The Telepath Chronicles (The Future Chronicles Book 2)

by Elle Casey

  The response to his orders was immediate. Lockdown alarms brayed, doors slammed, and people were set in motion, just as Cyann had envisioned it. She screamed when Jovan scooped her up and headed for the door to the hallway. “No. Dadda. Mommy!”

  Below them, her mother gestured to the people near her, prisoners and crew alike, herding them into the shuttle launch, away from the infiltrators. She, too, was urgently speaking into her com band. The last thing Cyann saw before Jovan swept her from the room was her father opening fire on the guards, people in uniforms just like his, even as other soldiers rushed toward him in confusion. Only when all of the Centauri lay on the ground did her father drop his weapon and raise his hands in surrender.

  * * *

  Cyann was still crying when Jovan reached the external corridor that had brought them here. Soldiers now guarded the entrance to the tunnel, organizing fleeing staff and pilots into the shuttles away from here. They snapped terse orders, moving with well-practiced efficiency earned through training and experience.

  Jovan slowed, huffing from sprinting with the child in his arms, and awaited his turn to leave. A mechanical though pleasantly cheerful voice was emitted from the sound system, asking everyone to please move along.

  Another one! The Caspian over there.

  “What did you say?” Jovan said to Cyann. “Caspian?”

  “Bad man,” she yelled.

  Jovan, still locked in his khamal with her, scanned the nervous crowd. Everyone but him seemed to be armed, and no one saw what he did now. With some uncanny clarity, he recognized the murderous intent in the Caspian’s yellow eyes, perceived the signal emanating from what was certainly not a security scanner in his clawed hands.

  He grasped the arm of a Human lieutenant who was about to clear the crowded transport for departure. “Stop the shuttle,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Expect explosives in the tunnel. Caspian guard by the gate with a detonator.”

  The officer frowned, puzzled by the civilian’s claim, but one did not doubt the word of a Delphian without due consideration. As humorless and aloof as they appeared, none of them were given to announcing things like this without cause. The lieutenant glanced at the soldier standing next to him, who looked just as surprised, and tipped his head toward the Caspian.

  He knows. He sees us. He’s got a gun.

  Cyann screamed when the Caspian raised his weapon. Two more soldiers spun, now also recognizing the threat, and lunged toward the terrorist. Jovan turned the other way, not waiting around to see who else among these uniforms didn’t belong here. He had pledged his life to Tychon’s clan and the child was his only priority now. He raced away from the tunnel entrance toward a stairwell to the upper flight decks. Shots rang out behind them, perhaps more rebels serving as backup for the failed suicide attack in the hangar. A thin black line scorched the wall above their heads when a laser failed to find its mark. Jovan placed his hand over Cyann’s mouth and ducked into an alcove that led nowhere but to a locked door.

  “Shh. Quiet,” he whispered, although the shouting in the hall now obliterated her whimpers. He sank into a corner and folded his body around her.

  Only moments passed before two men ran past the narrow opening to the alcove. They fired back over their shoulders, not even aiming in their panic to escape. Jovan ducked his head, expecting a random shot to find its way in. Seconds later, several Air Command troops rushed by, their fire far more disciplined. Someone screamed and silence followed.

  Cyann struggled to draw breath in Jovan’s tight embrace, trembling despite his murmured reassurances.

  “Cy,” he whispered, still breathless after the headlong race along the hall. “Are you all right? What happened? How did you know?”

  Forget…

  * * *

  Cyann laughed when the men in the uniforms delivered her and Jovan back to the lounge they had left not so long ago. It was very busy here now. There were hospital people everywhere, and a couple of soldiers were lying on stretchers. She raised her arms when her mother rushed to take her from Jovan.

  “Cyann!” Nova cried. “I was so worried!” She treated Cyann to another smothering embrace and buried her face in her daughter’s blue curls.

  “Dadda!”

