The Dream Voyagers Read online

  “I’d like to volunteer for more duty,” Wander said and swiftly passed a look Consuela’s way.

  “Me too,” she piped in.

  He dropped the duty roster. “What’s that?”

  “I would like to go for watch and watch,” Wander said.

  The barrel-chested man leaned back in his chair and gave Wander a hard look. “You’re telling me that we’ve got us a pair of sensitives who are volunteering for four hours on, four off?” He glanced at Rick. “Have you ever heard of a sensitive volunteering for anything, Ensign?”

  “Chief Petty Officer, I—”

  “Never mind.” He lumbered to his feet. “This is one for the captain. Come along, all of you.”

  The hostility that flanked them between decks was as searing as a blowtorch. Consuela felt eyes burning into her from every direction. Clearly the crew had been alerted to their presence, and those they passed slowed and stared with undisguised loathing. She struggled to follow Wander’s example and ignore them all.

  She gasped at the star-flecked vista that greeted her inside the control room, but Captain Arnol granted them little time for relishing the view. He received the chief petty officer’s report, then turned his knife-edged features their way and demanded, “Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?”

  “Nothing, Captain,” Wander replied. “We just want to volunteer for extra duty.”

  “None of your kind ever volunteers for anything,” he snapped. “I’d rather play nanny to a shipload of dowagers than spend one watch with most sensitives. Your Pilot Grimson is an exception, I’ll grant you that. Did he put you up to this?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “If this is somebody’s idea of a prank, they’ll be scrubbing the thruster tubes while we’re still under power, and before this watch is over, I can promise you that.” A snicker rose from the chamber’s far corner, until the captain whirled about and lashed out, “Quiet!”

  He then turned back and demanded, “Let’s have the real reason, and right smart, mister. And mark my words, I won’t stand for nonsense from you or anybody else.”

  “I’ve waited all my life for this moment,” Wander said quietly.

  The few heads still bent over instruments rose and joined the others staring their way.

  “What’s that?” Arnol said.

  “Going to space is all I’ve ever dreamed of,” Wander replied.

  The captain’s gaze narrowed as he searched Wander’s face. “You’re telling me you want to stand watch on a Hegemony freighter?”

  “It’s still space,” Wander replied. “I want to learn.”

  The attention swung to bore into Consuela. “You have anything to add to that?”

  “I wouldn’t give most of the sensitives I’ve met the time of day,” Consuela said.

  “You don’t say,” the captain said slowly. “Chief Petty Officer, have you ever heard the like?”

  “Never in all my born days, Skipper.”

  The captain backed two paces and settled into his chair. He pointed to his right, where a seat stood isolated behind a separate console, and said, “Observe, if you please. That is the pilot’s chair. How long have I skippered this freighter, Tucker?”

  “Going on five and a half years, Captain.”

  “And how often have you seen that chair occupied?”

  “Not the first minute, Skipper. Not the very first.”

  “Signals,” he barked.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “How many requests have you sent during this voyage for a sensitive to give us a hand?”

  “Same as every voyage for the past seven months,” the signals officer replied, his eyes never leaving the pair of them. “Once every Standard day.”

  “And what does our message book log in?”

  “Same as what we’ve got outside our ports, Skipper,” Signals replied. “A lot of nothing.”

  “So what happens,” the captain went on, “but in the middle of a stopover, a senior pilot rushes up, asks me to do him the favor, the favor, of taking two Talents on board?”

  There was a unison of indrawn breath around the room. From behind them, Chief Petty Officer Tucker asked, “So the scuttlebutt was true? They really are Talents?”

  “So the senior pilot said. Mind you, he also told me that the boy here has had a grand total of two months’ training, and the girl somewhat less. How much was it again, Scout?”

  Consuela lifted her chin and replied, “Three days.”

  “Three days,” Captain Arnol replied, nodding slowly. “So they are what you might call novices. Still, the pilot sounded very definite about their abilities. Either of you ever spaced before?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “So how did you know to volunteer for watch and watch?”

  “I stood it in the Control Tower,” Wander replied.

  “Under a communicator’s supervision, I take it.”

  “One watch I stood alone,” Wander replied. “The one before we were brought on board.”

  The captain permitted himself a wintry smile. “Let us hope it was not so disastrous a watch that the pilot decided he had to be rid of you.”

  “The watch commandant said he would be happy to stand watch with Wander again,” Consuela announced proudly.

  “Did he now?” His eyes still on Consuela, Arnol said, “You ever heard of that one before, Tucker?”

  “Definitely another for the books, Skipper.”

  The man next to the captain intoned, “Ten minutes to the first attack zone, Skipper.”

  “Thank you, Helmsman.” He resumed his steely calm. “Chief Petty Officer, see if you and the ensign can swing a second chair behind the pilot’s console.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Mind you disconnect the power supply,” the captain said, swinging back around. “Hate to think what would happen if they had the mind amp and power chair on together.”

  “Maybe an improvement,” suggested someone from the room’s corner.

  “Enough of that. Weapons team, power up.”

  “Weapons powered and full on, Captain.”

  “Signals?”

