Thatcher had been a decorated officer in the fleet; it would be nothing short of shocking to find him working for some smudgy mercenary company skulking about the outer planets.
Val tucked a wayward lock of brown hair behind her ear, stood, and straightened her blouse. She took a deep breath, headed down the ramp, and turned toward the shuttle bay’s exit. She almost crashed into someone waiting by the end of the shuttle. Sequoia was her first thought, but this was another mercenary, a lean angular-faced man in his mid-thirties, one she recognized immediately even if it had been ten years since her classes at the academy. His dark brown eyes bored into her, as cool and aloof as ever.
Oh, hells. Please let him not remember her. Please…
“Lieutenant Calendula,” he said, his tone stiff, almost robotic. A lot of cadets had mused that he might be a cyborg, even if the religious fundamentalists had succeeded in scaring almost everyone out of having such operations done in recent centuries. “Follow me.”
Lieutenant Calendula. He had used her military rank, not a civilian designation. Her shoulders slumped. He remembered her.
* * *
The briefing room was about what Val had expected from a mercenary ship—Spartan with bland furnishings, friction-mat flooring, and a lot more gray—but the big wooden table, with thick, timeworn boards was a pleasant surprise. Her interviewer was a less pleasant surprise.
As she sat, she fought the urge to fidget, even though she felt like an eighteen-year-old kid again, one about to be lectured or disciplined by an overbearing instructor. She wondered if Commander Thatcher was as shocked to see her as she was to see him. He would have had more warning—surely he had seen all of the pilots’ applications—but he might not have been certain she would be the same person he had taught at the academy. Granted, only a Grenavinian would have a name like Valerian Calendula, and there were precious few Grenavinians left in the galaxy. But had he ever believed they would cross paths again? Or maybe he didn’t even remember her, beyond some vague sense that she might have passed through his classes once or twice. But no, he’d had an eidetic memory, hadn’t he? Maybe that, like the cyborg tidbit, had only been a rumor, but she had never caught him forgetting anything, that was certain.
Whatever he was thinking now, it didn’t show in his dark eyes. His expression probably hadn’t changed in ten years. He might be handsome, his pressed gray shirt and black jacket fitting nicely, but nothing about his aloof expression suggested he would appreciate a snuggle buddy now and then. His short black hair was precisely trimmed and combed, not a single strand out of place. Doubtlessly, he never sweated nor grew flustered and ran his fingers through it.
“Cadet Calendula,” he said. It had been lieutenant in the shuttle bay. Already demoting her, was he? “If you are accepted into the unit, you can expect rank and pay commensurate with your experience and with the position that requires filling, but you will be known as a cadet or trainee during this week of assessment. You will address me, the captain, and every other officer as sir.”
Val wanted to roll her eyes. No kidding.
He looked at her steadily. By the moons of Grenavine, was he waiting for a “sir” now?
“Yes, sir,” she said. That was a lot harder to bite out than it had been ten years ago. She had been the captain and pilot of her own destiny for too long. Even if she had always had to answer to the freighter owners and the customers shipping their goods, they had rarely walked around with sticks lodged up their butts, demanding sirs and ma’ams. Maybe because they had known they wouldn’t get such honorifics from the jaded legions of freighter pilots, most too busy complaining about the cost of fuel, the threat of pirates, and their irregular bowel movements to be bothered with courtesy.
Thatcher’s forehead wrinkled slightly. Maybe that hadn’t been the response he had wanted after all. She raised her brows, inviting him to expand or clarify. Instead, he looked at some display hovering above his tablet, the back fuzzed out to her, since it was in privacy mode.
“We don’t have a flight simulator chamber here,” Thatcher said, “but we do have some training goggles. For the most part, you’ll work side-by-side on the bridge with Lieutenant Sequoia this week. He will act as your mentor and report back to me on your progress and aptitude for learning this ship. If you pilot sufficiently, you will also be run through combat maneuvers on the shuttles.”
