Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Devereux entered the house to the mixed aromas of things cooking. She sniffed experimentally, but was not certain what there were.

Probably beef or buffalo, she guessed. The scent of the spices being used prompted her mind to that conclusion. And some kind of vegetable.

She considered dropping off her belonging in her room before approaching father, but she was already late. Dinner would not quite be ready yet, she knew, but he would notice nonetheless. She paused at the entrance to the kitchen, watching her father as he placed the last of some cooking pots and utensils into a sink filled with soapy water.

They had a dishwasher, but he rarely used it. Washing the dishes by hand, and occasionally asking her to help him dry them, was just something that he did—that he had always done, as far back as Devereux could remember. It had been, Devereux reflected, a time of conversation between him and her mother. He would take clean and put away the dishes, in no particular hurry to get the task done, while she sat finishing her coffee. They would discuss many things, Devereux remembered, although there was rarely a specific theme. It was simply their time together, to catch up on the events of each other’s days.

It had been two years since her mother had sat in that place at the table, but her father still followed the ritual every evening that he was home. Devereux had wondered if she should sit there sometimes, not in her mother’s place, of course, but at the table and give him company as he completed routine. But there was always homework or friends or something that had prevented her from following through on that thought.

“Christine,” her father greeted her, wiping his hands on a towel as he turned to face her.

Christine? Not “Chris”? Uh oh. At least it’s not my full name.

Her father’s expression was even as he looked at his daughter.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

Devereux hesitated, fighting to keep her own expression under control.

Had the Fleet Academy sent something to the house? Even after she had instructed them not? Had Abbey called him? She couldn’t do that. Could she? Would she?

For a moment, Devereux considered denying it, or at least feigning ignorance. She decided against doing either one.

It’s not going to be any easier later, she told herself.

She reached down and withdrew the admissions packet from her pack. She glanced down at it before offering it to her father. He stared down at it for a moment before accepting it.

“What’s this?”

“What we need to talk about,” Devereux said, surprised at the even calm in her voice.

“I see,” her father said and opened the portfolio. He carried it to the table and sat down, unfolding it completely.

Devereux then realized that her father had originally some other topic on his mind, but this now superseded it.

Damn.

She could have delayed this after all, but her abrupt act of honesty had prevented that. It was probably for the best, she decided.

Her father was very quiet as he carefully read over the materials. He made none of the usual thoughtful noises that were typical when he studied information, nor had he reached for a pad to make notes on.

Devereux waited, unwilling to speak, and uncertain what she would say if she could. After several minutes, although it seemed much longer than that to Devereux, her father sat back and looked up at her. He said nothing and his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

“I got accepted to the Academy,” Devereux said, feeling immediately foolish for stating the obvious.

“I can see that.”

There was no anger in her father’s voice. It sounded almost completely devoid of any emotion, Devereux thought.

What is he thinking?

She began to silently through the litany of self-recriminations again, beginning with that she should have told when she had first planned to submit her application and concluding with how she had delayed coming home that evening in an attempt to forestall this conversation.

“It’s a full scholarship, Dad,” Devereux reported. She wanted to walk over and point it out to him on the page, but remained where she was.

“I see that,” he intoned.

Devereux felt a rise of frustration and anger. Although it seemed directed toward her father, she recognized that she was as much its target. She was the one who had caused this situation, and he was not playing by the rules. What those rules exactly were, she could not say, but she felt that he should show some kind of reaction. Anger: she could deal with. Objections: she was ready to refute them. But this flat lack of reaction was not something she had been prepared to cope with. She felt as though they had reached a standoff. The problem was: she did not understand exactly what the impasse was about.

“They need my answer in two weeks, Dad,” she tried again. Her tone took on an unfortunate note of pleading.

“I see.”

Devereux fought back a sigh, but did allow herself a slow, shallow breath. She looked at her father, who stared back at her with an even, yet unreadable expression.

Her father had always expressed distrust and a certain level of animosity toward the Fleet and, by association, the Academy. Devereux had never understood why. Her father tended to be thoughtful and open-minded about nearly everything, but on this one topic he had remained steadfastly intractable. Over the years, she had tried many times to engage her father on the subject, to understand, but he always managed to evade the topic or steer the conversation in a different direction entirely.

Why? She wondered, not for the first time. What had happened regarding the Fleet that had affected him so deeply?

She had performed some historical research and, while some members of her extended family had served in a variety of capacities throughout the Fleet even before the first Orion attacks, none of them had been killed while on active duty. Considering the number of casualties from those assaults, even among the civilian population, the Devereux family tree appeared to have particularly robust—and lucky--branches.

Her father’s reaction was maddening. It made her want to, in turns: rage (“Would you at least react?!”), demand (“I’m going.”), confront (“Don’t you want me to go?”), or withdraw (Say nothing and storm away).

None of these approaches felt particularly productive, and some might even make matters worse, but the current situation was getting her nowhere. Devereux was ready to whichever one led to a speedy resolution; it was her move.

“Your mother,” her father said softly, breaking through the maelstrom of her reverie, “would have wanted this.”

But you don’t? was Devereux’s first reaction. She was surprised that she had not asked it aloud.

A moment later, a heavy silence settled between them.

“When do you leave?” her father asked. His eyes were no longer on her, but seemed fixed on something deep within his own thoughts.

“Not until next year, Dad,” Devereux answered calmly. “I do need to finish my classes here first.” She managed a weak laugh.

“Of course.”

He seemed distracted now, as if thinking something through. To Devereux, he suddenly seemed to be very old . . . and alone. Wrapped up in her own sense of loss, she had never truly understood what her mother’s death had meant to her father. Even with the devastation of having his wife taken from him, he had still had his daughter. All too soon, though, she would be gone too, although in a different way—out on her own—and he would come home every night to an empty house.

That’s still months away, Devereux told herself.

She knew, though, both how slowly and how quickly that time would pass. They would be periods of leave when she could come home, but those would be brief and far apart in time. She could leave him messages, but she knew from her own experiences from two attempted long-distance relationships what a poor substitute those were when what you truly needed was a warm, human presence.

Devereux walked over to the table and rested a hand softly on her father’s shoulder. It still felt solid and strong beneath her hand.

“I’ve got homework to get done,” she told her father gently. “I’ll come down for some hot cocoa later, okay?”

Her father nodded slowly. “I’d like that,” he replied. His voice was a husky whisper.

Devereux’s eyes moved to unfolded portfolio on the table in front of her father and wondered if she should take it or leave it there.

“Don’t forget your papers here,” he said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

Silently, Devereux gathered the packet up and closed it, tucking it under her arm. Before departing, her lip brushed the side of her father’s head just above his ear.

“I love you, Dad.”

She remained there a moment, listening to his steady breath. Straightening, she headed back toward her bedroom, feeling a melancholy sense of both relief and wonder.

Had that been a tear in his eye?

She did not know for certain, and she was going to turn back to look.

#

Rusty watched the countdown on the large overhead display projected by the computer.

“Engine crew, stand by!” he shouted, much more loudly than was truly necessary.

The Engineering Deck was noisy, but there was nothing approaching the level of sound that had probably been present in the ancient steam- and diesel-powered ocean-going vessels of centuries past. It was all for the sense of drama, he conceded, and grinned.

“Wait for it,” he called. “Hayden,” he added casually. “Watch your head.”

Ensign Hayden turned in confusion at being addressed, for his tasks were in no way connected with the upcoming course change, and avoided by scant millimeters having his forehead collide with an overhead brace. He seemed unaware of it, glanced toward Rusty and, when the Chief did not acknowledge his attention, continued onward.

“Engineering,” came Devereux’s voice over the intercom speakers. “This is the bridge. Thirty seconds.”

“We’re ready here, Cap’n”, Rusty shouted in reply.

The countdown display continued to subtract time. At 10, Devereux’s voice sounded again.

“Engaging course change on my mark.” There was a brief pause while the final seconds counted down. “Mark!”

There was a surge of power through the drive engines, and the noise level did rise significantly, although not to uncomfortable levels. It might be difficult to hold a conversation with someone from across the chamber, but no one was likely to become deafened by it.

The timer had reset and was now counting down to a new deadline.

Rusty heard reports coming from all around him, and ignored most of them.

“All systems green, Chief.”

“Slipstream variances within normal limits.”

“Fuel consumption at ninety-eight point seven.”

Rusty waited, ignoring the countdown display for the moment. This was going to be one of their shorter jumps, and one of the least tricky. If they over- or under-shot their mark, they could easily adjust their heading using standard engines and head to their next transition point. They would lose some time, for certain, but unless they missed their target by a considerable margin, it would mean a few additional hours, not days. There had plenty of time—so far.

He glanced up at the countdown timer, knowing what he would see before he even looked. They still had more than a minute left. Unless it all went to hell in a hand basket in the next thirty seconds, and by the Morris he knew that it could, it should be an eventful ride. He felt no tingle of warning and waited until, right on time, they heard Devereux’s voice again.

““Engineering,” she said, sounding very calm and confident. That made Rusty smile, although he would deny it. “Stand by for transition.”

Rusty did not bother responding that time, nodding to Aruna to send their status to the bridge.

“Ten seconds,” Devereux’s voice came again. Once more there was a pause and then, “Mark!”

There was a different swell of noise as the power levels shifted again and then fell as the power demands on the ship’s drive engines diminished.

“Secure from slipstream,” Devereux said. “Bridge out.”

Rusty shook his head smiling. He then turned to his crew and shouted, “You heard the lady. Secure your stations from slipstream transition. I want status reports from everyone in ten minutes.”

He bit off what he almost said next. He had almost told them to send all of their reports to Elizabeth, but she spent very little time on the Engineering Deck now. Rusty knew that she tried to pass through when she could, but her duties as First Officer either kept her on the bridge or sent her to a lot more locations on the ship than his section. He was proud of him, pleased for her—and he missed her.

Daily staff meetings, and the occasional meal, seemed to be among the few times that they saw each other any more.

She’s working too damned hard.

It was difficult for him to be angry or overly concerned over that. He had always known that Lizzie was driven, wanting to be the best officer that she could be. He also knew that Devereux was a damned fair Captain and would not work Lizzie harder than she could handle.

Well, he thought, that was . . . boring.

It was that truly wanted something exciting to occur during their transit, as such incidents when they involved the drive cores tended to be far more than just “interesting”, but their schedule of course corrections and velocity boosts had already become routine during the past two days. Even though the planned adjustments did not occur at regular intervals, there was a clearly predetermined cadence to them.

It was kind of like sex, Rusty mused. There was some period of frenetic activity, followed by a long stretch of relative inactivity. He considered carrying the analogy further, for he could see that preparing the engine drive cores for slipstream as akin to foreplay, but thereafter the comparisons got kind of weird.

