Trail Blazers: Special 10th Anniversary Edition

By Joseph Thompson

Trail Blazers is a science-fiction/action adventure space opera in novel form. The story falls under the sub genre of African-American and historical time travel. Trail Blazers is the story of Miles Kendricks, a space-age African-American private star-ship captain dedicated to earning fame and fortune through a device of his own creation known as the "Stable Dimensions in Transition" device or simply S.D.T. that would revolutionize space travel of his age. Miles' efforts are confounded by a mysterious and dangerous alien stowaway named Ja’Rheen who has important lessons to teach. Miles wants Ja'Rheen off his ship before the alien gets him and his crew killed, deal with a bizarre malfunction of his S.D.T. that transports his consciousness seven hundred years into the past and still brave the perils of an interstellar journey to lead the last survivors of the planet Earth to a new home among the stars. Along the way, Miles realizes that everything he knew and had held dear in his life wasn’t quite what it seemed. Miles learns that Ja’Rheen and his people’s fate are closely entwined with Miles’ and even humanity’s. But it might be too late in his once-good life to save it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781940385006

Book preview

Chapter 1

I.

"There will be no more warning shots. If you do not comply with our demands in three minutes…I will destroy your ship!"

Three heavy cruisers of the Khmertian League of Worlds’ Fleet blocked Miles Kendrick’s path dead ahead in space and on each side. Each enemy warship was about ten times larger than his commercial trading vessel, El Canton del Mar. And boasted about a hundred times his firepower.

Things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. He had a vague perception of the tangible world around him—of physical contact with someone. Someone was shaking his torso, trying to rouse him from a slumber he found so blissful he almost thought he was in heaven. At that moment, both the person shaking him and the Khmertian cruisers had something to do with ending that blissful sleep, trying to cast him out of heaven.

Miles was perfectly aware of their presence, but they just didn’t seem to matter that much to him.

He was also aware of the infinitesimally small densities of the disparate gas clouds in the immediate area of space, but they seemed on par with the Khmertian ships confronting him. They all truly lacked emotional significance compared to the only real thing that mattered: that wonderful dream he was in.

The hostile ships were a fact, just like the gas clouds. Just like the fact that the Siren, the nickname that Miles and the crew had become accustomed to affectionately referring to her as in lieu of her cumbersome official name, was his ship—certainly nothing to get alarmed about.

But the person with the two strong hands who was shaking him with urgency certainly seemed alarmed. There was a deep, powerful voice connected to them, very familiar.

Captain, you’ve got to wake up! Khalil dar-es Salaam shouted, hurting Miles’ ears. That voice never wavered from the formality in which it spoke to Miles, strident and fastidious at times, but always deeply respectful to him. …More facts, Miles thought, dreamily. Facts, like the Khmertian ships, the disparate clouds of gas and their precise densities in deep space, or the hopeless mismatch Miles’ ship versus the Khmertian ships represented.

Facts were good. They were definite, concrete…real. They left no room for nebulous frivolities like passion, intuition or emotion. But the further away he was pulled from his wonderful sleep, the more the confidence that Miles held in facts was beginning to fail him.

Miles twitched in his chair. He was afraid. It wasn’t the first time. The line of work he’d chosen, working in space, was a risky prospect at the best of times. Five full centuries into the space age had catapulted mankind blindly into an arena of peril and wonder. Miles had enjoyed healthy amounts of both in his time; but the fear he was experiencing now was different. That blissful sleep he’d just been enjoying had dulled his senses, but now there was a deep-seated urgency gnawing away at his consciousness. And it wasn’t just coming from Khalil. Miles focused on that to help bring himself back to reality.

The urgency pushed him forward, like the desire to get out of a freezing rainstorm by climbing up a steep, muddy hill to reach the shelter of a dank cave above. The refuge would be only slightly better than the alternative. Miles felt like those metaphorical raindrops were real; their relentless pounding and icy coldness piercing at his flesh were trying to wake him.

Captain, you’ve got to wake up—now! Khalil repeated, still shaking Miles.

Khalil was Miles’ sage and stalwart military specialist and tactical officer, a walking anachronism seeming more at place in a tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves than on the bridge of a private starship in the twenty-fifth century. More facts; a cold splash like he’d slipped and fallen face first into a puddle on the way up the muddy hill in the face of a rainstorm. But that wasn’t helping Miles.

More than anything in the world, he just wanted to keep sleeping.

A mechanical wonder of his own design that was virtually attached to Miles’ cerebral cortex had allowed him to slumber in a blissful electronic dream-world and gave him powers beyond his imagination. And as far as he was concerned, all the facts he had considered up until that point hadn’t fully convinced him that he needed to wake up.

It was a hard road back. He could feel his physical senses returning to him, not in a welcome and familiar way, but like switching on a bright light and shining it directly into his eyes after having closed them for about a month. And with his physical senses returning to him, so did it seem that Miles was beginning to come to his senses. The random facts of disparate gas clouds in deep space and the three Khmertian cruisers threatening him suddenly became urgent again—especially the three Khmertian cruisers.

