CassaStorm

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

  Reaching for his glass, Byron met Piten’s eyes. The Rogue pointed his fork at Byron.

  “So is it true?” he said. “You’re the pilot who destroyed that Vindicarn disrupter ship all those years ago?”

  Swallowing his drink, Byron leaned back in his chair. “It’s true.”

  The Rogue offered a wicked grin. “My mother told me about it when I was a child. The Vindicarn version had the pilot dying in the explosion. But I guess the version my father told her was accurate; the pilot lived.”

  “I singed the fighter, but I survived.”

  Piten stabbed at his food, shaking his head. “My mother always said it was insane. No pilot in his right mind would jump into the central core chamber of a disrupter ship and blow it up from the inside.”

  Byron glanced at Bassan, who continued to consume everything on his plate. Leaning forward so his son wouldn’t hear, he took a breath before offering an explanation.

  “At the time, I didn’t have a lot to live for. I’d lost my brother and navigator a few days before that battle. I was the only one with a chance to escape the core room alive. So I volunteered for the assignment. I just did what I had to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Piten. “How did you escape the explosion though?”

  “I’m a jumper.”

  The man shook his head, not understanding the term.

  “That means when our teleporters drain of energy, I can still jump my ship by funneling my own mental power into the device.”

  Eyes expanding, Piten grasped the edge of the table and leaned back in his seat. “I’d heard of pilots who could do that, but never met one,” he said.

  “Well, you’ve met two,” Byron said, cocking his head. “My mate is also a jumper.”

  That piece of information further astonished the Rogue. “Two races with that ability?”

  Beside Byron, his son paused and looked at the men. Smiling at his son, Byron patted his head.

  “Probably three races,” he said. “I’m sure Bassan will be a jumper as well.”

  “Rogues do sport a variety of mental abilities.” Piten shoved aside his plate and propped his elbows on the table. “Thank you again for letting me contact my mate. She was so relieved. And furious with me for pulling such a stunt.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Piten’s brows came together. I’m sorry I took your son.

  Byron sat up straighter, his eyes on the Rogue. Piten shifted in his seat, his head down.

  I have no excuse. It was a cowardly thing to do. Thought I could make a run for it and no one would find me when your son appeared. I just panicked.

  Piten met Byron’s gaze. I never would’ve hurt him though. Hope you can believe that.

  Byron considered Piten’s words with care. Three days ago, he was prepared to kill the Rogue without a second thought. Piten’s appearance alone had stirred anger and hatred within Byron. Within that time though, not only had his opinion of the Rogue changed, but so had his attitude toward Piten. The man had fulfilled his promise and saved Bassan.

  I believe you, he thought.

  The Rogue nodded, a relieved smile tugging at his lips.

  “Are you going home soon?” said Bassan, unaware of their mental exchange.

  “I don’t know,” Piten replied.

  Byron reached for his drink. “Might take a few ships to accomplish the task, but I can arrange transport to Spaceport Arden Five.”

  Piten’s expression brightened. “I’d be forever grateful.”

  Another possibility crossed Byron’s mind. “How are your mechanical skills?”

  “Worked on just about every model of fighter and small transport ship in the galaxy.”

  Byron rested one elbow on the back of his chair. “The Tgrens have made rapid advancements in flight. They are probably a year or so away from space flight. We help some, but our government doesn’t want to interfere too much.”

  The Rogue cocked his head. Byron assumed a casual pose, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass.

  “I’m sure the Tgrens would be grateful if someone helped move the process along a little faster,” he said.

  “You mean,” said Piten, pausing to swallow, “if I stayed and worked for the Tgrens for a while?”

  “No,” said Byron. He glanced at Bassan and winked. “If you returned with your family and worked for the Tgrens permanently. Perhaps bring a few of your friends qualified to work on spacecraft. Or rather, those poor excuses the Tgrens call ships.”

  Piten’s face fell. Bassan gasped and grabbed Byron’s arm.

