Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

It’s strange, Thad considered. He’s being so Scott, and yet so not-Scott. Not in an evil twin sort of way—that’s my job, he thought with smug amusement, but just . . . different. But a better different than he had been during the past several weeks.

“Sorry,” Scott said, turning his attention fully to his brother. “I was just thinking about something.” Before Thad could insert a retort, he added, “You didn’t order those tiny green chilies again, did you?”

Thad stared back at him, his eyes wide with mock innocence.

Scott shook his head with feigned disgust. “If I didn’t want to waste a perfectly good margarita, you’d be wearing it right now.”

Thad just grinned and took another healthy swallow from his glass.

Marcela arrived a few moments later with their plates and placed one before each of them. Thad noticed that she leaned just a bit further over directly in front of Scott to ensure that he had full view of her well-supported cleavage.

Scott thanked Marcela and smiled. Her smile was bright in return. As she walked away, clearly satisfied with her performance, Thad watched her depart and then looked over at his brother. Scott was watching her too, but trying to hide it as he picked through his nachos.

He looked! I knew it!

“Don’t go there, bro,” Scott said in low, mildly warning tone.

Thad could tell from his expression from that he was not truly angry, and might even be enjoying their little game. He decided, though, not to push it—not yet. He tried for a hurt expression that said “I didn’t even say anything!”, but Scott did not look his way and missed it.

Scott drained his glass and sat back with a sigh. It sounded to Thad like a satisfied one, but one of regret. Thad downed his own drink, noting with surprise that Scott had finished his first. Scott made no move to seek out Marcela for another round, so Thad it let it got for the moment. His brother did not appear to be melancholy, just thoughtful. The tension seemed to have smoothed out around his eyes and he looked almost . . . relaxed.

See what a good margarita will do for you?

Thad leaned back and let the sun warm his face. He had managed to find a location on the open-air patio where the afternoon sun landed in just the right way. Protected on both sides by fresco-painted brick walls, it let the warmth of the sun penetrate without being completely subsumed by the cooler autumn air.

It’s been a while since we just hung out like this, Thad realized. Maybe things will work out.

He looked over at Scott, who was once again picking through the nachos.

I really should tell him that there’s no peppers in there, he mused with a mental smirk.

Scott looked up, holding a chip loaded with beans and cheese.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said, taking a bite and chewing it slowly. “Maybe we can sell off just one of the patents,” he said. “One of the ones more related to circuit design or something. We might get enough to finish the rest of the main assembly . . . and pay Dad back some of what we took.”

“Yeah,” Thad agreed, swallowing down a chunk of carnitas. “He’s still pretty miffed about that.” He stared down at his plate, searching for the next perfect bite.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Selling the patent, I mean,” he said. “Paying back Dad is definitely a good idea.”

Scott took a slow, thoughtful breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we have to do something.” He picked his glass and, realizing the margarita was gone, sipped at the melted ice. “I don’t remember being told that we suddenly won the lottery or something.”

Thad pondered that for a moment. Those kinds of details, such as how they had managed to continue funding the development of their (second) prototype power system, had never really been discussed.

“We could start selling certain bodily fluids,” Thad suggested, only half-seriously. “Mine should bring in a premium price.” His face took on an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll have to stop giving out free samples . . .”

Scott stared at his brother and then slowly rolled his eyes skyward.

“You’re right,” Thad agreed. “Bad idea. Who knows what would happen with all those disappointed and sexually frustrated women running around?”

“Some other guys might get their share?”

Thad shrugged emphatically. “I can’t help it if their women would rather be with me.”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “That reasoning went over really well with Gina’s boyfriend, Haley’s fiancé, and . . . oh yeah, Danielle’s husband.”

Thad rubbed at his jaw, remembering the encounter with the last one. He had moved fast, managing to connect one with Thad’s chin before Scott distracted him and Thad managed to dodge away from the later blows.

“Well,” he countered, although a little bit more subdued, “as I said.” He brightened slightly. “You have to admit that Danielle was a cute little number.”

Scott stared back at him. “I saw her a few weeks ago,” he said. “It looked like she was pregnant.”

“It’s not mine!” Thad protested, a little too loudly.

Scott sighed and rolled his eyes again. Whatever he was going to respond with next was interrupted by Marcela appearance back at their table.

