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  The GT might run humankind, but that didn’t mean they all supported the directorate. They had criminals, just as the norms had. Even those skirting the law were not above straying past the lines if business demanded it. Beth had knowledge of something that could turn humankind on its head, and she was very aware that factions might not want that knowledge to get out before they developed a plan. Beth had promised silence, but she knew where she rated in the trillions of humans, and her elimination wouldn’t even register a blip on the scale of humanity.

  She wished she still had the bar in her hand.

  She walked over to the small conference table, first heading to the left side, and at the last moment, changing direction to go to the right. She slowly turned to face the GT once more.

  He might have cracked the tiniest of smiles, but as dark as he was, she couldn’t be sure. It was difficult to focus on the man.

  “Please, sit,” he said, pointing at one of the chairs.

  Beth warily pulled the chair out and sat. Of course, it was built for normal-sized people, so she had to sit on the edge of the chair, arms on the table. The GT pulled back a GT-sized chair and sat comfortably.

  Beth took note of that. There were five such chairs in the room: two at the table, three back against the far bulkhead. GTs used this space on a regular basis, then. Why such a nondescript room, she didn’t have a clue, only that they probably didn’t want any meetings to become common knowledge.

  “Pilot Dalisay, thank you for coming to meet me. I am Commander Grey Tuominen, Navy of the Humankind,” he said, using the formal term for the Directorate Navy.

  He must have seen her look of confusion, because he smiled, and said, “I’m in civvies now so as not to draw attention to my presence here at HB Station.”

  “Why hide that fact?” she blurted out before thinking.

  If he took offense, he didn’t show it, but answered, “I’m only here for a short time, and I didn’t want to go through the red tape.”

  “But you’re the Directorate Navy. You can go anywhere.”

  He smiled again, but not as broadly. “If necessary, yes, we can. However, for routine missions, we must ask permission to enter any space controlled by a zaibatsu.”

  That didn’t make much sense to her. The Directorate Navy was the most powerful military force known to man. It was what gave the Directorate its power. Every zaibatsu contributed funds to keep it running. But that was a question for another time. What she wanted to know was why she’d been called to meet this commander.

  “What can I do for you, sir? Are you here for my version of what happened?”

  “No, not really, Pilot Dalisay. I’ve already reviewed your reports, and I’ve gone over the recorded data. I’ve seen enough of them.” He paused a moment, then said, “Well, maybe one thing. Why did you take control of your Hummingbird while slinging around the gas giant?”

  “Well, Mzee—”

  “Commander.”

  “Uh . . . yes, Commander. I was being pursued by a hostile alien force. It had fired some sort of torpedoes at me, and they would reach me before I could get behind the planet. I tried to adjust my course to cut closer to the planet to shave off some time, but my AI wouldn’t let me. Too dangerous, it said.”

  “So, you took over, flew a course that took your Hummingbird to the outer reaches of the exosphere, and skipped your craft around the planet.”

  “Yes, Mz . . . yes, Commander.”

  “And you thought you had the skill to do it?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Why?”

  “With all due respect, Commander, why doesn’t matter much now. I’m here today, so I was proven right.”

  The smile came back, and he nodded his acceptance of her logic. “You’re correct, of course. You’re here today, and on a professional level, I have to salute what was some exceptional piloting.”

  Beth felt the warm glow of pride. She didn’t know this commander from Adam, but she welcomed the praise.

  “And that brings us to why I made the trip from Sahra. Are you happy with your contract with HB?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Simple question, Pilot. Are you happy with your situation here with the Hamdani Brothers?”

  “The Hamdani Brothers are well-noted as one of the best corporations for pilots, particularly OPWs.”

  “You didn’t answer the question, Pilot. Am I wasting my time here?”

  I don’t know why you are here, so how can I know if you are wasting your time?

  He waited for her answer. Beth didn’t know what she should say. It wasn’t a good idea to badmouth the company that paid her paycheck, even if they were taking out more than what she earned.

  The thought of that, the thought of having to tell her ina that there would be nothing coming this month, reignited her anger, and before she could govern herself, she blurted out, “No, I’m not.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Why? Because I am being punished. I owe them eighty-four BC for this month, for God’s sake. They want me to pay for the gate that I destroyed following your regulations, that’s why,” she said. “And no one from the Directorate will intervene.”

  “We can’t intervene, Pilot. We don’t have the authority for this type of case.” he said, watching her. “But is that the only reason you’re not happy?”

  “Do I need more?” When his expression didn’t waver, she added, “Well, maybe there is.”

  “And what is that?”

  She tried to marshal her thoughts. It suddenly hit her why she was so frustrated, and it was not only the money. It took her a moment to frame her words.

