Bingo. The computer flashed a “restricted information” block as he tried to call up one of the buried files that the computer had matched with Palin. A few moments later, his override code gave him access to the file he wanted.

He leaned back and skimmed through the file, skipping the basic biographical information to get to the meat of the situation.

Jesus Christ, what on earth is this? Weston scanned through the document, comparing the embedded picture quickly against his memory. Yes, this is Palin—a lot younger, maybe, but definitely him. The old CIA document described Dr. Edward Palin’s contribution to their Black Ops projects in the early years after the turn of the millennium. Hundreds of experiments and documented evidence revolving around Palin’s reported abilities.

Dr. Palin was classified as a linguistic telepath. Whatever the hell that is. Weston’s mood had grown darker. And you’d think that whoever assigned him would have thought to inform me about his alleged abilities. Still, Weston had to admit that the file was impressive; it documented cases of Palin cracking encrypted algorithms faster than an array of networked supercomputers, as well as his uncanny ability to learn spoken languages literally overnight. Weston was still delving into Palin’s rather extensive record when Roberts’s voice came over the ship’s intercom.

“Captain, we’re about to clear the tidal range.”

“On my way, Commander. Notify the ship to be ready for another hop through transitional space.”

“Yes, sir.” Weston could hear the distaste in the commander’s voice.

Once more into the abyss. Weston smiled to himself, shoving aside his misgivings and personal dislike of the transition drive. He couldn’t afford to show the crew that their captain didn’t trust the very thing they were depending on.

“All right!” the former Marine Force Recon sergeant said. “I’ve got thirty bucks that says I can make the all-time standing long-jump record, here and now, and not toss my cookies when I land!”

“You’re on!” Bermont grinned, slapping a pair of bills down on the table. “I saw your face after the last one, Rogers, and you just ate, so I know you’re gonna spatter the deck.”

Loud cries echoed around the room as others got in on the wager, some betting with the marine, some with the JTF2 lieutenant. Chief Corrin shook her head and tried to pretend that the rank and file weren’t betting on who was going to vomit all over her decks.

Back on the ship’s command deck, Weston appraised each officer in an attempt to determine their stress levels. He was satisfied that his command staff was up to the task. And even Waters seemed well recovered from his earlier state.

“We are a go in three minutes.” The navigation officer didn’t glance up from his instruments as he configured the course corrections.

“Engage transition drive when ready.”

“Aye, sir.”

Seconds ticked down as the Odyssey pulled itself clear of the star’s gravity well, reaching for deep space as its massive reactors charged the tachyon transition system. Captain Weston involuntarily gripped the arms of his chair as the countdown started at one minute; he imagined that the rest of the crew felt the same. Transitional space was hardly a vacation.