Maybe not if you’re a cyborg, he considered, and then stopped his train of thought right there. It was definitely heading into strange territory.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

This is no way to invent a warp drive, he scolded himself. Okay, he corrected himself silently, slipstream drive. He paused. Where had that thought come from?

Walking over to the cabinet, he removed two tools. He had not measured the fittings, but he was sure that he had chosen the correctly sized tools. He did not know how he knew, just that he did. His first attempt to remove a fitting confirmed it. Scott smiled, but remained somewhat disquieted by his inability to clearly remember the specifics of his previous work.

Delayed side effects from the meds?

He had heard that short-term memory loss was possible side effect of the medication that Dr. Bohl had prescribed for him. Yet, he had not lied to his brother when he had told Thad that he had not taken any in months. He had poured the last of them down the drain after . . . Christine had left and not fulfilled prescription since then.

The memory still left him with a hollow feeling. It ached, but not as bad as it once had. He ran his hand along the edge of the assembly, feeling the smooth texture of its surface against his fingers and palm. He did not know why, but sensation both soothed and excited him. With an increasing sense of purpose and satisfaction, he began to remove the misaligned fittings.

#

Thad thought back to his last conversation with his brother.

What was it Scott had said? “I think I’ll head down to the lab for a bit.”

Thad paused for a moment and then a wide grin spread over his face.

“All right!” he cheered aloud.

There was no one nearby to hear him, not that it would have bothered him anyway if there had been.

He eyed the car and wondered how Scott had planned to get there.

Oh right, he remembered. The scooter.

Scott had purchased the scooter a little over a year ago when it became obvious that there were times when sharing a car between the two of them was not going to be always convenient. The scooter was an improvement over a bicycle in that it could carry more and travel more quickly, even if the physical benefits were not the same.

Thad looked at the car and then smiled.

To hell with that, he thought. I’ve got my own set of wheels.

He left the faceplate up as he drove, reveling in the feeling of the wind whipping at his face. Goggles covered his eyes and he held his lips firmly closed. He was willing to deal with the occasional, if abrupt, demise of flying insects in his path, but there were limits—and he would definitely be washing his face thoroughly when he arrived.

He was probably driving faster than the legal limit; it was hard to know. The snap of the wind against the exposed parts of his cheeks made it difficult to accurately judge his speed. He was not worried, though. In only one instance when he had been pulled over had he actually been issued a ticket. Since that officer had never removed his helmet during their encounter, Thad had never been certain whether it had been man. It could have been a thickly muscled woman with a different sexual orientation, but usually he had little difficulty charming them as well. Thad had finally given up, rationalizing that he (she?) had some particularly kinky taste that he could not quite key into. He had managed to charm his way out of spending an entire attending traffic school, though.

All of the other times—not that there had been that many—he had managed to smile or shamelessly flirt his way out of a citation. Well, except for that last time. She had seemed unimpressed by his negotiating skills, revealing almost nothing in her fixed, almost deadpan expression during their entire exchange. For no reason he could explain at the time, she had let him depart without even a warning, probably because she had received a more urgent call he had guessed.

She had shown up at the house later that evening, still in uniform, including the knee-high riding boots. Thad had assumed that she had changed her mind and had come to issue him a ticket after all. Instead, he had allowed her inside and, shortly thereafter, she had “taken him into custody” for what had turned into a very entertaining evening.

What had been her name? Lori? Lauren? Laurel.

Thad smiled at the memory. He had never seen her again, not even out on the road on duty. Occasionally, he considered checking to see whether she was still assigned to this patrol, but never seemed to get around to actually doing it.

He pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse and spotted the scooter parked outside, nestled precisely in the center of a marked parking space. Thad shook his head, smiling, and looked around. There were no other vehicles to be seen within the lot, yet Scott had made sure to park properly nonetheless. Thad, on the other hand, felt no such compulsion, and turned his motorcycle to halt, deliberately stopping across the painted line that divided two spaces.

Kicking down the stand, he dismounted and peeled off his gloves. His helmet followed and he dropped the gloves inside it and carried it with him to the door. It was unlocked, as he expected since Scott was inside, and he entered.

He squinted for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting. Dropping his helmet onto a nearby chair, he looked around for signs of his brother, and then stopped. It took him a moment to realize why.

The place was, if not exactly spotless, once again neatly arranged and organized. That would not have normally surprised him, but Scott had not kept it that way for several weeks. Having it in disarray was not an issue for Thad, so he had not brought up the matter—but it had disturbed him for Scott’s sake, for it was quite atypical behavior for his brother. Even being sick did little to dull his brother’s usual drive for order. Thad could recall watching Scott, flushed with fever, determined to leave the kitchen clean after managing to make a meal. He had never told his brother that those hand-washed dishes had gone right into the dishwasher and through an ultra-hot wash cycle.

He was about to call out when he heard the faint, sharp echo of metal on metal coming from the other side of the bank of shelving. Walking around it, he found Scott replacing a component in the larger assembly on the workbench.

“Hey, bro,” Thad said, trying to sound casual.

He was actually not quite certain what to think. Based on his brother’s behavior during the past several weeks, he might be either unbelievably intense or fiercely angry at the interruption.

Scott looked up and Thad braced himself for the oncoming emotional onslaught.

“Hey,” Scott said . . . and smiled. He then looked back down and continued refitting the assembly.

Thad stared, waiting. Was Scott . . . humming?

It’s got to be a girl, Thad told himself. It has to be. But when? And where?

Thad thought back to Scott’s tale about the car, the gas station, and the tow truck. The only female who his brother had mentioned then was the owner’s wife at the gas station. Thad was fairly certain that she was not his brother’s type. Scott had never shown any inclination toward exploring the other side of the sexual divide—his loss, Thad had always thought—so that left the tow truck driver out as well. From how Scott had described him, Thad would have questioned his brother’s taste and judgment.

“Um, bro?”

“Yeah? Scott answered him distractedly, not turning his attention away from his task.

“What are you doing?”

Scott paused and looked at his brother. His eyes moved as he examined Thad’s face.

“Repairing the seals on these fittings,” he said plainly. “Someone didn’t do a very good job installing the last ones.”

That would have been you, Thad responded silently, concerned to voice the thought aloud.

He was not sure how his brother would react. Right now, he seemed almost normal—something he had not been very much of since Elizabeth and the others had left. He had almost decided to say it when Scott spoke.

“Yeah, I know,” Scott said softly, pausing in his work.

He stared down at the workbench, seemingly lost in his thoughts. A moment later he looked up, meeting his brother’s eyes directly.

“I’m sorry, bro,” he said. “Really.” His tone carried a genuine note of apology.

Thad felt almost guilty for no real reason that he could explain. Such honesty usually made him uncomfortable; this one felt worst than usual.

He shrugged and managed a smile. “It’s okay.”

It was not—and yet it was, Thad decided.

Even my older brother should be allowed to lose it a little once in a while.

He was not sure that he entirely believed it. repeatedly

Scott was speaking again and Thad had to quickly replay the previous few seconds in his mind to catch up.

“I’m almost done with this,” Scott said. “When I’m finished, you want to go grab some lunch? I’m feeling . . . he closed his eyes dramatically, “. . . tacos.”

“With margaritas?” Thad asked tentatively.

Scott smiled, laughing. It carried an air of sincerity that Thad could not recall having heard from Scott in a while.

“Sure,” he said. “I wonder if Marcela is working today.”

Thad grinned at the thought, immediately knowing which Mexican eatery that Scott had in mind. Marcela Gonzalez-Rojas was the restaurant owner’s daughter—or niece—Thad had never been exactly certain. She was more than pleasant to look at, but had so far thoroughly resisted Thad’s attempts to bring their professional relationship to a more personal level.

There’s no accounting for taste, he had often thought, but found it difficult to begrudge his brother the occasional victory in their mutual pursuit of the opposite sex.

For a while, Thad thought she might be more turned on more by girls. He was still not completely convinced that she did not work that side of the sexual street. Good Catholic girls from Latin families who preferred to get it on with other females were rare, but not non-existent.

Yet she flirted repeatedly with Scott every time they ate there. Thad suspected that it was not just because his brother was a good tipper. Scott appeared to remain unaware of Marcela’s come-ons. Thad found this occasionally astonishing, for some of them were blatant enough to cause even an eavesdropper to get an erection. Thad made this determination from personal experience.

From Thad’s perspective, the poor girl had done just about everything to get his brother’s attention except to actually place herself in his lap. There were limits to that, Thad knew. It was her father/uncle’s restaurant, after all, and there were usually other customers or family members around.

That Scott had made that remark really made him wonder. Thad did not, however, dare to comment further.

It took Scott about forty-five minutes to finish the task. While he was doing that, Thad offered the occasional pair of hands, which were generally not needed, and tinkered with some of the other components that were still in the process of being constructed. They had lost valuable time, he knew, in getting the protocol completed, but giving his brother time to get his head back together was important.

How much time had they lost?

He knew that they were destined (was that the right word?) to complete it and ultimately launch a test flight, but not the exact date when they would do that. Of all of the other information that Rusty had let slip, both sober and thoroughly sloshed, that was not among it. All Thad knew was that neither he nor his brother was likely to die of old age first—and that it would happen well within the next two hundred years. Neither of those facts was of very much use or comfort to him right at the moment.

Scott finished putting the last of the tools away and approached his brother.

“You did say that you’re buying, right?”

Thad stared back at his brother, blinking with an innocent, imbecilic expression. Scott stared back, trying to maintain a serious demeanor, but was unable to sustain it. He broke into laughter, shared a moment later by Thad.

I’m not riding your motorcycle home if you get too ripped,” Scott warned him.

“You’re safe,” Thad told him. “I wouldn’t be caught even drunk riding that wimpy scooter of yours.”

Scott seemed unfazed by insult; it was hardly a new jibe. “No problem there,” he countered, “because I wouldn’t let you ride it drunk either.”

“We could go home and get the car,” Scott suggested.

“And miss all of Happy Hour?” Thad protested.

“Good point.” Scott checked his watch. “Think we can get there in eleven minutes?”

“I can,” Thad boasted pointedly. “You might be able to make it in an hour and eleven minutes.”

Scott laughed. The restaurant was only four blocks away. It might take even him eleven minutes, if he was forced to stop at all of the red lights.

“Race you for pink slips,” Scott said, turning off the overhead lights.

“You don’t have a pink slip for that toy,” Thad retorted.

“I have a receipt!”

Thad shook his head and waited while Scott locked the door.

“Get us a good table,” Scott told him as he unlocked seat of the scooter to retrieve his helmet.

“I’ll be one around ahead of you,” Thad said, slipping his own helmet on.

He started the motorcycle, revving the engine for effect, and headed out of the parking lot. Scott watched him go, smiled, and climbed into the scooter. It started with much less fanfare, but would get him where he wanted to go.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Devereux looked down, unable to meet her advisor’s eyes.

