Navigator's Log

Log Entry 04.25.3021, 14:07

hours

There are five of us on this mission

and we’re all nervous as hell.

Fifty colonists dead, two hundred more

dying—how can you not be nervous? The Center’s got the World Health

Organization out here already, and the area’s been quarantined

since last week. So far there haven’t been any new cases, and a few

of the infected even show signs of recovery, but we’re still on

edge because we’re the ones out past the no-fly zone.

We’rethe ones looking for the

origin of the virus.

The mission captain is smart, quick on

his feet, and always good for a laugh. He’s a stocky man, a fact

enhanced by his short stature, and he has a scar running down one

cheek from eye to chin. Every time he laughs, his face reddens and

that scar stands out, livid and white, like neon. His name’s Paol

Frisco and I’ve heard talk about him from other guys at the Center.

They say he’s fun to pal around with, and so far he’s been pretty

cool. He definitely knows what he’s doing, knows this planet like

the back of his hand. When I asked how many times he’s been to

Terra he told me only once, but he says he was born here. I guess

that makes him our resident expert, no?

Then there’s Ansel Eris. He’s the

pathologist, specializing in botanical contagions. I’ve known him

for a while now, and he’s good at what he does when he’s not being

a dick. He’s so damn serious all the time, barely even cracks a

smile and heaven forbid he ever actually laugh. He’s tall

and skinny, lanky in a way that makes you think he hasn’t broken a

sweat in years, and despite the military-style buzz cut he favors,

he still looks like a geek. Add in those safety glasses he always

has on, and you almost expect to see a “Kick Me” sign pinned to the

back of his flight suit whenever he walks by.

Ansel is wicked smart, though, a fact

he won’t let anyone forget. After all, he was the one who isolated

the gene for this disease after the first outbreak five years

ago.

It’s a filovirus like Marburg or

Ebola, but for some reason it doesn’t respond to the typical

hemoflush treatments. On the flight over I read up on the bug, but

there’s not much data on the thing—no one knows the host plant; no

one knows the cure. This go-‘round, it surfaced first in a little

girl, eight years old, playing out in the wastelands with her older

brother. When she got sick, her brother was too scared to remember

where they had been. That’s when we came in.

I said five of us, right? There’s me,

Tylar Daire, navigator. I don’t usually sign up for research

missions, but my old pal Jareth Banagher called to tell me he’d

been stationed on this ship and they needed a star guide, was I in?

What else could I say? Of course I was in. Jareth and I go way

back—we both served the Center as soldiers for years. He

re-enlisted while I went solo, hiring myself out to whoever needed

someone to see their ship through the known planets.

Jareth’s a typical grunt and cornered

me right after we boarded to tell me, on the down-low, he wasn’t

too sure about this mission after all. He doesn’t like fighting

things he can’t see, but there’s always at least one soldier

assigned whenever the Center has a ship out in the field and

Jareth’s a good man to have around, what with his broad chest,

thick muscles, quick reflexes…and the cybernetic modifications he’s

made to his body over the years. He has infrared vision in both

eyes—zoom in the left, GPS in the right—and a couple gigabytes in

his temple for data storage. There’s a USB plug behind his right

ear, hidden beneath his bushy dark hair, but it still freaks me out

every time I see it. Once he even mentioned X-ray capability, and

ever since then, whenever he starts blinking one eye, then the

next, I can’t help but think he’s seeing everyone naked.

He’s a fine soldier, don’t get me

wrong, and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. He’s hellacious

with a gun and he’s got that “do or die” bodyguard mentality

that’ll keep Ansel alive if things get hairy. Which we don’t

expect—this seems like standard fare. Even Ansel isn’t too sure

we’ll find the host plant. He’s been looking for it for

years.

No mission’s complete without a pilot.

Enter Rion Z’ev. Or rather, as he styles himself, the “flying ace.”

This boy was born with wings, let me tell you. And I’m not just

saying that ‘cause I think he’s the sexiest thing in a flight suit

I’ve seen in a long time. On the way to Terra he got us through a

meteor shower with our rear vid screens burned out—we were blind

until we landed at the colony. When I told him he was amazing, he

winked at me. “You don’t know just how amazing I can

be.”

Damned if I didn’t flush at that. At

my age! Like I’m some schoolboy with a hard crush.