The Captain's Kid

By Liz Coley

Whenever his parents went out on missions for the Space Survey Corps, Brandon Webb was left behind on Luna—left to dream of journeying between the stars, meeting aliens, defeating villains, saving the world. Now it's his turn for adventure, permitted at last by the captain, his father, to join a year-long trip to a failing colonial planet on an emergency resupply run. Or so he's told. Brandon's former dreams could turn to nightmares when the starship is sabotaged, the alien holds secrets about his past, the villain is on the right side, and the world isn't ready to be saved.

With humor, danger, smart kids, awkward crushes, Greek drama, and guinea pigs, The Captain's Kid is hard sci-fi with a soft heart, for teens and anyone who ever was one. Appropriate content for ages 10+ and a reading level of mid-sixth grade. Recommended as "fun and wondrous...a hero to root for in a world you'll want to inhabit." The author's read-to-me YouTube feature "Undercover Reading" makes the book accessible to reluctant readers and those with reading challenges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Coley
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370387205

Liz Coley

Liz Coley's short fiction has appeared in Cosmos magazine and speculative fiction anthologies. Her passions beyond reading and writing include singing, photography, and baking. She plays competitive tennis locally in Ohio to keep herself fit and humble. With a background in science, Liz follows her interest in understanding "the way we work" down many interesting roads. Pretty Girl-13's journey into the perilous world of dissociative identity disorder is one of them.

Book preview

YESTERDAY, ALL OVER AGAIN

I was alone in the hab when the wallcom chirped with an unfamiliar tone. Not a spam call. Not the usual tone for my mates targeting me, and not Aunt Manda’s. The incoming was a secured source seeking Dad’s private number, but rerouted home, I figured, because Dad’s watchcom was with him, in a no-reception area out on the Hab Glenn construction site.

Curiosity swamped my better instincts, and I entered his passcode to receive. The wallcom screen sparked to life with a man’s face, square jaw below, gray buzz cut above. He focused off to the side somewhere.

Sir? My automatic sir came out of nowhere—until I realized he was in uniform. Brass planets lined his shoulders. A lot of them.

Head snapping forward, he said, Gordon— His eyes shifted to me and his voice dropped to a softer note. Brandon? Is that you, son? I was expecting your father.

I, uh, he’s working out at the new hab complex. I stopped. Who was this guy? How did he know my name? I didn’t recognize him. And judging from the slight delay in his response, he wasn’t local on Luna. On the other hand, the connection was too quick for Earthside.

Son, I’d appreciate it if you could get him in communication, ASAP. Can you raise him on the worksite?

No, sir. It’s one big dead zone right now, I explained. They haven’t installed the com repeater. But I could cart over if it’s important.

I expected a headshake, but the officer said, Why don’t you do that, son. And tell him General Abbott is expecting his callback.

Yes, sir, I managed. The screen went black.

Top brass. What did he want with Dad? Dad had signed off the Space Survey Corps four years ago. Resigned his Captaincy. Under really unfortunate circumstances. Awful.

Don’t go there, a nervous part of my mind cautioned.

This couldn’t be good. My stomach tight and my head buzzing with uncertainty, I clung to one sure thing—I now had a totally legit excuse to check out a cart and go outside. And a somewhat legit excuse to drive extremely fast.

I’d had my cart license for a few months, ever since I turned thirteen. Reality was I never got tired of heading out across the dusty gray, under the black and sparkle of the sky.

At the nearest access lock, I suited up, ran the usual safety checks, noted the full-charge level, and logged out the cart. The airlock spilled me out of Hab Armstrong and onto the surface of Luna. The dome of the universe was infinitely higher than the domes over our heads indoors. A half-Earth hung high in the sky. I breathed deep, thrilled to be out in the open again, even suited and helmeted.

The fat tires of the cart kicked up a trail of dust behind, a gray cloud that hovered until weak gravity coaxed it back down. The low-g bounce and hang time outside the habitat was a kick. Inside we ran eighty percent Earth-normal, enough to keep our human bones from dissolving, but less energy-wasteful and hard on the joints than full. Out here though, I was buoyant, body and soul. And in the zero-g sports complex, well, that was a piece of heaven where I could fly.

I pulled up beside the foreman’s onsite office cube, parking farther away than was strictly necessary. Five moon-hops and a perfect landing placed me in front of the door. Then, as I stepped inside, my knees hit the ground with a painful thud.