“I see,” Abbey said softly.

Devereux waited. She expected to hear more, certainly some hint of accusation or disappointment. Abbey had never dealt with her harshly; she had never done anything to deserve it, but this . . .

I wanted to wait until I knew I had been accepted.

She knew that it was a rationalization and only partially the truth.

“Christine,” Abbey said quietly.

Devereux looked up at her, expecting to find an expression of disapproval. Instead, she found understanding.

“I’d like to help you if I can,” Abbey went on. “I’m chiefly an academic counselor now,” she said. “My days of psychology are, well,” she laughed softly, “some time ago.”

She pondered the carpet silently for a long moment before continuing.

“I can try to help,” she said. “Or I can refer you to one of more qualified counselors at the Center.”

Devereux frowned, fighting back the tightening knot in her stomach. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

Abbey nodded. “I understand.”

While her advisor stood there silently, Devereux stared down at the portfolio spread out across her lap. Her eyes caught only faint glimpses of color and text, for they were not focused on it. This could be one of the most wondrous days of her life. Then why did she feel deeply conflicted about it?

“Christine,” Abbey spoke again. Her voice was flat and direct, but still quiet. “Let me tell you something,” she said. “Call it advice, if you want, but it’s really more of an observation. Understand?”

Devereux nodded in understanding, but feeling slightly puzzled.

“I seen a lot of students come in here over the years,” she explained. “Students with fantastic opportunities, such as yours. They were excited about possibilities for the future ahead of them . . . and then they went home and listened to their families.”

She took a slow breath before continuing.

“Almost all of them, at some point in their lives, came to regret that decision.”

She studied Devereux thoughtfully. Reaching out, she tapped the open packet in Devereux’s lap.

“Someone here believes that you belong out among the stars,” she stated, her voice taking on a firm and determined cadence. “I know you believe it,” she said. “And I believe it.”

Abbey rose from the edge of the desk.

“I can’t make the decision for you,” she told Devereux. “But I’m willing to help you in whatever ways I can so that you can.” She met Devereux’s eyes. “They need your answer in two weeks.” Her gaze grew a little more intent. “I’m here if you need me.”

Reaching to the desk behind her, she retrieved a small translucent card and offered it to Devereux. Even before she accepted it, Devereux knew it contained the contact information for the Student Health Center.

Abbey managed a weak smile. “I recommend Dr. Hyder, if you can get him. He’s been out there.”

A sharp chime sounded from behind Abbey, startling them both back into the moment.

“I’m sorry, Christine,” Abbey offered, “but I have an appointment.”

Devereux nodded solemnly. The tightness in her stomach had only increased.

Some officer you’d make, she thought grimly.

She folded the Fleet packet closed, rose from the chair, and tucked it carefully under her arm. As she turned to go, Abbey stopped her.

“Call me,” she said. “If you need anything—or even just want to talk it out.”

Devereux nodded slowly, feeling as though as she were in a fog.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, not entirely certain that she had said it aloud.

She reached down to retrieve her bag and headed out of the office.

Behind Devereux, Abbey frowned and stared after her until the renewed chime that signaled her next appointment forced her to turn away.

#

Scott opened the door to the warehouse and turned on the lights. They flickered into brightness, casting sharp bands of light across the shelves of equipment. For a moment, he thought that the place had been ransacked and robbed, and then remembered that the alarm had still been armed when he had arrived. He was tempted to blame the mess on his brother, but his memory told Scott that he was the one who was chiefly responsible for the state of disarray.

Did I really leave the place like this? Was I in a hurry to leave?

He walked between the two parallel rows of wide workbenches, picking up discarded tools and sorting them by type as he placed them in his hands. It did not look as though the floors had been swept for several weeks, although Scott knew that he had been there only a few days earlier.

Had it only been a few days? Or had it been longer than that?

He remembered being there, working on something, but he could not recall exactly which day that had been. The thick fuzz of mold that he found in an abandoned plastic cup gave him part of the answer.

It had must have been long enough for life to begin to evolve on its own.

He smiled at that even as he tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can. It landed with the sound of crinkling paper, telling him that the garbage had not been emptied recently either. He did not think that Thad had been the last one here, unable to recall any times within the past few days when his brother had said that he was coming here or even suggested that the two of them do so.

When had it stopped being important that they come here?

Except for the scattered tools and components, and the occasional bits of rubbish, the lack of any significant layers of dust in the main work areas suggested that it had not been that long. He stared at the assembly on the nearest table, noting the sloppy alignment of some of its fittings.

Is that my work?

Shame flushed through him, burning across his cheeks, as he remembered that it was. He stared at the partially-completed construction, trying to recall what he needed to do next. His mind filled with a jumble of images, schematics, and equations—none of which were recognizable or made any immediate sense to him.

First things, first, Scott told himself. First, you’re going to clean up this mess.

It was more than busywork or procrastination. Most of the cleanup activities would consist of tedious, repetitive tasks. His mind could wander free, to sort through his confusion, and hopefully recall what he had been thinking when he had last been there.

Those fittings will definitely need to be remounted—and probably retooled. They needed to make sure that was a tight magnetic seal when . . . when . . .

Scott blew a breath through his teeth in frustration. The answer seemed to be there, floating just out reach on the fringes of his thoughts, elusive.

He dumped the first load of swept-up waste into the garbage can, looking down into the container as he did so. It was not as filled as he had originally thought, but it would definitely need emptied before he was done.

As he cleaned, he discovered a variety of other misplaced tools, each of which he returned to it rightful place in either a case or mounted rack. He actually found little of interest. Most of the waste consisted of metal shavings, discarded shards of plastics and other materials, and a small assortment of junk food wrappers.

The last he wished he could blame wholly on his brother as well. While he was not adverse to the occasional non-nutritious snack—whoever claimed that popcorn was not a basic food group needed to have his values readjusted—he found the volume indicated by the discarded wrappers disturbing. It would definitely explain the softening roundness he was beginning to notice around his belly.

It took him nearly two hours to restore the state of the work areas to his satisfaction. The storage shelves he was willing to let go for a later time, but he suspected that it would require no less time for him to restore them to a reasonable state of orderliness.

He was thirsty now and remembered the small refrigerator that they had installed for drinks—and to keep some of their materials cool. Upon opening it, he was relieved to discover that no one had left any food behind in it. He would have hated to have been responsible for eradicating two new forms of life in a single day.

There were several cans of assorted soft drinks, and a smaller number of bottles of water. Although he really wanted one of the soft drinks, he pushed himself to go for the healthier option and chose the water.

No time like present to start new habits, he encouraged himself. If the quantity of empty wrappers had been any indication, he had plenty to make up for.

The water did not give him the sugar boost that he wanted, but it did serve to refresh him somewhat. Some of the fatigue washed away and he took a renewed interest in the half-assembled mechanism.

He studied the fittings again and discovered that not all of them would need to be replaced. There was a definite decline in the quality of the work, as if someone—him—had grown increasingly tired and careless before finally stopping.

Scott could not find a clear memory of having worked on the assembly. He was certain that he had—he simply could not remember it.

Walking over to the cabinet, he removed two tools. He had not measured the fittings, but he was sure that he had chosen the correctly sized tools. He did not know how he knew, just that he did. His first attempt to remove a fitting confirmed it. Scott smiled, but remained somewhat disquieted by his inability to clearly remember the specifics of his previous work.

 

This is no way to invent a warp drive, he scolded himself. Okay, he corrected himself silently, slipstream drive.

#

Thad thought back to his last conversation with his brother.

What was it Scott had said? “I think I’ll head down to the lab for a bit.”

Thad paused for a moment and then a wide grin spread over his face.

“All right!” he cheered aloud.

There was no one nearby to hear him, not that it would have bothered him anyway if there had been.

He eyed the car and wondered how Scott had planned to get there.

Oh right, he remembered. The scooter.

Scott had purchased the scooter a little over a year ago when it became obvious that there were times when sharing a car between the two of them was not going to be always convenient. The scooter was an improvement over a bicycle in that it could carry more and travel more quickly, even if the physical benefits were not the same.

Thad looked at the car and then smiled.

To hell with that, he thought. I’ve got my own set of wheels.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

She was just warming up into some general exercises, not yet beginning to really perspire, when she felt a nudge against her shoulder. It threw her off her rhythm and she nearly dropped her hand weights. She turned, ready to verbally strike out—or at least snarl meaningfully—at the perpetrator of the discourteous interruption. Instead, her annoyance faded with the recognition of the person who had derailed her routine.

Cilla stood there, looking either harried or excited; Devereux could not quite decide which. Either of those states was unusual for her friend, except for when she was under extreme emotional distress. Devereux recalled the night that Cilla had caught her boyfriend having sex with another girl—and then learning that it had been far from the first time.

Her friend’s long raven-black hair was pulled back into a loose tail, framing her face like a thick cowl. It threw her face into shadow, further increasing the girl’s exotic appearance. Her skin tone was light, but not the pale alabaster hue that so many people expected. She did not tan, as far as Devereux knew, but not by deliberate effort not to. It gave Cilla an appearance that drew looks, most of which she rebuffed with a glacial gaze.

Devereux had heard from others that Cilla was a practicing witch, but had never asked her friend about it. She was curious, certainly, but not enough to pry into her friend’s personal beliefs. Other than for Cilla’s occasional odd behavior around some individuals, Devereux could not recall any specific evidence to support the truth behind the rumors either way. There were additional stories that Cilla was bisexual. That Devereux could believe, although again she had no concrete proof. As far as she could recall, Cilla had never made a pass at her—or, if she had, Devereux had somehow completely missed it. Devereux was not at all certain that she would have turned the opportunity down.

Now, though, Cilla’s mind seemed focused on some other matter entirely.

“Chris,” she called to her in a rushed, urgent whisper. “Abbey’s looking for you.”

Devereux frowned. Why would her Advisor be looking for her?

“Did she say why?”

Cilla shook her head slightly, almost cautiously. “No,” she said. Her voice was still barely above a soft whisper. “She saw me in the hall and asked if I’d seen you?”

“Why didn’t she just send me a message?”

Cilla stared at her a long, steady glare. Devereux recognized that look.

“She said she did.”

Devereux looked puzzled and dug through the pockets of her sweatshirt. She retrieved her phone and looked at its display. There were ten new messages for her: eight of them all showed the same ID; two of them were actual calls. She did not meet Cilla’s eyes, feeling sheepish. Buried within the folded fabric of her shirt, she had not heard the notification chimes over the other sounds in the gym. She knew without glancing up that Cilla was looking smug.

Scrolling through the messages told her nothing. Abbey had only said that she needed to see her as soon as possible. That she had tried multiple times—and called—told Devereux that it was important.