“Two more margaritas?”

Thad watched as she rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder and moved it ever so slightly toward the back of his neck. His skin tingled to watch it. He imagined that Scott was halfway to an erection.

When his brother did not respond immediately, Thad answered, trying to sound [] enough as to not completely shatter the moment.

“Yes, please.”

Marcela nodded and smiled at Scott. There was no doubt in Thad’s mind what that smile meant, for he had seen it often enough himself: My pants are off for you, no waiting.

It took Scott a moment to completely focus on the table again. Thad let out of low, very quiet whistle.

“Whew, bro,” he said, turning to make certain that no one was within earshot. “She’s definitely interested in you making a personal sperm donation in her bank.”

Scott’s complexion darkened slightly. He gave his brother a half-hearted glare, but said nothing.

“You do worse, bro,” Thad told him.

That one earned him a full-blown glower.

Thad chuckled and snatched another chip from his plate. A moment later, he grew serious.

“Do you have someone in mind?”

Scott looked puzzled by his question.

“For the patent.”

“Oh,” Scott replied, looking thoughtful. “Not really,” he said. “I guess it depends on which one we choose.”

“How do we do that then? Throw darts and sell the one they land on?”

Scott gave his brother a mildly annoyed look.

“I think we can be a little more scientific about it than that.”

“But it probably won’t be nearly as much fun,” Thad grinned.

He was certain that Scott was about to offer an alternative suggestion for the use of those mythical darts when Marcela arrived with fresh margaritas. She gathered their empty glasses and, after giving Scott a parting smile, headed back toward the kitchen.

The brothers each sipped from their drinks. Scott paused, holding his in the air.

“Something wrong with it?” Thad asked, concerned.

“I’m not sure,” Scott frowned and took a tentative sniff of the glasses contents. His expression told Thad nothing.

“Let me try it,” Thad offered and took the outstretched glass from his brother.

He sipped very carefully at the drink, and then took a deeper swallow. After a moment, he laughed and handed the drink back to his brother.

“That, bro,” he said, “is what good tequila tastes like.” Shaking his head, he then leaned forward and added in a loud whisper, “She so wants to do you.”

Scott’s skin darkened again and he looked around a little too quickly to see if Marcela was in the vicinity. He sat back in his chair, relieved that she was nowhere to be seen, although, if his brother was right, she might be watching him from the kitchen area. He did not dare to look.

“Now you see what I have to put up with,” Thad told him, grinning.

Scott grimaced and took another sip from the margarita.

#

Devereux stood behind the helm station, watching as the overhead timer counted down the seconds. Although these events were taking place on an irregular schedule, it felt as though they were becoming part of their standard routine. The only difference was that the next two jumps would be taking place closer together than any of the others scheduled.

There would be only twenty minutes between the slipstream transitions. While such short durations were not unheard in under combat situations, the risk could be extremely high if everything did not go exactly right. More than one ship had either been destroyed or lost during such maneuvers. Not even the wreckage from some of the vessels was ever located, leaving some people to believe that the ships were trapped forever within a slipstream transition threshold.

Given the choice, Devereux would have preferred to have avoided such a short interval between jumps, but doing so would had added too much to their transit time. As it was, their currently planned course had them arriving at the scheduled rendezvous point with several hours to spare. Without this jump, they would have none—and could possibly even be late.

She tapped the intercom control. “Bridge to Engineering. Thirty seconds.”

“Ready here, Cap’n,” came the Chief’s prompt reply.

Devereux watched as Pyrafox poised his fingers over the helm controls. Both of their eyes were fixed on the countdown display.

As the digits all displayed as zero, Devereux said, “Engage slipstream engines.”

Pyrafox’s hands danced over his console. She both heard and felt the surge of power as the drive cores fed their energy into the ship’s engines. The star field on the main bridge displays transformed in a spectral haze. Devereux’s eyes glanced toward the countdown display, now measuring the time until they transitioned back out of slipstream.

Under normal conditions, they might spend hours traveling at slipstream velocities. At those times, everyone would pretty much go about their business until it was time for the transition out. With a journey of only eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds, there was barely enough time to return to the command deck and accomplish anything useful before it would be time to manage the next transition.

Devereux realized that she was clutching the back the helmsman’s chair. He did not seem to realize it, but she slowly and carefully removed her hand before he did notice.

