by Chris Reher
She recognized her new commanding officer easily. He had hitched a hip onto a table near the back of the room but looked far from restful. While the other two commanders were accompanied by their co-pilots or navigators, he was alone. His only visible weapon was a laser hand gun sporting a wide flash.
Nova appreciated the narrow trousers he wore; she was sure they were of an expensive Feydan fabric made, of all things, out of plants. His shirt, jacket and boots were also of natural materials, as far as she could tell, and looked clean and well-fitted in contrast to those of his peers.
More than his neatness and lanky frame, it was his hair that set him apart from the others. Most of the men in the room followed fashion by shaving their pates, the Major's hair grew as it would. A glossy cascade hung freely to the middle of his back in the manner of Delphian males. Nova had always thought that it looked rather dashing. It made the nonexistent coiffures of the other men seem strangely clinical.
The nails of his long fingers, his eyes, brows and the mass of hair were of a deep blue color. Blue shadows played over thin, unsmiling lips - he looked cold.
Their speeches finally delivered, some of the officers began to file out of the room. Nova took a few moments to thank a senior officer who had been one of her mentors and then approached the Major now standing by the door.
He was speaking to Adachi, Eagle One’s captain and Dylan’s new commander, using the soft tones of a Centauri dialect. Nova joined them and found that, although people often asked her how the weather ‘up there’ was, he towered over her. His sharp features might have looked harsh and unforgiving except for the remarkable blue eyes and the thick mane of hair. In this light the strands varied from powder blue to slate gray. All Delphians also grew a thin line of hair along their spine and he would have no other hair on his body - if one believed the gossip in the pilot dormitories. Her eyes found the neural implant at his temple, putting to rest the rumor that they did not need an interface to communicate with their machines.
"Are you paying attention?"
She snapped out of her reverie. "Yessir."
His long upper lip twitched in a snarl. "What is it, then, Whiteside? I asked you a question." He pronounced each word carefully, as one who has mastered a language not of his birthplace. Like the rest of him, his accent seemed tightly controlled and lacking in warmth.
"I'm sorry, sir. I am not used to..." she bit her lip.
His eyes traveled to her rumpled uniform and mud-splattered boots and back up to take note of the recently-patched interface node. "I suppose that you meant to say that you are not used to say your good-byes in five minutes because that is all that you have."
"What?"
He motioned her along. "I am now hoping that your skill as pilot is better than your ability to listen. Collect your gear and then meet me on the liftplane launch."
She looked up at him, bewildered. She would have to watch her step around this one. Somehow she felt as she had years ago, before joining the Union's Air Command, whenever she was faced with a particularly stern instructor.
"Collect my gear? We're leaving already? I haven't even..." she fell silent. Hadn't he made it clear that he had no interest in good-byes and farewell parties?
As she hurried to her quarters to pack her few personal belongings and to jot a note to her roommate, Nova felt a surprisingly poignant sensation of loss at the thought of leaving this place, almost certainly forever. Her transfer from active combat to this drab training base had not been an easy adjustment. But at some point these Spartan halls had become home to her, the instructors had become mentors, friends. The long, uneventful months that she had spent here and often complained about had not been totally devoid of fun and companionship.
Nova thought of Fynn, her lover. He would no doubt be angry to find her gone. She did not dare to take the time to explain to him, grateful for the excuse to avoid yet another fight. He would know soon enough where she had gone. Nova did not bother to examine her complete lack of regret over leaving him.
She made her way through halls and stairways, stopping only to requisition and receive a few new uniforms. The people passing her on her errand saluted or not, as their ranks dictated; unaware that she would not be in tomorrow's flight schedule and training sessions. Already they seemed like strangers, bland faces in an unmemorable crowd.
* * *
The Major waited for her outside his ship, a hulking and patched model that looked in need of a good mechanic and perhaps a fresh application of paint. She saw repairs made without bodywork to hide the scars and a few scorch marks that could only have been sustained in battle. All of it very nicely hid the sheer power and up-to-the-minute technology tucked into every millimeter of its construction.
He said nothing when she approached but turned to climb a narrow ladder into the pilot hatch rather than bother with the cargo bay door. She followed, encumbered by her travel bag until he reached down and pulled it up into the ship.
“Thanks,” she said once aboard. She looked around. “I’ve never been on an Eagle. I am familiar with the specs, though.”
She peered into the cockpit, down a few steps to her left. A bank of outboard gun controls was currently positioned out of the way but did not look different from the cruisers she had flown. A row of screens presented a selection of various angles and scales showing their surroundings in real video or graphics. The pilot couches, each equipped with a neural interface headset, looked well-made and comfortable in contrast with the rest of the interior.
