Allie and the Navigators: ALLIE SPACE OPERA, #2

By Mark Bossingham

Roswell Army Air Force base, 3 a.m., June 15, 1947. A shape appears from the shadows and taps Major Delbert D. Johnson on the forehead. The alien points a glowing raspberry rod at an adjacent table. "That one said you are a navigator."

 

Indomitable Allie, Intelligent Dreadnought 1, and the gang race home to Prime after surviving a deadly encounter with the Lost Fleet and its dangerous leader, Marine transport vessel Naomi Clevenger.

 

Everyone knows there are no aliens in the Milky Way. But when a pair of flying saucers land on battle cruiser Miku assumptions are turned upside down. Somewhere, somehow, Navigators are crossing galaxies at speeds that would make FTL pilots blush.

 

Soon, Allie, Rin, and the Marines are fighting for their lives against Gleep, the evil commander of the Navigation Guild on distant planet Kazor, and a rapacious fleet of bug ships crewed by arachnids.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bossingham
• Release date: Feb 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224064878

Book preview

ONE

The storm-colored craft hovered ten miles above Roswell Army Air Force base at three a.m. June 15, 1947. A shape appeared from the shadows and tapped Major Delbert D. Johnson on the forehead. The alien pointed a glowing raspberry rod at an adjacent table. That one said you are a navigator.

Johnson turned his head. A woman wearing a soiled red dress lay on her back, secured to a metal table by wrists and ankles. A pint of Four Roses whiskey peeked from a paper bag at her feet. The scene reminded him of the base morgue with its cold, metal tables and eerie stillness. Johnson fought to sit up. A blinding light engulfed him and clamps holding him to the table cinched tighter.

Move again and I will cause you pain.

Johnson couldn’t see beyond the edge of the table but sensed he was aboard an aircraft. His tormentor leaned closer. Its breath smelled like a decomposing rat. As a child, Delbert devoured comics about extraterrestrials and invasions of Earth. He stared at the naked alien: wrinkled gray skin, head too large, dead black eyes—and fangs. Johnson bit his tongue to keep from screaming and blood trickled from his lips.

A speaker crackled overhead. The storm is increasing in tempo. Novice saucer pilot Krad is over a ranch fifty miles distant and requests permission to climb above the weather.

Grak banged his probe on the exam table, launching a storm of pink sparks that danced and descended, scorching the captive Earthling. Another peep out of you, pilot, and you’ll get the probe instead of the Earthling. Instruct Krad to close on the mothership and remind her she gets paid to fly in lousy weather.

Probe Excelsior Grade Two Grak ran a liver-colored tongue over his stained fangs and watched with pleasure as the abductee struggled to free itself from the restraints. His voice cracked like a bullwhip. Are you a navigator?

No, no. I’m an Army doctor.

Grak threw the probe into the darkness, and it clattered off the fuselage. We’ll never find a navigator on this cursed planet. We could probe the entire population and⁠—

A whisper floated through the exam bay.

Pilot, did you say something?

Yes…ooh…ah…uh.

Speak up, moron. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.

The pilot, a distant cousin of the imperial family, said, My apologies, Probe Excelsior, but it is my duty to remind you the mothership records all sessions. The Grand Emperor hears all. Praise certainly, but also heresy.

Grak retrieved the probe from the deck and sighed. The last Grand Emperor had died fifteen thousand years before, but his inbred offspring still didn’t get it: There were no navigators in this sector of space, and without a navigator they would never get home.

Grak was due to retire soon and had a pension and a ramshackle cottage he was renovating to protect. Should he apologize? Grak was sarcastic, foul-mouthed, and cruel. Stick to what they expect, he decided. They might miss heresy, a phony apology, never.

He banged his probe on the hatch to the flight deck and shouted, Shut your piehole, nitwit. Get off your ass, memory-wipe the soldier and dump him where we found him. He’ll be missed. Designate the woman for the slave transport.

As you command, Probe Excelsior, but⁠—

But what? Grak peeled the label off the half-empty bottle of Four Roses with a knife-edged fingernail.

I’ve lost contact with Krad’s scout ship. I suspect she crashed.