Each of the enemy ships was just under a kilometer long, a hundred twenty-five meters wide and forty meters tall. The decks from amidships up were comprised of batteries of phased plasma cannon, thick, heavily armored towers bearing communications arrays, shield generators and electronic anti-warfare suites. They were somewhat reminiscent of the powerful warships that sailed the seas of Old Earth centuries prior, massive bulk but with a slender profile designed for cutting through ocean waves. All covered in a dusty-colored reinforced armor plating that was nearly impenetrable by the most powerful modern weapons. Yet another set of facts, but these were neither random nor benign. Appropriate for the end of a lovely computer-enhanced dream.

Opening his eyes, Miles found himself staring at the translucent dome covering his head and face. As he watched, the brightly colored lights dancing throughout the dome’s microscopic servo-emitters inside slowly faded as they deactivated. The dome rose automatically from its operating position away from his head, revealing once more the familiar confines of the Siren’s bridge around Miles.

The inviting softness of the device’s plush leather chair provided at least a modicum of comfort against the abruptness of his return to reality. Khalil kept telling him he had to wake up. Those words had meant little to Miles in his dream world provided by the SDT’s cerebral interface. But now that it was deactivated, he was beginning to focus and understand just how much urgency those words carried.

What the hell’s going on? Miles heard his voice say. But it was hollow, distant, almost as if it belonged to someone else.

The dimly lit bridge looked the same as he remembered it; as if it somehow might have changed during the time he was under the SDT interface. But that was just how overwhelmingly real that virtual experience had seemed. It apparently lingered, too. Miles made another effort to focus.

Captain, can you hear me? Khalil asked, this time with the booming voice almost in his ears.

They can hear you three light-years away, Khalil! Miles spat back. He could see the man standing over him with a look of deep concern on his dark, rough-looking, bearded face. At least Miles knew that his brain was beginning to function, as he took a moment to notice Khalil’s choice of on-duty attire and how it reflected the cultural roots of his Moorish ancestors. Khalil wore a crème colored, high-necked, lapel-less jacket with a pewter and black checkerboard pattern trim.

Miles felt himself drifting away from the crisis at hand as he thought about Khalil’s clothing. It set him apart from the rest of the crew, who chose varying styles of clothing on his less than formal civilian starship. But Khalil made up for every one of his eccentricities by always ensuring Miles’ safety.

Actuators on the device’s chair hummed gently, shaking him from his reveries and raising Miles from a reclining position to a seated one. He took in the view from the rear starboard side of the bridge, just in front of the SDT chair and its interface. Khalil’s regular duty station was directly to Miles’ right.

The rest of his five officers dutifully manned their high-tech computer screen and manual interface stations that were similar to Khalil’s around the circular-shaped bridge.

The forward viewport, an expansive sidelong crescent allowing into the bridge the great expanse of space outside, revealed three hostile warships dead ahead. It was as he’d remembered only a few moments before in his wonderful dream. Miles’ senses had extended through the ship’s sensors and spewed myriad data of the Khmertian ships’ dimensions and armaments. Emblazoned on the downward-sloping prow of each vessel was a prominent iconic symbol; the ankh. The emblem of the Khmertian peoples oft-misunderstood religion taken from ancient traditions of Old Earth. Miles knew from recent history that running afoul of the Khmertians and seeing that ankh bear down on you could mean certain doom.

Shaking off the final remnants of the SDT interface, Miles stood and made his way to his chair, the center seat on the bridge where he spent most of his time on this ship.

Miles built the Siren from the ground up and served as her captain. Not the most conventional of starship captains for sure; Miles was young, black and somewhat mercenary in his day-to-day endeavors. He never met a unit of currency he didn’t like, or try to get his hands on. Miles’ bridge chair was the center of what he’d designed to be a highly profitable business enterprise.

There were few economic certainties in the history of human endeavors. But one remained true from the Stone Age and well into the space age: people and their things needed to be moved—from their homes to their places of work, from town to town, city to city and even half-way across the galaxy. Miles had learned during his adult life one of history’s most important lessons. If you knew how to move those people and their things faster, safer or in better luxury than the next guy, and if you were willing to gingerly skirt the bounds of regulatory propriety that were often overly zealous anyway, you could become quite wealthy.

And by the time he was thirty-five, he had worked hard at transporting those people and their things faster and in better luxury and was pleased with himself to become what people in his century still called independently wealthy: very comfortable, but there was always room for a little bit more. It wasn’t like Miles was an outright criminal. But he did find the cumbersome rules and regulations that governed intergalactic trade far too restricting; an attitude that put him at odds often with the most powerful governments of the day, but it was never anything that a well-placed honorarium or aptly performed favor or even an unabashed bribe couldn’t handle.

Facing off against three juggernaut warships wasn’t necessarily a foreseen consequence, however.