A little jumpy this time around, are you?

The odds were that if something was going to go wrong, it would happen during the next jump, not this one. Somehow, that little piece of logic did little to ease her anxiety. Feeling slightly foolish, she moved to the vacant auxiliary science station and tapped the intercom again.

“Engineering, what’s your status?”

There was a delay before an answer came, further building on her vague apprehension.

“We’re all good down here, Cap’n.” There was a brief pause before Rusty’s voice came again. “Everything all right up there?”

“Just fine, Chief.”

Devereux closed the channel, grateful that it had been an audio signal only so the Chief Engineer could not see the warm pink glow that she was certain was visible on her cheeks.

The eight minutes passed far too slowly for Devereux as she made a circuit of the bridge, checking status displays and, she realized, probably making a nuisance of herself.

Captain’s prerogative, she decided, and ignored the voice inside her head that told her to stop and return to the command deck.

Finally, the timer showed thirty seconds remaining and she made her way back toward the helm station. She could issue orders from anywhere on the bridge—or from anywhere on the ship, for that matter—but it felt like the appropriate place to be for these maneuvers.

She tapped the intercom. “Engineering.”

“Yeah, we know, Cap’n,” came Rusty’s voice, half-brusque and half-laughing.

The countdown went to zero again and she nodded toward Pyrafox.

“Take us out of slipstream.”

His fingers were moving even as he acknowledged her order. “Aye, Captain.”

What had become a background hum of power now diminished as the ship’s velocity decreased. The main bridge screens displayed a normal star field again and Devereux found that the tension that she had not even been fully aware that she had been carrying had vanished from her shoulders. That state lasted only a moment until she heard alarms sounding over the open intercom channel to the Engineering Deck.

“Engineering,” she snapped. “Report!”

“Just a sec, Cap’n,” responded Rusty, not sounding particularly concerned. A few moments later, his voice returned. “It looks like we below out a secondary power conduit somewhere.”

“Can you fix it in time?”

“Yeah,” Rusty said, sounding almost maddeningly casual about it. “Plenty of time. I’ll keep you posted.”

The channel went dead.

Devereux stared at the now-silent intercom. Part of her wanted to fume over Rusty’s casual dismissal, but another part wondered what she could possibly do that would help. Managing the repair situation over the intercom, particularly when she was not an Engineering expert, was not going to get the job done any faster.

She rested a hand on the back of the helmsman’s chair.

“Secure from slipstream,” she told him quietly.

“Aye, Captain.” His hands were already in motion across his station.

Devereux turned and headed for the command deck.

At least someone has something to do for the next twenty minutes . . .

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

It was at that point that Elizabeth vomited.

Dr. Howe handled it with astonishing grace and aplomb, dodging aside gracefully, yet almost casually, to avoid getting splattered on. She handed Elizabeth a towel and a small tray, and then escorted to her to another of the examination rooms. On the way, Dr. Howe calmly asked one of the nursing assistants to please clean up the mess.

Elizabeth spent the next several minutes alternating between feeling incredibly sheepish and deeply apologetic. Dr. Howe just gave her a gentle smile.

“Do you think you’re the first person to throw up in one of my exam rooms?” She glanced down at her tablet. “I’ll bet if I checked, it probably isn’t even the first time that you’ve done it.”

Somehow, that did not make Elizabeth feel a whole lot better. The cup of water and mouthwash, however, did.

While Elizabeth rinsed her mouth, and tried to regain some measure of composure, Dr. Howe consulted her tablet and tapped it a few times.

She’s probably letting her staff know that she’ll be delayed for her next appointment because some stupid little girl lost her breakfast in there.

Dr. Howe waited patiently, glancing up only occasionally at Elizabeth to see if the young woman had yet recovered. Elizabeth said nothing, but something in her posture as she sat on the platform must have told Dr. Howe that she was ready.

“I assume,” Dr. Howe went on evenly, as if they had never been interrupted, “that this pregnancy was unplanned.”

Of course it was!

It was only then that Elizabeth actually thought about it. Despite being on a break from school, and having the occasional opportunity, she had not had intercourse with anyone since . . . since . . .

She was afraid that she might throw up again, but the ache in her stomach was from a different sort of pain this time.

Dr. Howe seemed to study her.

