Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

“It’s a good thing,” Random offered with a distant smile. “It’s difficult to serve too many masters,” she said.

Something changed in her tone and Walter thought he caught the briefest glimpse into the chaotic mystery that was Random Factor.

She gestured toward his empty glass. “Do you want another one?”

Walter shook his head. “No,” he said. “I should be getting home.”

Random smiled warmly. “Yes,” she said, “you should.”

Her smile faded.

“Are you going to tell her?”

Walter shook his head. “No,” he replied solemnly, and then added with a tight smile. “Not tonight, at least.”

Random’s smile returned. “Good choice.” Her fingers purposelessly caressed the rounded edges of her glass. “Did you get her something nice?”

Walter’s expression was deadpan as he answered. “There was a brand-new vacuum cleaner that she wanted.”

Random’s eyes widened slightly, whether with surprise or mock horror, Walter could not tell.

“You didn’t?”

Walter nodded slowly, looking away. He had to, as he was fighting to hide a growing smile. “I did,” he murmured, but clearly enough for Random to hear.

Random slowly shook her head in disbelief. She opened her mouth to speak, but Walter spoke first.

“I did get her a very nice necklace and earrings to wear with it.”

Random’s eyes narrowed, realizing that she had been led right down the path he had wanted.

“Sapphires,” he explained, and then added a dramatic shrug. “She has this thing about sapphires.”

Random’s control lasted only a moment before she released her laughter. It sounded sincere to Walter, and that pleased him. He smiled and reached for his wallet.

Placing two one-dollar bills on the table, he stood up. “Have a Merry Christmas, Isabel,” he said. His smile was warm and genuine. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Random grinned. “You can bet on it.”

Walter shrugged into his coat, nodded a last farewell to Random, and then left the bar.

Behind him, Random watched him depart. She then stared at her empty glass for a long moment, considering her own options for the evening. With a wan smile, she signaled to the bartender for another one.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

“Still . . .” Walter whispered.

Random eyed him curiously.

“’Still . . .’ what?”

Walter looked away, certain that his embarrassment was clear.

Random waited patiently, watching him with veiled amusement.

“Nothing,” Walter finally said, pushing his empty glass away.

“Right,” Random agreed without conviction. She took a slow sip from her drink. “Do you know what I think?”

Walter eyed her warily.

“I think,” she said. “That some part of you believes that you should have been able to resist that woman’s charms—that you should have found the strength in you somehow . . . for your sake . . . for Abigail’s sake.”

Something sank inside Walter. Random was right, but he had been unable to reconcile it with his own guilt. As much as he could try to rationalize his actions to himself, he had difficulty imagining Abigail accepting it wholly, regardless of what she might proclaim. He did not think he would be able to; there would always exist the niggling doubts.

“Walter.”

Random’s voice broke sharply through his reverie. Walter had the impression that it was not the first time she had addressed him.

Walter focused on her, letting his chagrin show.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I was . . .” he trailed off, his eyes looking back down at the table again.

Random gave him a small smile. “You were thinking about Abigail,” she confirmed. “You’re more worried about what she’ll think—what she’ll think about you—than you are about anything else.”

She placed her mug back on the table and met Walter’s eyes.

“Other men might have bragged about it,” she told him, “even after they knew the truth.” She gave a hoarse chuckle. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

“But you,” she went on. “You’re only concerned about the opinion and respect of one person,” she said. “Not the public, not your peers.” She laughed again, with more warmth this time. “Probably not even me.”

Walter managed to give her a slight smile. It was true. Her opinion did matter, as did Red’s. In the end, though, he knew that he would forgo them all in favor of whatever would most please Abigail.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

“I’m not sure you had much of a choice,” Random continued, breaking through his spiraling despair.

Walter’s eyes turned back toward Random, clearly conveying his confusion. “What do you mean?”

Random pulled the photograph back. Walter’s eyes followed it even as Random looked down at it herself.

“She’s believed to be a Dark Matter operative,” Random explained. “But there’s no proof. She might be an independent.”

Walter frowned slightly. He shook his head slowly, clearly not understanding the connection. “But she didn’t do anything to me.”

To his surprise, Random chuckled softly with genuine amusement. “That’s not what it sounded it.”

Walter’s cheeks burned. He looked down at his now-empty glass.

Random’s expression sobered. “It’s believed that she’s going around gathering . . .” she hesitated, a bemused playing across her lips, “um . . . genetic material from every hero she can.”

Walter’s eyes flashed toward Random, opening wider in surprise. He was hardly so naïve as to believe that he might have been the only man that she had ever seduced (however flattering that idea might be), but he had never conceived of the notion that her seduction of him might have been part of some larger scheme.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him. “She’s apparently tried it on a few women as well.”

Random appeared genuinely amused by this. Walter had wondered if she might not have been one of the woman’s intended targets as well. It made sense, he realized. Men were not, their egotistical beliefs to the contrary, the sole repositories of human genetic material.

“But . . .” he stammered, trying to form a halfway intelligent question. “Why?”

Random shrugged and looked down at the photograph. “If we could find her again,” she said. “We could find out.”

After taking one last look at the women’s picture, Random closed the folder and slid it back into her pocket.

“Whatever it is,” she went on, reaching for her beer. “No one in Dark Matter is talking about it.”

Walter frowned at this. That was troubling news, but hardly surprising. From what the hero community had been able to determine, the Dark Matter organization was highly compartmentalized: one cell was unlikely to have any idea what another cell was doing, unless they were directly involved in their current assignment.

As he toyed with his empty glass, Walter’s mind whirled with the possibilities: Cloning? Some kind of tailored biological warfare? A genetic breeding program? There were probably many other potential uses, given his limited knowledge of the field, which escaped him.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

This was something he had never even shared with Red. While had never believed that Red would judge him, he had been unwilling to take the chance. Yet here was Random, one of the last people that Walter would have believed that he would ever confide in, but someone he now thought might understand.

“I never meant for it to happen . . .” he began, and the rest of the story came tumbling out.