  “Tracking and all clear.”

  “Thrusters?”

  “One-third power, ready to redline on your command.”

  “Chief Petty Officer, the men are prepared?”

  “All stations manned and ready, Skipper. They won’t be boarding this vessel.”

  “Standard watches, Tucker. Can’t have the men jumping at shadows the whole voyage.”

  “As you ordered, Skipper,” the burly man replied, muscling a chair in behind the pilot’s console. “But they’ll be sleeping with one eye on the ready-light, believe you me.”

  “You two settle in,” Captain Arnol ordered. “I have little experience in training sensitives—none at all, in fact. So for the time being I expect you to watch and listen and learn what you can. Know how to power a ship’s amp?”

  “I think so,” Wander said hopefully, seating himself and running one excited hand over the console. “It looks a lot like the Tower controls.”

  “Five minutes, Skipper.”

  “Signals, ready to alert?”

  “On your command, Captain.”

  “Everybody, stay awake.”

  Rick spoke up tentatively, “Request permission to remain on deck, Captain.”

  “Any objections, Tucker?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Then seat yourself and power on, son.”

  “Three minutes, Skipper.”

  Wander reached into his belt-pouch and brought out two headsets. “Grimson gave them to me back when he found me in the port passage,” he whispered. “Turn the damping mechanism on full. I’ll start the amp on low, and power up slowly. Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Consuela checked the dial, fitted her headset in place, and whispered, “Go ahead.”

  “Two minutes, Captain.”

  Slowly, very slowly Wander spun the console’s centr
al dial. “Feel anything?”

  “Not yet. What’s got everybody in a lather?”

  “I don’t know, but—” then he stopped. He had to. His attention was captured by the transformation in the vista overhead.

  Consuela followed his gaze upward. Stretching out from the nose of the ship was a broad ribbon of golden light. She breathed, “What is that?”

  “A lightway,” Rick said quietly from behind them.

  “Sixty seconds and counting,” intoned the signals officer.

  Consuela’s heightened sensitivity gave her the feeling of stretching out beyond the flight deck, reaching out to every aspect of the ship. She reveled in the sensation of tracing her way through the myriad of passages, racing at the speed of thought from nose to powering thrusters.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  The ship was a chorus of signals and images, far too complex for her to take in, but wondrous in the sense of not just riding in a ship, but joining with it. Flying through space, intimately connected with the vessel and its power—

  Then she leapt out of her seat with a shriek of disgust, and flung the headset across the room. Wander shouted and writhed and sent his headset spinning directly into the captain’s back.

  “Skipper, look!”

  Consuela tore at her robes, flinging them about, then convulsively shook her head and body. She had the fleeting image of a million metal insects crawling all over her body, and she shrieked again.

  Then it was gone.

  She stood on shaky legs, her chest heaving. Wander raised himself from where he had been rubbing his body across the decks. He gasped, “Is it over?”

  “Signals!” The captain’s steel gray eyes gleamed with excitement. “Mark the spot!”

  “On target, Skipper. To the decimal point.”

  “I was right!” Captain Arnol pounded the armrest, his gaze glued to the pair of scouts who struggled to gather themselves. “The shadowlanes are real!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The atmosphere in the officers’ mess was heavy with suspicion. Captain Arnol was held in too much esteem for the gathered officers to voice outright objections, yet they clearly resented having two young scouts granted entry, and resented eating in their company. Several of the more senior veterans shoved their plates aside untouched and fastened the pair with hostile glares.

  Rick sat in the chair closest to the outer door and said not a word. His post was known as the Ensign’s Corner, and he was placed there to do the bidding of whichever officer spoke in his direction. He stared as frankly as the others at Wander and Consuela. Their resolute calm had a disturbing effect on him. They seemed so connected. He could see from the briefest of glances that Consuela cast in Wander’s direction that she was truly smitten with the guy. There was such love in her eyes, such admiration. But what she saw in the slender kid with the sad eyes was utterly beyond Rick. Especially since this whole world might just disappear at any moment. And especially when she could have had him.

  The doorchime sounded, and the chief petty officer appeared. “You sent for me, Skipper?”

  “That I did, Tucker. You’ve been telling me about our new ensign’s encyclopedic knowledge.”

  “Aye, Captain. That’s right, I have.” Tucker shot a worried glance Rick’s way.

  All Rick could do was shrug in reply. He had no idea what this was about.

  “Fine, fine.” Captain Arnol seemed entirely at ease, but it was the quiet of a tensely coiled spring. He curled one hand about his steaming mug and said, “I thought you might like to be here for the examination.”

  Rick froze as all eyes turned his way.

  “Draw up a chair, Tucker.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” The chief petty officer looked as troubled as Rick felt. “But the lad has only been on board for a few days now.”

  “I know, I know. But I just wanted to acquaint myself with what you’ve been talking about.” He cast a frosty glance down to the table’s end. “The chief petty officer has been telling me that he has yet to come up with a question that you can’t answer.”

  Rick swallowed.

  “I was wondering, Ensign, if you would tell our two guests a little about the freighters working the internal Hegemony spaceways.”