“So you won’t actually be teaching me anything yourself?” Val probably shouldn’t have asked that question out loud, but not having him around, commenting and correcting, would be a good thing. Sequoia seemed all right. Not cold and rigid at least. This should make the process less stressful.
“I am working on a project for the captain, so my time will be divided this week. I will monitor when I’m able.”
Goody.
“Do you have further inquiries?” Thatcher asked.
Further inquiries. What a stiff. “Will I be getting paid during this trial period?”
“Room and board will be provided.”
“So that’s a no, huh?” Val hadn’t expected any differently, but she was all too aware of the time limit looming amongst the stars. She only had a few months to earn what she needed to pay back her brother’s debtors and keep him from being sent to Daru Mack. For a quiet, scrawny kid like him, the mines would be a death sentence.
“Cadet Calendula, your record shows that you had a steady job only three weeks ago,” Thatcher said. “Given a simple financial plan and a moderately responsible adherence to budget, your eight years of freighter work should have left you with enough money to cover fiscal obligations.”
Which she had managed just fine when she’d had only herself to take care of. If Yarrow had come to her sooner, she would have had enough in savings to help him, but he’d waited far too long to admit to his problem. Something Val wasn’t eager to tell her new commander about. Complaining about family members wasn’t appropriate, and she didn’t want to disparage her brother, anyway. He’d had it hard after their world had been destroyed; all of the survivors had.
“I’m sorry,” Val said. “I didn’t know being moderately responsible with money was going to be a requirement for this job.”
Being sarcastic to one’s boss probably wasn’t appropriate, either, so she threw in a smile. Maybe that would make the words seem less obnoxious. She’d been told once she had a sexy smile. Of course, the one doing the telling had been one of those old freighter captains, the ones complaining about their bowels. It was hard to take them seriously. Still, she didn’t usually have trouble finding someone to go home with if she was in the mood for some meaningless fun during a stopover on a station.
That faint wrinkle returned to Thatcher’s forehead, the one that always suggested he found people puzzling and distasteful creatures.
“Look, I’m ready to start anytime,” Val said. “I’m a hard worker. I’m responsible on the job even if money’s been a problem lately. You won’t regret giving me a chance here.”
“Of course I won’t.” His statement might have given her hope, except he added, “It was the captain’s decision to give you a chance.”
She snorted and almost asked if it was because of her heritage, but decided she didn’t want to know. Even if she had sought out Mandrake Company because of shared roots, it hadn’t been because she had been hoping for a break… not exactly. She had found the idea of working with people from her old homeland appealing. Besides, she’d like to think her record was satisfactory enough to stand on its own.
“If you are permanently hired,” Thatcher said, “you will then be paid regularly and you will be eligible for combat bonuses.”
Yes, she was counting on those combat bonuses. The base pay itself was much better than she had earned hauling freight—even if she was about to have to endure daily hours of physical training that hadn’t been a part of her life for a long time—but she would need more than that to keep her brother from going from jail to the mines. Oh, Yarrow. Life wasn’t supposed to work
out this way…
“After one year of employment,” Thatched continued, “you’ll be added to the pool and can expect a percentage of earnings when the payout is greater than the costs of maintenance, repairs, and salaries.”
“A share in the company, essentially.”
“Yes.”
If that was a year out, she had better not speculate on that money now. “Anything else?” Val nudged her duffel bag with her boot. The ship’s cycle wasn’t synced with the station’s, and it was well after midnight to her body.
“You’ll share Cabin 37 with Private Sahara. It’s on Deck Three.” Thatcher touched something on his tablet. “I’m sending you maps, ship’s rules, pilots’ rules, and meal acquisition data now.”
Meal acquisition data… Who said these things? “Not going to offer to take me on a tour of the ship and show me the sights in person, sir?”
“You would not find the map preferable?”
To spending time with him, yes. But what kind of commander didn’t at least find some off-shift private to give the new person a tour? “Well, I don’t know anyone here, sir.”
