Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer (2 page)

All the ‘chatter’ in my mind would be very disturbing, if I did not wear an N-link to block it, and use my training to mask it.
 
I might be summarily ‘discharged’ from the Star Service as a security risk, should these mutations continue. Can’t have mutants — with the accompanying mental health issues — in positions of authority. As long as I don’t physically touch people, I’m fine.

With your clout at MED-SCI, is it possible to get permission to unseal my birth records, for scientific study?

I’ll be thirty-four Earth standard years old very soon.
 
It’s been a full ten years since the initial DNA scans were completed by geneticists there on Earth. Tracking the mutations could be very valuable to the genetic and scientific communities, though I do not intend to become a lab rat for them to poke and prod.
 

I can trust you, Francis, to be discreet.
 

I have to locate my birth mothers. Can’t give up. My birth father was right there, in the most unlikely of places — literally right in my old back yard. Now, more than ever, I need to find my birth mothers — and any possible siblings. I’ve expended just about every other avenue left to me, save for resigning my commission and traveling to the Galactic Colonies of Enturize to demand a full genetic evaluation at one of their top rated centers. My human father is there, somewhere in the GCE territories. The last option would be to go find him again and beg for his help. He knows people and has a great deal of clout with their Star Service, which remains a separate entity from the Order of Allied Republics. That’s my final ace — the last card to play — though I must admit, I’m not much of a gambler.

In the meantime, Station Four Shuttle Control has me restoring an Alphan Blade Class shuttle — one of my very favorite vessels to fly. In a few short hours,
Trident
will be ready for a test flight. They’ve re-named it
Trader One
— not sure why — but I have a fond history with it. I shall always remember my very first flight and landing, when it was the personal shuttlecraft belonging to Ambassador Kord of the Alphan Delegation. His son and I made an impeccable team at academy. Wonder where Prince Korwin is now?
 

The repair order requires this shuttle to be mission worthy ASAP. Just like Shuttle Control to let a good ship sit and rust for years, and then demand miracles on short notice.

However, I am a miracle worker, of sorts. I have the specs and diagrams for these older shuttles stored in my photographic and eidetic memory. If anyone can get it ready, I can. And, I must say, flying these older shuttles brings a great deal of joy to what would otherwise be tedious and extremely boring days.

Working on this Blade Class is a bright ray of sunlight in the humdrum, monotonous darkness.
 

Please respond as soon as possible…or come and visit. The Star Bar, on the Promenade here at Station Four, is every bit as good a restaurant as The Viewery at Station One. We could have dinner and play ‘catch up.’

Big medical conference coming up. You shouldn’t miss it. Would be wonderful to see you, my friend. So, come… “Doctor’s orders…”

DJC
 

CHAPTER THREE

Full of pre-mission anticipation, and with no other outlet for it, Captain Janz Macao enlisted his Chief of Security, Jay Gordon, in a wrestling match. Though Gordie out-weighed the him by two stone (maybe more) and out-trained him, daily, they went at it on the mats in
Lancer
’s gymnasium/workout room as equals, to Macao’s distinct disadvantage.

Stripped down to undergarments, they both pulled on the standard Star Service wrestling black, fila-cut singlets, added sweat bands about wrists and foreheads, and then tossed and tumbled in hand-to-hand combat. The native of Alpha Centauri Prime did his best to counter the Earth-human’s skill.

“You’re rusty,” Gordie taunted, throwing the Captain for what seemed to be the hundredth time, albeit far more gently this time.

Macao landed flat on his back, wincing and gasping for breath. “I always preferred Greco-Roman…”

“How archaic!” Gordie let out a belly laugh. “We need to do this more often,”
Lancer
’s Security Chief mumbled, leaning down, offering a helping hand. “My guys and I practice alternating forms — even Imperial free form now and then.”

Macao remained on the mat, looking up at his good friend, resting and sighing. “Perhaps I should stick to Alphan meditation?”

“Never was much for that sedate stuff,” the big black man stifled a groan, “with all that fancy breathing and chanting.”