Miles stopped swiveling back and forth in his chair when he realized he was doing it. He also stopped his foot from tapping when he noticed the nervous cadence of leather against deck plating, and just how annoying it was.

So why would the Khmertian League Fleet send three of its best ships after him all the way to such a backwater system, light-years from civilized space?

The Khmertians had sent their flagship, the El Saba, no less.

There was only one explanation. They knew. And if that was true, Miles pondered morbidly, he was finished.

"Two minutes, thirty seconds," the menacing voice said over the bridge speakers. Miles knew that voice. It was Qadir Al-Jabari, captain of the El Saba.

Krane, I don’t want to hear that right now, Miles complained, a not-so-subtle command to cut off communications with the El Saba. The sound of the bridge’s blaring alert status siren proved to be the last straw that topped off a cacophony of reports coming in from around the ship over the bridge’s speakers when Al-Jabari’s voice didn’t.

By this time, the din was not simply another fact to help Miles find his way back to the real world. It was just annoying.

Time was moving in slow motion, but not slowly enough. The next two or three decisions he made could have thousands of different consequences. All bad.

C-Communications cut off, the tall, baby-faced pilot said nervously from his station in front of Miles, the pilot’s left seat. He heard Krane release a shaky breath. The kid was terrified, Miles guessed. From the foremost position on the bridge, up against the main view-port, Krane was staring right at the Khmertian warships.

Jimenez, the dark-haired navigator, sat calmly next to Krane in the co-pilot’s right seat and showed a bit more poise in the situation. But then they both turned around slowly, waiting for further orders.

The disquieting expressions on both men’s faces spoke an apprehension they would never voice aloud on the bridge. Miles knew he had to do something.

He stood from his chair, making an effort to look confidently aloof. Miles was a tall man, in what he considered to be excellent shape. Still strapping, he imagined, in the dark blue utility/flight suit he wore for the field test. But the suit grew more uncomfortable every second.

He took two swaggering steps toward Krane and Jimenez, announcing to everyone on the bridge that the captain was taking charge.

They’re getting ready to fire! Krane said, suddenly turning back to a readout on his multi-screened console. Then he stared wide-eyed at what he saw in space ahead of them. Red-orange light filtered through the bridge’s main view-port, seeming to fill the entire hundred-eighty-degree semicircle window that afforded those on the bridge their view of the vastness of space.

Miles saw the same thing Krane did — the hulking Khmertian battlecruiser with a sandy-colored, linear shaped hull that tapered to an end at its bow. Not an overly imaginative design, but it really didn’t need to be with the armaments it boasted. In the deep recesses of El Saba’s forward gun ports, swelling orbs of hull-melting plasma formed.

The light from these plasma balls crossed the five hundred meters of space that separated the ships and filled the bridge.

The bridge crew instinctively recoiled from the bright light. Miles found himself doing it, too. His statuesque physique slumped just a bit, and he retreated.

Krane, tell ‘em we’re ready to talk, for God’s sake! Miles said as he turned and sat back down in his chair.

Khmertian vessel, we’re willing to discuss your terms! Krane began, quite flustered over the communications channel. "Please do not fire! Repeat, please, please, please do not fire!"

Miles groaned inwardly. The Khmertians weren’t getting ready to fire at that very second, only making it crystal clear that soon they would. Krane had worked for Miles for over a year, but this was his first job out of commercial flight school. Miles found him to be competent enough, under the usual, mundane circumstances, but he had hoped that, if Krane ever did face a real crisis, like today, he’d prove to be made of stronger stuff. Miles was already upset, given the circumstances, and thought that he might have to make a change.

The plasma orbs in the El Saba’s gun ports dissipated (thankfully), along with their light. His bridge returned to its normal relaxing, low-lighting scheme.

Pull it together, Miles thought to himself. They don’t know anything!

"You have two minutes, Captain," Al-Jabari said. Now Miles could see his opponent’s image on the view screen attached to his chair’s right arm. The Khmertians had switched to visual communications.

Miles had always guessed Al-Jabari’s ancestry was Saudi. Maybe even of the old Royal House. Al-Jabari certainly was as arrogant as any royal should be. There was a slight smile playing on the lips of that hawkish face.

One thing Miles had noted about Al-Jabari in their several encounters was that the Khmertian had always showed a dogged if not maniacal dedication to duty.

Miles considered the Khmertian staring back at him through the communication, looking for any flaw in the facade—a subtle break in eye contact, the slightest quiver of the upper lip. Anything that would prove to Miles that Al-Jabari’s resolve was less than advertised.

There was grey in the hair and beard, and a few lines wrinkled on his forehead.

Al-Jabari sat in a big, imposing command chair on board the El Saba’s larger, more densely populated bridge. His tan uniform waistcoat gave his thin frame a bit more imposing bulk. And he sat with his elbows on the arm rests, steeping his fingertips casually. An ever present fire burned in those dark, deep-set eyes.

Captain Al-Jabari, Miles began coolly. You’re fifteen light-years out of your jurisdiction. You can’t make any demands on me.

