Midshipman Henry Gallant in Space (The Henry Gallant Saga) by H. Peter Alesso

interface.”
    “That’s my point,” said Red, getting excited. “After a century of trying, only those who were genetically enhanced could make the neuron interface function efficiently." He waited an uneasy second then added, "Until you.”
    “That’s why you’re special. You were born to be a fighter pilot — a Natural,” concluded Kelsey. “The question everyone wants to know is, are you a once-in-a-century affair, or the first of your kind? You’ll have to admit, it’s a rather intriguing prospect.”
    “That’s why you got into the academy. That’s why you’re here. That’s why Caine was observing you at the mock battle. You’re being watched,” said Red, sucking his checks until he had squished his face into prune.
    “Now you’re exaggerating,” said Gallant, but casting a look over his shoulder, nonetheless.
    “Henry, you've got to think big. This is the century of genetic mind enhancement. It happens, however, that some are more talented than others. That’s why we’re not all pilots,” said Kelsey, blushing.
    “Think of it in terms of a sociological revolution,” said Red, spreading his arms wide to demonstrate the scope of the issue he was addressing.
    “You mean like the Industrial Revolution?” asked Gallant.
    Kelsey touched Gallant’s shoulder, “Exactly. Only while our 22nd Century Mind Revolution may have started with genetically enhanced neuron interfaces, you may be the fore bearer of something different - a future where mind control of AI machines can be accomplished without an interface. Control by mere thought. That’s why Neumann resents you so much.”
    “Oh, so you noticed, did you?” asked Gallant, nodding his head for emphasis.
    “You’re stealing his spotlight,” she said.

-------------------------------
    Gallant had just fallen asleep when he heard Red’s muffled yelping, “Hey, stop poking me! What do you want?”
    “Mr. Gallant? Mr. Gallant?” a whispered voice queried.
    “No. He’s in the upper,” growled Red, as he rolled over to return to sleep.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Huh ..., Mr. Gallant?” said the intruder redirecting his attention to the top bunk. “It’s Chief Howard, sir. I need you to get up right away. I need you in the communication shack. An emergency data feed from a space probe is arriving. Do you hear me? Mr. Gallant…?”
    “Lights,” said Gallant. They came on, just as he sprang from his bunk. He had one leg into his trousers and one arm into his shirt, even while he was stepping into a shoe.
    “Can I come too?” asked Red, throwing off his blanket.
    Howard shrugged, deferring to Gallant.
    Gallant said, “Get dressed.” But he didn’t wait. He followed Howard at full speed through the common room on the way to CIC.
    Gallant was surprised at how fast Red moved his bulky frame when he arrived only a spilt second behind.
    Howard said, “Haggman, explain the nature of the data dump to Mr. Gallant.”
    “Yes, Chief,” said Haggman. “Sir, we are receiving a directional burst transmission from Deep Space Probe 161. That probe has been on a reconnaissance mission near Saturn for the past four months. It began transmitting an unscheduled data dump just seven minutes ago. The usual dump is on the first of the month. That optimizes the trade-off between stealth and data collection.” Haggman hesitated, as if he were uncertain about how much detail to reveal.
    The Deep Space Probe (DSP) was a tiny unmanned missile that passively collected data on clandestine missions. It reported its findings through directional burst transmissions. There were a number of probes exploring the outer planets specifically to scout the aliens.
    Haggman said, “We only get unscheduled dumps if the probe’s AI system determines it has an uncontrollable equipment failure, or if the probe has been detected. In either case, the AI will transmit a complete data dump and then self-destruct.”
    Gallant tapped his comm pin and said, “Captain.”
    He