He told her how he had met the woman in a bar like this one. How he had escorted her to her room, purportedly for her own safety. He glossed over the details of what followed, ending with his return to his own hotel room.

Throughout his tale, Random nodded, taking occasional sips from her drink. She listened carefully, seeming to hear beyond the words.

Walter finished his tale and the drained the last of his drink. The warm glow of the Scotch filled the place that now felt hollow inside.

“I could have stopped it,” he said, barely aloud. “I should have stopped it.”

Instead of nodding her agreement, Random only stared at him. Walter shifted in his chair under her gaze, beginning to wonder if he had just made a horrible mistake by entrusting this secret to her.

“You should have,” she stated. There was a peculiar lack of conviction in her tone. “But you couldn’t.”

Walter watched her, mystified by her puzzling reaction. She reached into a pocket and withdrew a small leather folder slightly larger than a man’s wallet. After flipping through it for several moments, she passed it to Walter, held open to a particular page.

“Was this her?”

Walter’s eyes widened and his heart sank. Not only was the photograph a very good likeness of the woman he had spent that night with, in it she appeared to be wearing exactly the same outfit.

He nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes away from the photograph. The Scotch had disappeared from his stomach, replaced now by an acid stab of regret.

Had he been seen with her? Was he now open to blackmail? Such indiscretions had brought down many a political figure. The worst possible way in which Abigail might learn of this would be through some kind of public announcement. Walter tried not to think about the ways in which a hero might be manipulated in order to prevent such an event from taking place.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

He was aware that Random was gripping his hands lightly, a gesture meant to be comforting and nothing more. Her eyes studied him without judging him.

Walter wiped at his eyes with one of the spare bar napkins. It was woefully inadequate. To his surprise, he found Random holding out a folded square of white cloth. It took him a moment to realize it for what it was: an honest-to-god handkerchief. He could not recall seeing one, aside from being a decorative item, since he had been a child. He accepted it gratefully without a word. He wiped at his eyes and then, feeling more than a bit chagrined, blew his nose into it.

Random waited patiently while he gathered himself, regaining some measure of control. The analytical part of him knew that he had needed that release; he just wished it had taken place in a less public location.

Tucking the handkerchief into one of his coat pockets, he downed a slow drink of Scotch. He seemed to steady him as its warmth burned its way down his throat. Across the table, Random watched him discreetly. Walter opened his mouth to speak.

“No, you’re not,” Random stopped him.

Walter stared at her, blinking with surprise.

“You were about to apologize,” she told him in an almost casual tone. “For losing control . . . for making a scene.” She raised her beer, which had appeared at some point during his breakdown. “Do you think you’re the first person to come in here and cry in his beer?”

She took a slow sip from the mug. “Or Scotch,” she amended with a slight smile, “in your case.”

Walter found himself without a response. Random lowered the mug to the table. Her face took on a more serious expression.

“Guilt is terrible thing,” she said, meeting his eyes. “It can tear wounds in us far deeper—and more difficult to heal—than the physical ones.”

Random’s hazel green eyes stared back at him. Walter saw something in their depths that told him that she knew personally of what she had spoken. His eyes moved slowly away from hers, down to stare at the lightly polished table.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

“I see you found one of the few bastions of decent Scotch in our great city,” she remarked, nodding toward his glass.

Walter glanced down at it as if he had forgotten that it had existed. He really had not wanted company. Red’s presence would have been tolerable, perhaps even desirable. But he had gone off somewhere, once again without a word to anyone, and not been sighted in several days. Walter was always concerned that he would not return, and no one would know why. Yet, like every other hero he knew, Walter affirmed to allow him his secrets. It was part of the life they had chosen.

Across the table from him, Random picked a single peanut from the small bowl of assorted bar snacks and examined it. Walter waited patiently, knowing that despite what he might want, she was not going to leave until she had completed whatever business she had come with. He had told no one where he was going, so the effort that she had expended to follow him, while perhaps truly not that great given her knowledge of his habits, told him that her intent was serious.

Random popped the nut into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully for a moment before reaching for another one. She seemed about to speak and then paused. Walter wondered if she had changed her mind, although restrained tact was not known to be one of her stronger traits. When the server appeared a moment later, he understood why.

She ordered a beer, rambling off several German-sounding syllables that Walter did not recognize. Her accent was creditable, although not quite native. It made Walter wonder just how many languages she understood. Or maybe, he considered wryly, just enough in each to order drinks.

The server departed and Random munched slowly on a small handful of nuts. Walter studied her, trying to read her intent from her expression, but it revealed nothing to him. Her eyes moved. She caught him watching her and their gazes locked before he could look away. For no reason that he could explain, his throat tightened behind a sudden lump. His eyes felt scalded from the acid burn of suppressed tears.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

December 23, 1994 . . .

He did not recognize her at first when she walked in. She looked, at first, like countless other women who had come in from the December cold. The way her gaze swept the interior of the bar, he assumed that she looked for someone there that she had planned to meet.

It was when she moved further into the bar, and the shadows highlighted the angles of her face, that he recognized her. At that moment, he realized also why he had noticed her above all of the others. Her poise and posture were unmistakable.

She was dressed in a heavy crimson coat, trimmed with what appeared to be a cream-colored lining. It might have been white, but it was difficult for him to tell for certain in the dimmed and yellow lighting of the bar. It draped down to her knees and Walter saw that she was wearing boots of some kind that seemed to be fashionable, but he thought it an odd match for the coat. Resting inside the collar, nestling her neck within its folds, was a mottled scarf. Walter had to blink twice, unable to discern its pattern clearly.

Was that . . . snakeskin?

He raised his drink, more to provide further camouflage than to satisfy his thirst. If her eyes happened to pass in his direction, he did not think that she would be able to recognize him. That was fine with him. The corner table he had chosen was partially shrouded by the shadows, selected for just that reason. He had chosen this place because he wanted to be alone, to find some brief solace before heading home for the long holiday weekend. He needed to find the strength to face Abigail with the necessary cheer, to not reveal what he had done.

She continued in his direction, but never making eye contact with him, Walter tried to dismiss it as coincidence, but knew better. Whatever the stories might say about her, he had learned that there were very few things about Random that she did not do deliberately. She was like Red in that regard.