  “He could bring his family?” Bassan cried. “They could live on Tgren?”

  “I’d have to clear it with Prefect Ubarce first,” Byron cautioned, his gaze still on Piten. “But I think the Tgrens would jump at the opportunity.”

  The Rogue dropped against the back of his chair, his mouth open. In a rare moment of indiscretion, Piten’s thoughts flowed from his mind. Byron caught a mixture of amazement and gratitude. The sharp edge of guilt surprised him though. He allowed the Rogue to compose himself.

  “Byron, I don’t know what to say,” Piten stammered.

  “Say yes.”

  Falling forward, the Rogue pressed his elbows against the table and rubbed his brow. He looked up, his eyes darker than usual. I don’t deserve this.

  We all get second chances, Piten. Just have to recognize them when they occur.

  Piten offered a weak smile and glanced at Bassan. “You know, I’ve screwed up so many things in my life. It’s a miracle I’m not dead. Miracle my family isn’t dead.”

  His gaze returned to Byron. Now filled with hope, Piten’s Cassan features shown through the dark skin and wrinkles. Byron reminded himself the man was neither Cassan nor Vindicarn. He was Rogue. One of the eleventh race. And whether Byron wanted to admit it or not, so was his son. They were the peace the ten seeded races sought.

  “Yes,” said Piten. The man lifted his chin with pride. “I would be honored to work with the Tgrens.”

  Beside Byron, his son slapped the table. “All right!”

  “Now, I have to warn you,” said Byron, “the Tgren’s ships are primitive at best. I’m stunned any of them can get off the ground.”

  Piten laughed, his cocky demeanor returning. “I can make anything fly.”

  Byron grinned, pleased with the Rogue’s response. The Tgrens would be grateful for the man’s knowledge. Even more important, it would begin the integration process for the Rogue’s people.

  Byron!

  He held up his hand to forestall further conversation. What is it? he thought to his mate.

  The alien ship is transmitting another message. Her tone implied excitement rather than concern.

  Has Mevine translated it?

  He doesn’t need to, thought Athee, uttering a cry of glee. Byron, it’s a direct message from the alien race that sent us here.

  Byron bolted straight up in his seat. His movement startled the Rogue, who stared at him in wonder.

  What do they say? thought Byron, feeding off his mate’s enthusiasm.

  Hang on.

  There was a pause. Piten opened his mouth to speak and Byron held up his hand. A message from the race that seeded them? After all this time?

  We just confirmed the same message was played on Cassa and Charra, Athee thought. They are contacting the other races right now. Mevine says it repeats itself. He’s going to record it and send it to the Litheron.

  Where are you?

  I just reached the site. I’m waiting for Prefect Ubarce’s shuttle to arrive.

  Tell Mevine I’m on my way to the bridge.

  Shifting his thoughts, Byron reached out for Wraint’s mind. Commander, I hate to interrupt, but I just received word from Tgren. The alien ship is broadcasting a message from the aliens themselves.

  What? thought Wraint, astonishment filling his mind.

  My senior science officer is recording and sending the message to the Litheron. Permission to join you on the
bridge to view it?

  Granted! We’ll be on standby, waiting for the transmission.

  “Come on,” said Byron as he leapt to his feet. “We have to get to the bridge.”

  They left their plates and Byron led the way out of the dining hall. Byron located the nearest telepod and darted inside. Pushing Bassan along, Piten entered behind him, and Byron teleported them to the telepod outside the bridge.

  Excitement pounded at his chest as he stepped into the hall. Slapping his hand against the panel, he waited with impatience as the door slid aside. Byron burst onto the bridge and scanned the room for the commander.

  “Commander Byron!” Wraint called, gesturing them forward.

  The three of them joined Wraint at the display panel. Byron grasped the surface’s edge and gazed with hope at the large screen in front of him. It was still dark.

  “We haven’t received the transmission yet,” said Wraint. “You said it’s from the aliens who sent the races into space?”