  Tychon raised his hand, allowing himself a slim smile at the sight of his only child safe and well. A medic was still scanning his body as he half-reclined on a lounger.

  “What happened here?” Jovan said.

  “You were right,” Tychon said. “Bomber in a slam suit among the guards.”

  “New guy,” a Centauri soldier sitting on a stretcher said. “Just came in with the detail from Magra.” He started to curse, but then his eyes darted to Cyann and he stopped himself, appearing to think better of it in the presence of the major’s daughter.

  “I had to shoot all of the Centauri to get the right one,” Tychon said. He tapped the gun lashed to his thigh. “Could have been worse. Already had this on camp setting.”

  “Lucky us,” the soldier said, wincing as he stood up. “Sir,” he added.

  Tychon tipped his head back and closed his eyes against the headache blooming behind his ears. “And then Captain Ralys took me out. I’d forgotten how this feels.”

  “Sounds like one big confusion,” Jovan said. “There were more in the hall. All of them went down.” He shook his head at Nova, assuming that she was about to ask if her daughter had to witness the carnage. “Some injuries among our people but no fatalities. They’re scouring the tunnels for explosives.”

  Nova tipped her head to look into Cyann’s eyes. “You all right, baby?”

  “Can we go to the party now?” Cyann said, unsure why everyone was making such a fuss. It was her naming day soon, and there was a plane ride back to Delphi. Someone at home was probably making arooja pudding, her favorite.

  “How did you know about the slammer?” Tychon asked Jovan. “Did you spot the suit from all the way up here?”

  “I didn’t,” Jovan said. “Cyann did.”

  Nova raised her brows. “You saw that funny blue suit on that man, Cyann? From up here?” She threw a puzzled look at Tychon. “With a uniform over it?”

  “What man?”

  Jovan placed his hand on her arm and she felt a new khamal, his presence in her mind as pleasant and calm as always, but he seemed to be looking for something. He released her and shook his head. “It’s gone. I don’t get it. She knew that rebel was up to no good. That there were more in the tunnel. She knew what would happen if the suit were to blow. I saw it, too. It was terrible.”

  “How did you know, Cy?” Nova said gently.

  Cyann looked around, seeing the eyes of the officers and medics focused on her. This was probably a good time to remind everyone while they were paying attention. “It’s my naming day,” she announced.

  For a moment she felt another presence, like a soft caress in the back of her mind. Then it faded, perhaps not to return for a long time. She reached for it, wishing the Friend would stay just a bit longer.

  Someday…

  A Word from Chris Reher

  Space Opera is people. There it is.

  Space opera has fabulous space ships, fantastic planets, laser weapons and epic battles. We’ve discarded the idea that future astronauts wear spandex suits and silver lipstick, and now our heroes get to wear real clothes. They have adventures and super technology and they meet aliens and save the galaxy again and again.

  But when I look at the science fiction stories that have appealed to me the most, I see that they always focused on the characters. Their plights, faults, idiosyncrasies are what give life to the backdrop of planets and space ships. I suppose you could place Han, Leia, and Luke in a contemporary setting right here on planet Earth and it would work. It’s still a fun story without the lightsabers. But without the characters’ story, a big chunk of Star Wars would lack considerable luster.

  So that is the route I’ve taken with my stories. The absolute freedom of escaping Earth’s grav
ity and inventing things (always keeping within the realm of probability, of course) is why I love science fiction. I can make it rain mercury if I want to. I think I do, actually, somewhere.

  But it’s the people in these stories—not too alien, not too perfect, not always happy with their lot or each other—that give meaning to the mercury rain and the space elevators. The people, for the most part likable people, are what turn science fiction into space opera. (Well, and space guns. Must have space guns.)

  For my space opera, I’ve taken the problems of our human condition to see what we’d do with them in outer space. Most fascinating to me are the grey areas between good and evil and how we assign those qualities.