“Hello, Walter,” she greeted him blithely, unfastening her coat and draping it over the back of the chair in across from him.

“Isabel,” he responded with practiced politeness.

She accepted this with utter aplomb, seemingly unfazed by his cool reception.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

She laughed. It had a light, merry sound.

“That’s okay,” she told him. Her eyes sparkled. “They’re probably all true.”

Walter did not know what to say to that.

They walked to the elevator together in silence. The hallway was empty; everyone else had gone. After several seconds, the next elevator car arrived and they stepped inside.

“One?” Walter asked politely.

Random flashed him a bright smile. “Please.”

He pressed the button and the doors closed. They said nothing as the elevator descended. In truth, Walter had no idea what to say. A part of him was struggling with the fact that he was alone in an elevator with a woman. It always felt awkward, at so many levels. And there was something about her—something that exuded an assured femaleness that touched on all of his senses in a way that he could not quite define.

“I know a few things about you,” Random said, breaking through his reverie.

Walter swallowed, feeling his cheeks grow warm again.

“You do?” he managed to get out without stammering.

“I do,” she echoed. “For example,” she went on after a moment. “I hear that you enjoy a good Scotch. Single-malt, if I’ve heard right.”

Walter found himself smiling, somewhat relieved if this was the most of his secrets that she held.

“You’ve heard correctly,” he said.

“Hard to find it here in the States,” Random went on.

Walter nodded in agreement. It was true. He had managed to locate only a few stores inside the city that stocked much of it at all. He was usually driven to request special orders and then carefully ration it to make it last.

“I found an Irish pub,” she continued. “It’s off a little alley downtown. It’s a good place,” she paused meaningfully, “to hear things.”

Walter took the hint and was about to ask her where it was when the elevator chimed and the doors opened. In the foyer beyond, Walter could see some the heroes still milling about in worried conversation.

“It was nice meeting you, Walter,” Random said, and walked out of the elevator.

Walter watched her wordlessly as she strode purposefully past the other lingering heroes and out through the main doors. A few of their heads turned as she went past, with one or two shaking their heads slightly before returning to their conversations. He stared after her, at the large glass doors through which she had just passed.

Walter found himself, once again, at a loss for words, and left wondering what had just happened.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

Walter waited while the other heroes left the conference room. Few of them lingered. Conversations among them sounded forced and subdued. Harrison’s proclamation had done little to ease their concerns raised by Red’s report. Although the evidence it provided was arguable, its implications were not.

As the small crowd thinned, Walter noticed that Random had also remained seated. She looked at no one, seeming content to just wait. Walter watched her, but failed to gain her attention. She appeared deep in concentration about something.

The last trio was leaving, clustered together in conversation as they headed through the doorway. Random rose from her chair. Walter rushed to stand, banging his knee against the edge of the table, and then nearly tangling himself in the chair next to him. He performed an awkward waltz to free himself from it. To Walter’s relief, Random appeared to have noticed neither the racket nor his clumsy gestures. Somehow, he made to the door just an instant before she did.

Walter stood there, wishing he had rehearsed a proper greeting. Standing there, he realized that he was only about an inch taller than she was. For some reason, he had thought her to be a few inches shorter. She looked at him with curious amusement.

“Um,” Walter said, clearing his throat quietly. “Hello,” he said, swallowing. “I’m Walter.”

He held out his hand to her. Random looked down at it and then grinned.

“Nice to meet you, Walter.”

Walter read genuine warmth in her smile, reassuring him that he had not completely bungled her first impressions of him. Her hands were warm; her grip firm and confident. He could sense something of their underlying strength.

“You didn’t say much in there,” she told him.

Walter felt himself bristle before he realized that it was merely a statement, not an accusation.

He shrugged. “Even Harrison didn’t seem to know what to do.”

Something flashed in Random’s eyes. Walter was not certain that he had seen it there, as it was gone in an instant.

Anger? he wondered.

Certainly he did not agree with every one of Harrison’s policies, but he also believed that the man had a better view of the “big picture” than he did. Try as he might, Walter had difficult trying to wrap his mind around more than the current crises their small city without broadening it to include the world at large. Certainly, as he had seen, the heroes had their role to play in all that, but sometimes it was all they could do just to keep relative order in their little corner of the globe.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Random was saying. Walter felt himself flushing at the compliment.

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat again, “heard . . . interesting things about you as well.”

Random’s grin took on a look of impish bemusement. “I’ll bet you have.”

Walter’s cheeks burned anew. This conversation was not going at all as he had hoped. Yet, she did not seem upset by his statement. If anything, she seemed to find it a source of amusement. He did not believe that it was directed toward his graceless introduction.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

The noise level rose as conversations began again around the table. Other voices shouted for Harrison’s attention.

Kenniston pounded his fist against the conference table. The resulting boom echoed throughout the room. Walter was certain that he heard the sound of wood cracking. The noise level dropped immediately. Several eyes glanced at Kenniston, some fearfully, before returning to face Harrison at the head of the table.

“A political war is not fought in the streets,” Sen asserted calmly.

“Not by us, anyway,” dePaul added.

There were several nods of agreement from around the table. Walter noticed that many of those who had not reacted—and even a few who had—looked uncomfortable.

“No,” Harrison agreed. “But by the people.”

“Like that’s likely to happen,” someone murmured. Walter did not see who it was and he did not recognize the voice.

“It could,” an older woman was speaking. Walter had seen her before, but could not immediately recall her name. “Propaganda works both ways.”

“Are you suggesting that we stoop to their level?” Carson snarled. His antagonism toward the woman seemed to run deeper than the disdain for her suggestion.

One of his cast-offs? Walter wondered.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at Carson. The look she gave him conveyed layers of meaning. Walter saw Carson’s expression tighten and he turned away quickly.

“Propaganda,” Harrison repeated. “Targeted advertising. Public relations. Whatever you want to call it. It might be our only hope.”

“If we could bring down Dark Matter,” Heard suggested, “it might go a long way in our favor.”

