Five by Five

by Aaron Allston

  A sense of relief flashed through him, then Greg’s stomach tightened. “Then what was, sir? Why am I here?”

  Nick’s smile returned and survived a bit longer. “Bear in mind, Captain, I’m under no obligation to answer that question.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “Your purpose is to kill Zsytzii. Why you were on the candidate list is a bit more complicated, and I wasn’t part of that process.” Nick returned to his desk and sat. “The pols put you on the list right there with the royals. You’re a romantic figure. The tragedy and all, of course. And the Qian rebuilt you—something everyone knows, has an opinion about. You became the poster-boy for our alliance with the Qian. But that’s not why I picked you.”

  Greg chewed on his lower lip to hide the quiver.

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Only things I know about you are what were in your records. You’re a hell of a pilot. Ballsy. Smart. Not fearless, but willing to look past fear. All good things. And because the Qian rebuilt you, there wasn’t any way you were ever getting back in the cockpit of a fighter. Not on Earth. I know how nasty it feels to be sidelined. I’ve seen pilots eaten up by it. I figured that you were too good to waste.”

  Greg frowned, not quite sure what to make of Nick’s words. “I’m not a head-case, Colonel.”

  Nick laughed aloud, tossing his head back. “Captain Allen, you think about that for a second. You’ve volunteered to travel lightyears from the only world your species has ever truly known, to fight an enemy you don’t understand, for a people so vastly superior that they could pry you from a twisted hunk of metal and rebuild you, and you tell me you’re not a head case? We all are, Captain. Every single one of us is out here to run from something, or to run toward something, or to learn something about ourselves. You really want to know what you’re out here for?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, that I …” Greg quickly read the man’s expression and his shoulders slumped. “Rhetorical question, yes, sir?”

  “Files were right, you are smart.”

  “Skilled at reading nuance, sir. My upbringing. I’m just rusty at it.”

  Nick sat forward. “Maybe that’s why you’re out here. Part of you believes you have nothing left on Earth. I’m sincere when I say this: no man should have to bury his child. Most who do don’t have the media on them endlessly asking how it feels or if it gets any better. Escaping that would be more than enough reason to leave Earth.”

  As the colonel spoke, Greg got the distinct impression he was speaking from personal experience. Greg didn’t recall anything in the material he’d read about Nick Clark that said he had kids. Then again, the basic data files on him said he was very private about his personal life so …

  Nick pointed at Greg. “Another part of you probably wants to make sure you still have it. Aircar accident almost kills you. Ironic, right? You can outfly missiles and one drunk in an aircar nails you. They take eighteen months to put you back together, then get to tell you that your family died but you survived. You can’t bring them back, so the only thing you can do is get back to yourself. That means climbing back into a cockpit and killing the enemy.”

  “You picked me to give me that chance?”

  “I picked you to give my command a chance, Captain.” Nick leaned forward on his desk. “You and I are Americans, so I’ll make this easy for you. Name me one person who died at Bunker Hill. Or in the Twin Trade Towers. Or Pearl Harbor.”

  Greg shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “You remember the events, but not the people. We’re good at slogans. Remember the Alamo. Remember the Maine. Remember Pearl Harbor. Remember 9/11. I don’t want us added to that list. I don’t want ‘Remember the 301st’ getting chanted once a year. You’re sharp-enough of a pilot—all of you are—that we can stay alive. And be very clear on this: we’d serve men like your father much better as a slogan than returning intact. If we die, they can use us as they want; and I have no intention of letting that happen.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.” Nick gave him a curt nod. “And if you feel the need for another of these heart-to-heart chats, Captain …”

  “I won’t be bothering you again, sir.”

  “I think we’re on the same wavelength.” Nick looked down at the datascreen in his desk. “You need to get down to sick bay and get our flight surgeon to okay your ready status. You’re dismissed.”

  Greg threw the man a salute and, after its crisp return, departed to follow orders.

  * * *

  Nick looked up from his desk again, having caught a flash of blue as his Qian liaison officer, Vych Thziilon, slipped into his office. He smiled involuntarily and much more freely than he had with Greg Allen. “How do you think I did?”

  Lights sparked beneath her flesh in a pattern he’d come to associate with her satisfaction. “Admirable, Nicholas. He believed you when you told him why you chose him.”

  “Is that your impression, or do you know he believed me?”

  Vych canted her head to the side. “I can confirm with diagnostics later, but this is my conclusion based on learning to read humans. I have not your skill at it. Do you think he believes?”

  Nick shrugged. “I’m not sure he believes that’s the whole story. What I do know is that he thinks I was fully in favor of his joining the 301st. If you’d not impressed upon me the importance of his selection, he wouldn’t be here. I’m trusting your read on him.”

  The small woman smiled and came to his side, caressing his cheek with a slender hand. “You will find that he will serve you well.”

  “Another conclusion, or do you know?”

  “Have I given you cause to doubt me, Nicholas?”

  He caught her hand in his, quickly but gently. “The Qian are good with secrets, Vych. I know this. I benefit from it. I trust your judgment. I just wish I knew the reasons why you ask me to trust in your word alone about Allen.”

