Building Baby Brother (continued)

Josh’s eyes lit up. I have to admit, so did my ego.

“Dad!” he shouted again. “This is so cool!”

He began walking around the edge of the workbench. For several long moments, Josh studied everything about my creation.

Its hair was artificial, but was close enough to the real thing that you had to look twice to notice. I had also given it eyebrows and eyelashes. The latter in particular had taken many more hours to get right than I would have imagined. I think I now have a little bit of a better understanding why it takes some women so long to get ready to go out.

Cautiously, Josh stroked the thing’s cheek with one finger. It flexed slightly beneath his touch. This close, it was a poor facsimile to human skin, and was immediately recognizable as fake, but it should pass muster from a moderate distance. It was one of the cosmetic issues that I had finally decided could be refined later.

His gaze swept over the still form. I dressed it in some clothes that Josh had outgrown the season before, hoping to be spared any potentially embarrassing questions about anatomical correctness. To be honest, I had considered dealing with that in my design, and then promptly demoted it as a very low priority.

He paused and looked across the workbench at me. His eyes remained wide with wonder.

“What does it do?”

I smiled. I couldn’t help it; I felt good.

“Whatever you want,” I told him. “It’s programmed to respond directly to your voice.”

Josh turned his head to study its face.

“Really?”

I nodded, grinning.

“Tell it to wake up.”

His eyes widened.

“Wake up!” he called to it, a bit louder than I think he meant to.

For several moments, nothing happened.

Josh’s smile faded and looked back at me. Disappointment was evident in his ice-blue eyes.

I began to frown, and then fidget.

Oh crap. Not now . . .

I turned to check the displays that monitored its inner workings, and then heard the soft, almost inaudible sounds of its internal systems coming to life.

I allowed myself a small smile, knowing what would happen next, and turned back to the platform.

Its eyelids opened, closed, and then began blinking in the random sequence that I had programmed for them.

“Josh?”

It spoke in a little boy voice—slightly flat, but unmistakably that of a child.

I had spent a long time trying to find just the right one. In my mind, I knew what it should sound like, but finding it, and then modifying it to my satisfaction, took a great deal more time than I had expected. I had nearly given up several times, but kept returning to search again—usually in the very early hours of the morning. Of all of the features I had worked on, it was probably the one that caused me to experience the most sunrises.

Building Baby Brother (continued)

She brushed past me. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door close and its lock click. I stared down at the folder in my hand, considering where to put it so I would remember it on Monday morning. Josh returned and gave me a quick, but sincere hug.

“Hi, Dad.”

I smiled and knelt so I could see him eye to eye. It suddenly seemed to me that I no longer needed to bend down quite as far as I used to.

“Hey, squirt. Have a good time?”

He shrugged.

That simple movement of his arms and shoulders spoke volumes. As far as he was concerned, they had done little of interest to him. I wanted to be annoyed, but I knew that some weekends were just like that. In addition, Carolyn had probably been preoccupied with preparing for her trip.

“Well,” I whispered. I worked on a smile, trying to keep it from growing too large, and surprised at how much effort it required. “I have something to show you . . .”

“Is it a secret? Or are girls invited too?”

I hadn’t heard Carolyn return.

Startled, I nearly stumbled. I felt my face begin to flush. I hadn’t intended to keep it a secret from her . . . exactly. But I also hadn’t envisioned her being there when I unveiled my new creation for Josh.

I glanced up at her for only the briefest moment and then back across at Josh.

“What do you think?”

Josh just shrugged again.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I guess.”

I could tell that she was displeased by the lack of unguarded enthusiasm for her presence. I let it go.

“Okay then,” I replied, not bothering to meet Carolyn’s eyes. “Come with me.”

I stood and offered my hand to Josh. He took it, gripping it firmly, and we headed toward the basement.

The lights were dimmed, so even if they were peeking, they would be unable to see much. The only unfamiliar item was the non-descript shape covered by a dark sheet lying on the workbench.

Both of them stepped toward it, but I held up a hand to stop them.

“Wait a minute.”

I knelt so I could once again be face-to-face with Josh.

“Josh?” I asked him. “Do you remember all those times you asked for a baby brother?”

“Yeah…” he answered. Suspicion and caution both hung heavy in his soft voice.

I stood and walked over the workbench and. with what was probably an overly dramatic flourish, swept the sheet away from the item it covered.

“Allow me to present Baby Brother 1.0!”

Building Baby Brother (continued)

A lot, it turned out.

I spent far too many nights staying up into the early hours of the morning, puzzling over one detail or another, until I finally realized that, unless I planned to make this my retirement project as well, it was not going to be perfect the first time out.

That didn’t keep me from recording a seemingly endless list of refinements. But, as time went on, I conceded that some compromises would unfortunately have to be made unless I wanted to unveil it first for Josh’s children instead of him.

So, several weeks after that conversation with Josh, I was ready.

In the effort to be ready, I had spent the last few days driving myself on too little sleep, nominal basic hygiene, and food that could be quickly prepared in the microwave or eaten directly from the container. In some ways, it reminded me of some of the all-nighters I had pulled in college. The similarity was nostalgic at best. I was much younger then and knew that I would pay dearly for this later.

I waited impatiently for Josh to arrive. His mother had him for the weekend, but needed to leave on a business trip early the next morning, so was dropping him off a day earlier than usual. I kept checking the clock and then began to mumble vague curses as the scheduled hour passed.

To say that I literally paced the floor would not be an exaggeration. It was less than a half hour past the time they were scheduled to arrive when I hear the sound of the car’s engine pull up at the curb, but it seemed like much later. I had to check the time twice in order to convince myself that it was not far later than it was.

I greeted them at door, opening it while they were both still several steps away. His mother paused on the doorstep. Her eyes widened as they surveyed my condition. Both they and her entire face clearly expressed her disapproval. Was there also the faint hint of a smirk?

I knew that I did not look my best. My face and a razor had not been acquainted for at least three days—and I’m certain that my eyes betrayed the minimal amount of sleep that I had. (I had purposed avoided looking into mirrors that day, but I had a clear mental vision of what they must look like.) I had showered, although begrudging myself the time that took away from finishing my project, so I knew that at least I didn’t smell as bad as I might have looked.

Josh glanced up curiously, looking at me perhaps a moment longer than usual, and then wheeled his small suitcase past me and into the house. He was rarely very chatty for the first few hours after he came home.

This was always the awkward part. I was eager for Josh to see the results of my work, but I could not simply dismiss Carolyn. As much as it might want to, for any number of reasons, it simply could not be that overly rude to her.

I fought back a sigh, hoping that it did not show.

“Do you want to come inside for a minute?”

“Sure,” she replied, with a curtness that I recognized instantly.