“Except that half the politicians are in their pocket,” the unknown voice muttered again.

“That has never been proved,” Harrison countered.

“Then they’re too afraid of them to take any real action,” DePaul said.

“And yet they prevent us from doing so,” Sen stated. “The question is: Why?”

“The answer,” a familiar voice announced from the doorway, “is All of the Above.”

Walter turned to see Red standing in the doorway. He was clad in his outfit, looking tousled and sounding slightly out of breath. The sunburst emblem on his chest pulsed like a living thing.

Harrison’s lips formed a tight, thin line. The equanimity between the two was well-known.

Red reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew a small rectangular object. He tossed it in Harrison’s direction. Nearly all eyes in the room followed the tiny data cartridge as it skidded across the conference table. It came to a perfect stop just inches in front of Harrison.

Harrison eyed it suspiciously. Walter thought he spied genuine fear in the man’s eyes about what the cartridge might contain.

What secrets did he hide? Walter wondered. We all do, but he fears something more.

“Play it,” Red told him.

Harrison’s eyes moved to Red and then back to the cartridge.

“Play it,” Red repeated, sounding a bit more conciliatory now. “I think you’ll discover that the situation is far more complicated than we thought.”

Harrison regarded Red for a long moment before reaching for the cartridge. He examined it and then handed it to a young woman dressed in shimmering shades of teal at his side. She snapped it into her computer and activated the center screens.

Red stepped further into the room, seeking a better vantage point from which to view the recordings. As he moved, he seemed to become suddenly aware of a specific pair of eyes following his progress.

Random Factor’s eyes were shining with interest as they watched Red. Red dipped his head slightly in a genteel greeting; a slight smile danced across his lips almost before anyone else could notice.

Walter was even more intrigued by her now. She was obviously someone that Red knew well, although he could never recall Red mentioning her. Her expression had taken on a look of thoughtful amusement, as if she were recalling a pleasant memory.

The lights in the room dimmed. The immense displays mounted above the center of the conference table glowed to life.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor (continued)

Walter had heard of Random Factor, of course, although he had never encountered her before now. He had not known her real name—and he still did not, other than as “Isabel”—but that was hardly surprising. There were scores of heroes in the city that he knew only by costume and reputation, but nothing about their personal lives. That was just how it was.

Secret identities were meant to be just that: secret. Heroes whose private personas had been exposed to the public eye—whether through purposeful intent, accident, or deliberate exposure by either the media or enemy (not always mutually exclusive)—walked a much more difficult path, forced to balance of the safety of their loved ones along with their own lives.

Lost in these thoughts, it took Walter a moment to realize that he was staring. Seeing that Random Factor had noticed, he looked quickly away, taking a sudden interest in a shallow gouge in the tabletop in front of him. Feeling mildly guilty about that, having just treated her with the same disregard as the other around, he made a solemn mental promise to seek her out after the briefing and formally introduce himself.

Walter looked around for Red. His bright crimson outfit tended to make him recognizable in crowd, but Walter failed to locate him. That concerned Walter only a little. He had never known Red’s absence at a major briefing to prevent him from being informed of its proceedings. Equally likely was the chance that Red would make a later, more dramatic, arrival.

Harrison moved toward the head of the table. Voices hushed as he passed. Walter envied the self-assuredness that the man carried with him. It brought an instant respect from others before they even knew who he was. The room was almost entirely quiet by the time he took his place.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, clearing his throat in a way that Walter suspected was more for dramatic impact than from necessity. “Heroes of the city,” he said, “we have a problem.”

He paused, surveying the faces of those both standing and seated throughout the room. Once certain that he had their attention, he continued.

“Mayor Frakkes has once again tossed down the gauntlet before us.” Faint murmurs began at various points around the room. “She plans to mobilize the city’s police forces against us,” he said. “And she had requested the support of the Governor.”

Walter felt a small knot form in his stomach. Either of those pieces of news were bad enough alone, but taken together they warned of serious trouble. It was an election year, and both officials were vying to retain their posts. They would choose whether course was most likely to ensure their continued tenure in those positions—even if it was not the right one.

Heroic Measures: Introducing a Random Factor

Walter watched as the woman strode into the room. To him, she was a newcomer. Some of the other heroes seemed to recognize her. Walter noticed, though, that many of those who did chose to ignore her. It was subtle—a slightly turning away of the head, a sudden interest in something across the room—but unmistakable.

She moved with an aura of confidence. Some might have even called it arrogance, Walter considered, but he did not read it that way. Here was a woman certain of her abilities—and one probably capable of send him flying into the next suite with a single kick of her electric red boots. Her sandy blonde hair was coiffed in a flyway style that hung in long, broad curls down along her shoulders.

She had chosen classic primary colors for her outfit: blue, red, white, and splash of yellow. Walter found this a welcome, and even nostalgic, departure from the dark and often monochrome color schemes that many of the modern heroes seemed to prefer. Sure, they provided better camouflage at night, but they were not nearly so interesting during the daylight hours.

From the way she moved, Walter could see that her sturdy build was densely packed with muscle. The way her outfit fit her ample curves allowed for little doubt that she was, undeniably, female. While she was not what Walter would consider stunningly attractive, she was definitely noticeable.

She seated herself in an empty chair between two male heroes. Neither of them acknowledged her presence, but Walter saw subtle signs that they were both aware of it. She appeared unperturbed by their lack of courtesy.

He leaned over toward Carson at his right and whispered, “Who’s that?”

When Carson turned his attention to him, Walter motioned with his eyes. Carson’s looked and his eyes rolled upward.

“Isabel,” he whispered in return, as if that explained everything.

Walter glanced at the woman and then back at Carson, who was beginning to turn away. Walter shook his head to indicate his lack of understanding. Carson appeared annoyed by his ignorance.

“Random Factor,” Carson hissed

It was clear that he wanted to end the exchange with Walter and return to the conversation with the buxom young heroine on his other side. Walter eyed the young woman disapprovingly, but gave a mental shrug. It was Carson’s business if he wanted to waste his time only to be rejected by someone at least a decade younger.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Thad gripped his brother’s arm.