“Thanks, Cilla,” she murmured.

Her thoughts raced as she searched through them for possible reasons why the Advisor’s would suddenly need to see her. She played back recent events in her mind. As far as she knew, her grades were okay, not great, but she was in no danger of being placed on academic probation. Of all of the required practices this season, she had missed only one, and she had been given permission from the infirmary for that one. She had not been involved in—or started—any fights this season. There were probably other girls on the team who disliked her, but that was almost always true in any activity she participated in.

Then what was it?

Devereux realized that Cilla was still standing there.

“I’ll let you know what happens,” she told her friend, somewhat distractedly. “Okay?”

Disappointment flashed across her friend’s expression so quickly that Devereux almost missed it. She felt only mildly guilty. They had been close friends for nearly two years, but if she was going to be called on the carpet for some as-yet-unknown transgression, she really did not want any witnesses. She might need consolation afterward, but that was . . . later.

Devereux wondered if she should shower first before heading to the Administration building. Taking an experimental sniff of her arm, she failed to catch a whiff of anything that made her nose want to seal itself off from the world. She was tempted to ask Cilla for a second opinion, but then thought better of it. In any case, her friend was heading away, reading something on her tablet—and nearly colliding with a trio of male students. They seemed ready to harass her for it, but she said or did something that made them stop abruptly and then give her a wide berth as she continued onward.

An evil curse? Devereux wondered, only half-joking.

Knowing that it was at least twenty degrees cooler outside, she slid into her sweat pants and then pulled the hooded sweatshirt over her head. Turning her head, she pulled her ponytail free and let it fall down along her back. She tugged the sweatshirt down into place, unhappily noting that it made her look somewhat dumpy. It was a larger size than she needed for her height, but the proper size fit her just a little too snugly across her chest. Not only did it start feeling uncomfortably tight as the day progressed, but it also tended to draw attention to her body where she did not really want it

She grabbed her gym bag and tried to remember if she had stored anything in one of the lockers. She had no more classes that day, and she had come straight from her dormitory room, so decided that she had not. If she suddenly remembered that she had, she could come back for it later.

A late afternoon breeze was kicking up as she stepped outside into the quad. It carried the brisk edge of a colder night to come when evening came. The pathways were still filled with students, but very few of them lounged on the numerous lawns in conversation or study. That was an activity for the warmer months; most of those students had gone in search of warmer conditions somewhere indoors.

The doors parted for her as she approached the entrance to the Administration building. She stepped inside and felt the faint chill of her cheeks disappear almost immediately. Her advisor’s office was on the third level. She took the stairs, knowing that it would be far faster than waiting for the lift. On more than one occasion, she had hurried up and down the stairs on a quick errand to deliver something to find the same group of people still waiting outside its closed doors.

She saw that the door was closed as she approached the office. For a moment, she thought that her advisor had already left for the day until she saw the lights reflected through the transparent glass panel. Devereux stopped outside the door and peered inside.

Her advisor was speaking to someone on her computer station. Her expression was serious without being grim, but she paced slowly along the short width of the desk as she talked. She nodded occasionally and looked thoughtful. Devereux guessed that it was important discussion, but nothing dire.

Abbey looked up and spotted Devereux. A smile warmed her expression and she held up a pair of fingers.

Give me two minutes.

Devereux nodded her understanding and then stepped out of view of the door. Both of the chair outside were occupied, one by a dark-haired young man with a surly expression that caused a chill to ripple through Devereux’s body.

I wonder what he’s here for . . .

He had been staring straight ahead, probably focusing on nothing in particular. Now his eyes turned toward Devereux. His gaze traveled up and down her body in a way that made her want to slap him, although he had said nothing and his expression had not changed in any obvious way that she could see. She had noticed boys undressing her with their eyes before, but never in such a way that it made her skin crawl in quite that way.

She was saved by the quiet sound of the door opening. Her advisor stood in the doorway and waved her inside. Abbey’s eyes darted toward the young man, narrowed slightly, and then she closed the door behind Devereux.

She greeted Devereux with a warm and sincere smile. “Christine,” she said, “I take it you finally got one of my messages?” She gestured toward one of the empty guest chairs. “Sit down.”

Devereux felt her cheeks grow warm, not meeting her advisor’s eyes as she sat down.

“I was at the gym,” she explained, but sounded unconvincing to her own ears.

Her advisor nodded and walked back behind her desk. She did not sit down, but instead reached down and picked up an official-looking packet. There was some kind of emblem embossed on the front, but Devereux could not make out what it was from where she sat.

“I know I’ve told you this before,” Abbey began, “but I spent a lot of my time trying to keep my students out of trouble.”

Devereux nodded slowly, feeling a small knot form in her stomach.

What had she done?

She searched her recent memories again, but could come up with nothing that would warrant her advisor’s attention.

Something from last year?

Even then, Devereux could not imagine what it might have been.

Abbey’s smile returned. “So it really makes my day when I get the chance to do something like this,” she said, holding out the packet to Devereux. “Congratulations, Christine.”

Devereux’s eyes studied her advisor’s face before turning down toward the packet. Her eyes widened and she felt her breath catch as she recognized the Fleet logo on the packet. She was glad that she was sitting, for she was certain that her legs would have given out from beneath her had she been standing.

Her advisor was grinning now and seated herself on the edge of her desk.

“Open it,” she told Devereux. “Please.”

Devereux looked down at the packet in her hands, silently urging them not to shake as she separated the seal that held it closed.

It unfolded into three sections. Prominently inserted in the middle section was a very official-looking document. Devereux slid it out carefully and removed it. It was printed on real paper, she realized.

Someone has a real sense of tradition, she considered nervously, and began to read the letter.

She was feeling almost light-headed by the time she finished the few short paragraphs. Not only had she been accepted into the Fleet Academy, but they offered to waive all of her academic fees. A complete scholarship was nice, sure, but she had never really believed that she would be able to obtain one. If she had been accepted, she had been willing to sweep basement floors in the middle of the night, if that was what it took.

“You should feel very proud, Christine,” Abbey offered with an almost solemn bearing. “They really want you.” She reached out and tapped the acceptance letter. “They don’t give a free ride to just anyone, even under financial hardship conditions,” she went on. “You must have impressed someone in Fleet Admissions.”

Devereux stared down at the packet splayed out across her lap without seeing it. She had not prepared herself for this—not yet. Certainly, she had hoped to be accepted; it was what she had wanted, had planned for, had worked hard for. Now here it was, spread out before her.

She felt a hand come to rest lightly on her shoulder. Devereux looked up into Abbey’s concerned face.

“Christine?” she asked softly. “Is something wrong?”

Devereux stared into her advisor’s bright compassionate eyes before shaking her head slowly. Abbey stepped back slightly, removing her hand from Devereux’s shoulder. Leaning against her desk, she sighed, crossing her hands across her chest.

“You haven’t told your father, have you?”

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

I’d better keep an eye on him, Thad decided. Maybe he’s about to go squirrelly in a whole different way.

Thad stared silently in the direction of the steering wheel, but did not see it.

I remember when he used to be the sane one around here . . .

#

Devereux leaned back from the screen and fought the urge to rub at her eyes. The exceptionally early start to her day was catching up with her. She glanced at the clock display and was disappointed to see how much time still remained until this shift was over. Her thoughts headed in the direction of getting herself another cappuccino to tide her over, but her stomach pricked at her. It was warning her that she had apparently consumed enough that day. She was tempted to ignore it, but knew she would probably pay dearly for such an indulgence later.

The truth was that she was bored—bored and weary from reviewing long-winded analyses of the various engagements with both the Orion and Argolian forces over the past several months. The dissection of those skirmishes were intended to yield useful tactical information that could be applied to future encounters, but they mostly came off as dry academic dissertations that held her interest for just slightly longer than a detailed cargo manifest.

She stretched in her chair, feeling her joints loosen somewhat. The muscles attached to them complained mildly at first and then welcomed the activity.

That settles that, Devereux decided.

She looked at the clock again. Only a few minutes had passed since she had peeked at it last.

Heck with that, she told herself with increased conviction, rising from her chair. Captain’s prerogative.

“Lieutenant,” she called to Hawkes. “You have the bridge.”

The Tactical Officer straightened and nodded smartly. “Yes, Captain.”

Devereux allowed herself a bemused smile and stepped down from the command deck. She passed behind the helm station and paused for a moment, studying the rather static star field visible on the main bridge displays.

“Try not to run into anything until I get back in the morning,” she told him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

Pyrafox chuckled softly—a noise that sounded more like a growl than laughter. “I’ll try, Captain.”

Devereux smiled and patted his shoulder before turning and leaving the bridge.

In her quarters, she removed her uniform tunic and peered at her body’s profile in the mirror. Although she was still tired, she was determined to do something more constructive with the extra time than to just grab a nap. She knew where that would lead: she would sleep past dinner, decide not to eat anything of substance, and then wake up later in the night ravenous. This would then begin a similar cycle to the one that had started her day that morning.

Grumbling half-hearted under her breath, she stripped down and then slipped into her exercise leotard. Since her body started developing its feminine curves during her adolescence, she had felt self-conscious wearing one, but she found that it was most comfortable and flexible attire for most of her routines.

There was only one other person in the exercise area when she arrived: a young crewman from one of the ship’s science teams. His body was extremely thin, lacking even the sinewy texture of muscle that Hawkes carried. He moved through his repetitions with a fluid grace that surprised Devereux, making her guess that he might have once had training as a dancer. His motions were wrong for someone skilled in gymnastics. She would know, for she had dated one for a few weeks while at University. He had been a competent lover, but it had ended when she discovered that he really did prefer other boys over her.

Devereux stretched, watching her form in the mirror from the edge of her vision. As the blood flowed into long-sedentary muscles, she could feel her vitality returning.

I really do need to get down here more often, she thought. How many times have I told myself that? she added with a silent chuckle.

She pressed for her desired program, stepped in between the hand grips of the machine and began her routine, allowing her mind to wander. It kept her from focusing on how many more repetitions she needed to complete, or how much time was remaining, depending on the routine.

For no particular reason she could think of, her mind traveled back to a similar setting in secondary school. Although rugby was generally a year-round activity, formal practice had been cancelled on that day—she could not remember why.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Devereux sat, staring at her now-empty cup, waiting while the others arrived. She had decided to call for a staff briefing before having Pyrafox execute their course change. The first shift was now coming on duty and she wanted to avoid a fragmentary exchange of updates and mission information.

She had arrived earlier, having stopped by the galley to grab a croissant and a fresh mug of coffee. Rather than return to the bridge for less than ten minutes, she opted to spend the time alone in the conference room.

It had actually been quite nice, she thought. There was a minimum of ambient noise and few distractions. She had resisted the urge to activate the holographic display and monitor the bridge activity. These moments of relative peace were all too infrequent, particularly of late. It appeared, however, that situation might change—at least for the next few days.

