Ah, but his concern was premature. She had to pass the assessment first.
Gregor’s comm-patch chimed. Before he could activate the two-way signal, the captain’s words sounded. “I need a skilled pilot who can defy gravity, dodge missiles, and who can be trusted to be discreet about a secret mission. You have any recommendations, Thatcher?”
Gregor frowned.
He
was the company’s most skilled pilot, as his flight record and biannual proficiency tests proved, but if the captain wished a recommendation, would it be inappropriate to put himself forward for the mission? The idea of passing it up did not sit well with him, but after his difficulty in communicating with Cadet Calendula, he felt more tentative than usual in regard to social situations. To err on the side of inoffensive would be prudent. “Nobody can defy gravity, but Lieutenant Sequoia is qualified for many piloting tasks, Captain. I have not spent time with him outside of work hours, but I have also not heard reports of failings in regard to discretion.”
“I’m talking about you, Thatcher. You still in the briefing room? I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”
Gregor’s frown deepened. If the captain had meant him, why hadn’t he said so? He was a man who usually spoke bluntly, and rarely employed levity. Gregor appreciated that about him. Perhaps this new… blitheness had something to do with his acquisition of that civilian girlfriend. Gregor hadn’t spoken with the woman often but knew she was responsible for the pink shuttlecraft in the bay. Granted, the captain had leased the shuttle to her for her business, but Gregor couldn’t help but feel affronted at the color. Spacecraft deserved more seriousness, more respect.
The door slid open, and Captain Mandrake strode in. As usual, he wore no sign of rank, and his long brown leather jacket and black and beige clothing were of a civilian style. But between his hard, grim face, scarred hands, broad shoulders, and the sureness with which he carried himself, he had the aura of a veteran soldier. People never questioned that he was in charge, whether they were familiar with the company or not.
“Sit,” he said, though he leaned against the wall himself, folding his arms across his chest. Whatever humor he had been attempting to practice earlier was not evident on his face now.
This made Gregor more comfortable, and he perched on the edge of a chair, leaning forward attentively. Thoughts of Cadet Calendula drifted out of his mind as he wondered what mission was coming up that could challenge his skills. He was always eager to do so, whether it meant pitting himself against a single pilot or a squadron.
“I’ve just accepted a new assignment,” the captain said. “We’ll be flying to Icesphere—you’re aware of the world’s status?”
“A glacial planet on the edge of the habitable zone, it has two major continents Orenka and Malbak. Their respective governments have been warring off and on for generations over the ore and gems in the tunnels where the majority of the population dwells. In recent years, Orenka, the larger continent, has grown more aggressive, perhaps in response to particularly rich new veins discovered deep within Malbak’s land mass.”
“Yes, the war has been bloody these last two years, with space forces being brought in as well as ground troops. The Orenkans have decided to hire mercenaries in an attempt to finally finish off their enemies. The Death Rush Fleet.”
Gregor had expected to hear that
they
had been hired, but he quickly deduced the captain’s next words. “We are to fight against them.”
He held back a frown. Aside from the shuttles, Mandrake Company had a single ship, and it focused more often on smaller missions that might require a couple of squadrons of well-trained soldiers, rather than getting involved with planet-scale attacks or defenses. They had occasionally turned the tide in wars, but usually by stealth, kidnapping, and assassination rather than by confronting armies. Even Gregor’s piloting skills would be tested if he had to dodge an entire fleet.
“Ostensibly,” the captain added.
Ah, so there was more to it than first suggested. Not surprising. Mandrake wasn’t one to throw his people against an artillery line for no reason. Or even with a reason.
“The
Albatross
and I and most of the company will appear to engage Death Rush, but we’ll be providing a distraction for a pilot to pick up an important person from the space base orbiting the planet. Our pilot—you—will then deliver this person to a protected location on Malbak. Their own military won’t send a ship up, because they’re worried it would be watched and shot out of the air. Though the Malbakians hope to keep this all a secret, this passenger grew up on the planet and his return won’t be unexpected. The Orenkans will want to ensure he doesn’t arrive, even if it means risking pissing off the GalCon army.”
