Chapter One

From Alcyone's Log:

On schedule and on course from Mandarat. Thanks in great part to the efforts of Dr. Velga Svenson, the problems with the miners there have been resolved and production has begun. We antici­pate arriving in the Hathar system shortly, allowing time for geological research and exploration.

All systems operating smoothly. Crew health excellent, morale good.

Nokuro Deverest filed his captain's report and logged off with a sigh of re­gret. So many things over the years he would have liked to say in his daily reports, but for various reasons had not. Some things, no matter how true or how strongly felt, were best left unsaid.

Strange how, despite all mankind's advances and skills, tact was still often no more than keeping your mouth shut.

Yes, Nogo Deverest had his second thoughts and his regrets. They came to haunt him sometimes, sidling into the corners of his mind and hovering there like uninvited wraiths. When he was tired beyond exhaustion, when he found himself alone and lonely in a crowd, when for some rea­son his mental defenses slipped, allowing the ghosts and ghouls in his mind mo­mentary escape.

But he had no regrets, no second thoughts about this ship, or this crew. Alcyone's personnel were top rate, selected as much for their potential compat­ibility and synergy as they were for their skills.

And Alcyone -well, Alcyone was what she was, first of her kind and pride of the Humbolt fleet.

Now she loafed through the induced dimension of wrapspace at an easy pace, her engines idle in the mathematically null environment. Here, all her power would gain her naught. Once the algorithms and equations were set, the data entered; once she had begun travel in this void, there was nothing that would alter her course. She would arrive at the predetermined time, in the pre­de­ter­mined place-not a moment earlier, not a moment later-assuming that the constancy of the laws of time and physics and space remained unchanged.

Assum­ing, too, that she arrived at all.

There was always the possibility of error, of failure, even though every pre­cau­tion was taken. The loss rates were exceedingly low, but failure to arrive was still a real possi­bil­ity faced by all ships that utilized the mathematical shortcuts be­­tween the stars.

Alcyone had made many such runs before and suffered no mishaps. She ran as she always had, a shimmering silver form riding a self-induced crest wave of reality, her deflectors up as protection against any stray objects that might hap­pen in her path. Wrapspace might be null, but you never knew when-or what-you might encounter.

On the bridge, time and reality appeared no different than they did on any other day. Deverest turned away from the recorder with a satisfied air, his bland face revealing no hint of the efficiently active mind behind the dark, clear eyes. Legacy from his mother, the grace and air of elegance, the high, fine cheek­bones. Margaret Kirsten Olsen may have been Scandinavian to her toes, fair haired and blue eyed, but Jasir Amnat Deverest had borne the mixed genotypes of six gen­era­tions of slavery, captivity, and exploration. In his family tree, grandparents of Asian, African, and Amerindian descent had mingled freely. From Deverest's father had come the thick, dark mane of hair, the strong jaw, the broad, muscular shoulders. The result was a man of presence, a quiet, thoughtful man of decision and compassion, respected by his peers and beloved by his crew.

Command suited Nokuro Deverest. He sat the center chair as easily as his father had sat a horse, with an innate ease that was far more than the result of mere train­ing. Deverest's great-grandfather may have commanded some of the last great horse troops on earth, but Nogo Deverest and his generation reached for the stars. Now Nogo was captain of the Alcyone, and his sister, Olanthe, was head of communications aboard her sister ship, Electra.

Deverest almost smiled, then caught himself, but not before his navigator, Aalar, had noted the pleasure that announced itself-to those who could see it- about her captain's eyes, and in the way his slender fingers lay along the chair arms. Aalar bent closer to her console, suppressing an inward smile herself.

"Vess."

The scientist turned, as lean and fluid as his captain, his face as calm and devoid of emotion as Deverest's own. Similar heritage and training had their results.

"Exit time?"

"One minute and counting."

Deverest nodded, toggling a comm switch. "All hands, prepare for exit from wrap­space." Throughout the ship, crew reached for handholds, slid swiftly onto benches, braced. Exit from wrapspace could be as rough as a storm-tossed sea, or as easy as a canoe gliding onto the bank of a mirrored moun­tain lake. You never knew which.

This one was easy.

"Five, four, three...." Vess counted.

And they were out.

Alcyone winked into shining existence and sailed serenely toward the paired suns of the Hathar system.

Alcyone , guided by human hands and state of the art computers, moved smoothly into her predetermined orbital position. If the Mandarat mines were unable to supply a sufficient quantity of the specialized minerals Station 4 engineers demanded, perhaps some of the thousands of asteroids orbiting the Hathar system could offer additional sources. None of them had been mined, but early surveys had indicated major concentrations of a number of prized ores. Alcyone was to further survey the area and drive sample mines.

Which explained the presence aboard of Dr. Velga Svenson, wife of Alcyone's first officer. Married couple assignments were hardly unusual, but this dual assignment had proven more difficult than most. Everyone aboard liked and re­spected Paul Simmons. Few felt the same way about his wife.

Copyright © 2004 D.M. Recktenwalt