“It would be good to know who the father is,” she said, consulting her tablet again. “For genetic testing,” she explained. “But, of course, you’re under no obligation to tell me.”

Elizabeth stared at Dr. Howe, torn with inner conflict.

Could I? Should I? She can’t tell anyone. Can she?

Elizabeth then added, What will she think of me?

She saw Dr. Howe studying her with calm expectation.

On my god, she knows. Elizabeth thought with ashamed horror. A moment later, the panic subsided. How could she?

“How long?” Elizabeth asked quietly, annoyed by the upward squeak of her voice.

Dr. Howe consulted her tablet. “I’ll need to run a few more basic tests to be sure,” she said. “But I’d guess about six weeks.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, staring at the floor past her bare feet. They swung together is a slow rhythm.

That would be about right.

“I . . .“, she began, hesitating. “I need some time to think.”

Dr. Howe nodded her understanding, doing one last survey of Elizabeth’s expression.

“I’m going to send you some things to read, that you should start doing,” she said, working her fingers across the surface of the tablet. “I want to see you back here in two weeks,” she said, taking the first firm tone that Elizabeth could recall since she had arrived.

Elizabeth nodded again and slid down from the examination table. The floor felt unreasonably cold against the soles of her feet.

“Go ahead and get dressed,” Dr. Howe told her, closing the cover of her tablet. “You can schedule your next appointment on your way out.”

Dr. Howe headed for the door, but stopped and turned to face Elizabeth before opening it.

“Call me if you have any questions,” she said. Her eyes met Elizabeth’s. “About anything.”

Elizabeth did not trust herself to speak and only nodded.

Dr.Howe left the room and closed the door behind her. Elizabeth stared at the door, trying to decide what she was going to do next.

#

Devereux’s father was away on a business trip on the day that she was scheduled to leave for the Fleet Academy. She often wondered if he had done so deliberately, or if it had just been an ill-timed need of the organization that he worked for. Had it been out of some sense of spite? Or from his inability to deal with the reality that his daughter was leaving home?

Her friend Jacob had offered to drive her to the airport. At first, she had intended to refuse. With her father gone, she resolved that she might as well head out alone. In the end, though, she had accepted Jacob’s offer. She was embarking on an incredible next step of her life and she really did want someone to share the moment with.

Jacob came up to the side door and greeted her with a quick, if sincere, hug.

“Hey, Chris,” he said, giving her half-melancholy smile.

“Hey.”

He nodded toward the baggage next to her feet.

“That’s all you’re bringing?”

“No,” Devereux smiled and tried not to laugh aloud. “There’s two more inside.”

“Oh,” Jacob said and then glanced back toward his car as if judging how much it might hold.

“It’s only the gun safe and the refrigerator,” she told him.

Jacob sighed and rolled his eyes at her. “I’ll take these,” he said, lifting the two items next to her.

In fact, the two remaining cases were smaller; she just had not moved them to the porch yet.

Devereux watched as Jacob loaded the bags into the trunk, seemingly having to shove other items already in the aside.

They had been friends since their second year of secondary school. She could no longer remember exactly how they had met, although had vague recollections about one of them hitting the other squarely in the head with a football. Neither of them remembered the incident clearly, and had actually, over the years, taken turns teasing the other with who had been the perpetrator of the incident and why.

Their friendship had been a solid thing. They might drift apart as their interests took them in different directions, but there was always a common point of contact. They had made love twice, on two separate occasions, several months apart. He had been gentle and considerate, but their relationship had never developed further. Devereux had never regretted it; she did not know what Jacob thought. It was one of the few subjects that she remained unwilling to broach with him unasked.

He returned up the walkway and peered through the doorway past her.

“What else?”

She laughed. “Just these,” she said, nudging the two remaining items with her foot.

“Pretty small refrigerator,” he mumbled, hiding a grin, and carried them out to the car.

While Jacob tucked them away into the trunk, she performed another quick survey of the house, checking to ensure that she had not forgotten anything critical. It was not as though her father could not ship it to her, but she was reluctant to even thinking of asking.

Satisfied, despite a very small, but not very urgent itch in back of her mind, she set the alarm and closed the door, locking it behind her.

Jacob was holding the passenger door open for her as she approached the car. It was sport vehicle with a heavy canvas roof. He had removed the windows so that the air could flow freely through its interior. Devereux remembered many warm summer days (and some not nearly warm enough early spring ones) traveling in that car.