The foreman looked up from his desk, his mirrored faceplate smudged with glove prints. Brandon Webb. A laugh lightened his voice. Boy, will you ever remember the gravpad? He held out a fist. Long time, no visit, eh? Your Dad’s out in module B, checking the oxygen plant. Want me to call him in?

No need. I’ll find him. I returned the gloved knuckle bump and headed out the door, careful to manage the threshold this time. Each time I visited the new city in progress, it was like watching a speeded up vid. Dark solar-gray walls marked the growing stretch of the development. Exteriors captured every possible watt of sun power for the interiors to run heat, lighting, gravity, and wall projections. When the site was done and domed, there’d be homes and work places for another two thousand Lunies. At over twenty-thousand population, Hab Armstrong was feeling darned crowded, and the ox and water plants were running max overtime to keep up. Hab Glenn would be our first official suburb with room to grow.

I watched Dad at work while our helmets matched frequency. Dressed in pressure suits, everyone on the worksite should have been identical. But Dad was instantly recognizable. Something about his posture, something in the crispness of his gestures in spite of low-g. You could tell he was born and raised an Earther. Gordon Webb. Engineer and city planner for Hab Glenn. Dad.

Dad?

Brandon! What are you doing out here, kiddo? Everything okay?

I’m not sure. My stomach squeezed, reminding me that anything connected with the SSC could possibly send Dad into one of his dark, quiet moods. There was a call for you at home. I, uh, answered, because I knew you were out of range here.

You answered. My com. He heaved a sigh. You cracked my new passcode already?

He couldn’t see my triumphant yet guilty expression through the mirrored surface of the helmet. I ducked my head with the hint of a nod. Every time he changed passcodes, I cracked it in a couple of days. It’s not that I wanted to invade his privacy or anything—after the first time, it turned into a game, and so far, I’d always won. He just wasn’t very imaginative.

Spit it out, Spidey. Who was it?

Had anyone else heard him use that stupid nickname? Of course not. We were on an isolated frequency. General Abbott? He says he’s expecting your callback?

Dad’s body stiffened. Even in the suit, I could tell. Well then. Guess I’m all done here. The strain in his voice came through loud and clear over the speakers behind my ears. Let’s get back to civilization so I can call Abby.

Dad, he recognized me. Abby? He called a general Abby?

Course he did, Dad said. You haven’t changed that much, other than elongating. Dad’s helmet tipped as he looked up and down the length of me, all two meters. I was a head taller than him already. Only to be expected after spending my entire life in partial-g.

But how does he know me? I asked.

He’s your godfather, Dad answered.

Surprise! I have a godfather? We went to services only about four times a year, usually out of the blue.

Dad’s suit shoulders shrugged. We’ve been out of touch…for a while.

That comment, I decided, was best left alone.

We took our separate carts back, me following Dad, and dang me if he didn’t speed off, leave me eating his dust.

• • •

Inner hab walls block sight far better than sound, which means that with my ear pressed against our bedroom divider, I could make out just a little bit of the conversation—occasional words and Dad’s excited, agitated tone.

…clearances? Finally? Thank God.

A long pause.

…Yes, with the ambassador…

Frustrating muffled speech.

…resettlement agreement?

He signed off with a firm, You too, Abby. Indeed. And thank you.

Soft footsteps moved. Then he called from our common room. Kiddo? He cleared his throat. Twice. Got a minute?

Without a word, I appeared.

Here, let’s sit, Dad said. His hands reshaped his knees. I’d never seen him this awkward. And something else underneath. Excited? No…happy?

We both sat, next to each other on the brown-striped sofa with wear marks from our usual spots. Both carefully avoided the rocking chair draped with a purple scarf. Only Aunt Manda ever used that chair.

Dad’s hazel eyes had turned dark brown and a little bloodshot and maybe slightly wetter than they should have been. I looked away. I waited for him to go first.

At last, he went. So you’re wondering what all this is about.

Stating the obvious. Come on, Dad.

He folded his hands around one knee to keep it from bouncing, his index fingers fidgeting with each other. So, Brandon, kiddo. Um, good news. I’ve accepted a mission. Yes, happy, but nervous-happy. That was the energy in his voice.

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. No. He couldn’t. He’d given that all up. He was in the middle of building a city. But you quit, I protested.

More like temporary leave. For a very, very long time. His fingers were frantic. But that’s over now.

How…? That’s all I could squeeze out before my throat closed. How could they do that to you? I wanted to say.

