CassaStar (3 page)

Hands dropping to his sides, Byron stared at his sister. She paused in her cutting and turned to face him.

“
You never really cared,” he said, his words more of a statement than an accusation.

Sherdan set down the knife. “Byron …” she began, her thoughts filled with exasperation.

“
That’s all right,” Byron offered with a shrug. “Makes this all the easier.”

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door and retreated from the unpleasant scene. If his sister asked Byron to return, he did not hear her entreaty, as his mind’s shield prevented all mental voices from entering his thoughts.

His resolve to pursue a life far from Cassa was even more entrenched in his heart now. Most of his life had been spent without family or friends, and his last tie to this planet apparently never existed. No bonds or restrictions remained and Byron was at last free. Somehow, though, it felt a shallow victory at best.

Rolling his head to the right, Byron peered out the tiny portal window. The vast expanse of space appeared dark and uninviting. Even after two hundred hours in the simulator, he felt unprepared for the emptiness of endless space. Byron wondered if the unnerving sensation would affect his first actual flight in a Cosbolt.

“
We’re approaching Guaard,” came a voice near his ear, and he felt a shoulder press against his own. “Do you see anything yet?”

Byron shook his head and frowned, his eyes still on the distant stars. If they were indeed drawing near the dark moon, he could not see it from his vantage point.

“
We’re probably on the wrong side of the ship,” he commented dryly.

“
Damn!” came the immediate reply, and he felt his seatmate’s position shift.

Turning to confirm his assumptions, Byron discovered the young man leaning into the aisle in an attempt to see out the windows on the other side of the vessel. Trindel possessed a childlike spirit at total odds with his actual age. He viewed every new experience with wonder, and made no attempts to hide his zealous curiosity. Byron was eager to view their new home as well, but he was not about to reveal that fact to his navigator.

During his year of simulator instruction, Byron had endured seven different navigators. Three had lasted less than a week, while the others fared little better in his company. He’d run out of choices when the instructors placed Trindel in his cockpit. Sensing the desperateness of the situation and worried he would fail if no suitable partnership was established, Byron made every effort to work with this navigator. At first, he doubted their pairing would last, given Trindel’s lighthearted and open nature. He finally came to trust the enthusiastic and often naïve young man, despite the differences in personality and style.

Once he’d accepted Trindel, their simulator flights drastically improved. Byron realized Trindel’s hyperactive mind lent itself well to the many duties required of a good navigator. His partner was quick to project his thoughts, almost to the point of reckless inhibition, but that resulted in an incredible reaction time. Byron learned not to question those rapid judgment calls. Whereas the other navigator trainees’ thoughts came across as commands, something he detested, Trindel’s words were but suggestions and snippets of information. Byron responded better when he felt in command of his decisions. They had excelled as a team, completing the simulator training at the top of their class.

“
You’re right! Damn, why didn’t we sit on that side of the ship?” exclaimed Trindel.

Byron glanced beyond his navigator to the seats on the other side. The young men were all staring out their windows, their body language expressing excitement. Obviously, they had a fine view of the ship’s final destination. This fact caused Byron’s navigator a great amount of distress, and anxiety emanated from Trindel’s mind.

Byron took a deep breath. He had to be patient with his friend and suppress the exasperation that rose within his mind.

“
Trindel, you’re going to see it every single day,” he offered.

“
I know!” protested Trindel, glancing at his pilot. “I just want to see it now. I’ve never been off Cassa before.”

Neither have I
, Byron thought, his words audible only to his navigator.

Trindel ceased his desperate efforts to peer out the far windows and settled in his seat.
I just wanted to see our new home
, he offered, his head still turned.

Smiling to himself, Byron stretched his arms. It continued to amaze him that their pairing was a success. Trindel’s overeager behavior had worn on the nerves of his previous potential pilots. Positioning him as Byron’s navigator was likely an act of desperation on the part of the instructors, as both young men were running out of options at that conjuncture. Despite the differences in their personalities, as Trindel was outgoing and Byron introverted, they meshed well as a team. Byron had accepted Trindel’s presence once he discovered the navigator’s penchant for mischief and foolish antics, which mirrored his own rebellious inclinations. However, they wisely maintained a high level of precision and perfection during flights.

Glancing out his window, Byron realized the ship had altered its course. “Well, if you really want a view of the moon …” he taunted.

Byron felt Trindel press against his shoulder, the young man’s excitement projecting loudly in his thoughts. Forcing his body deep into the seat, Byron leaned closer to the window in an effort to avoid being crushed. He really should’ve taken the aisle seat.

“
It fills the sky!” Trindel exclaimed, his voice loud in Byron’s ear.

On a direct course with the moon, the ship’s current speed became apparent as Guaard loomed larger by the second. Craters and mountains were visible, but Byron could not locate the training facility. Judging from their trajectory, the complex was likely located on the dark side of the moon at the moment.

Trindel leaned back in his seat and Byron glanced at his navigator. His expression full of anticipation, Trindel grinned and winked.

“
Welcome to our new home,” he stated with pride.

Byron mulled over that statement. Guaard was just a dead moon orbiting a cold and lifeless planet. He doubted it would feel like home. Then again, Byron had never resided in a location he felt was home.