She would have preferred not to, but she needed to discuss something with me or, if I was lucky, simply use the bathroom before getting back on the road. If the latter, that meant that she had other plans for the evening and was not going straight home. We lived roughly a dozen or so miles apart, mostly for Josh’s sake: close enough to make visits easy, far enough that unexpected social encounters were unlikely.

She handed me a folder.

I felt the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten immediately. We had been trying to settle the conditions of the divorce for months and I automatically assumed this was yet another stack of impenetrable legal verbiage that would ostensibly allow us to reach a mutually tolerable agreement.

“Josh has a field trip next week,” she said. “Here are the signed permission slips.”

I accepted the folder without opening it. Muscles throughout my body relaxed.

“I also ordered some cookies,” she murmured, looking away, as if admitting that she had some something charitable for Josh’s school physically pained her.

I only nodded, making a mental note to do the same. I had a vague memory of Josh mentioning some kind of fund-raising effort before I had dropped him off at school on Friday.

Building Baby Brother (continued)

Perhaps it was partly avoidance behavior, or simply fatigue, but I found myself drawn to watching the movie. I tried to focus on my checkbook and spreadsheets, but my attention kept drifting back to the images on the television screen. My thoughts, though, did not remain with the action taking place there. As I watched the small artificial boy move along the screen, I began to wonder if it might just be possible to create something like him.

I knew that I could never construct a cybernetic being with the complexity presented in the film—there were both technological and financial realities to be considered, after all—but I reasoned that I might be able to create something reasonably close. It would be an interesting exercise.

Now you have to understand, I’m mostly a software guy. I understand how computer programs work, how to design and create them. My job is to make the hardware do what my clients want it to do, to produce the results that they want; I don’t typically design or build it. I leave that to the electrical engineers.

As I later lay in bed thinking about it, though, unable to banish the notion from my thoughts, I hypothesized that it might be possible to construct this project using off-the-shelf components.

Between Fry’s and Radio Shack, I should be able to gather everything I would need. If not, I had friends who worked at the some of the major computer and chip companies. They could probably get their hands on whatever additional components I might need. I even began to create a simple mental list: motherboard, memory, hard drive . . .

As the list grew, I began to think that it just might be possible after all. From there, it was a relatively small leap to: “How hard it could be?”

Building Baby Brother (continued)

A few hours later, after getting Josh finally to bed, I settled myself at my desk with the intent to pay the bills and deal with other household-related recordkeeping. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was a bit later than I had anticipated. It’s amazing how many excuses (and other delaying tactics) young children will resort to rather than simply close their eyes and go to sleep. It’s probably not as astonishing that there comes a moment when you turn away and then look back to find their head against the pillow and their eyes closed.

I considered putting this off for one more night, but knew that there was no guarantee that the next night would necessarily be any better than this one.

Might as well get it done. Most of these people do like to get paid on time.

I wasn’t really in the mood for music, so I turned on the small television that sat on a low cabinet across from my desk. There really wasn’t anything in particularly that I wanted to watch; I just wanted it as background white noise. I’ve never been comfortable with the house being completely quiet at night.

The screen lit up with a scene from a graphic and bloody police procedural series.

I can catch the late news if I want to see that . . .

I changed the channel. Again. And then again. By this point, I despaired at finding any programming that was not an adult drama or some sort or else comedians-cum-talk show hosts chatting about the latest geopolitical happenings with sparkling celebrities who also dropped in to discuss their latest motion picture, television series, or stint in rehab.

My fingers paused on the remote control when I caught sight of a small doe-eyed boy moving the blue-tinged darkness across a moonlit hillside. I recognized it as a scene from the last movie that Kubrick had done, the one that Spielberg had finished. While it was not among my favorite movies, it would serve as more than adequate for my needs that night.

Building Baby Brother (version 2.0)

“Dad, can I have a baby brother?”

“Are you sure you want one?”

I replied quickly, hoping to divert his attention to another topic—any other topic.

“You know you’d have to help take care of him. He’d be in your toys . . .”

Josh gave me a pointed stare; we’d been through all this before.

“I know, Dad.” He sighed in that overly dramatic way that only young children his age can manage. “I’ll teach him how to play with Legos and action figures and . . .”

I sighed lightly and tried not to let it show, knowing the litany that followed.

It wasn’t that I necessarily wanted to deprive Josh of the sibling experience. I had been through it myself. I also knew that it wasn’t all play and brotherly love. Lastly, it just wasn’t possible.

“Okay, Josh,” I said, turning to face him. “It’s your choice: You can have a baby brother or too many toys.”

Yeah, I admit it. It was kind of a cheap shot. But it felt a whole lot easier than explaining the real reason.

Before answering, Josh glanced around his bedroom. His eyes surveyed the collections of Lego sets, piles of action figures, the video game consoles, and other treasured playthings.

He turned his attention back to our current construction project.

“Too many toys,” he said, nodding firmly in confirmation.

Whew, I thought to myself. Dodged that bullet. Again.

I tried once again not to think about a time in the future when he might answer that question differently.

It was not the first time that he had asked that question. Although I hoped that it might be, I knew that it would not be the last.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The ride upward was short, but felt much longer than Walter remembered. The boardroom was one floor below the top level. The top floor contained a private apartment used primarily for entertaining, although Walter had heard of heroes using it occasionally for other, less noble, purposes. He found it unlikely that Raynes would have condoned such privileges, but then Walter knew something of the temptations of power.

The elevator chimed and there was a brief pause before the doors opened. After the security escort in the lobby, Walter was surprised to find this corridor empty. He knew, though, that he was probably being carefully observed through concealed security cameras. At least, he assumed they were there. Despite the careful procedures required to reach this floor, Walter could not fathom Raynes not taking at least that basic level of security precautions. Yet, in all of his visits here, Walter had never been able to find them.

Walter approached the conference room, reassured to hear the muffled murmur of voices beyond the thick paneled doors. He had been concerned that he had misheard the report and that the meeting had been moved elsewhere.

The door opened with surprising ease under his touch. He guessed that they were expertly counter-weighted for just such an effect. Walter entered and then paused, adjusting the sudden wave of noise that washed over him.

By his first estimation, there appeared to be at nearly three dozen people present. They talked animatedly, clustered in small groups of three or four. Walter recognized less than handful, but many of them were turned away from him, so he could not see their faces. Many of them held official-looking envelopes similar the one that he had tucked into an inside pocket of his overcoat.

Their expressions ranged from outrage to fear. Walter could understand that. He had not been active in the hero community for years, aside from the occasional social gathering with friends from those days. When the subpoena had been delivered, he had not known how to feel. Confusion had been his first reaction, but then Raynes’ recorded call came before he could consider it further.

A few heads turned his way as he entered. Walter nodded and returned the polite smiles directed his way. Some of them seemed genuine. Walter spied Red deep in animated discussion with two other men. He did not recognize either of them, but then he was more accustomed to seeing them garbed in their hero attire than winter coats and sweaters.