It’s…critical, he said, a weird gleam in his eyes. Maybe tears. I don’t know.

Dang. I’d gotten used to him. Used to having a Dad at home in the mornings, home for dinner, home for school events, home for nagging me to study, home for being my Dad.

When… I coughed. When are you leaving me? That wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant to ask, When are you leaving?

Since before my conscious memory, Mom and Dad would disappear on Space Survey missions for a year or two, come home for a few brief months, and go off again, leaving me with Aunt Manda. From a conversation—that is, a heated argument—I shouldn’t have overheard, I figured out that I wasn’t exactly a planned child. I think the words Dad used were unexpected blessing. Mom’s were logistical complication. Of course they loved me, but their jobs were Out There. Still, try explaining that to a six-year-old.

Aunt Manda, Mom’s sister, had been my anchor, my security blanket, my counselor, and my third parent all rolled together.

No, I burst out before he could answer. Not this time. I’m coming with you.

Other parents took their kids. I’d found that out eventually. These ships had daycares and schools. But never for me.

Dad’s shoulders rose. He raised his eyes to mine without a response.

Dad, you promised you would never leave me. I was only ten when he made that promise, to make up for Mom, who couldn’t make that kind of promise, ever.

You don’t know what you’re asking, Brandon, he said very, very softly.

So tell me. I crossed my arms. What was so important that he would quit his job and put on the uniform again?

Esperanza. It’s time to complete the Esperanza mission.

My heart skipped a beat. Esperanza. Just the name of that planet was a knife. I sucked in a deep breath to fill the whirling emptiness inside my chest.

Esperanza. I said it aloud. I could handle it. And it made a weird kind of sense, too. Esperanza was a huge loose end, a dangling thread that could unravel both of us. It made sense to go back together.

I’m in, Dad. Yeah. Count me in.

To my great surprise, he didn’t immediately argue. His hands slid up and down his thighs as he rocked back, considering. I suppose I knew you’d feel that way about it.

I waited.

His eyes lit on our final family portrait, a small, printed photo tucked on the shelf between Aunt Amanda’s origami creations. He nodded once. I’m a man of my word.

I jumped to my feet, before he could change his mind. Small worry—he never did. Should I start packing? When do we leave?

Excited, are you? Dad’s slightly sad smile erased the stress lines from his forehead. Not for about nine months. There’s a lot to plan and prepare. My crew to select and sign on. A ship to be refitted and re-commissioned. That all takes time. But don’t worry. It will fly.

It had better fly, I said, deliberately misunderstanding. Because I’m not planning to step aboard a ship that crashes.

Oh, dang my joking mouth. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction.

Because that’s just what Mom had done four years ago. Stepped aboard a supply shuttle loaded with relief supplies. Headed down to the war-torn planet Esperanza. Vanished in an unexpected and disastrous crash over the ocean.

Dad’s face tightened. Closed.

I gasped. I didn’t mean—

He’d already read my mind, though. He blinked hard. Stood up. Ruffled his hand through my hair. I know you didn’t, he whispered. It’s okay.

But it wasn’t. We were never going to get past this, not if we never talked about it.

My heart pounded, but I was determined to try. Dad—?

I’ve got heaps of work, he said. Got to turn over the Glenn project.

His back disappeared into his room, and I heard the squeak of his desk chair. When I tiptoed past the door, he wasn’t working. His head was buried in his hands, his thick brown hair poking up between his fingers. The photocube on his desk played a rotating selection of images, five Mom-faces grinning out in all directions.

It was like the accident was yesterday. All over again.

LASTNIGHT

/1\

Nine months.

Between school and the other distractions of life, it did fly. And now, docked at OSP, the Orbital Space Platform, the starship was ready for launch. On-board gardens were seeded, two thousand beds had been made, ship’s stores had calculated supplies for a year’s journey, there and back again. Computers had been loaded—we would be cut off from Earthweb as soon as we hit Transition. Medical was stocked for every foreseeable illness or injury. And my Dad knew how to organize all of this. I was in awe.

Watching him come alive while he prepared the starship was an eye-opener. What I thought of as his happy-Dad mood of the last four years—it was just a shadow of how he could be. Dad’s step had a new bounce. Made me feel guilty for keeping him grounded by a promise all this time. He really did belong Out There.

So I would do my best not to be a problem—or a logistical complication.