  Vych laughed and the sound sent a happy thrill through Nick. The laugh was equal parts innocence, sincerity and indulgence. When first they’d met, nearly a year and a half before, she’d never laughed like that. Nick realized she’d learned to do it for the effect it had on him, and yet that knowledge couldn’t insulate him from the effects.

  “I would share everything with you, Nicholas, but not everything has been shared with me. I could guess, but were I wrong and we acted as if I were right …”

  “No, no.” Nick kissed her hand, then released it. “As long as Allen can do his job in the squadron, I don’t have reason to get distracted by things I can’t control.”

  Vych wandered deeper into the office and stared at a watercolor picture of an angler in a boat fighting to reel in a fat trout. She traced a finger over the light blue brushstrokes defining water, then along the taut black line leading to the bent rod. When he’d chosen that picture for his office, media pundits suggested it was because he’d seen it at his grandfather’s cabin in his youth or that the image suggested that fly fishing, just like flying a fighter, required great skill.

  Nick didn’t identify with the fisherman. He identified with the trout, and stared at that picture every day to remind himself that the 301st were the trophy, not the hunters.

  She turned, her smile genuine. “It appears we may have our first mission before we meet up with the rest of the squadron.”

  Nick frowned. “I’m at less than two-thirds strength now. Granted that the difference between twelve fighters and seven isn’t that much but I’d rather have a full squadron and some time together training before we go into action.”

  “This will be purely ceremonial. Once the last supply ship from Earth catches up with us, we will head out to the jumppoint. We will travel to a rendezvous with a diplomatic shuttle. You will fly out and escort it in. Great honor will be bestowed on the delegation and the 301st.”

  He got up and joined her, looking past the picture and out through the viewpoint to the flight deck. It was empty, which Nick thought of as an improvement over
the crowded ceremonial conditions. Still, it looked too clean and orderly to be the flight deck on a ship of war.

  “Can you ditch the mission?”

  “That would be unwise, Nicholas.”

  “Which means impossible?”

  Vych sighed. “You have learned much of our ways, Colonel Clark; but not all of them. It would be possible for that honor to be transferred to another unit, but the only unit which could be deployed would be an elite Qian squadron. They would see the job as being beneath them, and the delegation would see the honor accorded them as a sign of favor which does not exist.”

  Nick half-smiled. “And yet the squadron would take the job simply to show us up. Somewhere in that vast political stock exchange that is the Qian empire, we’d create an imbalance which would be impossible to address.”

  “Not impossible, merely improbable.” She opened her hands. “If the 301st is not ready for such duty …”

  “Skills-wise my people could do this asleep. My problem is that you’re giving a retriever mission to attack dogs.” Nick shook his head. “The way you grind the edge off an elite unit is by giving it garrison duties. Once we do one mission like this, other folks will want us to show them that same honor. This goes from being a once-in-a-lifetime mission to our reason for being. That’s not what we volunteered for.”

  “I comprehend the logic of your protest. I shall endeavor to shift the mission elsewhere.”

  “No, Vych, don’t.”

  She canted her head to the side. “I am uncertain I understand your reversal.”

  Nick crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone higher in the chain of command is flexing his muscles. If we defy him, he’ll come at us harder. So, this time, if the mission comes down to us, we’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Nicholas.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” His eyes hardened. “But let others know that we’re owed a favor. And we will collect.”

  –4–

  A little shiver ran down Greg Allen’s spine as he headed to the Unity’s Medical Center. The hint of dread couldn’t kill the smile plastered across the bottom of his face. He’d delayed smiling until he’d gotten clear of the colonel’s office, and had smothered a joyful whoop. For a moment he felt like he was twelve again and had smacked a homer in the Little League season final.

  He’d been afraid that his appointment to the 301st had been made solely on political grounds. That would have made perfect sense. His father would have pushed it, and he’d have had the weight of America’s political-lobbyist apparatus behind him. Even though Clark’s appointment as commander had come while Greg was still being rebuilt by the Qian, he’d been suggested as being the unit’s commander over Clark.

  Greg wanted to believe the colonel’s reason for choosing him. Nick was about as straight forward a man as Greg had ever met. He wanted to believe that there wasn’t a duplicitous bone in his body, but a lifetime of being August Allen’s son and presumed heir had taught Greg that everyone had secrets. Still, Nick had nothing to gain by lying to him, so Greg took his words at face value.

  Ever since awakening from the coma, rebuilt with his new right forearm, hand and other bits, Greg had had to relearn everything. He’d studied his own life like an actor preparing for a role. He’d seen countless images of himself—motion holographs, stills, even a few old photographs Jennifer’s uncle had taken with a film camera. He’d seen news reports and relived important life events like a spectator. Most eerie had been hearing himself narrate the motion-holograph of his daughter’s birth.

  There’d been a wall between him and those experiences. He could watch them and hear them and understand them. At points he could even feel them—but those moments always came through Jennifer or Bianca and their reactions. When he’d watch his own reactions to things he just couldn’t connect emotionally.

  The psychiatrists suggested this was because by maintaining that distance he was protecting himself against the pain of loss. They’d suggested attacking the problem obliquely, by doing the things he’d always enjoyed doing in the past. He could get a foothold on his emotions that way, and then close in on who he had been.