Heroic Measures (continued)

November 12, 2001 . . .

Walter pulled into the parking garage. He was concerned to find it mostly empty, and then remembered that it was a federal holiday. Many of the businesses in the neighborhood were closed in its observance.

That explains the traffic jam at the downtown off-ramp, he realized. The parade must still be going on.

He was reassured when he spotted a familiar red, white, and blue-themed motorcycle. The paint job on it seemed new.

I wonder if Marc bought himself a new one with the insurance money . . .

Walter pulled into a spot near the elevator that led down to the main lobby. He saw a handful of other cars parked in scattered spaces throughout the level, but he recognized none of them.

Not surprising, he told himself, as I haven’t seen some of these people in years.

He got out of the car, locked it, and headed for the elevator. After pressing the button, he waited, watching the numbers change as it rose from the lobby floor. He felt curiously vulnerable standing there alone, but nothing in his senses warned him that he was in immediate danger.

Nerves, he scolded himself silently. I know it’s been a while, but get yourself together. You have more to fear from Abby for taking this time away from her and the boys.

The elevator chimed and Walter tensed as the doors slid open. The car was empty, but it still took a long moment before he was convinced that it was safe to enter it.

He stepped inside and pressed for the lobby level. It was not until the doors had closed completely, and the lift began to descend, that he breathed easier.

The chime that sounded as the elevator car reached the lobby interrupted his thoughts. He had been thinking back over other times when he had come here, usually on official hero-related business. It did not bring on the melancholy that he had expected, but it still felt like something more than mere nostalgia.

Walter walked across the foyer, noting that Raynes kept the marble floor as spotlessly polished as ever. He did not recognize either of the guards stationed at the security desk, but they seemed to know him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Eastman,” the older of the two men said.

He did not rise, but Walter got the sense that his body had a round shape similar to that of his head. If Raynes still maintained his high standards, Walter knew that very little of it would be flab.

“If you’ll follow me, sir,” the younger guard said, gesturing toward the interior of the building.

He waited for Walter to join him before continuing toward the inner bank of elevators.

Taller, and thinner in proportion than the other guard, he moved with a surprising grace.

Cat-like, Walter considered. And probably as fast.

He pressed the button to call the elevator and then waited with Walter until it arrived. Walter stepped inside and turned around to face the doorway. As they closed in front of him, he saw that the guard continued standing there.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The process of moving the creature onto the flatbed truck took several minutes. They dragged it slowly, worried that doing it too quickly might arouse the creature. After the first few minutes, the heroes not directly involved in the operation grew bored, their attention drifting to more interesting matters and conversations. None of them dared leave, though, just in case their contribution was needed should the creature awaken before it had been thoroughly secured on the truck for transport.

Eventually, the behemoth’s body was pulled onto the towing deck. The platform was raised and the chains fastened firmly around creature’s still-sleeping form. Once that task was completed, the truck rumbled away into the night, leaving the rest of the heroes behind.

Red rubbed at his head.

“I could use a drink.”

Several of the other heroes gathered there, Walter included, nodded in agreement. Although he would have preferred a hot shower first, he was willing to postpone in exchange for a few ounces of good Scotch.

Osprey looked troubled.

“What about Westin?”

“He’ll have to wait until Isabel releases him.”

Red’s expression was utterly deadpan as he said it. Osprey looked surprised at first and then glared at Red before turning back to Walter. Her expression remained serious.

“He’s in good hands,” Walter told her. “Isabel’s the best we’ve got.”

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It was not difficult, for he truly believed it.

Flexing his shoulders, he only then realized how knotted they were from tension. That drink, he decided, was exactly what he needed.

Osprey looked skeptical, but her expression appeared less grim.

“Besides,” Red added, grinning. “Walt’s buying.”

Walter opened his mouth to protest, and then let it go. If he was paying for the first round, he would feel less guilty ordering a good Scotch on his own dollar than with someone else’s.

Osprey looked at Walter, who nodded his agreement. She studied him for a moment and then seemed to relax slightly.

“Okay,” she agreed. Her voice was soft and quiet. “But just one.”

“. . . at a time,” whispered Red in a voice just barely loud enough for Walter to hear.

Osprey shot Red a sharp glance, reminding Walter again of just how good her hearing was.

Red shrugged, displaying a complete lack of chagrined at having his remark overheard. Walter halfway suspected that Red had known that she would overhear it. Red chuckled and headed down the rain-slicked sidewalk, following some of the other heroes.

A moment later, Walter followed him, Osprey at his side.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Osprey began to giggle. She tried to hold it in, but when Walter and Red saw her try, they both broke into laughter again and she lost what little control remained.

The three of them laughed until tears came, finally winding down with long, gasping breaths. It was the sight of Westin being lifted into an unmarked van that returned Walter to full sobriety. The look on his face must have been enough for both Red and Osprey to follow his gaze. Their expressions soon became grim as well.

Random had reassured them that Westin would probably be fine, but they all knew that “probably” was no guarantee. Behind them, the unconscious creature still snored, sounding very much like a distant cousin to a New England coastal fog horn. Now, though, the comparison did not seem as humorous as it had only a few minutes earlier.

The van pulled away. Random was gone now too; Walter assumed that she had accompanied Westin. The remaining gathered around the fallen behemoth, but not too close. None of them trusted that it might not awake suddenly from its sudden slumber.

There was a loud mechanical clatter and a large flat-bed truck filled the spot where the van had been. At first, Walter wondered whether it had come to tow some of the illegally parked vehicles away, and then he recognized its driver and shotgun passenger. He found himself grinning, while at the same time scolding himself for his lack of imagination.

How else did they plan to get the creature out of here? Hot air balloons?

He wondered if the towing chains would be enough to hold it should it awaken during its journey to . . . well, wherever they intended to take it. They were strong enough to hold a large truck, Walter decided. They might be sturdy enough to restrain the creature until it had been delivered to its intended destination.

Some of the earlier light-hearted mood returned as passenger jumped from the truck’s cab and then landed with a single leap onto the rear platform. He unlatched the hook and began feeding out chain until it spilled down the slowly tilting platform.

With the grace of a expert surfer, he slid down the incline of the ramp, stopping where the hook had stopped on the asphalt. He picked it up and, with an aplomb that would have made any other audience believe that he did so on a regular basis, climbed along the behemoth’s back and secured the hook to the enormous collar of its outfit. Leaping lightly back to the pavement, he signaled the driver, and the chain was reeled in.

At first, the chain creaked in protest as it was pulled taut. Then, with a grating sound that reminded Walter of enormous fingernails against a billboard–sized blackboard, the body of the creature slowly began to move, sliding inexorably toward the flat bed of the tow truck.