Al-Jabari lowered his steeped fingers and clasped them in his lap. The appearance was still relaxed, but the tone of his voice became much more intense.

Captain Kendricks, I will say this once more. Surrender your vessel in… Al-Jabari hesitated to check a clock, …one minute and ten seconds. Or I will open fire. And… Al-Jabari paused dramatically then, You will cease your inter-dimensional travel experiments immediately!

Miles couldn’t respond to Al-Jabari’s charge right off. What could he say? At that moment, he could hardly tell the difference between the blissful dream he’d recently enjoyed and the cool reality he’d awakened to. The tightness constricting his throat at that moment and rising anger that flared in the pit of his stomach certainly weren’t pleasant, so it couldn’t be a dream. But Miles’ reality was horribly distorted, as evidenced by Al-Jabari’s seemingly impossible insight. The SDT’s final stages of development had dominated every waking moment of Miles’ and his crew’s life for the previous four months. It was one of the best-kept secrets in the galaxy—or so he thought.

He looked around to his bridge crew, who in turn were looking to him for answers. Aubrey Sinclair, his dreadlocked First Mate, stood near his engineering station, stroking his thick black beard pensively. Sinclair threw several stray dreadlocks away from his face and tried to hide his alarm.

Miles turned to Chase at the science station, directly across from Sinclair’s port side console at the starboard side close to the rear. She was a brilliant and attractive corporate researcher from Mars with a PhD in astrophysics. As usual, she wore a sharp-looking business outfit, in stark contrast to the more casual dress the rest of the crew chose.

She had tied her shoulder length blonde hair into a perfectly straight pony tail.

Not one hair on her head or thread of her suit out of place. But Al-Jabari’s accusation seemed to stun her harder than anyone else on the bridge. She stared wide-eyed at Miles with her hand covering her gaping mouth.

Miles couldn’t pay Chase the seven figure salary she was used to when creating weapons systems for defense contractor R&D divisions, but he came damn close. Chase had her own reasons for signing on as Miles’ science officer that she kept to herself, but Miles always suspected that she probably didn’t like coming up with new ways to kill people — seemed far too straight-laced for that. He tried to make up for her relatively slight salary disparity by providing Chase with state of the art equipment, right down the science station equipped with the best physical inputs as well as tangible graphical user interfaces. Chase’s GUI’s displayed data and system interfaces as 3-dimensional holograms in front of her that she could touch with her fingers and were customized for maximum efficiency.

Even still, Miles wondered if Chase might be rethinking her decision to stay with him under the present circumstances. Hell, maybe all of his officers were.

A look at Krane and Jimenez told him they were ready to make a break for it as soon as he gave the word. There was a chance he could evade the much-larger Khmertian battle cruisers. They were maneuverable considering their massive size, but nowhere near as nimble as the Siren. All he would need was a few seconds to get clear and jump into hyperspace. He just needed to stall for a little time.

Captain Al-Jabari, explain your actions. Now!

The strong feminine voice drew all attention to the rear of the Siren’s bridge.

Ameena Hotep blew in like a tempest, and stopped just behind Miles’ chair to address the Khmertian captain.

Miles twisted in his chair and stared at her for a moment, thinking that this was the worst possible time she could have chosen to play diplomat.

She picked up on Miles’ intention just when he was getting ready to tell her that, and gave him a non-verbal rebuke with her eyes. Miles wasn’t about to be silenced on his own bridge, but he didn’t want an argument breaking out in the middle of what for all intents and purposes was a combat situation.

Ameena turned back to Miles’ screen and Al-Jabari.

She straightened several strands of her long, tightly-braided black hair, composing herself, and instantly projected an image of picturesque grace under pressure.

Miles had heard Krane refer to her whimsically as the Queen of Sheba. Miles could see why. Ameena possessed all the beauty, cunning, and strength of will of the ancient African queen of legend.

Ameena spoke to Al-Jabari again with an authoritative edge tempering her normally honey-coated voice. I’m waiting, Captain… she said impatiently, responding to Al-Jabari’s surprised silence.

Ambassador, I…didn’t expect to be speaking with you.

Don’t change the subject, Ameena continued. Are you under orders to take hostile action against Captain Kendricks?

Miles watched Al-Jabari’s expression blanch, and tried not to grin.

Al-Jabari rose from his command chair and moved a few steps closer to the large view screen on the El Saba’s bridge, increasing the size of his image on Miles’ screen.

He cleared his throat noticeably, then took on a considerably more conciliatory tone. "You must understand that I cannot discuss my orders. However, I do reserve the right to force Kendricks to surrender to an inspection under the circumstances."

But you have no legal authority to detain Captain Kendricks’ vessel, do you?

It was quiet then. Ameena folded her arms and waited for an answer. Al-Jabari went stone-faced.

Miles knew Ameena was the only reason they were still alive, and why Al-Jabari had even bothered firing a warning shot. They were both Khmertian, and Ameena held a powerful office in their government, along with the fact that Ameena came from a very important family.