Hawkes arrived two minutes early, right on schedule. He paused in the hatchway for a moment before entering. If he was surprised to find Devereux already there, that was the only indication that he made of it.

“Captain.”

Devereux greeted him with a sincere smile.

“Lieutenant.”

He acknowledged her with a slight nod and then took his customary chair facing the hatch with his back to the bulkhead. To Devereux, he seemed content to wait in silence for the others to arrive. Before she could break the silence, Elizabeth arrived. She too stopped in the hatchway upon seeing Devereux already seated.

I seem to have a reputation . . ., she mused.

Elizabeth recovered quickly and gave Devereux a smile.

“Good morning, Captain,” she said and moved around to take the seat on Devereux’s right.

Devereux saw her glance down at the tablet she was carrying, probably to verify the time, before her expression relaxed with relief at seeing that she was not, in fact, late.

Pyrafox arrived a few moments later. His attention was focused on the contents of the tablet that he carried. He paused outside the hatchway as if surprised that he had already arrived at his destination. Peering through the open hatchway, he paid no particular to the fact that Devereux was already present. He stepped inside and took the seat next to Hawkes.

Elizabeth sat almost primly at attention, her hands folded neatly on top of her tablet. Devereux suppressed a smile, recalling a time that seemed both long ago, and yet not so far back time, when she was determined to prove herself to her commanding officer. She was about to tell Elizabeth to activate the display when Rusty sauntered to the doorway.

There was really no other way to describe it, Devereux decided. She had seen Rusty move like a burly rocket under emergency conditions, but his typical gait gave no other impression than a lack of urgency in any regard.

He made his way through the doorway, paused to see where the empty seats might be, and then entered, nodding graciously toward Devereux.

“Cap’n.”

Devereux considered remarking on the Chief’s tardy arrival, but decided against it. It had proven to be an ineffective measure in the past, and would only serve to turn everyone’s attention toward him.

She waited for several moments in silence. It took her that long to realize why she had continued to delay in starting the meeting. One of the remaining chairs was still vacant. She had not invited Hope, she had not seen any reason for the Medical Officer to attend a briefing that was chiefly focused on navigational and engineering issues. For a moment, she considered calling for Hope, but she knew it would only be to satisfy her own personal desire for the alien’s reassuring company rather for any practical need. Instead, she motioned for Elizabeth to activate the projector.

The room lights dimmed slightly and a three-dimensional representation of their proposed new course heading appeared above the conference table.

“We’ve received new orders,” she began. “All we have is a set of coordinates and a rendezvous schedule.”

She paused, looking at the expressions and body language of her officers seated around the table.

“That’s literally all we have,” she went on. “Other than that it’s in a region of mostly unexplored space and we should have enough time to get there without pushing our engines to the breaking point for a change.”

Her last remark garnered a smile from a Elizabeth and a soft laugh from Rusty. Pyrafox’s expression was, as usual, almost impossible to read. Hawkes continued to stare intently in the direction of the floating navigational display.

“It’ll take us eight days to get there,” Devereux said, “even with some expert piloting.” She glanced toward Pyrafox with an encouraging smile. She gestured toward the holographic image. “Lieutenant.”

Pyrafox swallowed, and then leaned forward and provided a summary of the series of slipstream jumps and course corrections that would be needed over the next several days in order for them to arrive at their destination safely.

“There’s a few things of scientific interest along the way,” he finished. “But we won’t have time to stop for more than a quick set of scans on the way out if we want to make the rendezvous on time.”

“And we do want to make it on time,” Devereux confirmed.

There was a brief period of silence before Hawkes spoke.

“There’s no new information about the rendezvous itself?”

Devereux shook her head. “None,” she replied. “At this point, we’ll all get to be surprised together.” She looked around the table again. “Any other questions?”

Elizabeth and Rusty exchanged looks, as did Pyrafox with each of them.

“None at this time, Captain,” Hawkes replied.

Devereux nodded. “Very good then,” she said. “We’ll execute the course change in fifteen minutes.” When she saw that everyone had understood the order, she added, “Dismissed.”

She rose, but allowed her officers to leave the room before she left the table. They were going to have eight somewhat tedious days ahead of them. Both the helm and Engineering teams would have some interesting spurts of activity. For the rest of them, though, it would be business as usual. The science teams could spend the time calibrating their instruments, she supposed, and made a mental note to ask Hope about it.

Devereux walked around the table and switched off the holographic display, watching as the image dissolved into a fading dance of spectral dust motes.

#

Thad walked outside, blinking in the diffuse autumn sunlight. The first piece of evidence that supported Scott’s story was that the car was parked at the curb and not in the driveway. He knew that there was not even the excuse that he had left his motorcycle in the middle of the driveway again, as he had moved it into the garage the previous morning to work on it.

Or had that been the day before? Thad wondered idly. It doesn’t matter, he answered himself with a mental shrug. It’s not in the driveway.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he did not immediately notice any new damage that the alleged tow truck might have inflicted on their car. He unlocked the car and quickly looked over the interior: nothing there either. Reaching down, he pulled the latch, releasing the hood. He then propped it open and surveyed the engine compartment. Nothing appeared immediately to be out of place. He then methodically checked all of the fluids. The coolant was a little low, and the reservoir for the washer fluid was nearly empty, but neither of those should have caused the problem that his brother had reported.

Thad returned to the driver’s seat and started the car. The engine roared to life, its sound unmuffled now by the open hood. Thad glanced across the dash panel, but found no warning lights glowing. With a frown, he turned the key and the engine whined back down to silence once more.

What’s the deal, then? And what’s going on with Scott?

The receipt from the towing company lay on the front passenger seat, giving further proof of his brother’s tale.

Okay, Thad conceded silently. But that doesn’t explain the waffles.

He sniffed experimentally. The interior of the car smelled like . . . car. There was a hint of warm metal and oil, but nothing that even remotely smelled of anything feminine.

What was it then?

Thad looked around the interior of the car again, but found nothing else except for what appeared to be some old gum wrappers and a brittle, faded flyer from some indistinguishable local gardening service.

He swears it’s not the meds. Thad stared off into the distance. Something of the more recreational variety?

Thad shook his head. As weird as Scott might be acting, he refused to believe that. Even when Scott had been at his worst, he had never ingested anything more potent than a tequila shot—not that those were necessarily harmless.

A girl? But where had he met her? At the gas station? The tow truck driver?

Thad shuddered at the image that his mind presented him with.

Probably not.

A guy?

Thad frowned at this. Scott had never shown any interest in that direction. He was not particularly prejudiced against the concept, and had not teased him about his dalliances in that regard any more or less than he would have about a female companion, but had simply shown no interest in pursuing anyone who was not a member of the completely opposite sex.

Maybe he really is just in a good mood today, Thad tried to convince himself. Maybe he’s finally getting over . . . her.

Scott had taken that one hard, in ways that Thad could only scarcely begin to understand. Thad could almost wrap his mind around it, but he lacked the experiences and buried longings that his brother possessed to fully grasp the depth of it. He could be sympathetic and supportive, but Thad recognized that he just could not feel it in the same way that his brother did—had.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Scott finished his coffee and silently debated whether or not to get himself another cup. He had finished two of them so far and was feeling the effects. Across the table from him, Charlene was staring at Thad and fingering the topmost fastened button of the shirt. Her eyes were fixed on his face and she wore a very faint, but definitely seductive, smile. Scott forced himself to look away, but it was difficult to when she tugged the shirt slightly downward, exposing the firm curves of her breasts.

That made the decision for him. He rose from table, more to get away from it than because he really wanted more coffee. Gathering his empty plate and silverware without a word, he turned and headed toward the kitchen. Behind him, he could hear Thad murmuring something to the girl. Scott could not make out the words, but his tone was unmistakable.

Scott started water in the sink. He placed his plate in it and began stacking the other items in the rising water as well.

“Bro,” Thad called out. “We’ll take care of those . . . later.” The last word faded into a mumble.

Scott ignored him. Later, he knew, might mean later in the day . . . or tomorrow. He did not look up as he heard two sets of footsteps make their way back down the hallway. The soft click of Thad’s bedroom door closing confirmed what he had suspected: he would be alone for the next few hours at least.

He gave a deep sigh and turned off the water, realizing that it had risen to within an inch of the rim. Leaving the already items in there to soak, he went around and gathered the other plates and utensils, adding them to water.

Damn, Scott realized suddenly. I never told him about the car.

There really had not been an appropriate point in the trio’s somewhat limited conversation to bring it up.

What was she going to be again? Some special kind of massage therapist or something? Scott remembered using some term for it that he suspected sounded far more impressive than it truly was.

Slipping his hands into the warm, soapy water, he began to wash the dishes. His mind paid little attention to the task, allowing his hands to follow long-learned, automatic actions.

After I finish the dishes, I can try to deal with the car, I guess.

His mind wandered back over the events of the previous evening, trying to recall if there had been any warning signs from the car that he had missed. It had started fine at the house; there had been no warning lights. He had filled it with gas, which should not have caused any problems. It had been moved, and then he had gone to the restaurant and waited there for the tow truck.

The waitress there had been nice to him—and actually pretty cute in half-tomboy sort of way. There was no doubt in Scott’s mind, though, of her feminine qualities.

I wonder how she’d look in that shirt . . .

Even as his mind began to build that mental picture, he shunted it away. He had met her only once, and in a professional capacity at that, and was not going to head down the path of once again pursuing an unattainable woman—even in his fantasies. Real life had enough challenges without adding imaginary ones to the mix.

There were those two kids in that picture. Remember?

His mind was evidently not responding promptly to reason that morning, for it flashed for him an image of her walking away from him, as she had in the restaurant, but wearing only her brother’s silk shirt. Scott felt a familiar tingle below his stomach.

With greater effort this time, he forced himself to think of something else, anything else: the inner workings of his car and how he was going to get it working again. It seemed to help, but he still felt the image flickering just beyond the fringes of his mental vision, ready to return.

The dishes were finished quickly, dried and put away. Scott realized then he could no longer put off dealing with the car. He glanced down the hallway, looking for any sign that his brother might be preparing to appear, but saw signs of no such activity. He tried not to listen too hard for additional clues. Grabbing the keys from the nearby hook, he headed outside.

It was colder than he expected, but he actually did not expect to out there for very long. He had already played out the sequence in his mind: the car would fail to start, as it had the night before; he would lift the hood and inspect the engine compartment again in daylight, again finding nothing obviously wrong; and then he would have to wait until his brother was ready to take a look.