He closed her door and then went around the vehicle and climbed into the other side, closing his own door beside him. The engine chugged to life. It, and the sound of passing wind, would make conversation difficult.

Maybe it’s better that way, Devereux thought. No long good-byes.

They encountered surprisingly little traffic on their way to Aéroport international Jean-Lesage de Québec. It was the middle of the day, so not all that surprising, Devereux guessed. Jacob brought her to the curb outside the terminal, set the jeep to idling, and stepped out.

Devereux did not give him the chance to practice his limited sense of chivalry again. She climbed out of the car herself and met him behind it. if he was disappointed, he did not reveal it, and began lifting her luggage from the back of the car.

A skycap saw them and began to head toward them. Before Devereux could object, Jacob nodded and passed the man two folded up bills before Devereux could see the denomination. The skycap smile with genuine appreciation and began to carefully load the bags onto a cart. It took him only a few moments of practiced effort to complete the task.

:”Where are you heading to?” His eyes moved between Devereux and Jacob, uncertain who was the one traveling.

“Delta,” Devereux said, looking at Jacob.

“Yes, ma’am,” the skycap said, pausing as he realized that she was not immediately following him.

“I guess this is it,” Jacob said. His smile seemed somehow distant.

“I guess so,” Devereux responded quietly.

“Try to write or something once in a while, okay?” Jacob’s smile broadened somewhat.

Devereux smiled, laughing softly. “Or something.”

She reached out of hug him gently. To her surprise, his grip on her was firm.

“Take care, Chris,” he whispered. His breath was warm in her ear.

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers. His kiss was long and lingering without being forceful. When they separated, Devereux felt herself tingling inside. She caught her breath while staring into his eyes.

Wow, she thought, still stunned by the intensity of his display. How long has he been holding that in?

His fingers trailed down along her arm. His eyes followed them until they reached her fingers. He squeezed her hand for a moment and then turned away.

Devereux watched him climb back into the car and shift it into gear. He waited until she started to move away with the skycap before he pulled back into the line of slow-moving traffic. He was lost amid the jumble of departing cars within a few moments.

“Ma’am?”

Devereux turned and gave a the skycap a small smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Delta.”

The skycap nodded. His white teeth flashed an understanding smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

#

Thad leaned back, feeling the tequila burn his throat from the house margarita. Marcela was working the lunch shift today, and she had already made her first subtle pass at Scott. She walked away after taking their orders and Thad was convinced that she moved just a little bit differently when Scott was with him.

His brother’s eyes followed Marcela’s, although his expression revealed absolutely nothing about his thoughts. His eyes, however, told an entirely different story.

Oh yeah, Thad thought with smug satisfaction. He wants to do her.

It was most unlikely that it would turn into any kind of long-term relationship, he knew, and it might be that for Marcela it had now become the thrill of the hunt rather than any particular attraction toward his brother.

It could happen, I suppose . . .

Scott had only taken one sip from margarita. He nibbled absently at a tortilla chip; his thoughts were obviously somewhere else.

“Earth to Captain Scott,” Thad called across the table in a loud whisper. “Earth to Captain Scott.”

It took his brother a moment to refocus his attention again on the present.

“That must be some space-time equation,” Thad remarked.

Scott looked at him blankly for a moment and then grimaced with annoyance before taking another drink of his margarita.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

He glanced up at the countdown timer again: It had been reset and was now measuring time until their next event.

More than eight hours. Plenty of time.

Rusty fought back a yawn.

“Chou,” he called out, unable to find just a simple clock display amid all of the other status displays. “What time is it?”

“Fifteen thirty-eight, Chief.”

Rusty blinked and rubbed at the back his neck. That explained it. His scheduled shift was nearly over.

I can survive another twenty-two minutes.

The next planned course change would take place while he was scheduled to be off-shift.

Like hell.

Niguchi was definitely competent enough to handle things on the night shift under normal conditions, Rusty thought. But the Chief Engineer was taking no chances while they were bouncing around through mostly uncharted space. He would have plenty of time to grab a meal, and maybe a short nap, but he would be back before that next jump happened.

Nineteen minutes.