  Unfortunately he’d only had two passions in his life: his family and flying. With his family denied to him, his only choice was to get back into the cockpit. He’d always been very good—no doubt he was an adrenaline junkie—but he had to be the best. Only an appointment to the 301st and success in its ranks would make him the best. And allow me to be me again, right?

  The lingering bit of dread that raised gooseflesh on his arms and spine, came from Nick’s comment about slogans. More than once he’d heard his father laugh about the simplicity of voters. “All a politician has to do to win, son, is to reduce complex problems to a simple slogan, and the masses stop thinking and just drop in line.” He’d first heard that when he was…I forget, exactly, but before puberty. The timing didn’t matter—it was a refrain to his father’s favorite song and had propelled him into the White House.

  Colonel Clark had been right. The 301st would serve better as a rallying cry than as a significant military unit. Whatever the unit did, politicians would spin to their own advantage. But spin events to sacrifice us because our memory is a better tool? Would they? Greg wanted to draw the line there. He harbored no illusions about the morals of politicians, he just lacked belief that they had enough influence outside of the solar system to be able to sacrifice the 301st. I hope, anyway, that is the case.

  Greg made his way easily through the Unity, despite being new to the ship. He navigated both by reading signs and then following his gut feelings when indications were less than clear. He suspected that circuitry built into his right arm might have actually been reading the signs in different ways, and his hunches about the correct way to proceed were being fed to him. He had no way of proving that—he’d never been one to get lost—but the sense that the Qian were watching and could communicate with his appendage had firmly taken hold.

  The medical facility’s door hissed open before he’d gotten within two meters of it. A slender, dark haired woman, with her hair gathered back into a pony-tail, stepped through. Media reports about her had all described her as “drop-dead gorgeous” and Greg couldn’t disagree.

  She looked up, her grey eyes widening for a moment.

  Greg stopped and saluted.

  Major Damienne Taine returned the salute. “Pardonez-moi, Captain Allen.”

  Greg glanced down, surprised at his shying from her gaze. “No problem, Major. Colonel Clark wanted me to get a final check from the flight surgeon.”

  “Bien.” She smiled, her eyes narrowing. “You will perhaps forgive me, Captain. Nine years ago, you were in Paris, for a conference?”

  He thought for a moment, frowning. “A NATO thing?” Greg opened his hands. “You have to forgive me, since the accident … Were you there, Major? You’d have been too young, wouldn’t you?”

  “I was a cadet at École de l’Air at Salon-de-Provence, but they brought us in help host.” Her eyes half-lidded. “It was our introduction into the international side of the military I think.”

  “Did we meet?” Greg closed his eyes and focused, but couldn’t picture her. “If it weren’t for the accident, I’m sure I’d remember. Please don’t feel insulted.”

  She looked at him for a second longer than she should have, then smiled. “No, Captain Allen, I do feel insulted. And, yes, we did meet. In passing. You would have no reason to remember.”

  “I wish I did.” Greg glanced down at his hands. “I’ve read about you, of course. Even discounting half of it—and I don’t—you’re a terror in the sky. Your country picked well when they tapped you to be our second in command.”

  “It was promote me, or send me away, and sending me away was easier.” Her smile shrank just a bit. “I suspect you and I were on a similar track.”

  Greg nodded. “Nice thing about being out of their hair is they don’t have to work to get rid of us.”

  “Insightful,
Captain.” Damienne patted him on the arm as she resumed her journey. “I look forward to working with you, Captain Allen.”

  “And you, ma’am.” Greg fought against himself not to watch her walk away. The slate-grey jumpsuit flattered her figure and he didn’t want to get caught staring at her tail. He wasn’t sure if normal male impulses were a sign that the Qian had put him back together again really well, or that the imperative to find a mate was so ingrained in humans that even a devastating accident couldn’t get rid of it.

  That brief spark of lust kindled an ache deep inside. He missed Jennifer fiercely and wished he could recover a memory of their intimacy. Not some sweaty lustfest ringing with lewd comments and overloud moans like a pornogram; but something softer, more immediate. He didn’t want to see them making love because he couldn’t have born watching that from afar. He just wanted to feel her nestled back against him after they had made love. After we made Bianca. He wanted to smell Jennifer and her hair, to taste sweat from a kiss, to feel her gather his arms tighter around her.

  As obviously appealing as Major Taine was, it really didn’t matter. In learning who he was, he’d fallen in love with Jennifer all over again. The one sense he had was that he’d never given her enough. Now, he never could. That unredeemed debt weighed heavily upon his heart, and served as an adequate blanket for smothering ardor.

  Greg stepped into the medical facility and here the ship’s wood and brass decor surrendered to a bright, clinical white and chrome combination that included the room’s occupant. The android stood taller than Greg and while of a humanoid design, he did not look human. His body appeared to be made of porcelain save where segmented, black-rubber gaskets shielded joints on the arms, legs, neck and midsection. Long rectangular panels running from shoulder to the end of the sternum in the torso, hid a second pair of arms which the construct would use for fine work.