He looked at her… in confusion? His utterly bland expression was so similar to his perplexed expression. It was hard to tell.
“It’d be nice to be introduced to people,” Val added, in case he truly was perplexed. Hell, maybe he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to do anything except running off to one’s own cabin to familiarize oneself with one’s new home digitally. And alone. She’d never known anything about his social life when he’d been instructing cadets, but given his aloofness, maybe he hadn’t had one.
“I sent a roster of the ship’s personnel, as well, but if you wish a tour and introductions, that can be arranged.” The words came out calmly and confidently, but he gave her that little perplexed I-can’t-figure-you-out look again. “Do you wish me to give it?”
Hell, no. “Never mind, sir. I’ll ask the roommate you mentioned.” A roommate, after having an entire freighter ship to herself on most runs. Wouldn’t this be fun? “If there’s nothing else…?” She picked up the duffel and hefted it over her shoulder.
“Only one other matter.” Thatcher frowned at her—at her chest specifically. “Captain Mandrake insists that a uniform isn’t necessary for a mercenary company with little more than a hundred soldiers.” Something it sounded like he didn’t approve of… “However, this crew is ninety percent male, some with felonious pasts. You may wish to dress less revealingly.”
Revealingly? Val gaped at him. The only skin showing was that of her face, neck, and her hands. Yes, her breasts filled out her blouse nicely, and maybe the garment was the teensiest bit snug in that area, and maybe she didn’t have all of the buttons done up, but she had butt-hugger skirts and shirts that dipped to her belly button. This was chaste by most people’s standards.
“You’re saying the crew won’t be able to keep from pawing me if I don’t wear a bag? Aren’t there rules against that?” Val held up her own tablet, which had presumably received his files by now.
“There are rules forbidding physical contact. Verbal crudeness is rarely punished.” His lips pursed with… disapproval? That was mostly how things had been in the GalCon military, too, but maybe he found the mercenaries more savage and lawless in comparison. So, what had caused him to leave his cushy teaching job to come here, then?
No, she didn’t care. About his past or about him. The sooner she got away from his uncomfortable presence and went about proving herself capable for this job, the better.
“Thanks for the tip, sir.” Val didn’t bother to add a smile to soften her sarcasm that time.
She wished she could think of some advice to give him on his clothing choice, but his boots were shined, his trousers pressed, and not so much as a wrinkle or a piece of hair plagued his shirt or jacket. Sighing, she walked out the door and strode down the corridor, only to realize she had no idea where she was going. She pulled out her tablet.
“You would not find a map more preferable?” she mocked in his stiff formal tone, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t come out after her. He was going to be her commander here if she got the job. She had better keep the attitude to a minimum. Or at least do her best to avoid him.
2
Commander Gregor Thatcher had not handled that interview well. He had struggled all of his life to grasp the emotions of others, but in this case, he was certain he had annoyed Val Calendula.
Cadet Calendula, he corrected. He should not think of her by first name, even if he wished to do so. She had not invited any such familiarity, and they were once again in a commander-subordinate relationship.
Strange that the attraction he had felt for her ten years ago should come back and hit him with such force. But perhaps it was not. He forgot little, and he vividly remembered what had drawn him to her back then. She had possessed neither great athleticism, great intelligence, nor great aptitude for flying, but she had never given up and had persevered at the academy despite facing challenge after challenge that had come easily for her more gifted peers. And all right, he might have been drawn to her fine physical attributes, as well. Not the lithe leanness of a born athlete, as many who chose a soldier’s life seemed to have, but feminine curves that had bounced delightfully when she ran the obstacle course at the training compound. She had a pretty and lively face, with dimples that flashed when she smiled and gray-blue eyes that reminded him of the sea on a stormy day back on his home world of Paradise.