The gathered heroes watched almost breathlessly, all of them ready to move in if the creature began to stir. So far, it had not, seeming completely unaware in its imposed slumber of what was happening to it.

I hope the neighbors are enjoying the show, Walter thought with barely contained amusement. It’s not as though we could just teleport the thing to safe place.

Certainly, he knew, there were heroes with teleporting capabilities. Most could only transport no more than themselves. A few could also move something the size of an automobile. There were none that could move something as large as this creature.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He had been the last one to actually touch the behemoth. While clinging for his life to the creature’s back, he had been concerned preventing its attention from becoming focused on Osprey. He knew that had managed one short blast to what he had hoped had been the creature’s neck, but the moments that followed had been so chaotic that he did know whether he had actually done any good.

“Over here!”

Walter was not certain who had called out. He saw Red and Random move toward a spot beyond the mouth of the alleyway. Osprey glanced toward Walter and then headed in the same direction. Casting one more cautious glance at the still motionless bulk of the creature, Walter followed them.

Leaving the alleyway, he stopped suddenly. Lying crumbled against a Volkswagen–sized shard of shattered masonry was a green and black-clad figure.

Westin.

Random moved to the fallen hero faster than Walter would have thought possible, beating even Red to Westin’s fallen form. Walter waited, knowing there was nothing more that he could do for the moment. Short of being at a full-fledged hospital, Westin was in the hands of the most capable medic Walter had ever seen.

All those years working the ER, I suppose . . .

The other heroes looked on as Random quickly, but thoroughly, assessed Westin’s condition. They had all fallen silent. The only sounds were those from the handful of cars passing by on the city streets.

After what seemed like far too many moments had passed, Random turned toward the others and nodded. Her expression was serious, but not grave.

“He’s a bit banged up,” she reported. “He’s going to be sporting some pretty bruises, I don’t think it’s anything serious. But I do want him checked for a concussion.”

As if offering his own supporting opinion of Random’s assessment, Westin groaned and stirred. His eye blinked and he groaned again, more loudly this time. He tried to rise and then seemed to come to the quick determination that he was not quite ready to do that.

Walter breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. He knew that Westin probably could not see it, but he gave the man a confident thumbs-up nonetheless.

Beside Walter, Osprey’s grinned happily. She turned to him. Her eyes shone with relief. Walter realized that she was shaking. He suspected that it was not from the chill of the night air. Reaching out to her, he was stopped by a sudden sound behind him.

He froze as the sound grew, waned, and then was repeated. In his concern over Westin’s condition, he had nearly forgotten the defeated creature that they had left unattended in the alleyway. Walter turned and ran back for the alley. Red was beside him in an instant.

They both stopped.

The behemoth remained where they had left it. It was not, as they had feared, come to its senses and started to rise in order to begin its destruction anew. The pair of heroes exchanged a puzzled look and then stared back into the alleyway when the sound came again.

This time, the two men stared at each other. A moment later, they both broke into hearty and genuine laughter.

Osprey floated down, alighting on the ground behind them. She looked at the still-unconscious creature and then at the two apparently insane men. Her glare of incomprehension only fueled the fires of their mirth and they laughed even harder.

It was exactly the release they needed, but they did little in way of offering Osprey with a reason for their otherwise inexplicable behavior.

“. . . nap . . . time . . .” Red gasped out before being overcome by a renewed fit of laughter.

Osprey’s eyes narrowed. Walter recognized that as a dangerous sign, but was unable to gather enough control in order to offer a more complete explanation. He resorted to repeatedly pointing toward the creature and then slicing the air horizontally with his hand.

Some of the Osprey’s annoyance was overcome by confusion as she tried to comprehend his gestures. She looked back at the creature, studying it intently for a moment. Shaking her head, she looked back at Walter. She opened her mouth to offer some stinging remark and then she got it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Taking another step, Walter realized that he was holding his breath. His eyes darted over the enormous form of the behemoth, watching for even the slightest hint of movement. He saw none and moved a little closer. Forcing himself to breathe, he regretted it instantly. Although he would have thought it impossible, the odor emanating from the fallen giant surpassed that of the stench of the sodden garbage around him.

Across the alleyway, Osprey fluttered closer to the ground, but still kept her distance. She looked toward Walter questioningly, but he could only shrug. He was as surprised as she was by this sudden turn of events.

Walter continued until he was near enough to touch the creature. He did not actually do so, and it was all he could do not to gag every time he took a breath.

In the dim lighting of the alleyway, it took him several moments to be certain that whatever little motion he saw coming from the downed behemoth was the slow movement of its torso as it breathed. Whatever had taken it down had left it alive. Walter found himself slightly relieved by that. To have killed it simply for smashing bricks, and creating a public nuisance with its thunderous bellows, would have been a shame. Although the potential had been there for greater damage, as far as he knew no one had been that seriously injured.

Walter stared down at the unconscious creature. Osprey touched down lightly beside him. Her face wore a broad grin.

“You did, Walter!”

Walter looked at her, perplexed. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flurry a new sounds.

At first, he thought the giant creature might have recovered. A collection of familiar voices eased his concern immediately. Iron-Clad landed with a loud metallic thud next to him. He was followed by Red and Random.

“You did this?”

Even muffled through the steel helmet, Iron-Clad’s voice sounded impressed. Red’s clapped him across the shoulder, just hard enough that Walter almost stumbled. Walter turned to glare at the red-clad hero when realization of what they were saying dawned.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It remained upright, almost rigidly so. Walter wished he could see its face—and partly grateful that he could not—for some clue as to what was happening to it. Ahead, he could see Osprey staring up at it. He was too far away to make out her expression through the shadows, but something in her posture told him that she was as puzzled as he was by the behemoth’s sudden change.

A deep frown formed on Walter’s face. His stomach formed a renewed knot as a flood of fresh possibilities filled his mind—none of them good.

He took a cautious step forward, ready to leap back at the slightest sign that the behemoth was preparing to attack again. His eyes studied the enormous creature, trying to understand what was happening—what be about to happen. He paused, staring, trying to decide if he should believe what his eyes seemed to be telling him.

Is it trembling?

The notion was too absurd to consider seriously, but Walter’s eyes persisted in reporting it.

Had Westin finally appeared again? Or were other heroes now on the scene?

Walter had trouble believing that either of those events would have caused the creature to stop and quake with terror. He doubted that it would be the least bit fazed by even the appearance of Kenniston at his fiercest. Yet, the creature remained nearly motionless, abruptly stopping during its destructive rampage.

As he watched, the creature moved again. Walter tensed, ready to leap back into action. It proved unnecessary, though. The creature toppled forward, its body still held rigid by whatever force held it. Walter saw Osprey leap upward, using her wings to lift her to a safe distance above the still form of the creature.

The sound of its collision with the pavement echoed throughout the alleyway. It was not as loud as Walter expected. Probably deadened by the thickly cushioned outfit it wore, he guessed.

