron thought.

  The final screen came to life and Byron had to hold his emotions in check. The Vindicarn leaned forward, his lips curled in a sneer, and scanned the faces of those present. The man’s rough complexion and charred skin, a result of the harsh conditions on his planet, added to Cherzta’s threatening appearance. Byron held his gaze steady, offering indifference rather than the contempt he felt for the race.

  “Gentlemen, we know why we’re here, so let’s get right to business,” said Sorth, taking control of the conference. “The alien ship threatens to destroy us all unless we reach a pact of peace.”

  “You want us to surrender the space we have conquered,” countered the Narcon, his tone as sallow as his skin. “We’ve fought hard to secure those sectors.”

  “And how will you hold them when half your race is exterminated?” said the Charren leader.

  “We intend to destroy the probe before it ever reaches us,” the Narcon said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Many races have tried that,” said Sorth, resting his fist on the table. “Three Cassan flagships couldn’t stop it when the probe appeared over Tgren twenty years ago.”