The cockpit angled gradually from the communications console into the main cabin. Multi-functional out of necessity on a ship this size, it served as bridge as well as main living quarters. A wide lounger along one wall topped storage drawers and was faced by another bank of compartments. She had noticed two more doors leading off the short walkway to the cargo bay, assuming those to be sleeping quarters. In the center of this cabin stood a high, round table surrounded by stools fixed to the floor. Puzzled by a central column reaching to the ceiling, she took a closer look into its reflective surface to confirm the table converted into a projector for both two- and three-dimensional imagery. Not surprisingly, the table seemed to be more frequently used as workspace than entertainment. The cabin’s ceiling was softly illuminated to give the illusion of space where there was none. The Major’s head nearly brushed against it.
Every centimeter of the ship was used for either storage or instrumentation, without waste, without luxuries. The cabin was precise and neat.
“Where is the crew?”
“You’re it.” The Major went down into the cockpit. He gestured to the co-pilot's seat. "Take us up."
“What? Me?” she gasped. “Now?”
“I was assured that I was taking on a pilot. Are you not a pilot?”
“Well, yes. I mean…”
“So can you fly this? Or are you staying here?”
She hurriedly slid into one of the cockpit chairs. He said nothing while she went through pre-flight, held his silence when she stumbled over a few protocol errors before receiving clearance, and barely raised an eyebrow when she awkwardly strapped herself into her seat while already taxiing to launch. She thought she saw him roll his eyes when she waved to one of the jockeys on the by-way. All of this gave her enough time to assure herself that she understood the control panel configuration and learn a little bit about the ship’s maneuvering quirks.
When she finally launched the Eagle and reached escape velocity he nodded to himself, his eyes on the shield monitors. But she took them out of Myra’s atmosphere with barely a shudder and soon they had left the red planet behind them. She let out a breath of pent-up air, pleased with the take-off.
His congratulations were not forthcoming. “Is there a reason why you decided to launch manually?” His gesture indicated the headset behind her that would allow her to communicate directly with the central processor of the ship.
She peered into his face and saw little there but sharp angles and a pair
of watchful blue eyes. His tone held neither criticism nor complaint. What answer was he looking for?
“Because I like flying manually.”
He rose from his seat and went back into the main cabin. She followed, too curious about the ship to speculate over his approach to ‘training’ his new crew member. He sat on the lounger to watch her prowl about.
"You live here all the time?" She peered into the tiny food preparation area, realizing that she had not had dinner. She hoped that he was a better cook than she was, as much as cooking aboard a cruiser usually involved knowing which packages of lumpy grey nutrients to combine into something edible.
"Mostly. We are stationed on Targon, which is a formality." He answered her unspoken question by pointing out some of the storage units along the wall. “Weapons, weather gear, camo, air.”
She opened the bin he had identified as camo. Inside was a tangle of clothes chosen for being non-descript and unidentifiable, head covers, boots, boxes of colored lenses, currencies, masks, tattoos and dyes for temporarily changing skin and hair color. "You have a greval vest! That's a big thing on Myra right now. Worth a fortune."
He started to say something, paused, and then shook his head. "Speaking of weather gear, no one sent a set for you. Be sure to request one when we get to Targon."
"You step out that often?" she asked, referring to occasions when leaving the ship without a complete and sealed enviro-suit would be hazardous. She bounced a little on the balls of her feet to test the ship's near-perfect gravity. That, along with what felt like a healthy air quality, was a desirable feature on long-range cruisers. She had spent time on vehicles either half afloat or weighted down for hours and days at a time. "Certainly no need for extra padding in here. I'm impressed."
"I'm glad."
She perched on one of the stools by the map table. "You don't approve of me."
"My approval is not based on first impressions. Why do you ask?"
Nova hesitated. How did one converse with a Delphian? Why had that not been taught anywhere? “You don't seem to welcome my presence here.”
"I find it unnecessary, even if Command thinks it is." His tipped his chin toward the cockpit. "The Eagle’s neural interface is the best ever engineered. There is no real need for a crew. And I’m not a teacher."
"You got something against people?" She waited for him to ponder whether she meant ‘people’ or if she meant ‘Human’.
He did not rise to the bait. "Machines are a lot more dependable. They tend to last longer, too. And you need to carry less oxygen."
"So it's not something you have against me personally."
He arched an eyebrow. "I do not know you well enough to hold anything against you."
"We're supposed to work together. We have orders to work together."
"You are a subordinate officer. How I deal with you is up to me.” He leaned back and picked up a computer screen, his eyes on his fingers while he tapped in some commands. “I have orders to train you. And so I will. But I have work to do. I am in the middle of a difficult assignment that will not allow me time to wet nurse a greenie."