With a week and a half still to go before launch and no warning to me, I caught him packing. I know you like to be ahead of the game, Dad, but isn’t it a bit early for that?

I’ve got to do the rest of the team prep from Earthbase, he said. I’m heading up tomorrow.

You’re ditching me. My heart stopped. How could he have been leading me on all this time?

Dad grabbed my shoulders. Brandon. I’m not ditching you. I’m going ahead. In exactly nine days we’ll be moving the ship into orbit around Luna. You’ll come aboard then.

I grabbed his shoulders right back and glared down at him. Did it ever occur to you I might like to see Earth? And the Space Platform? And the Space Elevator?

He raised one eyebrow in surprise. Clueless. Oh. Sorry, Spidey. I miscalculated—thought you’d want to spend the last week with your mates at school. Have a farewell party or something. Amanda’s planning it already.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. That’s…nice. But honestly, I’d much rather get the heck off this dusty old rock. What’s the point of stretching it out? No one’s going to miss me.

Dad’s lips twisted into a sideways smile. What about Amanda? She already bought five-dozen frozen shrimp.

Not a problem. I’ll eat them tonight.

•  •  •

Next day, we shuttled from Lunabase to the OSP—one terminal of the Space Elevator, the thirty-six thousand kilometer slide from the platform up to Mother Earth. For all I’d begged to be included, this part of the trip was a snooze. Belted into my seat on the elevator train, the six-hour transit passed in a blur for me, only the black of space overhead, until at the very end, we broke through Earth’s atmosphere. Just as it was about to get interesting, the viewroofs of the train capsules opaqued, so we wouldn’t get motion sick and upchuck all over the other passengers while we free-fell toward the land and sea. I’d wanted more than anything to see the equator, the black band that circles the Earth. When I confessed my disappointment to Dad, he laughed so loud that fifty heads turn to stare at us. What? What’d I say? I asked.

When he could breathe again, he wiped his eyes. It’s imaginary, kiddo. An imaginary line.

So why did everyone make such a big deal about it? I’ve been hoodwinked, I said. Completely. I suppose next you’ll tell me there’s no Arctic Circle, either.

Dad chuckled. That, there is. Great big floating platform for the Polar Bear refuge, where there once were thousands of square kilometers of ice. Hundreds of kilometers in circumference. It’s the largest manmade artifact you can see from space.

Polar Bears are real? Dang.

Earth was going to be full of surprises.

/2\

Everything was luxurious up here on Earth, from unlimited shower time—daily!—to the spaceport hotel king-size bed, the tallest, widest, most comfortable thing I’d ever slept on. When my watchcom chirped, I flicked the snooze icon, going for a few more minutes of z’s, and sank deep into my pile of pillows. Unfortunately, I got more than I asked for, the full-blown horror show of a morning-mare.

In less than a decan of seconds, I was halfway back to sleep. Then without warning, the softness of the bed became the hard tug of gravity, mashing me into a cockpit seat. Straps across my chest held me in place as we plunged, twisting out of control toward a vast ocean planet. Next to me—I couldn’t turn my head, but I knew anyway—was Mom, my co-pilot on this mission. She barked orders, nonsense orders: Stabilizers to nineteen, harley-grinder to negative, watch your trajection grip.

I struggled to read the controls, labeled in a curly script that might be Elvish or Arabic. My eyes blurred. Sweat puddled in the small of my back. My hands slipped. I couldn’t right the shuttle. The bucking vessel hurtled through atmosphere, re-entry heat beginning to blister the inside walls. My cheeks burned.

Mom, I tried to call, but only a hoarse whisper came from my tight throat. And then I realized her chair was empty. She was gone, AWOL, her post abandoned. It was up to me to land this craft.

Wind screamed as I plummeted. The low-pitched growl of the failing engines stopped, and the ship nosedived into a headlong spiral. Gripping the control stick like my life depended on it, I fought the inevitable, tried to pull up. And at the same time, part of my mind grew distracted with the thought—I’m a kid, just a kid. I’m not a pilot. It’s the nightmare again.

The dang nightmare. I had to eject myself from this horror. Eject.

A large red button caught my eye, and I pressed. The seat wrenched loose and blasted through the cockpit ceiling, and then I was falling, falling, tangled helplessly in my parachute silk. The ocean rushed up to meet me.

Brandon, a voice said. Kiddo?

I gasped, hit the water, pulled under, weighted down with sheets and sheets of silk.