Even without her title and pedigree, Ameena was a force to be reckoned with on her own. The question was, how long would Al-Jabari suppress his sense of duty with his sense of loyalty?

Miles saw a hint of defiance burn in his opponent’s eyes, and that was not good.

"Ambassador. I…trust you’re aware that this man has some unresolved legal matters with our government. He has no respect for sovereignty or authority. You do have a…personal relationship with him. I believe perhaps it’s—"

None of your business! Ameena shot back. Al-Jabari inhaled quickly. This was as close as he got to being flustered, Miles figured.

Captain, I suggest you keep your argument out of my personal life. And you still haven’t demonstrated any authority to detain this ship.

"We’re dealing with a dangerous piece of technology on that ship," Al-Jabari replied coolly.

Our sources tell us that it has the potential to destroy space and time as we know it.

Ameena showed Miles the subtlest look of alarm. She paused as if she were waiting for him to deny what Al-Jabari said. The Khmertian captain pressed his case.

"This man is a profiteer, Ambassador. And his greed just might have consequences that reach all the way back to our space. We have to stop this madman before he can cause us serious harm."

Qadir, you can spare me the melodrama. Let’s try to work this out like ration— Miles cut himself off when he saw Al-Jabari’s image vanish from his screen.

Ameena had reached over his shoulder and shut it down.

These are my people, Miles. Let me handle it, Ameena said, looking like she didn’t want an argument.

At first, Miles felt that he should be the single authority on his bridge and Ameena was challenging him.

But then something told him that Ameena wasn’t challenging his authority. She was asking him to trust her.

A personal relationship was the tactful phrase Al-Jabari used.

That didn’t come close. It was no secret on the Siren, or apparently among the Khmertian League’s Fleet. From the moment he and Ameena met, almost six months before, they rarely spent a moment apart. Miles took comfort at the thought of what a scandal it must have meant back on the Khmertian home-world. They would never find him even remotely deserving of one of their most celebrated daughters.

They probably didn’t know, or care, just how strongly Miles felt for Ameena. He decided to trust her. For the time being.

Ameena turned the screen back on. Al-Jabari seemed more relaxed then, standing at the center of his bridge with his hands behind his back. That faint smile on his lips had returned.

I apologize, Captain, Ameena said. We had some…difficulties on this end of the transmission. Please continue.

"Ambassador, as I was saying. Kendricks’ device could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. That clearly places the situation under our military jurisdiction."

Captain, you’re relying on an extremely loose interpretation of the law. There is no evidence that a crime has been committed. I can’t in good conscience allow you to board a free registered vessel in unclaimed space. It could be interpreted as an act of piracy.

Miles beamed inside. He watched for Al-Jabari to wheel back in a daze, fully willing to capitulate to a superior foe. Figuratively, anyway. But to Miles’ surprise, Al-Jabari didn’t back down.

"That is not for me to decide, Ambassador. And with all due respect, neither is it for you. I do not find your legal arguments persuasive, and I have no further intention to debate. I will carry out my duty."

Al-Jabari let those last words hang in the air for several moments.

Then what do you suggest, Captain? Because I have no intention of allowing you to board this vessel. Miles felt his jaw drop open. But he didn’t want to compound the blunder by turning to gawk at Ameena in all her brazenness.

"I would suggest," Al-Jabari said, at first with anger flaring. Almost immediately, he calmed himself, "…a compromise.

"Against my better judgment, I will not board your ship. However, I will not let it out of my sight, either. We will escort you back to the home-world, where we can inspect Kendricks’ vessel within the borders of Union Space. And where he is free to file a grievance with any magistrate he can find."

Al-Jabari flashed a predatory smile.

He would not be a prisoner? Ameena said after considering the offer for a moment.

"No. He would be our…guest," Al-Jabari reluctantly replied. Ameena smiled at Miles, pleased with the outcome.

I believe we’ve been offered a good compromise. We should accept it, Ameena said to Miles, touching his shoulder affectionately.

Miles felt like he’d just been staring down the maw of a great abyss, and then suddenly shoved from behind. He decided he was very short of options at that moment.

Sure, whatever you say, he said flatly. Miles kept his eyes fixed on Al-Jabari’s image on his chair’s screen, but he could feel all eyes on the bridge fall on him in disbelief.

Al-Jabari nodded his approval. "Join our formation and proceed into hyperspace." Miles’ screen went black.

Hey, Miles, what ya doin’, man? Sinclair said, frantically advancing on Miles’ chair. Them gonna lock us away for a t’ousand years, y’know! Miles rolled his eyes, familiar with the Rastafarian’s emotional outbursts, and the usual thickening of his accent that accompanied them.

It’s under control, thanks to Ameena. She bought us all the time we need, he replied. Ameena moved around Miles’ chair so she could face him.

Miles, thank you. I promise you I’ll get to the bottom of this. Miles rose from his chair and hugged Ameena tightly.

Ameena, you really don’t understand what’s about to happen, do you?

