CassaStorm (14 page)

 
That’s it. Deep breaths.
A gentle pat on the back accompanied his father’s words.

Bassan rubbed his eyes. The hold on his body eased and he peered up at his father’s concerned face. A hand alongside his cheek caused him to turn his head. Guilt clutched at his throat when Bassan noted tears in his mother’s eyes. He wasn’t ever supposed to do anything that would make her cry.

I’m sorry!
he thought, uttering an audible sob.

Oh Bassan, it’s not your fault,
she thought, stroking his forehead.
You just scared us.

His father’s arms shifted. Pressed against his father’s chest, Bassan felt a deep sigh through his cheek.
You’re all right now. Just relax.

After a few minutes, his father set him on the edge of the bed. No longer snuggled against a warm body, Bassan noticed a chill in the air. His shirt was damp yet again Had he really sweated so much it drenched his shirt? His father tugged off Bassan’s shirt and his mother pulled a fresh one over his head.

Come on
, his father thought, holding up the sheets.

Bassan crawled under the covers. His parents settled on either side of him, adjusting the blankets around his body. They appeared so tired.

I’m sorry
, Bassan repeated.

Don’t be sorry,
his mother thought, placing a hand on his chest.

What were you dreaming?
his father thought.
Can you show me?

Bassan struggled to recall his dream. Other than a blinding light, he couldn’t remember. His father’s presence entered his mind, but Bassan couldn’t recollect the nightmare of the past few nights. His father frowned, his shoulders sagging.

I’ll take him to medical tomorrow,
his mother thought.

His father nodded and Bassan cringed.
What will they do to me?

They’ll talk to you,
his mother thought, stroking his hair.
Probably access your mind to discover what is scaring you.

No deep mind probe,
his father thought.

Bassan suppressed a cry. That sounded more frightening than his dreams.
I’m sorry! I’ll try to remember.

It’s all right,
his mother thought, her tone soothing.
Hopefully they can help you without resorting to that.

They better,
thought his father, rubbing his eyes.
Bassan, you ready to go back to sleep?

Yes, sir,
thought Bassan. The conviction in his father’s mental voice set him at ease. He feared someone digging deep into his mind, accessing his private thoughts.

His parents told him goodnight, dimming the room light to the lowest setting as they left. Grasping the edge of the covers, Bassan pulled them tight under his chin. A chill ran through his body.

Why can’t I remember? he thought.

With the strange alien ship approaching, you’d think we wouldn’t have classes anymore,
thought Drent as they stepped onto the large court.

It’s not approaching us
, thought Bassan, falling in line with the other boys. Alarmed, he glanced up at his friend.
Is it?

Not yet,
thought Drent, placing his hands behind his back and standing at attention.

Bassan stared at his friend, waiting for details, but Drent kept his gaze forward. Shuffling his feet, Bassan assumed a similar position. I bet I’ll be the last to know, he thought, grumbling at that prospect.

The boys were divided into teams. Bassan was dismayed to discover Drent on the opposing team. He wasn’t very good at this game and the other boys almost never passed the ball to him. Without Drent to assist him, Bassan doubted he would even touch the ball today.

His team possessed the ball first. Three steps and pass. Bassan ran alongside his teammates, keeping pace with the ball. He knew he’d never acquire the ball, but at least he looked like he was trying. Three steps and pass. The ball kept moving, inching closer to goal. Bassan got into position, just in case. A moment later, one of his teammates flung the ball at the narrow opening. The ball whooshed through the round hole and bounced down the receptacle tube before emerging at the bottom. Their team had scored first.

Up and down the court they raced. Three steps and pass. Bassan was open several times, but no one bothered to look his direction, let alone pass him the ball. Growing impatient, he shoved his way through the crowd. Stepping in front of a taller teammate, Bassan shifted to the side. No one was guarding him. Noting the opportunity, he held up his hands and waved at the boy with the ball. His teammate hesitated, his eyes scanning the crowded court. Turning toward Bassan, he bounced the ball in his direction. Calculating the ball’s trajectory, Bassan stepped forward to catch it.