Oh, sheets! Dad pulled back the sheets, and I surfaced, breathing hard. My heart pounded. My skin was slick with sweat.

Dad, I said. Thanks.

You were yelling. Nightmare?

Yep. Same one, I said. Every night this week.

Want to talk about it? It was the first time he’d asked. Great. Bad timing.

No, I’m fine, I lied. Because I knew I couldn’t bring it up today, throw him off his stride. He was scheduled for the all-crew welcome this morning, Lastnight festivities tonight, and triple-L tomorrow: Lift and Loading and Launch. Dang. This morning wasn’t the time to peel back the mental bandage and examine the wound. But later, we’d do it. Together. I hoped.

We both had a mission. To revisit the past. To complete the uncompleted. To bring badly needed relief, five years late, to the colonists of Esperanza. To finish what Mom couldn’t, as a tribute to her. At least, that was my mission.

Dad smoothed my hair, which had gone through a major tossing/turning catastrophe. I hate to wake you with this news, kiddo, but I have to lift up to the ship right after Welcome. He was already dressed, soft white shirt tucked into his dress black pants tucked into ankle boots. Ready to roll. Last minute details. A couple shakedown bugs.

We had to miss Lastnight? Crew families had poured into the spaceport hotel all yesterday. Hundreds of Earthers. I hadn’t met anyone yet, hadn’t started making friends. Sure, I had a year of flight time ahead of me, but still...

Okay. I’ll pack, I murmured.

Dad picked up my disappointment. Just me, I mean. I’ve arranged for you to spend tonight with another family.

Wait! Strangers? Two seconds ago I’d been dying to meet new people. People I hadn’t known and gone to school with all my life. People whose faces weren’t as familiar as my own. So why was my stomach pitching like I was still on the dream shuttle to death?

Dad laughed at my outburst. Then his hazel eyes darkened to brown, the way they always did when he was serious. Great friends, he said, patting my shoulder. You just don’t know each other yet. Trust my judgment, Spidey.

Okay. He wouldn’t dump me with just anybody, I told myself.

That’s my boy. The mattress reshaped as he stood.

My stomach regained equilibrium and growled. Breakfast?

I ate two hours ago, sleepyhead. I’ll see you over at the port auditorium at oh-nine-hundred.

So I was all alone again as I headed down to the over-the-top breakfast buffet. The doors opened on Level One, where a family of four waited to get on. The two kids, mouths covered with jam and crumbs, gazed up at me. All the way up. Even their parents craned their necks. I didn’t blush or hunch my shoulders. I was getting used to the stares of Earthers who’d never seen the lanky height of someone Luna-raised.

At the start of the food line, I grabbed two trays. Over the past week, I learned it takes more energy to live in full gravity. Plus I was building new muscles or having another danged growth spurt. My excuse, anyway.

Sliding along, I loaded up one tray with liquids—two milk pouches, three acai-raspberry juices, and a mini-carafe of pumpkin-maple syrup, because I’d seen a fresh flatcake bin arriving from the kitchen. Tray number two, my carbo-tray, was for transporting a tall stack of flatcakes, a bagel—that’s a doughnut without any sugar—and a pastry labeled blubbery muffin, shaped like a giant mushroom with purple spots. I added a handful of tiny tubs—creamed cheese, jelly, and butter. I was missing proteins, a problem easily fixed with a plate of actual sausages and bacon.

Carefully balancing the trays, one on each hand, I spotted an empty table. A server with a steaming tray of eggs caught my attention, and then just beyond and behind him, a pair of wide gray eyes staring out of the prettiest face on Earth. Those bright, curious eyes distracted me. Fatally.

My foot hooked a ripple in the carpet, and I flew forward, trays leading the way, pouches and baked goods at escape velocity. My head caught the server in the back of the knees, and scrambled eggs ejected themselves onto the innocent bystanders at the bagel station. Collateral damage.

For the longest moment of my life, I lay on the floor, surrounded by mayhem, flatcakes, and small yellow curds. A pair of giggles roused me. I looked into those fatal gray eyes and blinked. Her eyebrows rose in astonishment and her friend gasped—the usual reaction to my oddly mismatched eyes, blue on the left and brown on the right.

I rolled to my knees to retrieve the runaway breakfast, my face red hot. A pale Luna complexion hides nothing.

Hunched at a corner table, facing the corner, I picked apart a dusty muffin. A vaccumbot slurped away the rest of the evidence from the floor. It