Unfortunately, the only smile she had ever given him had been less than sincere. He had always struggled to understand sarcasm when he had been a student and even later as a young officer, but the last five years with Mandrake Company, surrounded with the sharp-tongued and irreverent, he had honed his talent for reading it. What he hadn’t honed was his ability to keep people from resorting to it as a natural response to dealing with him. His rank insulated him somewhat, but he was not deaf. He heard the jokes issued at his expense. The crew might appreciate his expertise at the helm—he had saved the entire ship from certain calamity on more than one occasion—and they even gave him a thump on the back from time to time, but they would never truly be comfortable around him, just as he struggled to find ease when in their presence.
He had certainly struggled to find ease with Cadet Calendula. He had been flummoxed by her beauty—that damnably alluring shirt and the unsubtle hint as to what lay beneath it!—and by his own feelings, feelings he had never dared show when he had been the instructor and she the student. Not that she would have reciprocated them back then, regardless. She had never seemed to appreciate his attempts to advise her, though he had been eager to offer pertinent tips to help her improve. She had seemed horrified when he had offered to put together a remedial study group in which she might participate. At the time, he had been mystified by her disinterest in accepting help from him, for he excelled in all areas of mathematics and piloting, core subjects at the academy. Was he not a logical choice as an offerer of input? Only later in life, during his infrequent and always awkward attempts to woo the opposite sex, had he learned that women sometimes put feelings toward a person ahead of practicality, and that not all of them found his blunt logic appealing.
Unfortunately, if her frostiness today was any indication, nothing had changed for her in the intervening years. She still saw him as… an irritation to be dealt with. Perhaps her disinterest in him would make things easier, since it would be inappropriate for him to pursue a relationship with a trainee recruit seeking a job under his command. Even later, if she was hired, it would be a dubious situation.
Ah, but his concern was premature. She had to pass the assessment first.
Gregor’s comm-patch chimed. Before he could activate the two-way signal, the captain’s words sounded. “I need a skilled pilot who can defy gravity, dodge missiles, and who can be trusted to be discreet about a secret mission. You have any recommendations, Thatcher?”
Gregor frowned. He was the compa
ny’s most skilled pilot, as his flight record and biannual proficiency tests proved, but if the captain wished a recommendation, would it be inappropriate to put himself forward for the mission? The idea of passing it up did not sit well with him, but after his difficulty in communicating with Cadet Calendula, he felt more tentative than usual in regard to social situations. To err on the side of inoffensive would be prudent. “Nobody can defy gravity, but Lieutenant Sequoia is qualified for many piloting tasks, Captain. I have not spent time with him outside of work hours, but I have also not heard reports of failings in regard to discretion.”
“I’m talking about you, Thatcher. You still in the briefing room? I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”
Gregor’s frown deepened. If the captain had meant him, why hadn’t he said so? He was a man who usually spoke bluntly, and rarely employed levity. Gregor appreciated that about him. Perhaps this new… blitheness had something to do with his acquisition of that civilian girlfriend. Gregor hadn’t spoken with the woman often but knew she was responsible for the pink shuttlecraft in the bay. Granted, the captain had leased the shuttle to her for her business, but Gregor couldn’t help but feel affronted at the color. Spacecraft deserved more seriousness, more respect.
The door slid open, and Captain Mandrake strode in. As usual, he wore no sign of rank, and his long brown leather jacket and black and beige clothing were of a civilian style. But between his hard, grim face, scarred hands, broad shoulders, and the sureness with which he carried himself, he had the aura of a veteran soldier. People never questioned that he was in charge, whether they were familiar with the company or not.
“Sit,” he said, though he leaned against the wall himself, folding his arms across his chest. Whatever humor he had been attempting to practice earlier was not evident on his face now.
This made Gregor more comfortable, and he perched on the edge of a chair, leaning forward attentively. Thoughts of Cadet Calendula drifted out of his mind as he wondered what mission was coming up that could challenge his skills. He was always eager to do so, whether it meant pitting himself against a single pilot or a squadron.
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 29