A rough shove on his left side knocked Bassan to the floor. He braced his body for impact even as his gaze remained fixed on the ball. The boy who’d knocked him to the ground caught the ball and turned to shoot at the goal. Bassan hit the floor hard, the force jarring his head. He gasped as much from pain as indignation. His own teammate had pushed him out of the way.

A buzzer indicated a break. Bassan rolled over and pulled himself to his knees. Placing one foot on the floor, he leaned on his leg and prepared to rise.

Guess you tripped.

Bassan looked up. The boy who’d knocked him down now hovered over him.

Klutzy half-breed,
Senge thought, sneering at Bassan before turning to join the others on the sideline.

His father’s words returned to him. Find the strength. Anger welled up inside of Bassan. Clenching his fists, he launched himself at Senge.

Wrapping his arms around the larger boy’s middle, Bassan threw his weight into the motion. A burst of surprise escaped Senge’s thoughts as they fell. Bassan’s elbows slammed into the floor and he managed to adjust his position enough to avoid crushing his hands. His chin racked against Senge’s back bone, sending a jolt of pain through his jaw. Bassan uttered a muffled cry.

He didn’t have time to think about his aching jaw and elbows though. Serge’s body twisted and Bassan caught an elbow in the face. The force shoved him off the boy’s back, but his left arm lie trapped. Using his free hand, he swung at Senge. His blows connected, including one to his opponent’s face. The boy punched back, catching Bassan in the stomach.

Someone grabbed his arm. Bassan swung again, but this time he connected with empty air. Several boys had seized Senge and pulled him off Bassan. An arm wrapped around Bassan’s middle, holding him in place.

“Stop at once!”

Officer Tarcon’s voice drilled into his head. No longer able to reach Senge, Bassan ceased all movement. Moisture gathered on his upper lip and his stomach ached from the blows. Bringing his knees closer to his chest, Bassan reached for his nose.

“That is enough,” said Officer Tarcon, stepping between the boys. “Who started this?”

“Bassan jumped me!” said Senge, brushing off the restraining hands.

“You shoved me to the ground to get the ball!” Bassan countered, removing his hand from his nose. As expected, he was bleeding.

“Is that what happened?” Officer Tarcon asked, turning his attention to Senge.

The boy scowled. “I was just going for the ball.”

“I saw you shove him to the floor,” said the boy restraining Bassan. He recognized Drent’s voice.

“Is this true?” Officer Tarcon took a step toward Senge.

Bassan glanced over his shoulder. Drent’s anxious expression greeted him.

You’re a mess
, Drent thought. He patted Bassan’s shoulder.
Damn, didn’t think you had it in you.

Wiping his nose again, Bassan sat upright.
Got tired of being called a half-breed.

What?

His friend released him and rose to his feet. “Senge, I dare you to call me a half-breed to my face!” said Drent, stepping over Bassan’s body.

Mevine’s son had everyone’s attention now. Senge glanced at his friends, as if looking for support.

“Drent, stand down,” warned Officer Tarcon, holding out a restraining hand.

“No, you wouldn’t dare call me a half-breed,” said Drent. “Coward!”

Senge leapt forward. Drent was ready for him and ducked as the other boy swung his fist. Shoving his shoulder into Senge, Drent began wailing on his classmate’s body. Bassan gasped, distraught that his friend was now involved in the fight.

The lights in the court grew bright. Bassan dropped his chin and closed his eyes. To his dismay, it didn’t block out the blinding light. Bassan’s heart pounded in his chest. The sound reverberated in his ears, drowning out all other noises. The light pulsated faster, sending images flying past his eyes. The same images as his nightmares. Engulfed in fear, Bassan cried out for help.

The light faded. Still unable to see, Bassan reached out with his hand. Someone grabbed his arm.

“Are you all right? Bassan!”

He gasped as the haunting images vanished from his mind. His body shaking, Bassan dropped his forehead to his arm. It was then that he realized he was face down on the floor.

“Officer Tarcon, something is really wrong!”

Bassan recognized Drent’s voice. He recalled his surroundings and pressed his eyelids together even tighter.