Miles released her and moved toward the rear of his bridge, his plan already in motion. Ameena furrowed her brow and put her hand on her hip, perturbed.

What don’t I understand? she said, the icy tones echoing off the bridge’s metallic bulkheads.

Aubrey, Chase, I need you over here.

Are we gonna make a break for it? Alex Jimenez asked the question everyone on the bridge seemed to have on their minds. It wouldn’t be the first time Miles had ordered a hasty retreat from irate authorities. The only difference today would be just exactly how El Canton del Mar made her escape.

Miles looked back at Jimenez and his crew, making his intentions clear.

People, we are going to do what we came out here to do!

Krane and Jimenez actually cheered their pleasure. They began keying in sequences to the ship’s helm control.

Sinclair and Chase joined him in front of the SDT chair.

Chase seemed to anticipate Miles’ plan. She was already keying in sequences to a computer console attached to this chair.

I have to reload the software, but we can be ready for transition in three minutes, Chase said, hardwiring her palm computer to the chair’s console.

Aubrey, how soon can we restart the sequence?

We can do it right now, he said brightly, showing little or none of the fluster he displayed earlier.

Good, get on the intercom and tell the crew to rig for transition. Miles patted his old friend on the shoulder thankfully as Sinclair moved off.

Miles took another look down at the SDT chair, where he was so recently forced from. It had hosted his blissful dream, and would do so again, very soon. Miles was going back to sleep, as fast as he could get there.

What’s going on? What are you doing? Miles, Chase and Sinclair all stopped what they were doing and watched Ameena approach.

Miles felt sorry for Ameena’s beautiful naïveté. Though there was little time at present, he tried to explain it to her. His tone was glib and a bit impatient.

I know Qadir Al-Jabari. As soon as we reach your home-world, he’ll make us his ‘guests’ all right. ‘Guests’ of the state. And by ‘guests,’ I mean ‘prisoners.’ I don’t think I or any member of my crew would enjoy that in the slightest.

Miles saw the chuckles and other amused reactions from his officers. It was good to be the boss. Everyone laughed at your jokes.

Ameena’s jaw tightened. Her posture became much more rigid. It came through in her strained voice.

"I can understand why you might feel like you’re being deceived, even if it’s not true. But we… I just negotiated an agreement. Captain Al-Jabari accepted that agreement in good faith."

Miles grimaced in frustration and faced Ameena. Ameena: beautiful, sweet, far too trusting Ameena. I’ll let you in on a little secret. He’s after this… Miles held a hand out to the SDT reclining chair and with the dome cerebral interface at the chair’s head, now retracted, and all the mish-mashed computer consoles and jerry-rigged optical network cables and power conduits fixing the whole thing firmly to the bridge’s rear bulkhead. To the uninitiated, the SDT device might have resembled a centuries-old device used to execute only the worst murderers. Hardly at home on the Siren’s streamlined bridge.

We’ve all worked too hard to let him have it without a fight, Miles finished.

Miles, you don’t understand. Once Al-Jabari realizes you’ve broken your word, he’ll attack. You don’t stand a chance. Even if you get away, he’ll track you down and destroy you.

"Not with you on board, Miles came back. Besides, all we need is three minutes. Once I get in that chair, it won’t matter."

You don’t know the captain as well as you think you do. And you don’t know my people, Miles.

Ameena locked those dark brown eyes with him then. They were hard. Cold.

What’s that supposed to mean? he asked. Ameena’s eyes softened then, ever so slightly. Miles could see she was torn about something.

She reached inside the light jacket she wore and held out a small, oval-shaped device for him to see.

I’m sorry. But I can’t let you do this.

Something about the way Ameena held that device froze Miles in place. He could see his bridge crew react the same way.

He knew Ameena. Even if it was a weapon, he didn’t believe she’d use it on him or any member of his crew, with whom she’d become friendly during her time on his ship.

But whatever it was, Ameena believed it was powerful enough to force his compliance.

This is an emergency transponder. All of our diplomats carry them. Al-Jabari has been monitoring it ever since he confronted this ship.

Miles saw Khalil slinking his massive bulk up behind Ameena, in a well-intentioned but inopportune effort to rectify the situation.

Stay back, Khalil! she said, spinning on him. My bodyguard is already on the way here. Khalil backed away as ordered and joined Miles.

Ameena moved to the opposite side of the bridge where she could keep an eye on everyone. She held out the transponder like a weapon, stifling any further attempts to subdue her. She looked at Miles again, eyes pleading.

We have protocols for situations like this. If I know Al-Jabari, he’s just waiting.

For what? Miles said, slowly advancing on her.

"If I activate this, the El Saba and her escorts will lay force fields on this ship that will hold us in position and drain all power."

Miles stopped his advance then. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He spoke slowly and clearly, trying somehow to get through to her.

Ameena… What in God’s name are you doing?

Ameena looked on the verge of tears then. She must have seen the look of betrayal in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Ameena spoke in a quivering voice.

Saving your life…

II.