  Petty Officer Tucker did a double take as he glanced down the table and spotted the two scouts. “Skipper, I—”

  “Let the lad speak, Tucker,” the captain said easily. “What do your friends call you, Ensign?”

  “Rick.”

  “As you have observed, Rick, we like to keep our mess on an informal footing. You can refer to me as Skipper, if you like. That is, unless you have earned my wrath, in which case it would be wise if you did not speak at all.”

  A ripple of amusement ran down the table. From his previous times at mess, Rick recognized this pattern of questions from the captain as a time-honored tradition. It granted the most junior officers an occasion to speak, when otherwise they would be forced to sit and listen to their seniors dominate the conversation.

  Captain Arnol went on, “Now let us see just how far your band of knowledge extends.”

  Rick found that his throat had suddenly become as dry as cotton. He sipped from his glass, and in that instant felt the knowledge surface. “There are two types of freighters traveling the Hegemony lightways,” he replied, wondering if his surprise registered on his face. “The licensed Free Traders and us, the Hegemony’s own fleet. We carry all government-issue freight, as well as supplies destined for government bases, outposts, monitor-stations, and Hegemony mining asteroids. We also supply the military. There are private companies who also use our services, especially in some areas.”

  Arnol nodded. “And why, pray tell, would a private company wish to use us for carrying freight, when the Free Traders are known to be far less expensive?”

  “Because the Free Traders avoid the danger zones,” Rick replied, and wondered how he could feel so certain about something when he had no idea where it sprang from. “In some areas we are the only vessels that ply the route.”

  “And what constitutes a danger zone?”

  “Three or more vessels lost on a target-route within one Standard year.”

  “What did I tell you?” Tucker exclaimed. “Not bad for a lad who’s never been inbound before in his life.”

  The captain was less easily impressed. “What reason can you give for these losses?”

  The answer, when it came, shocked him so that Rick had difficulty replying. “Pirates.”

  “What can you tell us about their operations?”

  “They are almost impossible to catch, even detect,” Rick said, his response slowed by the import of his words. “We know they are active because ships have sent final communiques before contact has been lost. By measuring these contact break-points, we have found that the attacks take place at certain spots along the lightways. Transporters and freighters are beginning to call them strike-points.”

  Captain Arnol demanded, “Have you been granted access to classified documents?”

  “No, Skipper,” he replied.

  “Then how—” He turned to his chief petty officer. “You were quite right in your assessment, Tucker.”

  “Thank you, Skipper.”

  The captain swung his attention back to Rick and demanded, “Have you in your studies ever come across the term shadowlane?”

  “Rumors only, Skipper,” he replied, gaining strength from the approving looks about the table—especially those of the pretty young assistant signals officer stationed at the room’s far end. “It is thought that there might be decommissioned lightways, routes set in the dim recesses of space history.”

  The captain nodded his approval. “Well done, Rick. You may now breathe easy.”

  “Thank you, Skipper,” he said and permitted himself a grin. Then he caught sight of Consuela’s knowing gaze, and for some reason he found the moment losing some of its glory. As though he hadn’t earned it. He found himself becoming angry. Maybe the o
thers were right after all. These sensitives just didn’t belong.

  “Before we move on,” the captain said, “do our guests have any questions?”

  “I do,” Consuela offered. “What is a lightway?”

  The power control lieutenant, a sharp-jawed woman whose glances made Rick’s skin crawl, snorted her derision. He was not overly sorry when Arnol shifted about and glared her way.

  The captain demanded, “What is our policy toward honest questions?”

  The lieutenant straightened and intoned, “Ignorance in areas other than a shipmate’s expertise is excused, and honest questions are welcomed.” She shot an angry glance toward the scouts, as though the reprimand were their fault.

  “Remember that.” He turned his attention to the junior helmswoman, a brilliant former ship’s ensign who, according to ship gossip, was slated for bigger things. “Perhaps you would be willing to explain the target-route we follow, Irene.”

  “Captain,” Tucker interrupted, “if you’ll not be needing me—”

  “Bear with me a moment longer,” the captain said, and then to the helmswoman, “Go on.”

  “Lightways were developed in an earlier spacing era,” Irene began. “They are carefully measured routes that the Hegemony used to connect major world systems. They run between Hegemony systems and derive their power from the suns to which they are anchored. At the time of their development, ships would power out from an orbital system, accelerating along the lightway, punch through n-space, then decelerate and enter planetary orbit. Lightways are limited in length to twenty-five parsecs, and in earlier times they essentially defined the Hegemony’s size. Then you sensitives were discovered, and about the same time the system of vortex transport was developed.”

  “And now the limits are very different,” the captain took over. “Stand down, Irene. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Skipper.”

  “Our limits are your limits,” Captain Arnol went on, his attention now fully on the scouts. “There are never enough pilots, and they are always assigned to outbound starships. The number of starships is restricted to the number of active pilots. The few Talents that surface are assigned to Starfleet Command or conscripted into the Hegemony’s diplomatic service. And there are never enough Talents, never enough pilots, never enough communicators, never enough sensitives of any kind.