Don’t cry, he thought, balling his hands into fists. Not here.

Aware of the many bodies pressing closer, Bassan buried his face as a single tear dropped.

Please make it stop, he thought.

Chapter Eight

Byron strode through the double doors, his fingers locked around his computer tablet. The medical officer in the hall jumped at his sudden appearance.

“I’m looking for my son,” said Byron, reigning in his annoyance.

“Commander!” the officer replied, fumbling with the bottles in his hands. “He’s down here, sir.”

Byron followed the man, his boots striking the floor with force. He did not have time for this nonsense. The probe’s position within the Torbeth’s solar system was a far greater issue. The fate of an entire race might be decided within the hour. And here he was retrieving his son from medical because of a fight.

Why did I send Athee to speak with Ubarce this afternoon? he thought.

The medical officer paused and gestured toward a room on the right. Byron rounded the corner, still seething. His pace slowed when he caught sight of his son seated on the edge of the examining table.

“Commander Byron,” said the medical officer attending to Bassan.

The man stepped aside and Byron approached his son. Bassan lowered the cold pack from his face, revealing dark circles forming under his eyes. Every part of the boy’s body sagged, threatening to melt right off the table. Thoughts of remorse flooded from Bassan’s mind, tinged with embarrassment. Bassan had never appeared more forlorn or dejected. Viewing his son in such a condition caused Byron’s irritation to subside.

“How is he?” Byron asked the medical officer. He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder and Bassan cringed at his touch. Byron frowned, stung by the reaction.

“Sir, he’ll have some bruising, but nothing is broken.”

Tearing away from the pain in his son’s eyes, Byron turned to the medic. “His instructor said he was convulsing. He’s also experienced nightmares the past few nights. Any connection?”

“Sir, not one we discovered. We ran several tests and found nothing out of the ordinary. He’ll bruise under his eyes due to the hit on his nose, but otherwise he is fine.”

Byron nodded. The man returned the gesture and departed. Turning his attention to his son, Byron discovered Bassan’s head down. He squeezed his shoulder.

Father, I’m sorry
, Bassan thought.

The tremble in his mental voice told Byron that his son avoided speaking for a reason. Byron shifted the position of his hand to the back of Bassan’s neck and pulled his head back. As suspected, tears had formed in his son’s eyes.

“Bassan,” he said, trying to find the words that would soothe his son’s nerves. “Your instructor told me what happened. I’m not mad at you.”

Bassan swallowed and a single tear escaped. Averting his gaze, he raised the back of his hand to his face. Byron gave his neck a squeeze.

“We’ll talk about it later. Now, Officer Tarcon said he’d sent your class uniform and tablet as well?”

Bassan pointed at a spot near the door. Locating his son’s bag against the wall, Byron retrieved it from the floor and assisted Bassan from the table. Draping an arm around his shoulders, Byron led his son from the room.

The medical unit sat next to the main building, providing easy access between the two. Byron was grateful his office resided closer to this end. He needed to check the latest development concerning the alien ship. Already the tablet in his hand held three messages. None had emitted an urgent beep upon arrival though, and Byron continued walking with his son.

Upon entering his office, Byron pulled one of the chairs into a corner behind his desk. “You’ll have to wait here until your mother can get you,” he said, indicating Bassan was to take a seat. Pulling the tablet out of the bag, Byron handed it to his son when he was situated. “Work on your studies and do not interrupt me, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bassan, his eyes on the items in his lap.

Byron grasped the hand that held the cold pack and lifted it to his son’s face. “And keep this on your nose,” he said in a gentler tone.

Pouring a glass of water, Byron set it on a shelf beside his son, and returned to his desk. He skimmed through the messages, noting one from Mevine. Saving it for last, he responded to the others before reading the transcript from his science officer.

Mevine found another transmission? he thought. Why isn’t this marked high priority?

Punching the keyboard on his main computer, Byron summoned the senior officer. Mevine answered without delay.

“Commander, I was just about to contact you,” the science officer said, his voice wavering with excitement.