Janz shook his head. “It’s not all that fancy. Alphan’s require it to keep their telepathic powers in check.” He held up a hand. “I think I’ve had enough mat visits for today.”

Gordie shrugged and changed the subject. “We’re a day out from Station Four. Have you had any mission news?” They shook hands to officially end the match.

Macao didn’t respond right away, mulling over something he couldn’t exactly define — something gnawing at him — perhaps it was trepidation over the mission.

Gordie moved to a nearby bench to grab their towels. The Captain, meanwhile, got to his feet and stretched his neck muscles, already aching from the workout. Then he answered the Chief’s question. “Not one word yet.”

Gordie’s eyebrows shot upward. “That’s not a good sign, is it?”

Macao scowled, still breathing heavily, as he took the offered towel. Drying his fading red, curly hair, he
 
slid it down over his face and neck and used it to give his shoulders a long, slow, cool-down stretch.

All the while, Gordie let out a yawn, barely moist under the arms from the workout.

“I’m looking forward to having Neville aboard.” Gordie taunted, “He can outlast you on the mats.”

Macao had to laugh. “Aye, that he can. He’s one of the best. That’s why I requested him specifically for this mission. We can’t be certain who we’re up against.” He stopped there. “Can’t discuss it further until we’re underway.”

Gordie nodded. “Understood, sir.”
 

Macao headed for the showers, leaving the Chief to sort out the equipment and tidy up the gym, even though there were yeomen from the maintenance and supply department assigned to that task at the end of every shift.

Janz guessed that Gordie would run some laps and, maybe, even do some sets of push-ups before calling it a day. However, he needed to get up to the bridge. For as Gordie had pointed out,
Lancer
was a day out from Four, and had heard nothing — nothing at all — from Mission Control or SSID, and that meant something. Macao wasn’t certain exactly what.

If he sat and meditated, using his Alphan telepathic abilities, he might just pick up some subtle nuances. Once they arrived, of course, he would receive the formal mission package.

Janz thought of Brandt, his long-time friend and a trusted Star Service officer. Couldn’t ask for a better number two for the mission. They went back a dozen years and kept in touch, especially after the Imperial Treaty brokered by Captain Syzek and his team. No, couldn’t ask for a better small craft pilot than Neville Brandt.

Dressed in a fresh, one-piece, day uniform with his rank upon the sleeves, Captain Macao took the lift up to Deck One, and stepped through the doors directly onto
Lancer
’s Bridge. He scanned every station with his eyes, stopping momentarily at the high-backed swivel chair for Circuitry, the chair Neville Brandt would fill. Ensign Matthews sat there, looking busy, but probably was just monitoring chatter from the auxiliary station on Deck Six.
 

Cruisers like
Lancer
maintained double and even triple redundancy stations in the event the upper decks were hit by enemy fire. During the war with the Imperium,
Lancer
took the front line. They also took a beating, which was the reason his ship would soon be sent to salvage.

One last mission…

“Mister Nichols, anything from Four?” The Captain demanded, standing beside his central console but not settling into the chair.

“Nothing, sir,” First Officer Nichols responded from the forward-right Helm console.
 

The octagonal Bridge had eight stations, five along the forward walls and three behind the Captain’s central console, but only six were customarily manned unless they were at battle alert or battle standby. Security and Sciences rarely reported up to the Main Deck Bridge, though they could send up specialists as needed.

“Mister Nishada, send a message to Four advising our ETA and requesting a mission update.”

From the Communications station beyond the Helm, Nishada acknowledged, “Aye.”

To no one in particular, Macao announced, “I’ll be in my quarters. Advise the moment we receive a response.”
 

He turned to go, took one last look about and decided all was well.

After stepping into his quarters on Deck Two, Macao winced and rubbed his shoulder where the mat had connected. He’d never admit to a bruise, but was almost certain the spot was discolored if he looked.