The single occupant of a deep-space scout vessel stopped his recording telemetry of what could have been a horrendous disaster. The man in the vessel’s cockpit watched as the four starships entered into formation, pointing away from him. Then, linked by navigation computer, they all burst forward into the impossible speeds of hyperspace.

And out of his sensor range.

Considering the fact that the three larger vessels were only recently dissuaded from destroying the smaller one, this was an acceptable outcome.

He had done his duty, all without having ever been detected.

Tracking the small private vessel El Canton del Mar, also known as the Siren by her crew, for the past few weeks had proved to be a daunting task for the pilot. Her captain jumped in and out of hyperspace erratically, maneuvering among disparate star systems. He changed course seemingly on a whim until he reached this seldom-traveled region of space near the galaxy’s edge.

The ship employed an experienced captain, he surmised. The scout vessel pilot himself was trained in evading most conventional attempts at being followed. Training that would foil most pilots of the day.

But this scout ship was no ordinary vessel. And the pilot was no ordinary star traveler.

It took a rare breed of operative to handle the rigors of these missions, which sometimes called for spending weeks at a time in the cold, unforgiving recesses of deep-space.

Intensive specialized training made sure that he could handle these rigors. By some civilized standards, it was torture.

He’d abandoned his given name long ago, because he knew it wasn’t important compared to the Mandate he swore to uphold.

Centuries after humans had left a dying Earth; they found even more severe threats to their existence off-world. They entered an interstellar realm populated by hundreds of star-faring alien species, some of whom were much more technologically advanced, and most of whom were hostile to humans. All of them competed with humanity for influence, power and even for mere survival in the galaxy.

Humanity needed something that would help them avoid going the way of their lost home-world. A group of dedicated men and women, determined to guarantee humanity’s survival by any means necessary, rose to the task.

That was their Mandate all those years ago, as it was to that very day.

It was a thankless existence; requiring sacrificing the things most people took for granted: individual recognition, comfort, family.

Their days usually consisted of toiling for hours, painstakingly analyzing interstellar activities, finding anomalies in those activities that most people wouldn’t recognize as being problematic.

If their exploits ever did become known to the general public, the backlash from alien and even some human antagonists could prove disastrous. Therefore, the pilot and his brethren did their duty unsung by all but their own number.

This pilot and his nameless fellows bonded with secret rituals and ceremonies, similar to that with membership in a hundred secret societies on old Earth. A boon of knowledge came naturally along with all the rituals and bonding—knowledge that would make the average person shudder in utter disbelief. But with that awful knowledge came great power.

The price for this reward was high. When you died, you died alone. If it didn’t serve the Mandate, your death wouldn’t even be avenged for risk of exposure.

But today at least, this pilot thought to himself, he didn’t die while serving the Mandate.

Today, the pilot avoided disaster. An ambitious man nearly revolutionized space travel as the galaxy knew it, which would have consequently thrown it into chaos. The three major civilizations of the day, the Sagittarian Union, the Khmertian League of Worlds and the Sk’Trean Empire, along with dozens of lesser powers, controlled known space with vast interstellar economies and star navies defending well-traveled space lanes. A delicate, symbiotic balance had been created, one that was consistently challenged by the often volatile relations among the powers.

Change came to all things, the pilot and his superiors knew, and to try and stop it would be as foolish as trying to stop a star from going super-nova. And like a super-nova, change can lead to great destruction and suffering if it comes too quickly to allow people to cope with it.

The greater good, if there really was such a thing, demanded that as precarious as the present regime of galactic civilization was, any credible threat to that delicate balance could not be tolerated.

Miles Kendricks believed that he’d perfected a technology that had been discredited for centuries. His experiment could have resulted in two highly probable outcomes.

Number one—Miles Kendricks could have gone the way of other short-sighted, would-be pioneers attempting to bridge the inter-dimensional void, destroying himself and never being heard from again.

The scout ship pilot even had the power to make sure that happened, only if absolutely necessary in service of the Mandate. But then there was the Ambassador. Her people would not suffer her disappearance lightly. Someone would be blamed, most likely among the hostile alien species. There were more than enough likely suspects to go around.

The Chancellor of the Khmertian League of Worlds would likely wage war. This would, with his considerable strength, bring chaos to the galaxy.

The more the pilot went over that probable outcome, the more he was assured that he had indeed done the right thing by moving the situation toward the outcome of number two. Intervening in furtherance of the Mandate sometimes required fighting battles to prevent wars. Most of the time, it was as simple as forwarding a simple piece of information to the right parties. The pilot’s contacts in the Khmertian fleet were most pleased at hearing of Kendricks’ recent movements and planned activities.

He and his crew would surely be inconvenienced by the Khmertians, but they would all live. Guilt never accompanied any of the countless interventions this traveler had performed, but there was still a lingering feeling of incompleteness for some reason.

That annoying feeling of incompleteness was part of the second possible outcome this day could have brought, he knew. Yes, that was it.