He walked around the exterior of the vehicle, inspecting it. He did not expect to find any clues there, but was pleased to see that the tow truck driver had not inflicted any new scratches onto the surface. Stepping back, he knelt and peered beneath the car. He saw no fresh puddles, but had no expected to find any of those either. If some kind of fluid leak was the problem, then the car had lost all of it back in at the gas station or adjacent parking lot.

Scott unlocked the car and sat down in driver’s seat, prepared to pull the lever to open the front hood. He slid the key into the ignition and turned it. Expecting nothing more than possibly a sharp click, his eyes went wide with surprise when the engine roared to life and then remaining quietly idling.

Son of a bitch.

Scott wanted to beat this hands against the steering wheel with frustration, but knew that it would it accomplish nothing except for maybe making his hands sore. He left the engine running and checked the entire dashboard: none of the of the lights, except for the two which indicated which gear he was in and that the parking brake was still engaged, were lit.

Apprehensively, he reached over and turned the key. The engine shuddered to a halt and the car went silent.

Scott waited several seconds, wondering what he would do it if it did not start this time. He turned the key slowly, almost dreading the result of his actions. The engine stuttered, but then started. Again, no warning lights flashed on.

Son of a . . . bitch.

He turned off the car and sat in silence for several seconds.

It could be worse, he decided. If we hadn’t had AAA and I’d had to pay for that tow truck, I’d probably be really pissed off right now.

He actually found himself a bit surprised at the relatively calm manner in which he was dealing with these events. It was not quite the flat sense of being, that nothing really mattered all that much, that he had experienced while taking the medication prescribed by Dr. Bohl. It just was not anger.

Scott turned the key and removed it from it from the ignition slot. Shaking his head with a mix of mild disbelief and bemusement, he remained sitting in the car a little longer. He had cordoned off a part of his day to deal with what he had foreseen as an automotive time sink. The hours that followed would have consisted of getting the car to a mechanic, waiting for the mechanic to assess the problem, waiting for the mechanic to call (and not) with a report, wait for the mechanic some more (past the estimated time), and then either rush to pick up the car before the repair center closed or learn that it needed to remain overnight.

None of this had happened. The car had started as if had on almost any other day. Scott now had the rest of his day suddenly available to him. He could still drop the car off to have it checked out anyway, but he was loathe to spend the money on that it if was not truly necessary. For the moment, at least, it seemed not to be.

After several more minutes of sitting alone in the car, Scott got out, locked it, and headed back into the house. Upon entering, he encountered Thad and Charlene apparently saying their good-byes, but it appeared to Scott that she might be attempting to take Thad’s tonsils along with her.

She’s in for a surprise, Scott thought with sour amusement. We both had them out when we were nine.

She saw that she was now dressed in tight-fitting pants of some material with a faint sheen. If she was wearing underpants, it was nearly impossible to tell. A three-quarter sleeve blouse covered her on top. It was untucked, though, and kept revealing small bits of her belly or lower back as she finished her farewell gestures with his brother.

Scott gave them a wide berth, making his way back into the kitchen. He was thirsty for something besides coffee and started searching through the refrigerator.

“Hey, bro,” Thad’s voice sounded from behind him.

Scott turned to back to face him, holding out a container of orange juice that had two, maybe three, swallows left in it.

“Hard to make screwdrivers without it,” Thad offered with just a shrug and a smile—not even a very sheepish one, Scott thought.

“Or maybe it was sunrises,” Thad went on. “Are we out of tequila?”

Scott gave his brother an even look. “I haven’t checked.”

“Better check both then,” Thad told him with a wink.

Scott knew better than to think that performing as simple an act as looking into the recycling bin would provide him with the answer. He poured the remaining orange juice into a glass, noting that it barely filled it halfway, and then tossed the empty container into the recycling bin.

“Seriously, Scott,” Thad said, dropping onto one of the stools at the counter. “What was up with the whole Food Network routine this morning?”

“It was just waffles,” Scott replied with a slight shrug, emptying about half of the orange juice from the glass.

“Uh huh,” Thad replied dubiously. “You had a good night about something last night.”

“Actually,” Scott said. “I had a pretty rotten one. The car broke down.”

“Oh.” Concern wiped the teasing playfulness from Thad’s expression. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Scott replied. “It’s working fine now,” he went on. “Or was about ten minutes ago.”

Scott then summarized the events from the night before, omitting the details of his encounter with the waitress at the restaurant.

Thad was frowning when Scott finished. “I’ll take a look at it,” he said thoughtfully. “But it sounds like gremlins to me.”

“I don’t have a better explanation,” Scott conceded as well.

Thad’s eyes focused on his brother again. “That still doesn’t explain the waffles.”

Scott’s eyes rolled skyward. “Enough with the waffles, okay?” he said, half-pleading. “I felt like having some and you know takes as much time to make five as it does to make one.”

Thad’s expression took on an air of mock hurt. “Nothing at all to do with making your brother’s tummy happy?”

“Did Charlene miss that part of your body?”

Thad’s eyebrows rose at the surprisingly catty remark. After a moment, he seemed to decide to let it pass and his expressions took on a conspiratorial look.

“She used to be a gymnast,” he said. “She’s very . . . limber.”

Scott rolled his eyes again, keeping any further comments about her probable additional athletic skills to himself.

Thad laughed, but there was still a hint of worry hidden deep in his eyes.

“I’m fine, Thad,” Scott protested. “Really.”

After a moment, he realized that he honestly meant it for the first time in months. He did feel all right, despite the irritating events of the night before. As far the rest, that was just Thad being . . . Thad. It was something that he had grown up with and long ago accepted about his brother.

Thad seemed mostly convinced and slid off the stool. “I’ll go take a look right now.”

Scott nodded. “I think I’ll head down to the lab for a bit.”

“Dude,” Thad protested. “It’s Saturday. Take a break.”

“I just want to check a few things out.”

“Right,” Thad responded with clear skepticism. “See you in two or three hours.”

“Two,” Scott countered. “At the most.”

“Uh huh,” Thad persisted and left the room.

Scott heard the front door open and close. He found that he was smiling. It felt good.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Devereux sipped at her cappuccino and glanced over her desk displays. The entire station remained in standby mode, which told her that Hawkes had not used it.

Shaking her head with a bemused smile, she sat down, placing the mug down next to a stacked trio of tablets. Although he had every right to use the command deck while he was in charge of the bridge, he refused to, as if he felt it was the Captain’s personal space to which he was not entitled to intrude without explicit invitation.

She entered her passcode and waited a moment while the systems came back to life and granted her access. Other than for one that had awakened her in her quarters, there were no other urgent messages. Her agenda for the day streamed across one of the displays. At first, she was surprised to see that it appeared to be blank before realizing that it was showing her the current time. It was extremely rare for her to have something scheduled at this unreasonable hour of the morning.

More. Coffee.

She felt the faint buzz as the caffeine entered her system. With an empty stomach, it would affect her more quickly. She could feel the acid bite of the coffee and cautioned herself to grab some breakfast before long or she would regret it later.

“Captain,” Pyrafox spoke from the helm station. “I have the course plotted.”

Devereux glanced down at the mug, deciding that she could leave it there for a few minutes. She had probably had enough already to sufficiently kick-start her brain. Heading back down to the main bridge deck, she stood beside Pyrafox and looked down at the navigational displays.

“How soon will we arrive?” she asked.

Pyrafox nodded. “It depends on how hard the Chief wants to push the engines.” He checked one of the readouts. “Even at our slowest cruising speed, we should be able to make it in time.”

Devereux nodded and reached over to tap the intercom control.

“Engineering,” she said. “This is the bridge.”

“What’s up, Cap’n?”

Devereux’s eyebrows rose noticeably on hearing the Rusty’s voice. She chose to interpret his slightly hoarse tone as being one rough from sleep rather than from some other, less desirable, cause.

I guess I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep.

“We’ve received new orders,” she explained evenly. “I’m setting a new course.” She glanced down at the navigational display again. “We need to know how hard you’re willing to run the engines.”

“You’re not planning to take us through an ionized gas cloud or something, are ya?”

Devereux laughed softly, exchanging a quick smile with Pyrafox.

“Not this time, Chief,” she replied. “Maybe next week.”

“I’ll make sure to ask for leave before then.” There was a brief pause before Rusty’s voice returned, much more serious this time. “What’s the course?”

“We’re sending it to you now.”

Devereux nodded to Pyrafox to send a copy of the navigational charts to Rusty’s Engineering console. The helmsman’s fingers danced over his console and then stopped while they waited for the Chief Engineer to respond.

They heard a faint mumbling come over the intercom—probably Rusty talking to someone else, Devereux guessed—and then a low, quiet whistle.

“That’s a tricky bit of piloting there.”

On a more human face, Devereux was certain that she would have seen a blush form on the helmsman’s cheeks. Instead, she saw his skin darken slightly and the fur stand a little straighter. She studied the navigational charts he was displaying a little more closely. What she saw there tightened the knot in her stomach already present from their new orders.

No wonder we’ve never explored that area very much.

“I’m on my way up,” Rusty’s voice said over the intercom, and then the channel went silent.

Devereux rubbed at the back of her neck, feeling it starting to stiffen from looking down at the console.

“Bring it up on one of the main screens, Lieutenant,” she told him

She looked up as a copy of the navigational chart appeared on the left of the three main bridge screens.

Devereux walked over to stand in front of it, relieved to no longer have to peer down over the helmsman’s shoulder or squint to read his screen. Pyrafox followed her a few moments later.

Behind them, they heard the main hatch open. Neither of them turned around, but faint changes in their postures indicated that they had both heard the Chief Engineer enter. He stopped between them, studying the display silently.

“Are there any stops you want to make along the way, Cap’n?”

Devereux turned toward the Chief Engineer. A puzzled expression was clearly evident on her face.

“Oh, we’ll make it in time, Cap’n,” he explained. “But we won’t be going to be exactly the more direct route.” He pointed toward several marked sections of the navigational chart. “There’s some rough patches we’re going to need to dodge around.”

He stepped back and studied the display thoughtfully. “We can slipsteam through some of that,” he went on, “but it’ll be back to sub-light until you want to end up on a wormhole—or in pieces.”

“I’d rather not,” Deveruex offered.

Rusty nodded in agreement, laughing softly. His voice suddenly took on a grace tone.

“Any idea why we’re going there?”

Devereux shook her head. “None,” she replied. “There wasn’t even a briefing attached to the orders. Just the coordinates and rendezvous time.”

“Well,” Rusty said. “We should be able to make it in time.” He gave a deep chuckle. “It’s just not going to be much of straight shot.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Chief,” Devereux stated seriously.

“Tell that to helm-boy here,” Rusty responded with a grin. “He’s driving.”

Devereux smiled despite herself. Rusty studied the screen for several more seconds.

“Let me talk to my crew,” he said. He turned toward Pyrafox. “Can you send me a copy of that?”

Devereux nodded her approval to the helmsman.