He watched the behemoth’s still form for several long moments, waiting to see whether the impact with the ground might bring it back to its bestial senses. Nothing moved other than for the dust and debris settling back to the ground around it.

Walter stepped tentatively forward, watching for even the slightest hint of movement from the still creature. He doubted that this was a feint. Nothing he had seen so far indicated that the creature possessed more than a primal intelligence. He could be wrong, of course.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Without realizing it at first, Walter discovered that he was climbing the gigantic back of the behemoth like a cliff climber ascending a rock face composed of spongy rock. His feet were fully off the ground, the tread of his boots planted firmly on what he hoped was not the creature’s enormous buttocks. He pulled himself upward, grabbing at handfuls of the slick material, feeling as though he had scaled a mountain as he felt his fingers grip the top edges of the creature’s shoulders.

Lifting himself further proved to be an even greater challenge than he had anticipated. The behemoth was well aware of his presence now, but its attention was torn between the annoying presence on its back and the shrilly shouting being that darted on the ground in front of it. It roared its frustration. Its shoulders rolled as it raised its arms to yell again. The enormous muscles flexed and Walter felt his left hand slide loose as the slick material was pulled from his fist.

Walter fought to gain a new hold, dangling less securely than he would have liked from the trembling grip of his right hand. His boots maintained their hold, but he knew that a sharp and sudden movement from the creature would likely dislodge them, sending him flying.

The fingers of his left hand found a seam near the collar and, as he clutched it, brushed against what felt like a patch of bare skin along the creature’s neck. He was not sure, particularly the deceptively slick surface of the creature’s outfit, but he definitely felt a difference in texture.

Feeling his boots begin to slip, he pressed hard with his fingers, making as solid contact as he could manage, and released a charge through his gloves. He held it for as long as he could, longer than he normally would have, for fear of permanently injuring his assailant. It seemed to have no immediate effect and Walter lost his grip, clutching at the springy material as he slid back down the behemoth’s back.

He managed to land on his feet, backing away as the behemoth roared. It stood upright, bellowing, freed of the weight on its back. Walter stepped back, and then further. He wanted to be out of its arm’s reach when it started to swing.

It stood tall now. Fully erect, its full height was finally apparent to Walter. Standing at least eight feet tall, and all thick muscle, Walter could see how it had managed to toss him and Westin aside so easily. He then realized that it had grown silent.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Where the hell was Westin?

The behemoth roared and Walter knew that his time was up. He leapt, using the fallen barrel for additional leverage, and prayed that he had the strength to make the distance.

It was a near thing. He had hoped to land atop of its shoulders, giving him a chance to lock his arms in what would have been a chokehold in someone of normal size. Instead, his palms slapped against the creature’s shoulder blades. He dug in with his fingers, trying to hold on before he slid back to the pavement. If he fell, he doubted that he would be able to gain enough purchase against the slick asphalt to try again before it grabbed Osprey.

The material beneath his fingers gave, but bunched up enough beneath them that he was able to eventually manage a tenuous hold. While he had it, he attempted to send a surge across the creature’s back, hoping to at least distract it for a moment, even if he did not real damage.

His effort was rewarded only by his fingers beginning to slip again and Walter realized that the creature was clad in a made from some kind of slick and yielding material, something like a diving wet suit. It would also serve as excellent insulation for the creature, making Walter’s task all the more difficult.

He heard Osprey scream. From where he clung, sliding against the creature’s back, he could not tell whether it was in challenge or terror. Walter dug his fingers in again, trying to gather enough of the slick material in his hands to maintain even a precarious hold.

Managing to grab a handful in his left hand, he reached around awkwardly with his right, searching for even a few scant millimeters of exposed skin. The behemoth was aware of him now, twisting its torso to either see or dislodge him. Walter dug his fingers hard into the material, but it was too thick and gave as he tore at it.

Walter swore as he tried to both find something exposed and to hang on. The creature’s roars of rage and frustration were loud in his ear, making it difficult for him to hear whether Osprey was still all right. With his face pressed against the creature’s back, he could see nothing else.

Where the HELL was Westin?

If he had returned to the fray, Walter could not tell. For the moment, he assumed that it was up to him alone to try to keep Osprey from being turned into poultry pâté, if not keep the behemoth at bay until more help could arrive. He suffered no illusions of machismo that he could manage it alone.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Where the hell was Westin?

The behemoth roared and Walter knew that his time was up. He leapt, using the fallen barrel for additional leverage, and prayed that he had the strength to make the distance.

It was a near thing. He had hoped to land atop of its shoulders, giving him a chance to lock his arms in what would have been a chokehold in someone of normal size. Instead, his palms slapped against the creature’s shoulder blades. He dug in with his fingers, trying to hold on before he slid back to the pavement. If he fell, he doubted that he would be able to gain enough purchase against the slick asphalt to try again before it grabbed Osprey.

The material beneath his fingers gave, but bunched up enough beneath them that he was able to eventually manage a tenuous hold. While he had it, he attempted to send a surge across the creature’s back, hoping to at least distract it for a moment, even if he did not real damage.

His effort was rewarded only by his fingers beginning to slip again and Walter realized that the creature was clad in a made from some kind of slick and yielding material, something like a diving wet suit. It would also serve as excellent insulation for the creature, making Walter’s task all the more difficult.

He heard Osprey scream. From where he clung, sliding against the creature’s back, he could not tell whether it was in challenge or terror. Walter dug his fingers in again, trying to gather enough of the slick material in his hands to maintain even a precarious hold.

Managing to grab a handful in his left hand, he reached around awkwardly with his right, searching for even a few scant millimeters of exposed skin. The behemoth was aware of him now, twisting its torso to either see or dislodge him. Walter dug his fingers hard into the material, but it was too thick and gave as he tore at it.

Walter swore as he tried to both find something exposed and to hang on. The creature’s roars of rage and frustration were loud in his ear, making it difficult for him to hear whether Osprey was still all right. With his face pressed against the creature’s back, he could see nothing else.

Where the HELL was Westin?

If he had returned to the fray, Walter could not tell. For the moment, he assumed that it was up to him alone to try to keep Osprey from being turned into poultry pâté, if not keep the behemoth at bay until more help could arrive. He suffered no illusions of machismo that he could manage it alone.

Heroic Measures (continued)

March 11, 1985 . . .

Walter hit the overturned waste barrel, doing his best to turn it into a shoulder roll as Sen had tried to 6teach him.

He was partially successfully, smacking against a stack of broken pallets before he could complete it. His shoulders took the brunt of the impact. It rattled his head, but not nearly as much as if he had landed on it as well.

Shaking his head to clear it, he tried to pull himself to his feet. The effort was more than he expected. His battered muscles ached, trembling as they strained to obey his commands.

. . . and I’m only twenty-six.