Bought the farm, huh? Grak took a pull on the bottle.

Should we try to recover her remains and the ship? For her family?

Nah, leave it. It will give the Earthlings something else to lie about.

TWO

Uzork strapped a nine-year-old into the worn but serviceable craft and pushed it out of the shed. Asked why a laundry worker would exhaust his family’s savings on a beat-up flyer, he said truthfully that he had long dreamed of flight. He didn’t need to touch the stars, he lied, the clouds were high enough. Uzork didn’t take offense when his coworkers scoffed and said flight was not for launderers, that he should keep his feet on the ground.

The laundry’s night shift bully punched him in the shoulder and asked if the saucer was ribbon-capable. Sweating workers in stained singlets, black rubber aprons and knee-high boots laughed at the notion. Uzork smiled agreeably and waited until he was alone to rub his shoulder.

The saucer, four meters across, spent two months hidden in the backyard shed. The used saucer dealer had winked and chiseled off the craft’s registration number, guild runes, and burned its ribbon certificate, all serious crimes. He overcharged Uzork, pocketed the cash, and shredded all paperwork connecting him to the foolish launderer and the saucer.

Uzork worked diligently on the craft. After much scrubbing, a bout with recurring tendinitis slowed Uzork. He accepted the original paint—a dessert swirl of strawberry and white—would never give up the baked-in grime and the clear bubble on top would remain scratched.

Twice a year, guild academies all over the planet evaluated navigator hopefuls. Stratospheric fees did nothing to deter a stream of applicants. They received classroom instruction in safety procedures, training in simulators, and a chance to observe certified navigators at work in shiny, meticulously maintained saucers. Then they launched. The children got one orbit, or two, but only one failure. Not one in ten thousand succeeded. The kids, dreams dashed, were sad but recovered.

Most parents expressed disappointment but were secretly relieved. My child is normal, they thought. A round peg in a round hole. Not like the others. Children should not throw tantrums in public, should not move in mysterious ways, or talk funny. Few would trade their flightless children for the scorned oddballs who flew between the stars.

Uzork didn’t have money for a fancy academy, didn’t know a soul to point the way to the rare scholarship. He grunted as he pushed the saucer through a flower bed onto the lawn. He looked up at a window on the second floor of his wooden house, at his wife silhouetted in soft yellow light. He knew what she thought. Poor people remained on the ground. Yes, he admitted, he hadn’t questioned the dealer. Yes, it was likely stolen from the navigator guild’s mothballed fleet.

Breathing hard, he rested his head on the saucer’s hull. A hand reached down to help him up. Zola, the daughter he loved. Uzork loved her stutter and vast spectrum of unexpected emotions no less than her amazing smile. He didn’t have much money, he shouldn’t own a saucer, but Zola would fly.

She hugged him and watched. After fixing an ignition malfunction with a hard smack to the console, he double-checked the cloaking system. Hands on wheel and throttle, feet on pedals, Uzork held his breath and guided the saucer into the air. He heard Zola gasp as they hovered above the street and the pastel-painted row houses.

Uzork’s piloting skills were minimal, learned on a sim at a local pub. He worried about landing when they arrived. One thousand meters above his house, he dimmed the cabin lights and nudged the thrusters. The child smiled with delight when they entered orbit.

A proximity warning buzzed on the navigation console. Uzork looked out the bubble, spotted the running lights of an approaching craft and turned to port. The red light stopped blinking. He held Zola’s hand. Remember, I told you getting out of here wouldn’t be easy?

But you said they couldn’t see us, we’d be cloaked.

Maybe, maybe not. At least we’re small and it’s crowded. He pointed at two blue dots on the screen. That’s the repair yard and that’s the freight facility.

Zola put her thumb on the screen. And that big white one is the spaceport. Thousands of spacers having fun waiting for their saucers. You think I don’t know all this? Everybody knows, Dad.

Uzork sighed. She’s irritated. It’s hard having a child smarter than you. I’m sorry, I don’t want to patronize you.

Then don’t. Get us out of this traffic. She grinned. The red dots are warships. See the green ones? There’s hundreds of them. Those are civilian vessels. Don’t hit any of them and I’ll take over.

