I don’t envy you, Bassa, Deacer thought, his tone solemn.
He just needs time to adjust, Bassa offered, hoping his explanation sounded convincing.
Bassa did not linger in the dining hall and returned to his quarters. He enjoyed a long shower before tackling his report. Once his task was completed, he decided to have a word with Byron. Bassa doubted his pilot would be receptive, but he had to make the attempt. Byron could not remain in mental seclusion forever.
Byron was not in his quarters. Bassa contemplated other options for privacy on the ship. His pilot often retreated to the courts to take out his frustrations and Bassa decided to try that location first.
His missing partner was not in the workout facility. Bassa could not touch his mind, either. Growing impatient, he resorted to the ship’s computer to locate Byron, and discovered him in the hanger.
Well, at least that narrows my search, Bassa thought as he entered the nearest telepod.
Several squadrons were currently on patrol but activity in the hanger was light. Glancing at the rows of fighters, Bassa decided to seek Byron among the Cosbolts. He wondered why the young man would select the company of the ships and assumed it was simply a good place to hide.
Weaving in among the fighters, Bassa detected angry voices. Concerned, he quickened his pace. Stepping around the tail of a Cosbolt, he caught Byron and another pilot exchanging words. A small group of officers encircled the antagonists, watching the verbal battle. The men were laughing at the pilot’s words, which Bassa had missed. Byron’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his fists.
“I’ve seen your flying and you’ve got no business operating a garbage shuttle, let alone a Cosbolt,” Byron replied in his most arrogant tone of voice.
Infuriated, the pilot took a swing at him. Byron leaned back and the man’s fist passed through empty air. His arm already cocked and ready, Byron delivered a quick blow. His fist connected with the side of the pilot’s face. The man staggered off balance and Bassa’s partner followed up with another blow to the stomach.
The others reacted immediately. Three men charged Byron and pinned him against a Cosbolt. He fought to break free, but there were too many. Yanking him forward, they restrained Byron, their hands wrapped around his arms. The downed man approached, absently wiping blood from his nose. He hesitated before striking Byron in the face. Before Bassa’s pilot could recover, another blow struck his stomach. Byron doubled over in pain and Bassa decided it was time to intervene.
“That’s enough!” exclaimed Bassa in his most authoritative voice.
Startled, the men holding Byron released him. Bassa’s pilot dropped to his knees and clutched at his midsection. The antagonists stared at the senior officer, their panicked thoughts echoing in his head.
Damn, we’ve been discovered!
It’s Bassa!
The rookie called for help!
“No, I didn’t!” gasped Byron. “I don’t need his help.”
Bassa stared at the offenders, seething with indignation. “What is the meaning of this?” he interjected over the clamor.
The voices ceased. Byron’s attackers stared at the senior officer, their eyes wide. No one appeared inclined to explain the situation. Still on his knees, Byron emitted another gasp.
“Six against one?” exclaimed Bassa, stepping forward. “That is unbecoming of an officer in this fleet. I could have all of you thrown off the ship for such behavior!”
The men cringed at his threat. Bassa no longer had the authority to carry out such punishment, but he doubted these men realized that fact. Regardless, his status as a senior officer still carried weight. Their squadron leader would value his opinion above all others.
“Sorry, sir,” one of the men offered, still cowering in fear.
“If you’ve a problem with my pilot, you can take it up with me,” Bassa ordered, still appalled by their unruly conduct.
A fleeting thought of resentment escaped one of the men before he could suppress his feelings. Bassa decided to address that issue once and for all.
“And if you doubt Byron’s skills as a pilot, then you doubt my abilities as well! Not to mention my capacity to select a quality partner. If you have anything intelligent to say on the matter, then speak up now!”
The men nervously glanced at one another, but no one spoke. Bassa shook his head in disgust.
“I suggest you return to your quarters for the remainder of the day,” he growled. “Now!”
“Yes, sir,” the men mumbled as they beat a hasty retreat from the senior officer. Bassa confirmed their compliance with his order before moving to Byron’s side.
“You all right?” he asked, extending his hand.
Brushing the back of his hand across his bleeding nose, Byron growled in disgust. “Yes.”
Grasping Bassa’s outstretched arm with his other hand, Byron rose to his feet. Bassa ensured the young man was steady on his feet before gently patting his back.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He escorted Byron to his quarters without further incident. The young man retreated to his bathroom and Bassa eased into a chair. Glancing around the room, he noted few possessions of significance. His partner was either very neat or lacked an affinity for material items.
“Want to tell me what happened?” he asked when Byron returned to the room.
Still dabbing his nose with a wet washcloth, Byron sank into the other chair. He shook his head, his eyes on the floor.
“Not much to tell,” he growled.