“Why do you have to be the one to go?”

Scott stared back at his brother. There was so much he wanted to tell him, to tell him everything that he knew, everything that Jade had told him.

“Because I do.”

“That’s not a reason,” Thad snapped back.

Scott met his brother’s eyes.

“Don’t give me that ‘destiny’ crap,” Thad warned him. “You don’t believe it any more than I do.”

“How about believing that they were really here?” Scott asked him, surprising himself with his own calm. “That what Christine said was really true?”

“That you were the one who piloted the test flight?”

Scott nodded.

“What if you weren’t?” Thad countered, beginning to sound almost desperate. “What if they got that part wrong too?”

“And you piloted the ship?”

Scott stared at Thad.

“Right,” Thad answered without conviction and then looked away. His hand fell away from his brother’s arm.

Scott watched Thad, seeing the turmoil of emotions within his brother. He did not know what to say. Everything he wanted to say would either sound awkward or reveal too much.

“’Lost’ isn’t the same dead,” he finally offered.

“It might as well be.”

Scott could hear his brother’s tone now turning toward anger. He had moved past denial.

“Thad,” Scott said quietly. “Don’t you think I’m scared too?”

His brother studied him closely for a long moment. His expression clearly displayed his disbelief.

“No,” Thad said. “You’re not.”

Scott knew that Thad was right. He was nervous about the upcoming test flight. Even with the history shared with him by Christine, and the reassurances from Jade, there were countless things that could go wrong. Yet, he found that he feared none of them. Realizing that did worry him a little.

“If I don’t go . . .”

Scott let the thought hang out there unfinished.

They both knew the implications if one of them did not make the test flight. According to Christine, Scott had been the one to do it. In terms of that part of future history, it probably did not matter which of them did it, only that it did take place.

Emerald Flight: Past Imperfect: Star Light, Star Bright (continued)

She distracted herself by looking back up at the stars. When Scott shifted his position to be closer to her, she said nothing. Neither did she attempt to move away.

“It’s really not as bad as that,” she said, returning to their previous topic. “Even on what seems like the most inhospitable world, there’s always hope.”

Devereux caught Scott’s amused, quizzical glance.

Devereux laughed quietly, unable to break away from his gaze for a moment.

“I mean,” she said, trying to sound more serious. “That even when you don’t expect to find it, there’s the chance of life.”

She stared upward again. Her expression was thoughtful.

“There’s a world about there,” she said as she pointed at one of the clusters of stars about two-thirds of the way up the sky, “where we found little more than a thin atmosphere and cold, rocky soil. But there were these large crab-like creatures that looked almost like the rocks themselves.”

She chuckled softly at the memory. “We might have missed them if one of the ensigns hadn’t lifted one up to look underneath.” Looking toward the horizon, but seeing the memory, she went on. “You can imagine our surprise when it scuttled away from her.”

“The Chief called it ‘the real rock lobster’,” she went on. “They’re not really crustaceans, though,” she told Scott. “And not very edible. Poisonous, in fact.”

“They bite?”

“No,“ Devereux said, shaking her head, but smiling. “At least none of us found out. But Hope discovered that whatever it is that passed for their blood is a toxic blend of chemicals—for humans, at least.”

“And for her . . . kind?”

Devereux shrugged. “She never said,” she replied. “It’s probably buried in her report somewhere, though.”

Her gaze went to the horizon again. “It wasn’t even sentient life,” she said. “But just finding something like that makes all the months in space feel worthwhile.”

“I’ll bet,” Scott whispered. There was no hiding the wistfulness in his voice. “I wish I could see it.”

Devereux looked at Scott and took his hands in hers. They were cold, and she rubbed them lightly with her fingertips.

“I know,” she told him softly. She met his eyes. “I don’t know if it helps,” she said, “but the work that you and your brother will do is what will make it possible.”

Scott managed a small smile. “It does,” he admitted. “A little.”

Devereux gave him a warm smile. It faded as she realized that his hands now gripped hers.

No, she told herself. This can’t happen.

“Christine,” Scott said. His voice was quiet.

Devereux opened her mouth to speak, and then was startled as Scott leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

She knew she should pull away, that she should have prevented this from even happening.

But she did not. Instead, she forced herself not to respond, letting Scott kiss her without participating.

Scott noticed immediately and withdrew. In the darkness, Devereux could not see his face, but she was certain that his cheek were bright with embarrassment. He moved away from her, freeing himself from the dubious cover of the shared jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking away and rising from the rock. “I shouldn’t . . .”

Devereux fought to not look at him, to not utter something vaguely reassuring. The truth was, she had wanted him to kiss her. More than that, she wanted him to hold her close, to feel her body against his.

“Maybe we should go back,” Scott suggested. His words sounded choked off.

Devereux only nodded. She rose and held out his jacket. Scott shook his head.

“You keep it.”

Devereux fought back a sigh. She refused to put it on, even while recognizing that silent act of defiance for what it was. Instead, she folded it over her arm and followed Scott back down the hillside.

Scott seemed less surefooted on their way back. He stumbled two or three times. None of them did more than threaten his balance, but they were enough to tell Devereux that he was badly distracted. Finally, the shape of the car loomed ahead as a silhouette in the darkness. Devereux felt both dread and relief—and a faint echo of disappointment.

Scott held the door for her, closed it, and then let himself in the driver’s side. He said nothing as he fastened his seatbelt and started the car. Devereux felt that there was nothing that she could say.

It was a long, silent drive back to the house. While they traveled, Devereux wondered just how much longer it would be before they could return home.

Emerald Flight: Past Imperfect: Star Light, Star Bright

Devereux rubbed at her arms lightly, wishing she had thought to bring a jacket. She had forgotten how cold the nights could become.

I spent way too much time aboard starships and stations, she told herself. Their constantly controlled temperatures made it easy to forget the effects that nightfall and the seasons could have on the weather—or even that there was such a thing as weather. For those who served long stretches in the Fleet, it became something of an occasional memory.