He knew of heroes in their forties who still took to the streets to protect the city. At that moment, he could not imagine it being possible. Fighting back a groan, he steadied himself and looked toward the behemoth that still roared defiantly in the wide alleyway.

His back was to Walter. At least Walter thought it was a him; he had not seen its face as it had tossed him away. Beyond it he could see Osprey, standing ready in its path. She had both sets of claws extended, balancing lightly on her feet, trying to judge which way the giant creature might move next.

Walter knew that she was fast, but she was woefully overmatched. The behemoth had more than enough mass to hold it in place against most direct attacks—as Walter had just personally experienced.

Where was Westin?

The black and emerald green-clad hero had been there a moment ago. Walter thought he had seen him dash past, but now he was nowhere to be seen. Osprey gave no sign of him being nearby.

The giant being was making deep, grunting noises. It sounded to Walter like a bull with a migraine. Something told him that it was preparing to strike. Osprey was its only visible target.

Walter frowned, studying the space between himself and the creature. The ground was wet from the recent rain. Large puddles shone like dark oil slicks. It would be difficult to maintain an accurate attack from this distance. Anyone standing in one of the connected pools of water would be affected as well. He would have to get much closer.

The prospect did not fill him with enthusiasm, but he knew that he had little other choice. Osprey was the creature’s next target. He would be damned if he would let it toss her viciously aside as it had him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Isabel studied him for a moment before seating herself in the chair onto which she had piled her coat and sweaters. She leaned forward, unable to recline comfortably against the thick layers of clothing stacked behind her.

“How’s Abby handling it?” she asked softly.

“Better than I am,” Walter answered, staring down at his hands steepled in his lap. He offered a soft, hoarse laugh. “At least I think so.”

Isabel nodded. She looked skeptical, but not in a way that Walter might have expected.

It was the truth, for as far as he knew. Things with them were still far from normal, but Abigail seemed to be better than he at going about the motions of life. Although she refused to talk about it, he did not believe that she was in any kind of denial. It was simply her way of dealing with it.

They sat in silence.

Walter knew that the world continued on outside the beige and pastel-tinted walls of the care center. He had seen the news reports, of the challenges that the heroes still faced, and promptly switched them away. That was another life, another time—another world.

His eyes glanced toward Isabel.

Her gaze was directed toward Benny, but was not focused on him. Her thoughts, whatever they might be, journeyed elsewhere.

Walter picked up the Styrofoam cup from the side table and discovered that it was empty. He stared into it, at the brown tiny droplets that clung to its uneven surface. He rose, aware of Isabel’s eyes on him as he did so.

“Coffee?”

She stared at the cup in his hand as if she did not recognize it. Walter frowned, but then she answered him.

“Tea,” she said. “Chamomile, if they have it.”

Walter nodded his understanding and left the room, letting the door close softly behind him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

She paused, checking the beat of his pulse beneath her fingertips, before leaning closer. Walter watched as her eyes surveyed Benny’s face, checking the hue of his complexion, and assessing other telltale signs of his condition that Walter could only guess at. Releasing her gentle hold on Benny’s wrist, she lifted his eyelid and peered into his eye that lay beneath it. She frowned slightly and then repeated the process with the boy’s other eye.

Completing that part of her examination, she touched the pads of the fingers of her hand to the boy’s forehead. They remained there for a long moment, resting so lightly so that Walter could not be certain whether or not they actually touched.

There was a subtle, but unmistakable shift in Isabel’s expression.

Walter knew she what she would say; he did not want to hear it. His son still breathed. His heart still beat. As far as Walter was concerned, he lived.

Isabel’s eyes met his.

Walter stared back and then looked away, unable to bear the truth of the message they carried. He felt an irrational swell of anger. It was unfocused, seeking a target, but Walter managed to hold it at bay. If he allowed it direction, he knew it would be aimed at Isabel, who was only trying to help. It would be deflection of it anyway, he knew, diverted from its real target: himself, for trying—for wanting to believe something other than what he knew was the truth.

There was only compassion in Isabel’s eyes. Despite her revelation of Benny’s condition, she seemed to understand the fraying thread of hope that Walter clung to. She said nothing, rising from where she sat on the bed at Benny’s side. Smoothing the blanket where she had disturbed it, she turned and looked again at Walter.

“I’m sorry,” she offered quietly.

Walter gave her a tight-lipped smile of appreciation, hoping to stop her before she said anything more.

She eyed the small collection of paperback books stacked on the side table.

“You must come here often,” she said.

It was merely a statement, not an accusation.

Walter nodded slowly.

Heroic Measures (continued)

February 12, 1999 . . .

Walter sat at Benny’s bedside, holding his son’s hand. He rubbed it slowly, gently, while his eyes were on the television set mounted high on the wall across the room from the bed. The sound was turned down, but he did not need it to understand what was happening. The Senate proceedings against the President were probably more interesting without the audio commentary, he mused wryly.

He breathed a deep sigh, fighting back the urge to doze. It was a Friday night, a time when most people spent celebrating the end of a workweek. For Walter, this was where he spent those evenings. Aside from being there with his son, it was a time when he could think and reflect on his life and the choices he had made.

A soft knock sounded at the door. At first, Walter thought it might be one of the nurses or attendants stopping by on their rounds. He then remembered that they had come less than an hour earlier.

“Come in,” he called softly, as if afraid that he might disturb Benny.

Above the quiet hum of the air conditioning system, his voice was loud enough to be heard.

A thickly knitted stocking cap appeared in the doorway, followed by twin waves of sandy brown curls that framed a familiar face. Had he had not known it so well, Walter might have been mystified by the heavily-clad figure who entered the room.

She seemed to be buried beneath a considerable quantity of clothing, unless she had gained a great deal of weight since Walter had seen her last. He wondered just how cold it had become outside, considering the number of layers she seemed to peel off before greeting him.

Walter rose as she removed a deep-buttoned cardigan and draped it over the back of one of the visitor’s chairs. None of the garments stacked there seemed to match—an observation that did not surprise Walter in the least.

“Walter,” she greeted him with only the barest hint of a smile.

“Isabel,” he responded in kind, but feeling genuinely glad of her company.

She strode toward him and hugged him lightly.

The embrace felt more than perfunctory to Walter, but did not last longer than a few moments.

She stepped back and studied Walter for a moment, seeming to take a special interest in his eyes. Frowning ever so slightly at what she found there, she then moved toward the bed where Benny lay.

She stood there for a long time, staring down at the comatose youth. Her eyes did not seem to move, but nor did they take on the hazy, unfocused of deep concentration.

Finally, she looked back toward Walter.

“May I?”

Walter nodded. As a former registered nurse, he knew that he had nothing to fear from her. He was equally certain that she would do nothing to harm Benny. Nevertheless, he swallowed dryly as her fingers went toward his son’s wrist.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

He waited while she adjusted controls on the console next to one of the diagnostic beds. She finished her preparations and, when he did not approach, told him again.