  “Little Blue” takes place in the Targon Tales universe, a much larger story. The action-packed space opera collection of related but self-contained books features the characters you’ve just met in this story, among many others. Nova Whiteside, the main heroine, enters the tale long before Cyann’s birth in the first book of the series, Sky Hunter.

  The Targon Tales revolve around a hundred-year-old conflict between a colonizing Commonwealth of allied planets and those who rebel against it. In struggles like these, can there really be a “good guy” and a “bad guy”? The main characters, having chosen sides, must find ways to hang on to their ideals while working within a system that doesn’t always play by its own rules.

  At times violent, sometimes light-hearted, the collection takes us to the many worlds of Trans-Targon to meet species who seem oddly similar as their shared DNA offers an ongoing mystery. But the similarities that bring them together are also at the root of the trouble between them all.

  www.chrisreher.com

  No More Lies

  by Nina Croft

  My head throbs and my eyelids are so heavy I have to keep pinching myself to stay awake. I don’t want to miss Sam if he tries to make contact, but it’s been two nights now without sleep, and the smooth roll of the car and rhythmic drumming of the rain on the windows are hypnotic. I slump back against the soft leather; my heartbeat slows and my eyes close.

  A piercing scream jolts me awake and I lurch upright. We’re still moving, the driver concentrating on the road, so it’s pretty safe to assume the scream was inside my head. It’s quiet now, but my whole body is shaking, and I fist my hands at my sides, grasping for control.

  “Sam?”

  Nothing.

  “Sam… ? Please answer me.”

  A dream? But the scream sounded so real. Even now, it echoes in my head. My stomach hurts and I hug my knees to my chest, wrap my hands around them, holding myself together. I have to look okay or the colonel will pull me from the job. And I need this job. Need the time of clarity to search for Sam.

  The car slows as we enter the city, finally turning down a ramp and into an underground parking area. I scrub a hand over my face to wipe out my expression before I climb out.

  The driver is holding something out to me—a chocolate bar? “We left before breakfast. I just thought…”

  He’s known me since I was a kid, and my addiction to chocolate is a well-known fact, but right now, even the thought of eating makes me want to puke.

  When I make no move to take it, he shrugs and shoves the bar in his pocket, then leads the way to a small elevator. We drop down one more level. The colonel is waiting for me at the security check.

  “Good morning, Kaitlin.”

  There’s nothing good about it, but I manage a brief nod—I’m a teenager, surly is expected of me—and step through the scanner.

  “Turn around.” The guard touches me on the shoulder and I jump. God, I’m twitchy this morning. Even the colonel notices, shooting me a puzzled glance. I have to keep my shit together, but my skin is prickling with nerves, and every muscle is locked up tight.

  Taking a deep breath, I rotate slowly as the asshole security guard runs a portable scanner over me. Why’s he taking so long? I hardly look like a mega-threat to national security. While I’m tall, I’m also lanky, and actually look younger than my seventeen years. But at last he’s happy I’m not some sort of suicide bomber, and he waves us through.

  I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans as I walk beside the colonel down a narrow corridor, painted white with harsh strip lighting. We’re deep underground. The weight of the earth above my head squeezes my brain and I press my fingers to my forehead to ease the pressure. I want this over with.

  Finally, the colonel halts outside a metal door.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, turning to study me.

  I cast him a sideways glance and catch the glint of silver at his ear from the reflector device. He isn’t taking any chances. You’d think he doesn’t trust me. What’s going on in his head that he’s so keen to keep secret?

  “I’m just worried about Sam,” I say.

  He pats me on the shoulder, all paternal-mode, which I hate, and I have to fight the urge to shove his hand away. “Sam will be fine. He’s in the best possible place.”

  “Can I see him?”

  The colonel shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but he’s quarantined in the medical center.”

  Is he telling the truth? The thing is, I want to believe him so much, but I just don’t know anymore. Without thinking, I reach out for his thoughts, but hit the solid wall of the reflector, and my own fear rebounds back at me.