“Send a copy to my station as well,” she instructed Pyrafox.

“Yes, Captain.”

The helmsman’s hands move over his console controls. “Done, sir—sirs.”

Devereux turned back to Rusty. “How much time do you need?”

Rusty shrugged, looking vaguely thoughtful. “Give us an hour.”

“Fine,” Devereux said. “We’ll start the first leg in one hour.” She turned toward Pyrafox.

“I’ll make the necessary course adjustments and send you both new ones.”

“Let’s do it,” Devereux said.

Rusty grinned and strolled back toward the main hatch. Pyrafox was lost in concentration—probably mentally calculating the course changes, Devereux guessed—as he turned and headed back to the helm station. Devereux waited a moment, studying the navigational chart again.

Nothing’s ever easy, is it? A faint chill tickled at her abdomen. I wonder what’s waiting for us at the other end?

#

Scott awoke to muted sunlight. He blinked and turned toward the clock. It showed that it was slightly after seven o’clock—late for him. He stretched slowly and then winced, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain in his lower left leg.

Memories from the night before began to trickle back to him: the car, moving the car, the restaurant, the waitress, the soup . . .

The car.

Scott sank back against the mattress, feeling annoyed, but nearly as much as he had expected to be. As far as he could remember, he had no appointments that day, so had time to deal with whatever was wrong with the car.

Scott heard nothing through the door of his brother’s bedroom as he passed it on the way to the shower.

What was I thinking? It’s only a little past seven . . .

His brother had probably been busy with his guest until the early hours. That was usually the case, Scott considered with only mild envy. He had long ago conceded to his brother’s greater stamina. It would likely be a while yet before Thad made an appearance.

Scott showered quickly, considering his options for breakfast and what do to about the car. The first was just a matter of determining what ingredients were available in the pantry and cupboards. As to the second item: that could wait until after he had some caffeine in his system and a full stomach.

Maybe in the daylight, he thought with small hope, the problem would be obvious. It had not been to the driver of the tow truck, but then, Scott had concluded sourly he had apparently been hired for his ability to drive a big truck, not for his automotive repair or deductive skills. After spending nearly an hour trying to convince the driver that his car neither needed gasoline or another attempt at a jump start (as that was the first thing they had tried),

Scott finally managed to persuade him to just tow it the few blocks back to his house and he would consider their business completed. All the noise of the car being delivered to the curb outside their house had not roused Thad from inside. Scott had signed the paperwork, made certain that car was locked, gone inside, and then went to bed. His dreams, surprisingly, had not been unpleasant ones.

Back in his own room and toweling his hair dry, Scott opted for a pair of light sweatpants and a solid-colored slate blue t-shirt. After brushing his hair into place, he tossed the towel into the hamper and headed for the kitchen.

Coffee first.

He pulled the carafe out from the coffee maker to find approximately a half-inch of sludge left over from the day before. As much as he wanted to swear at Thad for leaving it that way, he also knew that he had neglected to check it the night before as he usually did to ensure that a clean one would be waiting for him in the morning. Placing it on the counter, he started water running in the sink and began to disassemble the filter basket, knowing that it would need to be cleaned as well.

A few minutes later, he had all of those pieces cleaned, as well as a few additional items he had found in the sink and on the counters. Scott hummed softly to himself as he dried the last of these and returned them to the cabinets where they belonged. The aroma of brewing coffee was beginning to make its way through the kitchen, further improving his spirits.

Waffles, Scott thought as he began to search through the cupboards.

They would be a bit of work, but he was no rush to be anywhere. He suspected that some part of him was procrastinating about dealing the car. He reasoned, though, that he really did want Thad to look it over as well, as his brother sometimes had a way with such things, and there was nothing he could do on that front until Thad made an appearance.

He took it as a positive omen that they appeared to have enough of all the ingredients he needed, and the waffle iron was stored in the place where he first looked for it. As he began measuring out the flour, he wondered how long it had been since he had bothered to make them from scratch. He and Thad had purchased the frozen ones from time to time, but they were extremely poor substitutes for the real thing. Actually, he could not remember the last time he had cooked anything that had required more than 10 minutes mixed in a sauce pan or five minutes in the microwave.

Although he measured precisely, it took him some time to get the batter to exactly the right consistency that he wanted. He knew that it was every bit about the thickness of the batter, as it was the proper proportion of ingredients, which led to the perfect waffle.

Both of lights were glowing on the waffle iron and Scott wondered how long they had been on. The appliance was one of his great kitchen prizes. It was restaurant-quality, which he and Thad could never have usually have afforded. They had found it being sold off as part of a fixtures clearance sale at a local office supply store that was going out of business.

The price that was fastened to it was impossibly cheap, so they had assumed that someone had missed a decimal point when they had printed the label. Thad had been prepared to make an issue of it, to argue that the sellers had to honor the price as marked, but the cashier had either been too harried, or not paid enough to care, and had sold it to them at marked price without even changing expression. They never did find out why an office supply store would be selling professional-grade waffle irons.

Scott poured the batter from the spout on the mixing bowl, eyeing it carefully as it hit the heated iron. His lips pursed with approval and he closed the lid, watching as steam rose from the seam. The scent hit him almost immediately, bringing forth hazy memories of weekend mornings from childhood.

As if cued by the new aroma, Thad appeared in the hallway opening. He looked rumpled and sleepy, sniffing audibly.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice a surprisingly distinct mumble. “Besides the coffee, I mean,” he amended abruptly, as if anticipating a less than direct answer from his brother.

“Wafffles,” Scott replied, turning his attention back to the steaming waffle iron.

Thad’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He stared at Scott, then at the waffle iron, and then grinned.

“Where’s my plate?”

The waffle iron chimed and both lights glowed again.

“Here,” Scott said, sounding only mildly irritated.

He opened the top of the waffle maker and scooped out the finished waffle with a fork, dropping it carefully onto a plate. Passing the plate to Thad, he nodded to the counter where the toppings were arrayed. He then turned back and started the next one.

Scott had planned to have the first one himself, but knew there was little chance of that happening now that his brother was awake. It was not something that he was going to spend a lot of emotional energy on, though, as he knew that the first one rarely came out the best. That little secret he was willing to keep to himself.

“Okay, bro,” Thad mumbled around a mouthful of waffle. “What gives?” He waved his fork in the direction of the kitchen area. “What’s with the IHOP routine this morning?”

“IHOP is pancakes,” Scott stated simply, keeping one eye on the waffle iron.

“They have waffles too,” Thad protested, shoving another too-large portion into his mouth.

Scott just rolled his eyes in response.

“So, bro,” Thad persisted. “What’s the deal?” He pointed toward Scott with an empty fork. “I know it wasn’t because you got laid last night.”

No, Scott thought without rancor. That was you.

“I just felt like it,” Scott said, not bothering to mask his irritation. “I just wanted waffles.”

Thad studied him critically for a long moment. “You’re not back on those meds again, are you?”

Scott froze, forcing back a sudden rise of anger. He took a slow, careful breath before answering.

“You know I tossed those out when . . . they left,” he said. “All of them.”

Thad’s gaze remained on his brother for another long moment before he seemed convinced of Scott’s sincerity. His lips formed a more typical smile.

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” he said. “It sure beats whatever I was going to manage scrounge up.”

Scott watched as Thad finished another bite from his waffle and wondered which one of the batch would finally be his. His eyes then quickly shifted toward a shadow making its way down the hallway.

A young woman shuffled into view. Her hands, rolled into loose fists, were coming away from her eyes. She had that same sleepy, rumpled appearance that Thad had carried. She wore it better, Scott assessed. She was about five inches shorter than Thad. Her long ashen-blonde hair hung down below her shoulders in loosely tangled curves.

She was dressed in what looked like one of Thad’s silk shirts. It was buttoned only across the middle in such a way that the top of it revealed her cleavage without quite revealing anything more. Scott suspected that if she leaned forward at all, he would have an excellent view of what her breasts looked like. The front tails of the shirt shifted as she walked, providing glimpses of the flesh beneath it. It was not evident whether or not she was wearing panties underneath, and Scott quickly ordered his brain to remove that question from further consideration.

She regarded Scott with only a modicum of interest, but visibly brightened when she saw Thad. She smiled and her eyes had that drowsy-but-sated look that Scott knew too well, having seen it on the faces of uncounted other girls that his brother had brought home.

“Hey, Cheryl,” Thad said brightly. “My brother made us waffles.”

He scooped off a quarter of a piece from the half he 6still had remaining onto another plate.

“There’s coffee too,” he said, handing her the plate.

She accepted it with a quick, yet still-sleepy smile.

“Charlene,” she said.

Thad stared at her blankly for a moment and then his mouth opened with understanding. Nothing came out, which was probably fortunate all the way around, Scott thought. The girl—Charlene—seemed to think the matter settled and began working at her own piece of the waffle.

Scott shook his head very slightly. How does he get away with that?

Something flashed at the edge of vision. He looked up to find Thad holding out his empty plate. Scott resisted the urge to simply snatch it away from him; he instead just gave him a steady, half-hearted glare. Thad just smiled charmingly.

“Charlene,” Scott called to her, hoping he had heard her name correctly. “Would you like another one?”

She looked up, focusing on Scott as if moving her attention from her plate to him required considerable effort.

“Can I?”

It took Scott a moment before he realized that he was staring at her.

“Yes,” he said, looking away quickly and trying to sound cheerful. “Of course you can.”

“Can I?” Would I have asked you if it wasn’t okay? Scott fought the urge to shake his head again. Maybe her multi-tasking skills were limited to moving a fork and eating at the same time, he thought, somewhat uncharitably, he recognized. And whatever it was that Thad found of interest.

She smiled brightly at him in return and held out her plate to him. Her saving grace in doing so, Scott silently conceded, was that she was a bit more polite about than her brother had been. And she was definitely not wearing anything underneath that shirt.

By his count, Scott managed to get the fourth waffle for himself. There was enough batter for a fifth one that they split among the three of them, although Thad ended up claiming most of it. Still, he felt satisfied. He had managed to successfully quell his craving as well as garner praise from both his brother and Charlene for the results of his efforts. The kitchen was a mess, but he—they—could deal with that later.

Thad leaned back in his chair and issued forth with a very audible—and equally unconvincing—belch.

“That was fantastic, bro,” he told Scott. “What are you making us for lunch?”

Scott’s eyes narrowed and he raised his fork threateningly. Thad raised his hands and shrugged with mock innocence while Charlene giggled. It was not a bad sound, Scott decided, as giggling sounds went; he had certainly heard worse.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

“I guess your mother never taught you not to play with your food?”

Scott started, managing to fumble the packet of crackers so that they made a perfect landing into his soup.

He looked up to find the young woman smiling and laughing quietly. Finding no malice in the sparkle in her eyes, Scott relaxed.