Okay, Captain. He kissed Zola on the cheek. The emperor and all Kazor will celebrate when we return. Navigators are rare. You must be prepared for changes.

She squeezed his knee and laughed. You must be prepared for prison.

Uzork steered past a cargo tug rounding up barges for a freight train. It would be worth it, but I am hoping for forgiveness. If you fly the ribbon…

Zola had heard this lecture before and stopped listening. She didn’t care that only Kazor produced navigators. Or about abductions by pirates, slavers, and traffickers that had ended generations before. Stolen, coerced, often tortured—the navigators made no complaint. They flew as ordered by their captors. But their ribbons always destabilized, and they died brokenhearted.

With navigator numbers dwindling and trade threatened, planets of many galaxies formed a consortium to protect Kazor. Warships crewed by arachnids, aquatics, methane-breathers, robots, and humanoids established a cordon sanitaire around Kazor and dissuaded or destroyed vessels approaching without clearance. A massive bureaucracy grew up to regulate and profit from the planet’s most valuable resource.

Zola wiped her palms on her thighs as her dad avoided a nine-deck passenger liner. The liner eased toward a waiting guild saucer. Crimson lasers reached out, mated at twenty meters and a cold blue light flashed indicating a successful AI link.

Uzork’s aging saucer was old and slow, and it was hours before they were free of the spaceport and the shipping lanes. He uncloaked to save power and steered the saucer into the clear.

It is her first try. I may be nervous, I may be clueless, but I am not alone. The emperor, the guild commander, the savants—no one understands how the navigators do what they do. Not for lack of trying—they measure, they record—charts and graphs—check and triple-check.

Zola announced she was a navigator at breakfast. She was seven years old. Uzork choked on his oatmeal but wasn’t surprised, all the signs were there. He promised himself he wouldn’t press or push. A year later, and after three beers at the pub, curiosity tickled. He tucked her in bed and whispered: How do navigators fly?

I have not flown.

But you will. You know.

Yes. She put Uzork’s hand on her head. In here. I see all the ribbons that came before—hop on, hop off, and I see new ribbons I can create.

Can you simplify it for me?

Okay, imagine a destination, tunnel through space on your ribbon, and pop out the other side.

That sounds easy.

Zola yawned. Easy for me, not for you. Can I go to sleep now?

Uzork kissed his daughter on the cheek. We have the universe in front of us. Your turn.

The big-eyed girl, eyes even wider, smiled at her dad, Where do you want to go?

It was a good day. Uzork understood her question. It wasn’t always so. Somewhere nearby? We don’t want to worry your mother.

I see a place. It’s pretty. Trees with red leaves and animals.

Uzork smiled, trying to hide his concern. He knew his daughter—kind, brilliant, and too young to be afraid. He suspected an unmapped planet. Not hop on, hop off. Animals that could bite. Do you remember the navigators’ first commandment?

Zola nodded. Only so far and no farther.

If she remembered that, they should be fine. The universe had rules. There were stop signs. He accepted there were galaxies the navigators of Kazor would never see.

Zola nodded and closed her eyes. A glittering amethyst ribbon dotted with her favorite color, cobalt blue, unfurled in front of the craft. Like a comet’s tail, a ruby red stream trailed behind.

Astronomers on Kazor detected an unregistered ribbon signature, radar telescopes homed in, and alarms went off. A night servant woke the guild commander, dodged a slap, and backed away. Concubines at the foot of the bed rolled over and cursed. A tube of hissing fur with sixteen short legs and no eyes sniffed, snarled, and chased her out magenta double doors inlaid with gold.

Zola opened a rift in space. Uzork felt a bump and heard a sound like cardboard ripping. After cutting an arc across the night sky, the ribbon, the saucer, and its passengers vanished. News programs planetwide broadcast film of Zola’s flight. Viewers held their breath until the saucer disappeared. Millions prayed for the unknown rider’s return, knowing some never made it back. Guild Commander Gleep slipped into a lavender silk robe and summoned his head of security.

THREE

You will remember the way home?

Zola smiled at her father and held his hand. Don’t worry.