“Am I allowed to know who it is?” Gregor asked.
“Admiral Douglas Summers.”
Gregor sucked in a surprised breath. Summers was a legendary strategist. Thatcher had studied his mission briefs at the academy and read all of his publications in the intervening years, since so much of it applied to space flight. Summers had been a pilot himself before being recruited to the command track. Gregor had never thought to meet the man. When he had been in the fleet, he would have considered it a great honor. He would
still
consider it an honor, except… now he was a mercenary, not a respected GalCon officer. If the admiral knew that he had walked away from the fleet for this life, what would he think? That Gregor was a failure? A coward? No, he had resigned his commission while he had been on leave, not during the heat of battle. No one would think him a coward, but… to give up all he’d had for this, what would the admiral think?
“Will the mission be a problem?” The captain was watching his face.
Gregor didn’t know what his face had been doing, but he straightened in the chair and smoothed his features. “No, sir.”
“You can take some men along and another pilot, in case there’s trouble. The pick-up shouldn’t be problematic, but getting down to the planet and dropping Summers off may be challenging. We’ll take a look at the aerial deployment before I send you out, but you’ll probably need to go in at night and dodge some bogeys.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good.” The captain pushed away from the wall but paused before leaving. “You get the new pilot trainee on board?”
“Yes, sir. She’ll need to be tested thoroughly to ensure she’ll meet company standards, but she went through the flight academy several years ago. She should be able to fly a combat shuttle and the
Albatross
, as well. That’s why I selected her.” Yes, it had nothing to do with the fact that he had known her and had once spent much time fantasizing about her saucy smirk and her alluring physical attributes. He swallowed, hoping Mandrake didn’t question him further on this topic. He would not care to lie, both because he respected the captain and wanted to deal honestly with him and because he was abysmal at lying.
“Calendula is the name?” the captain asked.
Gregor blinked, surprised he had remembered. He had glanced at the résumés Gregor had given him and waved in approval, but he had also said that selecting a new pilot was in Gregor’s hands. The captain had given the impression that he wouldn’t particularly care until someone had been selected, most likely because Gregor had already interviewed and dismissed seven prospects—amazing how many would-be pilots had such meager grasps of the academics of flight. One impertinent young man had even proclaimed that flying was like scratching an itch—he might not know what caused the itch, but he could always satisfy it. Gregor didn’t even know what that meant, but the man had been far too much of a bumpkin to trust at the helm.
“Yes, sir. Valerian Calendula. She had just made lieutenant when she left the fleet eight years ago, reason not stated in her discharge record.”
Mandrake snorted. “If she’s Grenavinian, I can guess. That’s the same time I left GalCon.”
His interest finally dawned on Gregor. Of course. The captain was Grenavinian and so were many of his original crew members, people who had formed the company with him. With the planet destroyed, people who could claim it as a homeland were rare, and though the captain wasn’t obvious about showing favoritism, it was well known that he wouldn’t take an assignment that pitted him against a Grenavinian, and he might more closely consider the résumé of someone from his planet. That was good. If Calendula performed satisfactorily and Gregor was able to recommend her, it meant the captain shouldn’t object to her placement in the company.
“Yes, sir. She is.”
Gregor thought the captain might say more, ask for special consideration for her or even a slackening of Gregor’s stringent standards, but he merely nodded and walked out. That was as it should be; if Calendula earned a spot, it would be hers, but not unless she earned it. And, just as the captain wasn’t going to let feelings about her heritage influence his decision, Gregor could not allow feelings about
her
to influence his.