Scott probably had an extra one in his car, Devereux knew, but she did not want to make the trip back to the vehicle to retrieve it. It was more likely that Scott would simply offer her his, but then that would only solve the problem for one of them.

He led her to the hilltop, his steps leading her along an unseen trail with a surety that told her that he had made this trek many times before.

With how many other women? she wondered.

They climbed a small rise and then Scott stopped, waiting for her to climb the last few steps to join him. He looked down across the valley without saying a word. The small city was spread out before them, a myriad arrangement of multi-colored lights. The moving ones she assumed were land vehicles. There was a greater variety of colors than she would have guessed; it had all looked so similar down below.

She turned to Scott and found that he was not admiring the glowing cityscape beneath them. He had seated himself on a large flat rock. His head and eyes were turned toward the sky. Devereux sat down next to him and looked up, matching his gaze. Her body brushed against his and she was tempted to shift away, but let it pass. Scott seemed not to have noticed.

“I’ll bet you’ve been to a lot of them, huh?” he whispered.

Devereux gave a soft chuckle. “A few.”

Scott turned and looked at her. His eyes held a narrow look of disbelief.

Devereux smiled. “Space is big,” she told him. “And a there’s a lot of stars to go around.”

He appeared to consider this for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I guess there are.”

Devereux’s eyes turned back toward the night sky. She tried to make out the constellations, searching her childhood memories of the times with her grandfather under the summer night sky. She had forgotten how different they looked when filtered through a planet’s atmosphere.

“You haven’t missed much,” she told Scott. Her voice sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. “Most of them are frozen balls of rock.”

“Not all of them,” Scott countered, looking skyward again. “Like Hope’s.”

Laughing softly, Devereux nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “But even Hope’s is a special case.”

Scott looked at her questioningly, his eyes probing hers. His expression suddenly shifted to one of concern.

“You’re cold.”

Devereux shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just not used to being outdoors.”

Scott began to shrug out of his jacket.

“Scott, no,” she told him. Her voice carried a lot less conviction than she intended.

“Fine,” Scott said, pulling his jacket free. “Then we’ll share it.”

Before she could protest, he laid it across one of her shoulders and pressed in closer so that it rested along his back. The result was that it covered neither of them very well. Devereux might have found it comical if she did not feel warmer—not entirely, she realized, from just the weight of the jacket.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

A new set of footfalls interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see a young female crew member approaching. Her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Rusty noticed immediately her smooth complexion and wondered just how young they were letting them in these. It was then that he caught sight of her rank insignia.

A Lieutenant? Are they taking them outta high school now?

For a moment, the young female officer’s face was overlaid by a different one, the hair changed to dusty blonde. Rusty felt a stab of emotion and the image faded.

“And who might you be?” Rusty asked her brusquely, deciding that a good defense was a quick offense. She was late getting there, after all.

“Lieutenant Elizabeth Banks, sir,” she replied.

She seems almost . . . cheerful, Rusty thought. He resisted the urge to shake his head in disdain.

Before he could rebuke her for her tardiness, however, she continued.

“The Captain sent me down here to work with you.”

Rusty studied Elizabeth. She seemed sincere—and just a little too enthusiastic for his taste.

“Decided that she needed someone to keep an eye on me, eh?”

Elizabeth looked puzzled and even a little hurt.

“No, sir.” She was almost meek in her response.

If it’s all an act, it’s a damned good one.

He glanced around at the others gathered there. If the Captain wanted reports on his behavior or activities, there was certainly no dearth of individuals that she could choose from. This Lieutenant was an obvious choice.

Maybe the Captain wants me to know that I’m being watched.

It seemed an odd tactic for her. With everyone else around him, and the ship-wide security systems, it seemed unnecessary. Maybe this Elizabeth is just what she seems, he considered, a bright-eyed young officer fresh from the Academy.

Just what I need . . .

Rusty did not bother to completely suppress his sigh.

“Did she tell you what you were supposed to do down here?” he asked Elizabeth.

Again, she looked confused. “No, sir.”

Damn, he thought. I was hoping that one of us did. He looked back at the expectant faces lined up before him. Okay, time to bite the bullet, I guess . . .

“Did anyone see where I put the duty roster?”

That seemed a good ploy. The first set of crew members looked around the area. A few of them even stepped out of line to search a little further away.

“Right here, sir,” Elizabeth said, handing him a pad.

Rusty met her eyes, certain that he saw amusement there. He took the tablet from her gingerly.

“Thank you,” he said. “Lieutenant.”

Bet she thinks she can run the place too.

Looking down at the tablet’s display, Rusty saw that it did, in fact, list the current shift’s duty roster. He scanned it quickly, understanding only about half of what the assignments meant.

That’s why they give you a staff, he told himself. To have someone to make it look like you know what you’re doing.

“Aruna,” he called out.

“Yes, sir,” the dark-skinned Ensign spoke up.

Rusty stared down at the tablet. “You and Chiang recalibrate the starboard power flow regulators,” he said. “According to this, the last shift replaced them.”

“Yes, sir,” the two technicians responded; almost in unison.

“Tsu-tao,” Rusty said, reading the next name from the list, and continued handing out assignments, while trying to ignore the watchful eyes of the new Lieutenant.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Rusty entered the main Engineering Deck. Based on the large time display mounted on the bulkhead near the engine cores, he was two minutes early.

Have to stop that . . . he mused wryly.

He tugged at the collar of his uniform and then flexed his forearms. It grabbed in all the wrong places, making it feel uncomfortably tight. He had allowed the computer to scan him to determine to proper measurements, but he guessed that either its scanning lenses were out of alignment, or most of the crew prepared a snugger fight than he was accustomed to. The Captain did not seem to, he considered, although it would be difficult to hide her figure even in an Arctic parka.

“Good morning, Chief,” came a light, cultured voice from nearby.

Rusty looked around to find a dark-skinned female regarding him somberly. He guessed that her ancestry probably came from somewhere in the Mediterranean or India. Her dark brown eyes watched him expectantly.

“Um,” he said, managing to make it sound as though he was only clearing his throat. “Good morning . . . Ensign.”