Her dad was nervous and making conversation. He knew she wouldn’t forget. There were innumerable things that could go wrong, but navigators never forgot home. The fact comforted both. Mother would be waiting. Zola saw an unexplored planet far away. It looked like fun, but her father might be angry. She locked on and reached for a snack. He would forgive her.

The saucer glided over a transparent jade ribbon so astonishing Uzork cried. Stars winked by as the ribbon’s tail followed the saucer like flaming lava. Uzork prayed as the now-sleeping navigator rolled out a ribbon of burnished copper followed by another, ocean-green, replete with wavelets that bounced the small saucer like a sailboat slipping outside a breakwater.

Eight days later, Uzork regretted not insisting on an explored planet. There were millions to choose from. With rations and water nearly exhausted and the urine recycler on the fritz, they couldn’t last much longer.

The commandment. Only so far had a life-and-death meaning. If a navigator pushed past and no farther the ribbon disintegrated, often leaving the navigator damaged or dead and the tow, passengers, and crew, stranded with no way to get home. One navigator could go this far, another that far. Some could tow a lot, some just a little. But the limits were immutable. Navigators could cross the vastness of space, beyond the imagination of FTL pilots, but no ribbon spanned a universe without end.

Uzork jerked awake as Zola punched her way back into normal space-time. Their ribbon, yellow with emerald swirls, faded. The navigation AI blinked, announced a planet nearby, and the saucer’s impulse drive kicked in. The AI adjusted attitude for entry, Zola unbuckled her harness, leaned on her father, and smiled.

The saucer’s habitability panel buzzed. Uzork pointed at the green readout and smiled at the navigator. We can walk without suits there. She nodded and winked. The wink spoke volumes. Did you think I would drop you in a black hole? Trust me.

He laughed. I apologize. I say stupid things. Your mother tells me so daily.

She said, speaking clearly, I want to walk.

And eat, he said, tapping a string of numbers into the saucer’s data link. There. Loaded and locked.

The link would map the planet for future visitors. He checked the database. Nothing. Never. No one. No safety net and no known planets to run to if things went wrong. Uzork wasn’t surprised Zola was the first. She was an explorer; he knew it in his heart.

He cloaked the craft and entered the atmosphere. The computer chose a landing site it judged safe. Programmed to avoid sentient life, they performed adequately. Still, Uzork was nervous. It had been impossible to test many features of his stolen saucer. He looked down. A narrow river and a forest, leaves changing from yellow to red. Zola, her face pressed to the window, spoke rapidly. He could feel her excitement; it mirrored his. This looked good.

Only one more challenge. The used saucer dealer had urged him to replace the broken autopilot. Uzork had turned him down. He could barely afford takeoff and landing lessons on the sim game. Frills were out of the question.

Don’t worry, Zola said as he hovered over a flat patch near the river. He loved her confidence. The saucer settled on the grass. Uzork hugged Zola. It was harder on the sim.

She laughed. Good job, Dad. We still live.

Eight days on the ribbon. He did a rough calculation: sixty thousand light years. You could span a small galaxy in a day or two on the ribbon—a big one twice that. Unless this planet had a commodity of immense value or was spectacularly entertaining, he doubted that any would follow. Or could. On her first flight, Zola had traveled farther than most navigators ever would.

No scan? Zola asked.

Uzork’s dolphin-gray skin sparkled pink—a blush. Sorry. I’m excited. I forgot. He flipped a switch in the center of the flight console. The saucer’s AI searched for electronic signals and found many.

Zola dozed as the computer constructed its picture of the planet. Twenty-four cloaked munition drones hissed out of ports on the surface of the craft, an automated response indicating sentient life was near. Indiscriminate kamikaze killers, they would crash themselves into life forms the AI judged a threat. Uzork listened as the drone swarm buzzed and formed overhead. He had no control over the drones. Behave yourselves, he thought. Don’t kill anything.

Zola opened her eyes and reclined her seat as the saucer dome dimmed and displayed the planet scan. The AI’s voice was male, and a beat too fast. It also had a fondness for sarcasm. On a launderer’s savings, only mission-critical repairs were possible. An AI re-code was out of budget.