* * *
The flight simulator goggles might have been fun under other circumstances—more private circumstances—but there were several other people on the bridge, and Val felt self-conscious. She sat at the auxiliary helm next to Lieutenant Sequoia—he was at the main helm, guiding the
Albatross
along the edge of an asteroid field—and both of their positions were front and center, banks of view screens and holographic displays surrounding them. The two weapons stations behind them were also occupied, with the young officers practicing slicing the edges off the asteroids with the ship’s big laser cannons. Commander Garland, the captain’s second-in-command, paced a textured metal walkway behind them all, going back and forth from the proximity monitors on one side to a sensor station on the other side.
The officers were busy with their own tasks, so it probably only
seemed
like everyone was staring at Val, but she felt silly wearing training goggles linked to the helm and
pretending
to fly the ship. Worse, the program was throwing everything from pirates to wrecks to irate grannies with canes at her, and she had a tendency to fling herself to the left and right, her body wanting to dodge the obstacles as much as her virtual spaceship did. After every “near miss,” she told herself not to react physically, but the next time laser fire blasted her view screen, her body ignored her mind and tried to fling her to safety, her heart racing as if it were real. Doubtlessly because it
felt
so real. Whoever had programmed the goggles had done a good job. Thatcher probably.
A clunk came from the side of the helm, and Val flinched, expecting another virtual pirate attack until she realized the sound had been real. She paused the simulation and pushed the goggles onto her forehead.
“Sorry,” a young blonde woman in coveralls said. She was kneeling beside one of the displays that hadn’t worked since Val had sat down that morning. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The clunk must have come from the floating box of tools and diagnostic equipment that hovered near her shoulder, or maybe from the multitool in her hand. After her apologetic wave, she started unscrewing a panel.
“It’s all right.” Val wiped sweat from her brow, glad for an excuse to take a break. Her shoulders were as tense as if she had been in actual combat all morning. “Uh, you’re a mercenary?”
The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty, far too young for this job. She was a beauty, too, even with a smudge of grease smeared across her cheek. Val had only spotted two or three other women among the crew thus far, and they’d all had a weathered hardness about them that promised this hadn’t been their first career that involved slinging guns.
“No, not exactly. I’m Jamie.” The blonde wiped her hand and stuck it out. It was still grease-smeared, but Val shook it anyway. The girl seemed a lot friendlier than the women Val had encountered. “I’m a partner and employee of Microbacteriotherapy, Inc.,” Jamie said, “and we’re working
with
the mercenaries. Except I don’t have a lot to do right now, since I’m mostly the pilot for the company’s shuttle. I’ve been apprenticed to one of the engineers, and I’m learning about spaceship maintenance.” She waved her tool.
Another trainee, good. Val needn’t feel so isolated among the highly experienced and gruff crew. This was the kind of person she wished Commander Thatcher had thought to make her roommates with, not the burly glowering woman who had yet to say more than three words to Val. But then, maybe as a part owner of this Whatchamacallit Inc., Jamie rated her own room. Or maybe she slept on the company shuttle.
Val squinted as a thought occurred to her. “Your company’s shuttle, that wouldn’t be the pink one, would it?”
Jamie’s nose crinkled. “Yes, it’s a monstrosity, isn’t it?” She glanced at Sequoia. “The color, I mean. Not the shuttle itself. It’s fine.”
Sequoia smirked, though he didn’t take his eyes from his work—he was maneuvering the ship close to an asteroid the size of a mountain, which elicited excited whispers of anticipation from the men working the weapons.
“It’s… somewhat distracting.” Val decided not to mention that the sight of the pink craft, docked amid all those sleek gray shuttles bristling with weapons, had caused her to fumble her landing. She might have if Lieutenant Sequoia weren’t listening in, but she didn’t want to make excuses for her nervous docking.
“Ankari—that’s the majority owner of the company—is leasing it from the captain, and it has all of our fancy medical research equipment in it, so she wanted to make sure none of the mercenaries would be tempted to take it on a mission and get our stuff wrecked up.”