He was able to recognize the rank insignia pinned to her uniform.

“Aruna, sir,” she responded promptly to his unasked question.

Two other crew members had now joined her, forming a short horizontal line in front of him. One more person, a young male of Asian ancestry, moved into place at the end. His expression, although mostly controlled, betrayed his concern that he was among the last to report.

It then became obvious to Rusty that they were awaiting his orders. He glanced around the Engineering Deck, hoping for clues.

Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of duty roster or something for this?

Rusty looked at the faces of the crew members watching him. Rusty managed a smile that he hoped said, Everything’s fine here, just fine.

Yes, Rusty decided. And you’re probably supposed to have it.

Maybe it’s in my office. He looked around the first level of the Engineering Deck. Wherever the hell that is

He had given a cursory look over the layout of this deck. Now, he tried to remember if there was anything that could be the Chief Engineer’s office. He would have his own office here, right?

Damn, he thought. I should have made that one of my conditions to accept this deal.

He was still mystified why Devereux had chosen him for this post. Maybe someday he might be able to get her drunk enough to find out.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Devereux stood behind the helm station as the display counted down the last few seconds before they would transition from slipstream. She could have watched the transition from almost anywhere else on the ship, but this always to her to be the most appropriate place. Other than for the Engineering Deck, this was where the action was, after all.

The counter showed zero and Pyrafox’s clawed hands, already poised over his console, began to manipulate its controls.

“Disengaging slipstream engines,”

There was a subtle, not noticeable, shift in the background harmonics of the ship as the energies that powered the dual slipstream drive cores were shunted away. On the main bridge displays, the spectral halos of nearby stars solidified into steadily glowing pinpoints of light.

“All stations, secure from slipstream,” Elizabeth called into her headset.

Devereux suppressed a smile. The newly-promoted Lieutenant Commander was growing into her role, sounding very much at that moment like the First Officer that she now was.

“Sensors?” Devereux asked, turning toward the Tactical station.

There was a long pause before Hawkes answered her. That he checked his displays several times before responding was enough to trouble her.

“Nothing, Captain,” he finally reported.

Although he could be difficult to read at times, Devereux sensed that he was both puzzled and disturbed. She shared both of those sentiments.

“Nothing?”

“There’s nothing out there, Captain,” he confirmed. “There’s no unusual readings of any kind—and no indications of a slipstream event within the recent past.”

“How recent?” Devereux asked him.

Hawkes consulted something on his station.

“The Chief reports that we should be able to detect displacement effects for a period of at least two weeks for a slipstream event of any significant magnitude.”

Devereux interpreted “significant magnitude” to mean one powerful enough to drive a vessel through.

“Elizabeth,” she said, turning to her First Officer. “I want the Science teams to run full scans of the entire area. Have them report anything—anything—even remotely unusual.”

“Yes, Captain,” Elizabeth responded instantly. She back toward her station and began issuing the necessary orders.

“Captain?” Pyrafox spoke from in front of her.

Devereux looked down toward him, almost as if she had forgotten that he was there.

“We are a little early, Captain,” he offered somewhat sheepishly.

Devereux consulted the clock display. The helmsman was correct. Based on the rendezvous orders, there were still slightly more than three hours until the rendezvous—whatever it was—was scheduled to take place.

She chuckled softly and patted the helmsman’s shoulder. “So we are,” she said. “But I think a thorough sensor sweep is still in order, don’t you?”

“Yes, Captain,” Pyrafox agreed, baring his teeth in a relieved smile.

Well, she decided, I guess I can stop worrying about us being late.

She glanced around the bridge, wondering how she was going to fill the next three hours.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Rusty walked onto the main Engineering Deck. He could not help but notice that the two security officers remained with them, but held their position a discreet distance away. Both rested their hands near their weapons. He was absolutely certain that either of them—if not both—would very quickly shoot first and ask questions later if he made the slightest motion they believed threatening toward their Captain or their ship.

The area was even larger than he had expected. He had been aboard larger ships, but even on those their engine rooms were small cramped compartments; most of the vessel’s interior volume dedicated to its weapons systems and personnel quarters.

Despite the other wonders around him, he was drawn immediately to the twin drive cores. They stood contained in their own chamber, shining as if polished and new. He could tell from their design that they were not state-of-the-art, but they newer than almost any other drive systems he had been allowed close enough to touch—and touch them he did.

Even inactive, he could sense their latent energy even as he ran his fingertips across their surface. He knew it was only an illusion of his own mind, but it still offered him a vicarious thrill of excitement. His eyes played around the chamber, noting how clean and organized everything was.

“A bit heavy on the spit and polish, aren’t you?”

Devereux looked at him. Her expression barely changed, but he could see disapproval in her eyes.

Bad move, boy. You can insult a Captain, but never her ship. They tend to take it more personal.

Rusty had to admit that he admired the care and pride this crew took in their work. They had not been expecting an inspection, which meant that they always kept it this way.

He turned back toward Devereux, his eyes scanning the upper level above them. Crew members moved about at their duties, casting an occasional curious glance downward at the visitors.

“What’s the catch?”

Rusty watched Devereux’s eyes as she answered. This was far too easy; there had to be a catch.

Devereux met his gaze, her expression even.

“None,” she replied. “No catch.” She took a step forward and looked up at him. “You’re given an enlisted position as Chief Engineer.” She gestured to the crew members around them. “This is your staff.”

“A bunch of snot-nosed cadets?”

“Officers,” Devereux answered coolly. “And some enlisted personnel.”

“Just like that?”

Devereux nodded. “Just like that.”

Rusty studied her for a long moment. Something still tickled at the back of his mind.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, a little more gruffly than he intended. “What’s the catch?”

A faint smile twitched at the corners of Devereux’s mouth.

“Just one thing,” she said.

Ah. Here it comes.

Her bright green eyes locked onto his. For a moment, he realized again just how attractive she was. Lost in that momentary appreciation, he almost missed her next words.

“I expect you to become the best Chief Engineer in the Fleet.”

Rusty stared at her, barely able to hide his surprise. Finally, a deep chuckle issued from him and he grinned.