  The colonel continues to stare at me. I twitch, then rub my clammy hands against my jeans. He follows the movement with his pale gaze. “You know the group is under investigation?”

  Of course I know. It’s been hard to miss—we’ve been in lockdown mode for the last two weeks, since the investigation began. Some Congressional oversight committee is looking into the viability of the Tribe. Although we’re run by a privately owned organization, the Rayleigh Corporation, we work almost exclusively for the government. The Americans have apparently thrown a shitload of cash at us over the last few years—and I guess they want to know what they’re getting for their money.

  Usually, we’re allowed a measure of freedom, but now we’re confined to the compound, except when on jobs like this one. Everyone’s going stir crazy. Jake keeps telling us to keep our cool, that it’s just a technicality. Things will soon be back to normal. But what does that mean? Things haven’t been normal for a long time.

  And now, they’ve taken Sam. It was after a routine checkup. They told us they’d detected abnormalities in his blood and needed to do some tests. I’m trying not to worry, not to think about the others who’ve been taken and never come back. But I’m doing a crap job. They’re actually all I can think about.

  “Well, then you understand that this job is important,” the colonel says. “We need to prove our worth.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Then the program will likely be terminated.”

  That sounds ominous, but I can’t bring myself to ask outright what it would mean for us. I have too many other things to worry about right now.

  “But that won’t happen,” the colonel continues. “Not if you keep focused and do your job.”

  He pulls the syringe from his pocket and I eye it greedily. I push up my sleeve without being asked. I feel the sting of the prick, then the drug floods my system. Almost instantly the haze clears from my mind. As usual, the sensation stuns me, and I lean against the wall and close my eyes for a second to savor the feeling.

  Clarity.

  Sometimes I feel as though I live in a dense fog, and only in moments like these do I see the world as real. I only just stop myself from reaching out to Sam; I want to be away from the colonel when I make contact.

  All around, I sense the presence of others, their thoughts buzzing at my mind. I ignore them all, concentrate on the blankness that is the colonel.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  Of course I’m not ready. I’m never ready for this shit. But I give a quick nod.

  He raps on the metal door and it opens immediately, revealing a man in uniform. His eyes widen as he takes
me in. I get that a lot. Then his gaze drops to the visitor’s badge on my chest and he stands aside to let us enter. The door leads into a small observation room, its opposite wall taken up with a one-way mirror. Through it is another room, about the same size. I keep my eyes averted. I’ll see what’s in there soon enough.

  A second man, also in uniform, sits at a bank of consoles, an earpiece in place, listening to what’s going on in the room beyond. He casts me a surprised glance but doesn’t speak.

  “Anything?” the colonel asks.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  The colonel turns to me. “You good to go?”

  No. “Yeah.”

  “Do it quickly,” he says in a low voice. “I want to be out of here.”

  As the soldier leads me to the door across the room, I catch a flash of his emotions.

  Confusion. Disgust. Guilt.

  I don’t have to enter his mind to know that he doesn’t want to open that door to me. Actually, he doesn’t want to open the door, full stop. He accepts that this is necessary, but he hates it. He’s a nice man, and I don’t come across many of those. I give him a reassuring smile as I step past him.

  I could actually do this from the other room, but the colonel believes I need to be up close and personal to get anything of interest. And who am I to tell him different? Sam reckons one day we might need every advantage we can get.

  The smell hits me as the door opens—shit and blood and sweat. Saliva floods my mouth and I swallow. I’ve been present at a lot of these interrogations, and I never get used to it. Part of me hopes I never will.

  Maybe if this oversight committee comes out on our side, there will be no reason to hide what we do, and interrogations like these will no longer be needed. A world without lies. That’s what the colonel promised.

  I was brought up for this. I’ve never known anything else. And in the beginning, I never questioned it—we were special, but that meant we had a responsibility.