Not really enough time to do anything, Rusty thought. A quick walking inspection, and then I’ll call it a day. Maybe I’ll finally figure out where Carlene has that still stowed.

There were rumors that the assistant engineering technician had managed to both construct a still and hide it so well that even Hawkes’ eagle-eyed troops had been unable to locate it. Rusty was not completely certain that the rumors were true, but Carlene had not completely denied its existence, but neither had she confirmed it.

Rusty suspected that she might also just be toying with him, entertained by the search for something that existed only in the reality of the scuttlebutt around the ship. It would match her personality, Rusty admitted. It was hardly against regulations, for how could she either positively confirm or deny the existence of something that did not exist. Yet, someone on board was producing the stuff; he had seen and smelled it. Unless some had been snuck on board (the old “engine lubricant” or “medical supplies” listing on the manifest), someone was producing it here.

He would most likely not turn in whoever it was, but he was damned curious to see it. One thing that he had learned over the years was that some of the best and most inventive engineers possessed “hobbies” of that sort. In his opinion, the ones who were not complete nut jobs deserved promotions, not time in the brig.

As he strolled around the Engineering Deck, he casually examined the various status displays and the progress of the maintenance work being done. He could tell without check the roster which members of the crew on duty were new and who had served on the ship before. The first group clearly betrayed their nervousness as he approached, with those in the other group smiled and greeted him in some fashion. Those in the first group who did not react in the same manner as their colleagues were ones he would keep his eyes on. They would be either talent to be watched and encouraged—or else potential troublemakers. The latter type he had ways of dealing with as well.

As he expected, he found nothing particularly amiss during his inspection. One of the status displays near the secondary environmental control was flickering; he had told a nearby team to replace it before it shorted out. They had already started the job before he had completed his circuit and ended up back at his office.

Two minutes left, he noted. To hell with that.

He logged out of the main console in his office and shut off the display. By the time he made it to the main hatch, he would be right on schedule. If someone wanted to split seconds with him about the time spent on his duty shift—and he suspected that it was mostly unlikely that Elizabeth would do so—then let them.

“’night, Kahuna,” he called to the relief Engineer. “Keep her in one piece until I get back.”

“See ya, Chief,” the firmly-muscled, Hawaiian-born lieutenant grinned, revealing gleaming white teeth. “I’ll make sure we count all the screws.”

Rusty smiled, shaking head with amusement.

One of our better finds.

The lieutenant had joined them right before they had left dock. Rusty had been impressed with the man’s service file, and wondered just a bit why he would want to sign on board a ship like the Emerald Flight. He was qualified to serve on classes of vessels almost up to the largest ones. Even then, with the right connections, he probably could have been posted to one of those. Instead, he had requested—and been granted—a change in orders and become the second-shift lead engineer.

It could be him, Rusty mused, thinking back to the origin and mysterious location of the rumored still.

He did not seem the type, Rusty considered, but he could be very good at hiding it.

Interesting idea, Rusty thought. For later. Food first. Then booze.

He headed toward the galley, consciously unaware of how his priorities had changed.

#

Dressed in only a robe after her shower, Elizabeth checked her tablet for messages.

None. But then I’ve only been gone for fifteen minutes. But why hadn’t Deidre answered her yet? Where they meeting down at the mall or not?

There was a rapid double tap at her door. She grimaced in response.

What is it now?

“Yeah?” she responded, forcing any hint of irritation from her voice. Without knowing who it was, she did not dare take any chances on provoking someone, intentionally or otherwise.

Her father entered without explanation, closing the door behind him. Elizabeth could tell from the bright glare of his eyes and tightness of his jaw that he was furious about something. Something in the way he stood told her that he had been drinking too. Either of those alone was bad enough. Together, they never boded well for anyone in the household.

She had done her best to avoid her father during the brief school break. That action alone was usually not enough to garner such a response, so it was something else that drove him now. Elizabeth struggled to think of what she might have done that might warrant such behavior. She had, to her knowledge, completed all of her chores. She had not left a mess into either the bathroom or kitchen. She had not stayed out past curfew. In fact, she had not gone out at all at night in fear of even accidentally being late. There was absolutely nothing that she could think of that she might need to offer an excuse—not that any such explanations usually helped at all.

It was then that she saw the dark blue envelope in his hand. He gripped it tightly in his fist; his thick fingers formed creases in the thick material.