  “That’s what my mate claimed,” said Byron. “Both Cassa and Charra confirm the message is playing there as well. It’s probably being broadcast from all of the alien ships.”

  “Any word from Cassa?” the commander called to one of his officers.

  “No sir,” the man replied.

  Wraint leaned against the display. “Then I’m glad you’re here. We’ll be the very first to hear it.”

  Athee? Byron thought, anxious for the message to arrive. Has Mevine sent it yet?

  Let me ask, she thought. Sorry, I think Mevine is coming apart with excitement.

  Tell him to calm down and send the damn message!

  Byron gripped the edge of the display screen. Something brushed against his side and he glanced down. Bassan pressed against him, his gaze on the main table display. Resigned to waiting, Byron draped an arm around his son’s shoulders. On the other side of Bassan, the Rogue stepped closer to the display table. His eyes grew wide as he viewed the detailed map of the stars.

  That’s nothing compared to what we are about to see, thought Byron.

  Prefect Ubarce has arrived and we’re entering the ship now, thought Athee. Mevine told me the message just finished and he’s uploading it now. If we hurry, we’ll catch the beginning of the next transmission.

  It just keeps repeating?

  Yes! I guess they want to be sure we all see it.

  It’s a visual message?

  Yes!

  Byron leaned away from the table and shook his head. They were finally going to view the race that seeded the ten planets a thousand years ago. What would they look like? Mevine said the message needed no translation. The race spoke their language? All the various dialects of the ten races?

  “Commander Wraint,” he said, gathering his thoughts. “We should be receiving the visual message soon.”

  “Visual?”

  “Yes, visual,” Byron said.

  He glanced at Bassan and wondered if he should ask his son to leave. Can you handle this?

  Bassan looked up, his face sporting a silly grin. Are you kidding? I bet none of the other children get to see it!

  Byron chuckled and gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Wraint leaned against the display and rubbed his chin. “This just might be more impressive than the message we received a few minutes ago.”

  “What message?” said Byron.

  “The Torbeth notified the leaders the storm covering their planet is growing weaker. They estimate it will subside within the next two days, at which time they’ll go in to rescue survivors.”

  “Some of their people survived?”

  “Not many, but far more than expected. Enough to repopulate the race,” said Wraint. “The Torbeth’s home world may take a few years to recover, though.”

  Byron breathed a sigh of relief. None of the races would perish. Finding homes for the misplaced Torbeth and Arellens would be another matter. He hoped no one proposed they take up temporary residence on Tgren. He didn’t need that headache right now.

  “Sir, receiving transmission from Tgren!” the officer called.

  Athee, we just received the message, he thought.

  And we just reached the control room, she thought with a gasp. It hasn’t begun replaying yet.

  We’ll view it at the same time, he thought, turning his attention to the screen.

  “Playing the message now, sir!”

  The screen came to life. Byron held his breath and pulled Bassan closer.

  The black faded, revealing a large room full of people. Byron’s muscles stiffened. Every one of the ten races was represented in the crowd. The grizzled features of those gathered indicated men and women in the later years of life. By rough estimation, Byron placed the number of those present around sixty. Every one of them stared back at him in silent accord.

  Another race was present. They boasted features similar to several races and yet looked nothing like the others. Something about those people seemed strangely familiar to Byron…

  A man in the front row stepped closer. His dark hair and sun-kissed complexion marked him as a Tgren. He glanced back at the others as if seeking their approval. Placing his hands behind his back, he smiled.

  “If you are viewing this transmission,” he said, his accent a blur of Tgren and several other races, “then it means we were successful.”

  Successful with what? Byron thought.

  “When we set about this plan,” the man continued, “we had no idea if it would work or not. But we had to try.”

  He paused, his chin dropping. Another man, his yellow skin marking him a Narcon, touched his shoulder. Nodding, the Tgren raised his head.

  “What you are seeing is all that remains of the eleven races.”

  Byron frowned. Were those strange people…?

  “Rogue,” said Piten, his voice a faint whisper.