The screen displayed a star chart. Congratulations, Zola, the AI said. "You have delivered us to a system with a yellow dwarf star and one habitable planet. The star is known as Sun and the planet Earth. We are in the land of Mississippi. The view shifted to bipedal life forms engaging in activities in crowded cities and countryside, similar to Uzork’s landing spot.

Not so different from us, Uzork said.

Zola pushed up her sleeve and touched her arm.

Yes, I see, Uzork said. They come in a variety of colors, but none are gray like us. They are unlucky.

Zola laughed and took off her warm fur cap.

Yes. Their flat heads are not as attractive as our pointy ones, Uzork said.

Zola started to count her fingers.

Don’t start. I said not so different. I didn’t say identical.

Uzork knew the scan was an unreliable reporter, limited to broadcast bands within range. His primary concerns were saucer integrity and safety. Both looked fine. The drones registered no Americans within five kilometers.

Anything else, he asked. The saucer would continue scanning until departure, and Uzork would supply—possibly from jail—a copy of the recording to the guild commander when they returned.

Yes, this is of interest, it said. The source is an entertainment broadcast. A series of black and white drawings filled the screen and then a short film of what might be a saucer.

Ah, Zola said, leaning in for a better look.

My goodness, Uzork said. We’ve found the cousins.

They’ve changed, Zola said.

Is there any way to know if they are nearby?

You see what I see, the AI said.

Take a guess.

As you wish. The film of the saucer looks legitimate. Humans are afraid of them. If the illustrations are correct, they have devolved. They assuredly inhabit this sector of space.

Zola shook her head. That’s bad.

You are correct, Zola, the AI said. You will gain renown for finding a cult of crazies lost for twenty-five thousand years. A group no one wanted to find.

After father and daughter donned backpacks and protective gear, Uzork said, Zola, I am proud of your ambition, but to be honest, I would have been happy with a quick trip to an often-visited planet. I do not mind eight days of bad rations and lack of water, but distant, unexplored planets are best left to explorers. I wash clothes for a living.

She patted his hand and pointed at the hatch. But I do not. Let’s go.

Water first, he said, climbed out, and dragged a hose to the river. It was clear and running fast. A test confirmed it wouldn’t kill them. Kneeling on smooth stones, Uzork dipped a hand in the icy water. It tasted delicious. He pointed at a fish swimming in the shallows and said, We won’t starve.

He looked back at Zola waiting on the grass. Uzork could see his daughter but not the cloaked saucer. The cloak seemed first-rate despite its age. But something was bothering her. That was easy to see. He motioned for her to start the pumps. Water flowed from the river to the tanks. She ran across the riverbank toward him. Halfway across, she cloaked herself, leaving only a shimmer, like oil on water. Uzork’s eyes were tuned to detect Zola when cloaked. Alien eyes would see nothing at all.

She reached him and waggled a finger in his face. Sorry, he said, and activated his cloak. His forgetfulness put them in danger. The pump shut off. The tanks were full.

They held hands and explored the forest. Leaves drifted on a breeze and settled on their heads. Zola picked one off and chewed it. She heard a sound, stopped, and crouched. Uzork held one of his three-fingers to his lips and searched his pack for the laser. The weapons’ merchant had said it would stop dangerous creatures they might encounter. But, of course, no guarantees. Uzork had never fired it and didn’t want to. But worse to let an animal eat Zola.

Zola pointed as two four-legged mammals stepped out from the trees. The larger one, as tall as his daughter, had thin legs, short brown fur, and a white tail. The meter-tall baby’s coat was reddish with white spots. Uzork stopped fumbling for the laser and Zola knelt on the forest floor to watch. The animals dipped their necks and fed on plants.

Zola did not move, made no sound, but Uzork could hear her happiness. It was as loud as a falling tree. It pleased him to watch her concentrate on these gentle animals after so long in the saucer. He had no idea how she guided the spacecraft—no one did—but knew it took a heavy toll. No more long journeys. He would insist.