Aw, shit.

His eyes, dark with fury, fixed on her face. With a savage thrust, he tossed the packet at it her. It was not heavy, but her attempt to dodge it threw her off balance and she landed on her bed.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

His voice was deep and almost hoarse. The words were slurred slightly, confirming her earlier suspicion.

“Dad . . .” she said, trying to rise from the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he told her.

His tone was almost a snarl. His eyes never left hers. They shone darkly, almost transfixing her with their intensity. His hands went to his waist and worked to unfasten his belt.

He’s going to whip me with his belt? Elizabeth wondered with a kind of detached dread. He hasn’t done that since we were kids.

It was a moment later, when he yanked down his pants, revealing his erection, that she realized what he intended. She tried to rise again, to roll away, but darkness suddenly flooded her head. It throbbed and she could no longer focus nor move. Her head pounded and she felt cool air as her robe was torn open, exposing her bare skin.

God, no!

She tried to strike out, to push him away, but her limbs refused to obey. Her vision began to clear, with light and color winning out over the darkness. The ache in her head began ease, but he was bigger than she was. His heavy arm pressed down on her, across her throat, and she struggled to draw enough breath. Not to scream, for she knew that no one would come to help her, but just to breathe . . . to convince him to stop.

She tried to kick out, to connect with anything that might cause him to loosen his grip, to make him stop, to make him go away. But she could not gain enough leverage and her legs were splayed out at odd angles. He lowered himself into her and the sour scent of his breath washed over her. She turned her face away, but that did not prevent him from entering her. She wanted to cry out, to scream, but instead nearly choked as his forearm locked her head against the pillow.

When it was over, he shambled away, pulling up his pants and refastening his belt. As he departed, he mumbled a constant litany of what seemed to be veiled threats, but Elizabeth could not hear them clearly. There was one that she was certain of, and would always remember later.

“You’re not going anywhere, you stupid little whore.”

Elizabeth lay almost motionless, not daring to move or breathe until he had closed the door behind him. She wanted to retch, but instead gagged on her own breath. She managed to recover, finally able to draw several deep breaths. Upon feeling the warm, sticky fluid between her legs, she clutched her soiled robe against her and began to cry, as quietly as she could.

#

She had continued with the admissions process, but had said nothing to anyone who might accidentally leak it back to her family. That left the news contained within a very small group of people. That saddened her, for she knew what an accomplishment it was, but it was safer this way. It was a little over a month later, when she had gone to renew her medical records for submission to the Academy, when matters got more complicated.

Elizabeth sat on the examination table, dressed in a thin robe, and looked on while Dr. Howe looked over the results of the standard tests. Normally, Elizabeth would have felt nervous and vulnerable, but she had known Dr. Ayn Howe since she was born—earlier than that, actually, as Dr. Howe had delivered both her and her sister. Elizabeth watched and waited, trying not to shiver in the air that always seemed to be just a few degrees too cool for bare skin, noting with concern patches of gray that now appeared in the doctor’s dark hair.

“I see that you’re sexually active,” Dr. Howe said. Her tone was solely one of acceptance, without any trace of accusation or disapproval.

Elizabeth nodded slowly, feeling her cheeks grow slightly warm.

Stop it, she scolded herself. She’s your doctor. She can’t tell anyone.

Dr. Howe looked up at Elizabeth when she did not hear a response.

“Yes,” Elizabeth answered quietly, trying to swallow away the word.

Dr. Howe merely nodded and turned her attention back down to the test results, frowning slightly.

Oh shit, Elizabeth thought. Did I pick up something from someone? She thought a moment. I couldn’t have.

Before she could consider it further, Dr. Howe interrupted her thoughts.

“Elizabeth,” Dr. Howe said softly, meeting her eyes gently. “We might have a problem here.”

Elizabeth felt herself grow suddenly cold. A sudden lump formed in her stomach.

Dr. Howe seemed to sense her mounting panic and took her hand, gripping it gently.

“First,” she said. Her voice was calm and soothing. “All of your results look fine. There’re no problems there.”

Elizabeth felt herself relax, her earlier distress now replaced by confusion. She stared back at the doctor, letting her gaze ask her questions for her. It took a moment for Dr. Howe to prepare her response.

“You seem to be pregnant, Elizabeth.”

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.