“Come.”

Rusty’s eyes moved between the alien doctor and the raised platform. He knew that there was absolutely no discomfort involved in a general medical scan; he would not even be required to strip out of his uniform.

“Look, Doc,” he said. “The medics at the station poked and prodded me enough already.”

That part, at least, was true. He had been subjected to an extremely thorough examination by the medical team on the station. Employing a small amount of misdirection—and a surfeit of charm—he had managed to get his orders approved.

“Yes.”

The alien physician stared at him in placid agreement. Rusty began to smile, believing that he might have evaded this examination as well.

“Come.”

Rusty’s gaze moved back to the diagnostic bed. This was not turning out to be as easy as he had hoped.

Still, what can they do? We’re already underway. What are they going to do if I don’t pass? Shove me out an airlock?

He realized, of course, that outcome was unlikely. There was a remote possibility that he might be housed in the brig.

Did this ship even have a brig?

At minimum, he might be relieved of duty and confined to his quarters. To his surprise, Rusty found neither of those options appealing. He wanted to set foot on that big, shiny Engineering Deck again.

He moved slowly toward the diagnostic platform, stalling as he considered his options. Refusing the examination, even under a half-plausible excuse, would only delay it. Besides, what excuse could he give? Just about anything he might claim fell under the auspices of the medical officer. And just where was he?

His mind still rolling through possibilities, Rusty lifted himself into a sitting position on the platform.

When he did not move further, the physician spoke again.

“Lie down.”

With a sigh, Rusty turned and lay down.

Chatty little lady, isn’t she?

Staring up at the ceiling, he distracted himself by visually tracing the paths of the exposed conduits as the doctor proceeded with the examination.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Even if she only likes girls, he considered confidently, she can’t be completely resistant to male charm.

He moved further into the foyer, catching sight of a slight and petite figure dressed in the obligatory white medical smock. Her back was turned to Rusty, but what he could see he liked.

Her hair was a dark walnut-brown, cut to hang just below the line of her shoulders. The legs that were visible below the bottom hem of the coat were on the thin side, but not entirely unattractive. It was difficult to tell much more than that while she her attention was directed away from him.

“Hey, Doc,” he announced himself cheerily.

He put on his best grin, choosing a stance that was casual without displaying too much arrogance.

The figure stopped moving. She did not stiffen in surprise as much as simply cease to move. Slowly, with seemingly deliberate grace, she turned to face Rusty.

Rusty froze in surprise even before she faced him.

He stared. His eyes refused to blink and his breathing stopped. None of his muscles seemed capable of even involuntary movement.

He had first heard that the ship’s medical officer was an alien through the station’s grapevine. Checking the ship’s official roster had confirmed it. Now, though, he cursed himself for not taking a more careful look. He had assumed that “alien” had meant that she had come from one of the long-established distant colony worlds, one in which its inhabitants had already begun to adapt to the non-Earth biomes. He could see now that he was wrong. Managing to swallow, he frantically tried to rethink his entire approach.

The physician stared back at him.

At least she seemed to be staring. Rusty found it difficult for be certain with her large and wide dark eyes. They lacked obvious pupils to tell him whether she was studying him or not. Other then for her eyes and sharp facial angles, she looked otherwise human and female. Nonetheless, Rusty tried not to think about what other difference might lay beneath her uniform.

“Chief.”

Her voice had a hoarse, somewhat breathless quality. Rusty doubted that he would have found it seductive even coming from a human female.

He nodded slowly, still not yet managing to find his own voice.

“Come.”

The alien physician turned and walked toward the central section of the Infirmary where the diagnostic beds were stored.

Rusty watched her go, taking a moment to realize that she meant him to follow her.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Rusty entered the Infirmary a bit cautiously. As the doors parted for him, he was both relieved and pleased to find no other crew members there. As the new ship’s doctor was methodically confirming the medical status of each member of the crew, he expected to find at least a short queue of bored officers awaiting their turn.

Finally, a doctor that knows how to schedule her appointments.

Her appointments. He suppressed a slight smile at the thought.

Learning that their chief medical specialist was going to be a woman, he had nearly chortled with happiness.

He moved further into the foyer, catching sight of a slight and petite figure dressed in the obligatory white medical smock. Her back was turned to Rusty, but what he could see he liked.

Her hair was dark walnut-brown, cut to hang just below the line of her shoulders.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

With her small crew complement, shipboard security would hopefully be among the least of her worries. Having her officers trained by a clear expert, however, was an advantage definitely worth considering.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Devereux said, knowing that her expression was not nearly as unreadable as she hoped it was. “I’ll take that under consideration.”

The truth was, she realized, that she had relatively few choices. No one else who she had considered for the position had anywhere near the amount of experience that this man had. The lieutenant was, if anything, far too overqualified for the position.

“I’d like some time to go review your service record again,” Devereux said.

She noticed a slight shift in his eyes as she mentioned it.

What am I missing here?

She studied the older man for a moment, but found nothing.

“That’s all the questions I have for you for now,” Devereux said. “I appreciate your interest.”6

Devereux looked away quickly, seeing a subtle shift in Hawkes’ lips. It was not a smile, but Devereux read it as one. He was not deceived by her play to delay her decision.

He knows I don’t have any other qualified candidates for that post.

Hawkes’s posture barely changed as rose from the chair. He offered Devereux a quick salute.

“Thank you for your time, Captain.”

Devereux returned the salute, all the time studying the lieutenant’s face. She still had not figured him out, but was becoming quite certain that she would be making a serious mistake by not offering him the position.

I’d better sleep on it, she thought. If nothing else, it’ll at least give me time to convince myself that I haven’t lost my mind.

Devereux’s eyes remained on the hatch as Lieutenant Hawkes disappeared into the corridor beyond it. She knew that she had already made up her mind.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

“You are aware, Lieutenant,” she went on smoothly, “that this ship isn’t one of the giant battle cruisers.”

Hawkes’ head dipped slightly in a nod.

“Yes, Captain.” To Devereux’s surprise, he added, “It’s an N-class cargo vessel retrofitted with Class III armaments and a prototype Raynes-class slipstream drive core.”

Devereux stared at Hawkes, trying to mask her surprise. The origin of her ship had proven to be not exactly a closely-guarded Fleet secret. Its mention usually brought at least a derisive rising of eyebrows—if not outright laughter. Hawkes, on the other hand, appeared to be have no opinion on the matter. Devereux found that oddly reassuring.

“That’s . . . right,” she said.

Hawkes regarded her evenly.

“I am fully qualified on those weapons systems.”

It was Devereux’s turn to nod. Hawkes’ remark had been an understatement. Based on his dossier, the weapons systems aboard her ship were not likely to even begin to tax his abilities.