The pilot was certain that Kendricks had no idea of what he almost did today. But the pilot did, and he was certain that it would not end there. Miles Kendricks’ experiment could have failed today, and brought on a strong probability of interstellar war.

Or he could have succeeded…and virtually guaranteed that outcome.

Chapter 2

I.

The Sagittarian Union registered star liner Cygnus Dream drifted, burning in space.

Most of the pleasure craft’s four hundred passengers had managed to escape in life-pods. But as in all disasters, the best designed safety systems always managed to fall short of saving everyone.

Those unfortunate souls’ bodies drifted near the corpse of a vessel.

In stark contrast, five much smaller ships of no government’s registry hung close to the star liner they had just killed. These ships were fast and full of firepower. Pack hunters would have been an accurate description of the ships and the people making up their crews. Scavengers would have been another good one. But the one word that would best describe them was pirate.

The last pirate ship, still attached to the star liner, released its boarding air lock.

It pulled away from alongside. In that ship’s cargo hold, belly full with plunder, the crew found more than enough reason for a party.

I tell you what, lads. The crew was holdin’ out! All attention turned to the man just returning from the star liner. That was probably the reason he felt the need to announce his presence—Feelis Charleston, pirate captain. He was holding a champagne bottle in each hand.

Charleston was the unwashed standard for this rugged, motley crew before him.

He wore heavy knee-high boots and a stolen Union Navy fighter pilot’s jacket, thinking it looked impressive. A red beret covered a threadbare mop of brown hair. He was a young man, late twenties, but his gaunt face bore the intermittent creases and wrinkles of premature age on the forehead and around the hollow eyes.

Charleston’s working class brogue could have reminded those who remembered old Earth of the North of England. It was slurred considerably by the drink.

"Lookee what I found, Dom Perignon!"

Charleston held the bottles out for everyone to see. An excellent year…I think, he finished, inspecting the label.

A pirate crewman took the bottles and opened them quickly.

Imagine the poor manners o’ those shites, not offering us any of this fine bubbly? On cue, the crew laughed again. Charleston motioned for silence and delivered the punch line.

I was so offended, I blew them out of the fucking airlock! The crew roared. Some of them fell to the deck, doubled over in laughter.

All except one. Seth had seen that spectacle he called Captain all too often. He was as dedicated to the cause as any member of the crew. But in recent months, Seth found himself fed up with Charleston’s increasing depravity. Charleston must have read his thoughts. He noticed Seth with his folded arms and staggered toward him.

Seth, come on, lad. Let’s try a smile? Charleston said, his mood quickly souring. Seth stared back at him through his horn-rimmed glasses, just as sourly. The crew backed away from both of them, realizing yet another confrontation between them was brewing. The cargo hold got quiet.

Seth was a lean, dusky black man, about Charleston’s age. But Seth liked to believe he’d been spared some of the harsh past he noted in Charleston. He purposely took his time pulling off his thick glasses and reached into his ever-present black trench coat.

He saw Charleston start in reaction, nearly stumbling. Seth smiled. He knew Charleston was always wary of what he might be hiding under that trench coat. With good reason.

This time he only pulled out a white handkerchief, and casually cleaned his lenses. After replacing his glasses, Seth adjusted his old-style baseball cap and folded his arms again.

Feelis, I like a party just like anyone else, Seth began. But we told that crew we’d let them escape with the passengers. Did you really kill them? Seth saw the others react to his question. Like it was a challenge.

Charleston shrugged absently. Dunno… Let’s have a look-see!

Seth watched Charleston stumble to a closed view-port and slowly followed him.

Charleston opened the cargo hold’s single view-port, revealing the burning star liner. The crew gathered around to see.

Magnify image, main airlock, Charleston said. The image in the view-port zoomed in as commanded. Floating helplessly in space were five humans and humanoids, dressed in the pastel blue uniforms of the Cygnus Dream’s company. The garish costumes reflected the ambient light well, making them easy to spot.

Nothing else protected them from the near vacuum of space. Seth’s jaw clenched when he watched all of them suffer through various stages of the same phenomenon.

Those still alive thrashed about helplessly. And pointlessly.

With no atmosphere pressing against their bodies, the pressures inside them pushed out. Eyeballs expanded, filling with boiling blood. More blood rushed out of every possible orifice in neat little globules in the micro-gravity. Their chest cavities expanded, close to rupture.

Charleston smiled a Cheshire grin and turned to his comrades and Seth in particular. Well, give ‘em a few minutes and they’ll be dead, sure enough!

The crew roared yet again. One crewman even patted Charleston on the back.

Seth was silent for several moments. When he spoke, he didn’t try to hide his contempt.

You screwed up! We’re inside Union space this time. We don’t have time for you going back into the ship and terrorizing the passengers.

‘Screwed up’? Charleston responded to the only part he seemed to hear. "My brother, we just scored seven hundred thousand from the passengers. Not to mention the million or so we’ll get in salvage. Which reminds me, Seth. I want you to check out their navigation computer in the anteroom. I’ve got a place picked out