  “We’d had our scuffles over the years,” said the man on the screen. “But forty years ago, it escalated into a war among the races the likes of which had never been seen. We took sides, killing any who opposed us.

  “Desperate to gain the advantage, our government called upon the greatest minds to design a weapon that could not be stopped. One that would decimate an entire planet in a single shot. We created that weapon. We made the hull impenetrable and impervious to all attacks. We designed the weapon to refuel itself from within and carry enough energy to destroy a thousand planets. We did so thinking it would bring an end to the conflict. But that weapon turned out to be the ultimate vessel of death.”

  “The probe,” Byron murmured.

  “My people used it on the Cassans first,” the man said.

  Byron caught his breath. The Tgrens were at war with the Cassans?

  “We destroyed Cassa, making it inhospitable for generations to come. Our enemies retaliated and lodged a full-scale attack. In desperation, our government sent the weapon to destroy Vindi next.”

  Byron shot Piten a wary glance. The man met his gaze with an equally stunned expression. The Cassans and Vindicarn had once been allies.

  “Those of us who created the weapon were horrified, but there was nothing we could do. One by one, our enemy’s worlds were destroyed.

  “And then the unthinkable happened. We turned on our allies. We wiped out the Narcon and Arellens before the Torbeth and Fesell even knew what was happening. Our remaining allies turned on us. This research facility was emptied and set to self-destruct, lest our enemies learn the secrets of the weapon. Before evacuations were completed though, the Fesell attacked. A handful of us inside the facility survived, but all of the ships trying to flee were destroyed.”

  Byron gripped the edge of the display even tighter. The Tgrens killed off seven of the races? Eight counting the Rogue, who must’ve sided with the Cassans and Vindicarn.

  “Desperate to stop the slaughter, we worked here in secret to disable the probe. By the time we gained control, my people had wiped out the other ten races.”

  The mood on the bridg
e dropped with a resounding thud. Byron touched his mate’s mind. Athee’s viewing of the message was only seconds behind his own. Her horror surged as she digested the revelation her race was responsible for the destruction of the others.

  “We made a decision,” said the man, straightening his jacket and standing taller. “A few survivors from the other races had arrived here, both friend and foe, and we welcomed them. Together we decided justice must prevail. We programmed the weapon to destroy our home world and all remaining ships.”

  A collective gasp filled the room. Byron grasped at his chest in bewilderment. They annihilated their own people?

  A shudder at his side distracted him, and Byron recalled his son’s presence. Pulling Bassan in front of him, he wrapped both arms around the boy. His son clung to his arms, his fingers pressing hard into Byron’s skin. Byron ignored the discomfort and stared at the display.

  The man on the screen shook his head. “Then we sent out a beacon,” he said, “inviting any survivors to join us. Ships straggled in, bringing sets of two and three to our facility. What you see now is the remainder of those survivors. There were probably others, but they were beyond our reach.

  “Aware that we had annihilated the races, we devised a plan to begin anew. Years of planning went into this venture. We reprogrammed the weapon, toning down its destructive powers and changing its directive. We carefully selected planets in a galaxy far from our own that would support each race. We harvested what we could from the remaining women and prepared the eggs. Only the Kintals declined inclusion, stating that since they were a blend of all ten races, their kind would appear again on its own. They did supply us with the ships that would carry the seeds of a new beginning, refitted for that purpose. At any rate, ten ships were all we could locate.”

  “Those ships were built by the Rogue?” Piten gasped.

  Byron scanned the faces of those gathered in the image. The Kintal were now obvious. They were indeed a blend, but one so complete it was impossible to identify the individual races.

  “We designed several fail-safes,” the Tgren said, his voice strengthening. “We decided that while the other races should retain some knowledge and advance at an accelerated rate, our race should not. Our hope is that if the Tgrens do not advance as quickly, then the chances of us repeating our mistake will be far less. Of course, retarding the growth of our race carried risks. If the development did not proceed according to schedule, we decided to terminate rather than let our race continue crippled and incomplete.”