The transport ship soon landed, and from his vantage, Byron watched as the giant hanger doors opened while the vessel’s progress slowed to a mere hover. The ship’s pilots nimbly maneuvered the nose forward and the transport slid into the hanger. There was a moment’s pause after the ship came to rest while the exterior doors closed. The walls began to move and Byron realized they were moving down a tunnel toward another set of doors. His eyes widened when the transport entered the main hanger.

Byron had not expected the facility to be so large. Room for a dozen transports existed in the massive building, and several vessels were in evidence. However, it was the rows of Cosbolts that caught his attention. Lined in perfect formation, the sleek fighters rested on the far side of the hanger. His eyes remained on the ships until the transporter’s course took them out of view.

When the ship’s movement ceased, the men were instructed to disembark and retrieve their bags. They were to then follow the escort and assemble in the receiving room. The facility’s instructors were awaiting their arrival.

“
Here we go!” Trindel exclaimed.

Rising to his feet, Byron followed his navigator. Trindel’s eager steps were slowed by the process of thirty young men exiting the ship, but soon they were trotting down the ramp. The moment Byron’s feet touched the hanger floor, he glanced in the direction of the Cosbolts. He was provided just a brief moment in which to admire the sleek fighters before instructed to secure his bag. Fighting the urge to defy his very first order on Guaard, he located his bag in the accumulating pile on the floor and joined the men waiting in line.

The last man had just secured his bag when the line began to move forward. They marched across the hanger and exited through a set of double doors. Turning to the left, the men entered a large room.

“
Three rows of ten!” the escort commanded.

Byron’s gaze fell upon five officers standing at attention on a raised dais, observing the men. The new arrivals began to fall into place as instructed. Byron paused, allowing Trindel to reach his pilot, and his moment of hesitation placed him at the far end of the second row. This pleased Byron, though. He relished his accomplishments and status as the best team but preferred to blend in as an individual.

Once everyone was in position, bags resting on the floor, the young men snapped to attention. Facing forward, Byron’s gaze soon drifted to the five officers. They were all many years his senior although still in their prime. He sensed the elevated level of authority and knew they would not tolerate any foolish pranks here on Guaard. Judging from the stern expression on the senior officer’s face, the next six months would be the most unpleasant of the young men’s short lives.

Eyes scanning the trainees, the senior officer stepped forward, his hands behind his back. “You have been sent here for the final stage of Cosbolt training,” he stated, his deep voice echoing in the large room. “And I will be sending half of you home before it’s over.”

He paused, his gaze traveling across the men’s faces. Byron kept his expression neutral and eyes forward.

“
For the next six months, we will instruct and evaluate each and every one of you. This facility boasts the most decorated officers in the fleet. To my left are Officers Char and Morden,” he announced. “They oversee all navigator training. Officers Jarth and Rellen are responsible for the pilots.

“
And I am Senior Officer Bassa,” the man stated in a voice that smacked of authority. “I am in charge of this facility. I decide who becomes Cosbolt pilots and navigators and who goes home.”

Byron involuntarily clenched his teeth. He refused to be sent home in shame. Too many years of his life had been lost at the hands of others for Byron to allow one man to decide his fate now.

The sound of a boot striking the floor returned him to the moment. Officer Bassa had stepped down from the platform. Slowly, he began to examine the line.

“
There are no days of rest here,” he announced. “You will train each and every day for six months. Time will be spent in the classroom, the simulator, and in actual flight. And just as in real life, one mistake will cost you. If your judgment proves faulty or you lack discipline, you will suffer the consequences.”

Bassa moved as he spoke, inspecting each young man’s appearance. He finished his statement just as he reached the second row. Byron was first in line, and the senior officer hesitated. With the man’s final words ringing his ears, Byron felt the intense scrutiny of Bassa’s gaze. Resentment rose in his thoughts as he realized Bassa probably knew of his chequered past. He quickly suppressed his feelings, lest the senior officer sense his negative attitude. Judging from Bassa’s expression, he had already interpreted Byron’s unguarded thoughts.

To his relief, Bassa moved to Trindel. His shoulders relaxed as the weight of the senior officer’s scrutiny transferred to another man. Byron had just arrived and already he was tempting fate. He resolved to maintain a tighter rein on his feelings.

“
You will be escorted to your quarters and then to the dining hall,” Bassa was saying. “After the midday meal, you will be provided an extensive tour of the facility. Tomorrow, you will be expected to know the layout by heart. Those who fail to report on time …”

Bassa paused at the end of the second row, his penetrating gaze falling on every pilot and navigator. The men silently awaited his next words.

“…
will find themselves on the first transport home. Dismissed!”

All thirty men turned and began filing out of the room. Bassa remained in place, watching their departure. The other instructors fell in line behind the young men, with the exception of Rellen. He paused at Bassa’s side and waited until the last person exited before speaking.

“
Too early to tell,” he observed.

Bassa nodded. “We’ll know more by the end of the week,” he replied, sensing a purpose behind Rellen’s casual comment.

His senior officer nodded and moved from Bassa’s side. Rellen hesitated, flashing his superior an inquisitive look.

“
He bears a resemblance,” he said in a low voice.

Bassa’s gaze flickered briefly to Rellen. “Yes, he does,” he conceded.