“That’s it?”

Devereux gave him a slight smile. “That’s it.”

Rusty looked around the area once again. There were equipment and stations whose functions he could not even begin to guess at.

This has got to be some kind of very weird practical joke. But by whom? And why?

“I don’t know . . .”

From the corner of his eye, he could see that Devereux was not buying his feigned reluctance.

Why by the Morris is she doing this? There has got to be dozens—hell, hundreds—of people out there who would give their right kidney to do this.

And, Rusty knew, he was one of them. He just never dreamed that he would ever again be given the chance. He looked back at Devereux.

“I don’t do windows,” he said. “Or toilets.”

Devereux nodded, trying to maintain a serious façade. “Fair enough.”

Rusty studied her again. Nothing in her expression or body language betrayed any hint of her possible motives. He recognized, though, that he would be a complete and utter fool if he turned down this chance.

“Done.” He almost spat out the word, as if afraid he might change his mind before he said it.

Devereux’s smile was warm and genuine. Offering out her hand, she said, “Welcome aboard, Chief Rayna.”

Rusty took her hand, surprised at just how firm her grip was. When he released it, she turned to one of the security officers standing near the hatch.

“Ensign Cavallero,” she said. “Please show Chief Rayna where his quarters are and assist him with anything that he might need.”

“Yes, Captain,” Cavallero responded sharply.

Rusty found himself slightly disappointed that Devereux had chosen the male security officer for this duty, but then decided that she just might be even a little more insightful than he had originally thought.

Cavallero stepped toward Rusty. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

Sir? Rusty swallowed past a small lump. That was going to take some getting used to.

He glanced one last time at Devereux and then followed the security officer off the Engineering Deck. It took him a moment to realize that the second one was not tailing them at a discreet distance.

While his thoughts were filled the opportunities now available to him, they were focused primarily on one thing: the bright green pills stuffed into a hidden compartment in the bottom of his carryall. He was going to need them.

Emerald Flight: Future Perfect (continued)

Hope turned to her medical case and removed two items: a hypo and a dark rectangular patch approximately the size of her hand. She pressed the patch against his lower abdomen. She then pressed the hypo against a spot near his heart. Devereux heard the faint hiss as the hypo worked. Hope returned the hypo to its spot in the case and reached for the portable medical scanner again.

For several long moments, nothing happened. Devereux thought she saw a change in the color of the young man’s complexion, but it could have been a trick of the lighting. Hope continued to move the scanner above his body, but made no further ministrations.

For an awful moment, Devereux thought the Aerian physician had given up. Then, the young man’s eyes fluttered open. He gasped for breath and then coughed. Devereux heard him sigh deeply and was at his side instantly, afraid that might be his last breath.

Instead, his eyes flashed around, seemingly unable to focus on any one thing. His breathing, Devereux noticed, was still rapid, but he did not appear to be in distress. Certainly, she realized, Hope was not behaving as though his life might be in immediate danger.

The movements of his eyes closed, focused on a spot near the ceiling. His lips moved.

Was that a smile? Devereux wondered.

His eyes passed across the faces gathered around him, finally stopping on hers. There was no doubt in her mind at that moment that he recognized her. His expression revealed everything to her without words.

Devereux bent forward and kissed him. She had intended it to be a light touch, uncertain how much strength he had after his ordeal. However, relief and passion overruled her logic. Their mouths met and Devereux kissed him with a deep and thorough conviction, the endless months of denied emotions pouring out through her.

Tears ran down her cheeks. She did not care. For this, she was willing to forgo the notion that the Captain of a ship should always try to exhibit a minimum level of decorum at all times.

She released him reluctantly, finding that she needed to breathe.

“Scott . . .” she whispered hoarsely.

She stared down at him, feeling her warm tears beginning to cool on her cheeks.

Standing behind her, Elizabeth was trying hard not to grin. Her eyes were bright. Rusty looked uncomfortable. Not in an awkward sort of way, as if he found the situation somehow embarrassing to witness, but a different sort of personal discomfort. Hope’s expression provided no insight into her thoughts, which was hardly unusual.

“Did you miss me?” Scott asked Devereux.

His voice was an almost breathless whisper. His lips moved in a faint smile and then his eyes abruptly lost their focus.

Devereux’s head snapped toward Hope. The Aerian looked back at her, seemingly unperturbed.

“He requires rest.”

As if prompted by that cue, two security officers entered the cargo hold with a portable stretcher. They placed it on the deck next to Scott and then one of them helped Devereux move Scott onto it. Scott still seemed disoriented, but was still conscious.

The security team lifted the stretcher and headed out of the cargo hold. Devereux started to follow, but stopped when she felt Hope’s light touch on her arm.

“You can do nothing now,” Hope told her. Her dark eyes seemed to study Devereux’s face. “I will report.”

Devereux remained where she stood, watching as the stretcher disappeared into the corridor outside. As much as she wanted to be there, to be at Scott’s side now, she knew that Hope was right.

She managed to fight back the sigh so that it was barely audible. Nodding her understanding to Hope, she turned to Rusty and Elizabeth.

“Secure the ship,” she told them, indicating Scott’s damaged vessel. “I want a full damage report.”

“Yes, Captain,” Elizabeth responded promptly.

Rusty looked distracted. While he was turned facing the ship, his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

“Is there a problem, Chief?” Devereux asked. A frowned formed on her lips.

It took Rusty a moment to answer.

“No,” he said, his attention finally returning to the cargo hold. “I’m on it, Cap’n.”

Devereux studied her Chief Engineer for a moment before looking away.

“I’ll be on the bridge.”

“Yeah,” Rusty said. “I’ll bet the ol’ Fossil been ready to gnaw through a bulkhead to find out what’s going on.”

Although the remark was almost expected from the Chief Engineer, Devereux could tell that he was not putting his full sardonic energy behind it. She looked at him again, but his attention had now turned to the small ship.

Leaving Rusty and Elizabeth to their task, Devereux left the cargo hold, deliberately taking the route that would lead her furthest from the Infirmary.