"Greenie!" Nova exploded, leaping from her chair. "I've been flying planes of one type or another since the day I lost my diapers. I came out of three years of Academy as wing commander. Three more years of active combat and Flight to make Hunter Class pilot. Did two tours outside Pelion and then on Ud Mrak before I got stuck at Myra. They don't exactly accept just any shuttle pilot in the Mrak system. I've got all weapons certs, five base languages including yours, hand-to-hand and three grades of ground combat training. I'm a qualified chartjumper. If you read over my records you'd know all that makes for almost ten years of playing soldier. How can you call me a greenie?"
"It doesn't take a genius to jump a stable site." He turned the screen in his hands toward her. The text was too small to see from where she stood but the image it also displayed was of her. “I am aware of your records. You’ve never been outside of Union domain. Yet since you lost your diapers you destroyed Tamotsu Comori’s main lab on Drar Drogh, you blanket-bombed what was probably the biggest rebel ammo dump on Bala, you managed to kidnap one of Tharron’s favorite wives and hand her over for questioning, you stole an atomic destined to take out Skyranch Nine by pretending to be the transport pilot. On a rebel ship.”
Nova grinned.
“And you bailed out of your kite to let it ram a freight skimmer carrying two hundred breeder Rhuwacs on Nebdan.”
“That hull was tough. I didn’t have the weapons to take it down.”
“Your plane was worth more than two hundred lizards.”
“What else does it say in there about me?”
“Plenty. So much so that the Union decided to take you out of active duty until you cool down. I doubt there is any single Union officer more loathed among the rebel than you are. The concept of staying low when Tharron is counting heads hasn’t occurred to you. And now here I am, on covert assignment, and they give you to me like a great big shining beacon.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well.”
He rose from the lounger when a tone from the cockpit interrupted them. “I do not think that Tharron has forgotten about you. Learn to duck, Whiteside. There will be no grandstanding here, am I clear?”
“Yessir,” she said, deflated.
He leaned over the controls in the darkened cockpit. “We have cleared Myra space. Go for jump.”
She took her place beside him and reached up to settle the headset onto her interface node. Her sensors connected smoothly and a few indicators come to life on the display before her. The Major also engaged his system.
“Do nothing,” he said. “Just catch us on the other side. This span is awkward and I want to push it to Magra Alaric if I can find the right exit.”
She felt a giddy shiver of anticipation when he reclined in his couch and closed his eyes. The excitement of assisting a complex jump performed by a Delphian made up for his reluctance to let her assist. His opinion of the skill required to navigate through a charted and stable breach, although arrogant, was probably correct. The mental fireworks needed to work in tandem with a computer to open a ‘keyhole’ in space, calculate and detect an exit, preferably somewhere near the desired location, and to close it again safely was something else entirely. She shifted her attention to the controls, prompting the plane to approach the coordinates he sought.
Both of them felt the Eagle’s emitters wind up.
“Going negative,” she reported needlessly.
He did not reply. She felt him direct the ship, suddenly aware that they now shared a connection not only to the plane but also to each other. Using the enormous complexity of their brains, augmented with the physical capacity and protection of the ship, he tapped into the site, into the reach, to expand the anomaly and looked for a way out again. She allowed herself to be swept along, awed by the precision with which he calculated the span that would bring them to Magra. He moved deeper and farther, searching, measuring, almost feeling his way through the endless nothing until he seemed satisfied with what he found.
She gasped when they surged into the fissure he created and then there was nothing. No lights penetrated her closed lids; there was no sound, no sensation of even touching the couch on which she lay. Her moment of panic was quickly subdued when she felt the Delphian’s calm presence reach her like a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Then they were clear. Nova’s attention snapped to their external sensors, assuring her that no one and nothing was nearby to risk a collision. She took control of the ship from him and throttled their velocity to run a quick systems check. All was in order; the Major’s skill with the aperture had landed them safely in the middle of nowhere.
“That was just… just neat!” she declared, opening her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever jumped this far.” She checked their coordinates. “Nice work! We’re less than five hours from Magra.”
“Whiteside,” he said.
“Sir?”
She grimaced. He remained in his couch for uncounted minutes, recovering from the tremendous effort required to focus on the jump they had just taken. At last he stirred and moved his long limbs with some effort to sit up on his couch. He swung his feet to the floor and found her watching him intently.
“You were scared,” he said finally, a small smile twitching the corner of his mouth.
“Was not!” she protested with a laugh.
“Was.” He stood up. “You have some talent. If we can get you to achieve a measure of stillness you could even learn to span on your own. Some day. I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we reach orbit.”
Chapter Two
Nova shifted restlessly in the small alcove housing various real-video screens as well as thermographic and acoustic surveillance sensors. No matter how diligently designed and well-padded, after four hours this chair felt like it was stuffed with sawdust. She tried to loosen and relax each cramped muscle in turn, her eyes never leaving the softly glowing sweep of the sentinel system in front of her.