Because of their gray-green blood, Alphans usually turned just a dark shade of gray when wounded or bruised, unlike humans whose bruises turned purple or in Gordie’s case, because of his Earth-human Zambian ancestry, invisible.

The bruise troubled less than his spiritual ache.

Janz turned to the left wall of the bed chamber, approaching the life-star hovering there. A dim light illumined it from behind, sending rays of color through the many jewels on the surface.

Be still, my love,
his life-mate counseled with wisdom and concern.

Shalee?

I am with you always, Beloved.

His heart beat just that little bit faster, hearing her voice in his mind, and feeling the link between them. He fingered the center jewel upon the life-star — her jewel — and all the love for his wife and forever mate flowed through him with a rush.

I miss you so.

I am here.

Shalee? I tried to save you.

Hush, Beloved. We are one. We shall always be one. United, forever and always.

He felt her near, but in spirit only. His Shonedren wife of fourteen years was gone now for eleven of them.

Shalee?
 

Beloved?

This is my last mission.
 

So you say. Where will you go? What will you do? Beloved, the Star Service has been good for you.

I… I’ll fill the life-star and send it home. Then I’m done. I’ll be free. We’ll be free.

Will you return to me, Beloved? You ignore your meditations. You are a 33
rd
Degree Master of the Elect, yet you ignore your rituals. You ignore the opportunity for time with me, claiming duties. You are a man and you need the peace only our union can give. You are a man and you require a woman’s kisses and touch.

Dear One…

Seek a woman, Beloved.

I cannot. No one but you…

You must.
 

Macao hung his head. She knew the truth. He could not lie to his life-mate. They were joined forever and always — one flesh, one heart, one mind — the true marriage all Alphans longed to consummate. However, to take another woman in his arms and feign affection, for the benefit of physical relations, that he could not do.

Rest now, Beloved, and I will come to you in your dreams.

He sank down onto the bed, stretching out, feeling her close the moment his eyes closed. In his waking dream, they were together again once more.

CHAPTER FOUR

In her dream, she was flying. Dana felt the exhilaration of a kite on the breeze, hang-gliding, soaring like an eagle over Forever Pointe, a red rock canyon of Centauri Prime. It was but a memory — and not her own — one that energized and inspired. That it should come to her, just before the wake-up alarm sounded, seemed prophetic, though she could not say exactly why.

She opened her eyes, glancing about her tiny quarters, with the hum of Four’s massive turbines churning and generating electricity for the station the only sound reaching her ears. A soft red glow came from the message lamp on the desktop viewer winking in a double pattern, signaling she had messages though she did not recall hearing the device activate, nor recall it blinking last night before retiring for the evening.

“Must have fallen asleep reading,” she muttered, yawning and moving her padlet, still beside her on the pillow, to the bedside table.
 

Getting up from the small bunk and padding, naked, across the carpeting, she went to use the facilities first, and then dressed in a fresh uniform with new faux-leather boots. Once presentable, she sank into the chair at the small console desk, activating the viewer.

The first message, from an AN at the Infirmary, advised that the surgery on the patient was successful, that Commander Brandt was awake and asking for her. The second was from Station Security, a man who did not identify himself further, demanding she appear at 0900, to give a statement detailing her perspective on the assault, and the part she’d played as first responder.

“That ought to prove entertaining,” Dana grumbled, checking the chronograph on the unit.
 

She had just enough time to gulp down some coffee from the digitizer before heading over to the designated station to give her testimony.
 
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been interrogated by an investigator. They tended to be rather tedious, detail-oriented, bores. Well, she knew how to respond. All her medical training taught her to be thorough, and just as tedious.

Cartwright stared at the Felidae behind the desk, recognizing the eye stripes, and buff-and-white colored fur. She never forgot faces, or names, and though he was from a rare member race of the Republic, he was no exception. He introduced himself as Commander Davis, Chief of Security, rather than as Star Service Intelligence Division officer, Lt. Colonel Xalier, the name by which she remembered him from their first meeting some years ago, when she flew shuttles for a Galaxean ambassador and his staff.