Bassa frowned, annoyed by his pilot’s reluctance to speak. “What started the fracas?” he asked.
Byron at last met his gaze. Bassa allowed his scowl to fade and presented a patient expression to his pilot. Emitting an exasperated sigh, Byron slumped in his chair.
“They told me I hadn’t earned the right to be here,” he admitted in a low voice. “That inexperienced rookies don’t belong on the Sorenthia.”
“How did you respond?”
Byron guffawed. “How do you think?”
Bassa shook his head. “Six against one?”
“I’ve faced worse.”
Byron wiped his nose again and tossed the washcloth on the table. Bassa leaned forward, determined to reassure his pilot.
“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t qualified,” he stated.
“No, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you!” Byron exclaimed.
There was no mistaking the accusation in his voice or Byron’s emphasis on the final word. Bassa stared at his young protégée, stung by his resentful attitude. He fought the urge to call Byron to task for such insolence, as he’d done on Guaard. However, he wanted to avoid the role of senior instructor here on the Sorenthia. They were supposed to be teammates now.
His disapproving thoughts were obviously revealed in his expression, as Byron’s gaze once again dropped to the floor. He took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging even further.
“Damn Trindel for giving up on me,” he murmured.
Sensing Byron’s dejection in a rare moment of unshielded thought, Bassa adjusted his own attitude with haste. It was imperative that he reach the young man. Byron did not need instruction or a reprimand. He needed a friend.
“That is why I am not giving up on you,” Bassa said in a quiet but convicted voice.
Raising his eyes, Byron’s doubt of that fact was apparent. Bassa held his gaze steady, hoping to convince the troubled young man of his sincerity. He had to restore Byron’s confidence if they hoped to survive as a team.
“You have the talent and ability,” assured Bassa, “regardless of what the others believe. I have total confidence in your skills as a pilot. Given time and opportunity, you will prove your worth to those who doubt.”
He leaned back in his chair and flashed Byron a wry expression. “You may think you wouldn’t be here if not for me, but I promise, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you!”
Byron managed a faint smile. “Thanks,” he offer
ed.
“Now, are you going to be all right?” Bassa asked.
“I’ll recover,” Byron answered, rubbing his midsection.
Bassa rose to his feet. “I’ll see you at the evening meal, then.”
Byron nodded and Bassa left the young man’s quarters with a trace of hope. Perhaps he was finally reaching his pilot.
Chapter Nine
You hesitated during that last maneuver, Bassa thought as they entered the telepod.
Byron sighed and leaned against the wall. He’d paused before making the jump but only because he saw a better location for their reemergence.
We should’ve approached from below, he offered.
That would’ve placed us too close to Wentar’s ship.
I could’ve done it.
Not safely! Bassa replied, his tone stern.
The telepod’s doors opened. Disgusted, Byron pushed off the wall and exited the compartment. He retreated to his quarters, hoping a shower would cool his temper.
I could’ve done it safely enough, he thought, dropping his computer pad on the table. Besides, hasn’t he noticed? It’s not very safe out there!
During the past few flights, Bassa had corrected him several times. Byron had worried the senior officer’s dominance as a former instructor would resurface. His navigator now chastised every perceived mistake. It annoyed Byron to find himself on the receiving end of a lesson once again.
He felt better after a shower. Retrieving a glass of water, Byron sat at his desk to complete his report. His irritation flared again as he analyzed today’s flight, but he manage to finish his task before anger got the better of him.
An hour remained before the midday meal. Byron wanted to take his frustrations out on the court and changed into appropriate clothing for such an activity. He’d need another shower, but the exertions would clear his mind.
Pleased to discover an empty court, he commenced to striking the ball with his racket. The slightly lower gravity of the room felt liberating. The sound of the ball hitting the wall reverberated throughout the court, creating an almost rhythmic noise. The plain, white walls were mesmerizing, and only the faint odor of stale sweat disrupted the sterile atmosphere. Byron concentrated on the ball, but eventually the banality of the room caused his mind to wander.
Why had Bassa followed him into active duty? Did the man enjoy torturing him? After six months of the senior officer’s overbearing presence, Byron had been happy to escape. He assumed that Bassa had entertained similar thoughts and was glad to see the pilot leave Guaard. Instead, the man chose to follow him and continue exerting his dominance at every opportunity.
Picking up the pace, Byron struck the ball even harder, channeling his annoyance into each swing. He resented the fact that Bassa criticized his every move. It felt as if his navigator doubted Byron’s abilities as a pilot. Why the glowing recommendation if Bassa continued to find fault? How was he to advance as a pilot with the senior officer inhibiting his actions?