The breeze shifted and the mother lifted her head, searching for predators. She couldn’t see through the cloak but could smell. Her nose twitched, she turned her head and stared at the spot Zola occupied. Uzork expected the animal to flee. It took a step toward Zola and then another. The baby followed. Uzork held his breath as she folded her legs beneath her and lay in the grass next to Zola. The baby settled next to its mother, rested its head on her hindquarters, and slept.

Zola nodded at her father and uncloaked. He managed not to shout a terrified warning. If the sight of a gray-skinned child sitting cross-legged in pink overalls disturbed them, the animals gave no sign. When Zola held out a green leaf, the mother stretched her neck and took it from her hand. The baby woke, tottered to Zola, and curled up in her lap. Zola whispered to her new friends and offered more leaves.

Uzork remained standing, laser in his hand. His daughter was exposed. The likelihood of sentient beings nearby was high. He realized how ill-equipped he was for unexpected events. Zola was a wonderful daughter, but like all navigators, unpredictable. If he ordered her to recloak, she would. If the animals fled? Uzork didn’t know what to do.

Before Zola ran out of leaves, she ran out of strength. Exhausted, she slumped forward and slept, her head resting on the mother’s flank. She munched a few more leaves, rested her neck on Zola’s back, and joined the youngsters in sleep. A ray of warm sunlight pierced the trees and shone down on the three intertwined animals.

Uzork waited ten meters away, his back against a tree. The laser pistol rested on his knee. He recalled tales of distant times and planets where navigators were shunned for the way they talked, the way they moved, and their deviation from the mean. If the tales were true, many died before they had a chance at life. He looked at his sleeping daughter and cried, overwhelmed by love.

FOUR

Allie smelled bacon. Hand over hand, she climbed pancakes, slipped in blueberry syrup, and pulled Naomi toward her. She’d fallen asleep with the egg cradled in the crook of her arm, as she had every night on the voyage from Maia to Federation space and Concordia Prime. Almost awake, eyes still closed, she reached out. No egg. Her heart thumped. She sat up. The cabin registered her movement and glowed night-light blue.

Oh, Pearl. Not again.

Her Yorkshire terrier lay at the end of the bunk, curled around a dinosaur egg. Pearl opened her brown eyes, clutched the egg in her paws, and rested her chin on top. The dog knew Allie was a telek, had seen her throw people, combat mechs, and aircraft around, yet she still hoped to hold on. Allie grinned. She loved the way dogs thought.

During the trip home, with the egg in a basket by her side, Allie practiced daily. One day, she ran out of things to shift, lift, or throw.

ID-1 reacted poorly when Allie pushed the intelligent dreadnought off course.

It was only a little, she said.

You are lucky we were flying on impulse. If you had tried that during FTL⁠—

I’m not an idiot. I waited until we dropped to impulse for Sky’s and Rin’s combat EVA training module.

I’m disappointed. I thought you had changed.

I have. I’m trying, Allie said. Don’t cry, she thought. Even if you want to.

Gem, sitting next to Allie on the bridge, said, We know you’re trying. Ship is angry. Ship, apologize.

I am sorry, Allie. The captain is correct. We all see how hard you work. After⁠—

After I died on Ral?

You didn’t die.

Yes, I did.

But only for a while. I was going to call it⁠—

Allie interrupted. I saw things.

I was going to call it a mishap.

You still think I’m a screw-up.

No one said that, Gem said. You’re a teenager. There’s always bumps in the road. And this, she indicated the bridge of the great ship and the stars beyond, is all yours. You earned it. You own it. As much if not more than any of us. After⁠—

After I died.

Gem laughed. Sorry, not funny, but a little funny. We are going in circles. Remember, you were entrusted with the egg. Not me, Sky, or Rin, and certainly not Ship. You.

You think I’m childish.

Maybe childish is what Naomi needs right now. Maybe it’s what we all need.

I’m as tall as Gem, Allie thought. No more rolling up the cuffs of her used jumpsuits. Allie’s milk-blue eyes twinkled. She pushed a bit, and wiggled Gem’s ears.

Stop that, Gem said. Leave my ears alone, they’re off limits and it tickles.

Docs and med techs at Ortec station had brought Gem back from death. A glitch in the regrow tank