“She did, actually,” he responded quietly.

His eyes left hers, but stayed focused on her face. She seemed to study him for a moment, as if really seeing him for the first time. They remained that way for several long moments before she looked down toward the table.

“Are you done with that?”

“It was really good,” Scott offered with sincere enthusiasm. “The best I think I’ve ever had.”

The young woman smiled. “You don’t have to go overboard,” she laughed. “It’s not as though I made it.”

Scott grinned. “It was still good.”

“I’ll bet you’d have said the same thing about the clam chowder.”

“No,” Scott replied seriously, but still managed a light smile. “I’m actually not a big fan of clam chowder.”

“Uh huh.”

“Really,” he protested mildly.

It was true. He was not particularly fond of thick, creamy soups—particularly since that incident with stomach flu during his early teens.

“If you say so,” she responded, clearly teasing him now.

She picked up the bowl and spoon and started to carry them away. Scott had actually wanted to finish it, but then realized that they might be the last two dirty dishes left in the place and he was keeping them from finishing up and going home. Scott sat and waited, anticipating that she would be returning with the check at any moment.

At least I remembered to bring my wallet.

His fingers played with the remaining packet of crackers.

What am I going to do about the car? I guess I can have them tow it home if they can’t get it started and we can deal with it tomorrow. With my luck, Scott mused sourly, Thad will go out in the morning and the damned thing will start right up for him.

The young waitress returned and placed a check down the table near him. Before Scott could look at it, a bright light was reflected through the restaurant’s front windows.

“It looks like your ride’s here,” the young woman said, nodding toward the window.

Scott looked toward the window and blinked. He caught see two bright headlights and the dark silhouette of something that could have been a tow truck.

When he turned back, the girl was gone.

He looked down at the table to read the amount of the check. Instead, he found this message scrawled in large curved letters:

NO CHARGE.

THANKS AND COME AGAIN.

- J

Next to the “J”, in approximately the same size, was drawn a smiley face.

Scott shook his head slowly, genuinely amused. He reached into his wallet and placed a five-dollar bill on top of the check.

She certainly deserves at least that much.

He looked around the restaurant, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Probably cleaning up and getting ready to leave.

Feeling a definite sense of disappointment, Scott rose and headed out the door, walking quickly before the driver decided that he was in the wrong place and took off without helping him.

As Scott made his way back across the parking lot, he kept turning to cast quick glances back at the restaurant to see whether he could catch another glimpse of the young woman.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Peering at the list displayed on her phone, she used her thumb to scroll through it. She paused at one name, considered it for a moment, and then went on searching again.

“Try that one,” she said after a few more moments, smiling and handing the phone back to Scott. “They’re usually fast and not too creepy.”

Scott’s eyebrows rose slightly at the explanation of her criteria. She laughed softly, apparently finding his reaction amusing. Scott tried not to blush. In an effort to avoid seeing her expression, he looked down at the number highlighted on the phone’s display.

Kat Karson’s All-Night Towing.

Scott felt his eyebrows continue their climb upward. He could not think of any men he knew named “Kat” and had the flash of a mental image of the towing service’s owner.

Slender and petite women do not run towing companies.

He glanced at the young woman, reassessing his original judgment regarding the relationship of the two boys in the image on the phone, as well as that of her possible sexual preferences. She remained there waiting, seemingly somehow aware of the pending reorganization of her in his thoughts. He covered up his embarrassment by pressing for the number and placing the phone against his ear.

A vague voice came from somewhere else in the restaurant. The young woman responded, but Scott was more focused on listening to the call try to connect to hear what she might have said. Her expression quirked with mild annoyance and she turned and headed away, leaving Scott alone once again with her phone. Scott realized how intently he was watching her depart when the voice on the other end of the signal repeated itself a third time, sounding sharply irritated.

“Um,” Scott responded finally, beginning to wonder if his conversation-starting vocabulary included any additional words that evening. “I need a tow truck.”

He immediately fought the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. He was also grateful that the young woman was no longer standing right there to hear him.

Why else would you call a towing service, stupid? For Chinese takeout?

“Uh huh,” responded the voice at the other end. It was a fair approximation of what he would have expected “Kat” might sound like based on his fictional mental image.

Scott remained silent for a long moment, not at all certain what to say next.

“The car won’t start.”

Okay, another lame statement. Would I be calling if it worked?

There was a sound from the other end of the line like someone clearing their throat.

“Where are you located?”

Scott told her the location of the intersection where the gas station was located. She repeated it back to him, verifying the address.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

There was a long pause. Vague noises like voices and typing on an old keyboard filtered through the faintly audible hum of the open line.

“Okay,” the voice said after several moments. “It’ll be at least thirty minutes, maybe forty-five.” There was another pause. “More like forty-five.”

Scott sighed. He had expected to have to wait.

“Okay.”

“Is there a number where you can be reached?”

Scott was about to recite his phone number out of habit before he caught himself. That was not going to be of much use since he did not have it with him. He glanced around the interior of the restaurant, but there nothing to indicate what their telephone number might be. In any case, they would probably be fully closed by the time the truck arrived.

“Are you there?” the voice asked, sounding decidedly annoyed.

Scott swallowed nervously. “Yeah.”

He looked around again and then gave her the number of the phone he was holding.

Not exactly ideal—or even polite—but hopefully they won’t need to call.

She repeated the number back to him and Scott confirmed it.

“Thank you for calling Kay’s Towing,” the voice recited from bored routine and then the line went silent.

Scott closed the phone and sighed.

Forty-five minutes.

He was skeptical even of that claim and anticipated waiting for at least an hour before the tow truck arrived. He was not ready to attempt the walk home yet, and it would be somewhat pointless, as he would just need to turn around and come back.

The fast food restaurant would be open for a while yet, he knew, and it would be close to where he had left his car. He would have a clear view of the street when the truck finally did arrive. He could probably even find it in him to choke down a cheeseburger or chicken sandwich in the hope of reassuring the restaurant’s management that he was not either homeless or stalking someone.

The young woman was walking back up to him. Her expression was mildly curious. She accepted the phone from him without looking at it and slipped it back into her apron pocket.

“How do you have to wait?”

“About forty-five minutes,” Scott shrugged. “Thanks for letting me use your phone.”

Her smile brightened, exposing two lines of perfect white teeth. “It was no hassle.

He gave her a small, grateful smile and then turned to leave.

“Hey,” she called quietly from behind him.

There was upward lilt in her voice that betrayed a faint accent that Scott could not place. He turned back to face her.

“It’s getting cold out there.”

Scott nodded.

He felt his heart sink just a little as he unconsciously downgraded his original assessment of her intelligence. Her report on the outside weather did not exactly require to qualifications of a college degree.

She nodded toward the kitchen. “We’re just closing up,” she explained. “There’s some soup left that we’re just going to have to throw out.”

Her smile returned to full blossom. Scott knew at that moment that he was doomed, that he would agree to anything that she suggested.

“You can wait here and have it,” she went on. “At least until we’re done closing up.”

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the older man clearing out the cash register.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” he whispered in weak protest.

Her head turned to follow the path of his eyes, her long ponytail brushing against his arm. Its touch tingled like a faint electric spark.

Static electricity, Scott told himself, not entirely believing his own explanation.

“Nah,” she replied, turning back to Scott. “I’ll clear it with him.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, but Scott could clearly see the humor in them. “You do have some money with you, right?”

Scott nodded slowly.

“Just in case,” she winked at him. She waved him toward a table near the front door. “Go have a seat,
she told him. “I’ll be right back with the soup.” She turned away. “If you’re lucky, you might even get crackers with it.”

Scott watched her go, distractedly admiring the smooth curve of her thighs as she walked away. He forced himself to look away before she noticed him—although he was not at all certain that she had not already noticed—and headed for the table she had indicated.

It had not yet been cleaned off. The dishes from the previous diners had been removed, but it had not yet been wiped off. Taking a small handful of napkins from the dispenser, Scott wiped the crumbs and liquid rings away, leaving them and the soiled napkins in a small clump on the edge. He sat down and waited.

Having nothing else to do, and not wanting to be too obvious by looking around the restaurant for the young woman, he studied his hands and wished that he had thought to wash them before sitting down. They were streaked with dirt and grease—and probably far from sanitary.

Nice first impression you set there, dude. Monosyllables and dirty hands—heavens knows where she thinks you came from. She seemed nice enough, though. Maybe she likes guys who get their hands dirty.

His thoughts were interrupted by her approach. He glanced in her direction, but was unable to meet her eyes, convinced that she would be able to tell immediately what he had been thinking.

She placed a large steaming bowl in front of him, followed by a thick napkin and large spoon.

“I hope minestrone’s all right,” she said with a light playfulness, “because that’s all that’s left.” She leaned forward and whispered in soft tone that was both conspiratorial and vaguely seductive. “You wouldn’t have wanted the clam chowder anyway. They don’t make it themselves.”

Scott looked down into the bowl at the reddish-brown broth. It was filled with pasta and various bits of vegetables. It smelled wonderful and, even better, it was warm.

“No,” he answered quietly. “It’s fine.”

She smiled and then reached into her apron pocket. For a moment, Scott thought that she was going to bring out her phone again. He realized guiltily that he had forgotten to tell her that he had given the towing service her number. Instead, she placed two cellophane packets of crackers on the table in front of him.

This time Scott could not help but look at her. Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“I found these behind some old pots in the kitchen,” she told him with a faintly impish smile. “I don’t think they’re too stale.”

Trouble, he told himself. She’s definitely trouble.

“Thanks,” he managed to say, wondering if he was blushing as well. His cheeks felt suddenly much warmer.

No, he told himself. It must be the heat from the soup.

Even he did not believe that excuse.

She smiled at him again and then turned and began wiping down some of the other tables. Scott watched her for several seconds, diverting his eyes back down to his soup the moment that she turned back in his direction. He took the napkin and unfolded it onto his lap.

I might not look it right now, he thought, but at least I can act civilized.

He picked up the spoon and stirred experimentally at the soup. Its renewed fragrance drifted up to him and he found himself suddenly very hungry. He lifted the spoon and blow across it carefully, feeling abruptly very self-conscious about doing so. His eyes darted across the room, but the young woman’s interest was focused elsewhere.

Get a grip, Scott. People do that all the time in restaurants. I’m sure she sees it everyday—and from much stranger people than you.

Cautiously, he tasted the soup. It was still quite hot, but it lived up to his expectations set by its aroma. He scalded his tongue slightly on the second spoonful and, before he quite realized it, the bowl was nearly empty.

So much for killing forty-five minutes . . .

He put the spoon down toyed with one of the packets of crackers. He had forgotten to add them to his soup and it seemed silly to do so now. The clear plastic crinkled pleasantly between his fingers.