With renewed fury, he struck the ball with all his might. The blow sent the ball flying with such velocity that he’d no hopes of following its trajectory. Exhausted by his efforts, Byron crouched on the court and watched as the wild bounces dwindled to a roll. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stared at the now motionless ball.
How am I going to survive this assignment? he thought.
That evening, the men were informed that the Sorenthia was proceeding to new coordinates. She would join another deep space cruiser whose recent encounters with the Vindicarn fleet required reinforcement. Rumors of the declaration of war circled the dining hall, and Byron listened to the conversations with interest. He was not afraid, but his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought of another enemy encounter. He would not fail to make a kill the next time, either.
“I hear the Jentra suffered casualties,” Hannar informed the others.
“First in the fleet,” added Deacer, shoving aside his tray.
The man’s pilot nodded. “It’s about to get ugly. Hope you’re ready for this, Bassa.”
“Don’t enjoy it, but I’m ready,” the navigator proclaimed, his gaze falling on Byron. You’re ready, too, he said privately.
Byron nodded. Finished with his meal, he stood to his feet. His navigator also arose.
“We won’t be flying while the ship is teleporting,” Bassa warned as they exited the dining hall. “Be prepared for intense simulator drills tomorrow.”
“Will do,” Byron answered.
And hopefully I’ll go without your criticism tomorrow as well, he thought.
Banking to the right, Byron pursued the enemy vessel. The Vindicarn ship dove in an attempt to shake him, but he adjusted course and continued to close the distance. Receiving assurance from Bassa that the area was clear, Byron lined his sights and fired one shot. The enemy ship exploded in a cloud of debris.
Byron emitted a triumphant cry and veered away from the wreckage. He’d just completed his first kill as a Cosbolt pilot.
That’s how it’s done! exclaimed Bassa, seconding his pilot’s exuberance.
Elated, Byron changed course as Bassa relayed new headings. The battle continued and there were still many enemy ships in the vicinity.
He did not get another opportunity, though. The Vindicarn broke off their attack and vanished a moment later. Byron rejoined the squadron and continued patrolling the sector for another hour. He felt proud of his victory today, although he doubted one kill would garner respect from the other officers. Perhaps it would curtail Bassa’s endless criticisms, though.
Two ships were damaged during the fight, but there was no loss of life. The men were in good spirits when they returned to the Sorenthia. Byron tried to conceal his smugness, but he smiled when he heard another pilot comment that the rookie had downed an enemy fighter. Bassa again extended thoughts of praise, but they were followed by a word of caution.
Don’t let it go to your head.
Byron frowned at the implication and chose to ignore his navigator’s comment. This was his moment of glory and he’d not permit Bassa to dampen his spirits.
After the debriefing, one of the pilots approached Byron as he exited the room.
“Congratulations,” he said, his eyes bright. “First kill?’
Byron stared at the man, contemplating his response. He was one of the younger officers, although still several years Byron’s senior. The pilot’s blue eyes reflected genuine interest and sincerity.
“Yes,” Byron admitted, still wary.
The man nodded, his dark, curly locks bobbing across his forehead. “You stay aboard the Sorenthia for long, it won’t be your last one. I’ve seen more action on this ship that my previous two assignments put together.”
“That so?” asked Byron.
The pilot smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Ernx.”
“Byron,” he replied, returning the pilot’s gesture.
They arrived at the telepods and Ernx flashed another grin. “See you in the dining hall.”
Presenting what he hoped was a smile, Byron nodded as the man stepped into the unit. Their brief exchange surprised him. No one in his squadron had spoken to him since his first day aboard ship. The prospect of companionship outside of Bassa’s company pleased him. Perhaps he’d even make a friend.
The following few days saw no action from the Vindicarn, and the squadron concentrated on drills. While his attempts to forge a friendship with Ernx were succeeding, his interaction in the cockpit with Bassa was rapidly deteriorating. His navigator corrected numerous maneuvers, questioning Byron’s every decision, and their flights reflected this uneven exchange of opinion.
His patience came to an end during an engagement exercise. In pursuit of a drone, their path was set to coincide with another Cosbolt. Making a quick calculation, Byron sensed the drone would veer right and provide a clear shot. He conveyed his intensions to Bassa as the other fighter pulled alongside their ship and prepared to accelerate.
No, dive, came the
response.
I have this!
Rorth’s closer. Dive!
Infuriated, Byron dove. As he’d suspected, the drone veered right and Rorth missed the target. Without waiting for instruction from his navigator, Byron announced coordinates and jumped their ship to a new position. Emerging just above the drone, he pulled back on the throttle, placing their target in a direct line of sight. Firing the laser once, Byron neutralized the drone.
Rorth’s ship veered away from the drone and Byron adjusted their position as well. Despite his success, Byron sensed Bassa’s disapproval.
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