What was it then that he was looking for?

She could ask him outright—and probably would—but it had become a kind of game to her, to try to deduce what drove this older, and definitely experienced, officer.

As far as Devereux had always been concerned, any posting that took her into space was a good one, but with Hawkes’ experience and skills, he could gain a posting on almost any ship in the Fleet.

Why would he want to be on mine?

Devereux studied the older man again. He seemed aware of her scrutiny, but did not respond to it.

“It looks like you could also teach my Security teams a thing or two.” And me too.

Hawkes’ head dipped again slightly.

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “I have provided that service in the past.”

There was a formal manner about the man that mildly unnerved her. He did come across as someone who was strictly “by the book” (although Devereux suspected that the lieutenant was someone who held Fleet regulation dear), but someone who obeyed the protocols of the chain of command. Whatever the difference in ages between them, she was a Captain, an officer superior in rank, and she was granted his respectful address.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

“Yes, Captain.”

His voice was quiet, but Devereux detected a slight baritone. She suspected could carry much authority with it when needed. Yet, there was a curiously flat quality to it. It was yet one more thing about him that he appeared to keep under very tight control.

Devereux looked over his dossier again. His experience was impressive, listing both a breadth and depth of skills that she envied. Even if she served as many years as he had appeared to, she could not imagine reaching a similar degree of expertise. As much older as he was than her, she held little doubt that he could easily best her in a contest involving hand-to-hand skills. Even admitting to herself that she had been somewhat remiss of late in maintaining her workout, she suspected that he would prove to be an even match for her even when she was at her peak form.

Hawkes regarded her evenly. He seemed to possess an infinite patient calm. Devereux wondered just how deep it ran.

She struggled to maintain her composure. It was felt awkward, like the time she had to interview her father for a school project.

“You’re looking for a position with my Security team?”

“Yes, Captain,” he responded with dispassionate deference. “An assignment in the Armory or Ordnance would also be acceptable.”

Devereux nodded slowly, uncertain of what to say. Both his dossier and her instincts told her that he was overqualified for a standard crew posting.

What is it he really wants?

Devereux found his expression almost unreadable. She found no clues as to his real purpose for requesting this interview. What he had told her so far had been the truth, she suspected—simply not all of it.

His age. The gap in his service record. Is he just trying to find some way to get back in the game?

Devereux could understand that.

I’d probably do the same thing if I’d ever been put on the bench.

There was nothing frail or feeble in the older man’s demeanor or carriage. There were those, she fully suspected, who would discount his abilities given his age. That could prove to be an asset in certain situations. Not even conflict was resolved with personal contact, though.

“I have the need for a Tactical Officer,” she said, trying to sound casual.

It was true. Given the small crew complement that the ship could comfortably handle, she had planned to forgo filling that position and serve the role herself. Her background and experience fit the position and would allow her to add another crew member in a different specialty. Now, though . . .

Something changed around his eyes. Devereux was certain that she saw a subtle shift in his otherwise inscrutable expression. She had his attention.

Devereux did everything in her power not to smile. She had managed to crack through the man’s granite façade. It was the merest sliver of interest, but it was enough.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

There was something about his eyes, though, Devereux realized. She had seen the look of men who had been inured to killing—or had at least come to accept that it had become the only possible alternative if they were going to survive. This officer did not have it. Behind those archaic spectacles was the gaze of someone hardened by what he had witnessed in the field, but not succumbed to its horrors.

The color of his eyes, Devereux noticed, seemed to shift constantly from blue to silver to sea green in no particular pattern or sequence. She finally attributed it to a trick of the lighting as it reflected off his glasses.

“Come in, Lieutenant,” she beckoned to him, realizing that she had forced him to remain standing there without introduction for far too long.

Devereux gestured toward the pair of chairs across from her.

The lieutenant closed the hatch the behind him. Devereux noted the subtle way in which he checked to ensure that it had sealed properly behind him. Here was a man with long experience in space, one who had adopted the habits of someone who had spent long stretches in that unforgiving environment.

As Devereux half-expected he would, the officer took the chair on the left. It was the one that gave him the greatest vantage point of both her and the hatch that led back out to the corridor. He lowered himself somewhat stiffly into the chair. The way he moved, though, suggested to Devereux that it was not due to the rigors of age.

Some kind of combat injury, maybe?

Devereux picked up the tablet again and scanned the officer’s dossier again. The features on the profile images matched those of the main who sat in front of her, although she knew how easily those could be faked. There was nothing in the disclosed medical history about any disabilities or serious injuries, but those might be hidden in the five-year gap in his records. She could not ask, nor did she think it was likely that he would willingly divulge any information about it.

“Lieutenant Hawkes,” she said, sounding out the rank and surname.

It was interesting, she noted, that “Lieutenant” seemed to suit him. “Lieutenant Commander” might have worked as well, but there was something about his bearing and demeanor that did not lend itself to “Commander” or even, she considered, “Captain”. Oddly enough, she could see :”Colonel”, even knowing that he would need to pass through those intermediate ranks first.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

“Come in,” Devereux called out at the sound of the entrance chime.

She placed her tablet carefully on the desk, prepared to give her visitor her complete attention. Westin had found her a vacant office to use as a temporary base of operations while she finished filling out the remainder of her crew roster.

The hatch opened and the first thing she noticed about the man was the impeccable condition of his uniform. The pleats in his dress trousers appeared razor-sharp and Devereux was certain that she would be able to see her reflection in the shine of his boots.

He snapped a sharp salute. This brought her attention to his face and she fought not to reveal her reaction. She had read his birth date in his personnel dossier, but it had not quite registered with her what that meant in terms of his age. Based on the lines on his face, and the streaks of gray in his straw-colored hair, she knew that his dossier had listed his age correctly.

I must have been stuck on his rank, she reasoned.

It was no uncommon for people to begin second careers with the Fleet after working in other occupations. Devereux had encountered a small numbers of these individuals during her time in the service, but most of them served in administrative positions, usually planet-side or on the various space stations. A small number of them had gained commissions and served as full-fledged officers of the Fleet, but they were rare and Devereux could not recall ever encountering one before.

Her eyes were also drawn to his eyes. Resting on his nose between them was a pair of round spectacles, something she could not recall seeing outside of historical dramas. She had heard that some individuals, particularly in academia, donned them primarily as an affectation as some kind of arcane symbol of scholarship. This man, despite his age, looked little like a scholar.

His stride was measured and, although the material of his uniform covered it, she suspected there that was not an extra gram of fat on his spare frame. He moved like a hunter, but his expression revealed almost nothing of the cunning that Devereux suspected lay beneath it.

This must be what an assassin looks like.

She felt a chill at the thought. It took her only a moment to dredge up a handful of reasons why someone might send one after her. For the first time since reaching the station, she wished that she was armed.