  “I’m a pilot, Commander. But they won’t let me fly. I’m sitting in my rack while the black calls me. I want—no, I need to fly.”

  She looked down at her fingernails, embarrassed. Being an Exploration Corps pilot was a job, nothing more, but it had grown on her. Deep space was singing its siren song, calling her, and she couldn’t answer. If that wasn’t a sign of weakness, she didn’t know what was.

  To her surprise, she looked back up to see what she perceived to be a look of satisfaction on the commander’s face before he said, “How would you like to fly again, Pilot?”

  “I would love to, Commander, but I don’t think HB is going to schedule me again.”

  “I think I can change that, if you’re interested.”

  Yeah, I’m interested, not that it makes any difference.

  “You can’t interfere with an unjust fine, so I don’t think you can just tell the dispatcher to give me missions.”

  “True, I can’t. As an officer of the Navy of Mankind, I hold exactly zero sway here. But if you were no longer part of HB, and you were in, say the Navy, I would have.”

  Beth’s heart jumped for a second, hopeful, but then she laughed bitterly and said, “I’m still under contract.”

  OPW contracts were ironclad, except for the hiring company. There was no way she could break that contract.

  “I have reason to believe that we can approach HB and buy out your contract.”

  “You do know I have a fine over my head? Over half-a-million.”

  He flicked his hand as if brushing away a fly.

  “And then what, Commander?”

  “And then? I think it would be obvious. I want you to join the Navy. I want you in my squadron.”

  “What? Me? I’m flattered, but I’m just a Hummingbird pilot, an OPW, I need to remind you. You get more volunteers than you can take, from what I’ve read.”

  “Yes, you are a Hummingbird pilot, one who was able to take it beyond its capabilities and escape an alien man-of-war. Not many would have both the balls and the skill to pull that off, and I want that kind of pilot in my squadron.

  “I should give you a little more information. We have long suspected that there are Others out there. Odd readings here and there, things that didn’t make sense by any other explanation. For the last three years, I’ve been in charge of developing a cours
e of action should we ever meet them. Thanks to you, we have, and I am now standing up a new squadron. Our focus will be on the alien threat. Until we know just what we are facing, we cannot deploy the capital ships. Someone has to feel out the enemy, if they even are the enemy.”

  Beth started to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. “Yes, one of their ships attacked you, but that might have been a knee-jerk reaction. We have to know for sure.”

  Beth bit back a retort, but he was right. If that was a mistake, and the aliens were friendly, then humanity didn’t want to stumble into a war.

  “I still don’t know why me, Commander. There are a million pilots plying the black.”

  “Well, Mzee Teneriffe did ask if there was anything that could be done for you. I didn’t pay that much heed until I saw how you handled your Hummingbird. Then I realized that out of all humanity, you are the only person who’s faced these aliens, at least as far as we know. You are certainly the only human who has faced them and lived to tell the tale. I think that eminently qualifies you.”

  Beth began to feel the slight stirrings of hope. To get into the Navy? No one from her social ring could hope to achieve that.

  “How would this work?”

  “To get you into the Navy? I’ll tell Mzee Teneriffe as soon as you accept, and she’ll start the process. In a day or two, you’ll leave Nexus Prime for Fleet Ops on Refuge. Eight weeks of boot camp—I can’t pull enough strings to get you out of that—and you report to me. You’re already a qualified pilot, so we can transfer that rating to the Navy, and you’ll get snapped into your new ride at Type School.”

  Her ears perked up at that. He already mentioned capital ships, and if this was some sort of special squadron, they were probably flying skiffs or patrol craft. Most of her piloting skills should transfer, even if it would be like taking a flitter driver and giving them a bus. Her Hummingbird might not be the most powerful craft in the galaxy, but she’d showed it could take some aggressive flying. If she had to shift to the space-going version of a bus, at least she’d be out of debt and still in space.

  “What would I be flying?”

  “I didn’t tell you that?” he asked, innocently.

  Oh, hell, is it worse than a skiff?

  “No, Commander, you didn’t.”

  “Oh, in that case, we’re flying Wasps. FX6 Kilos.”

  “Wasps!” she almost shouted.

  “Why, yes. Is that a problem, Pilot Dalisay?” he said, the crooks of his obsidian mouth tilting up.

  “I’m in, Commander. Oh, am I ever in!”

  PART 2

  Chapter 6

  Naval Space Pilot Third Class Floribeth Salinas O’Shea Dalisay, Navy of Humankind, stepped around the Wasp, dutifully going through the checklist on her pad. Senior Chief Wolfwitz dogged her steps, looking over her shoulder. All the readouts for FT6-142 read green, but it was tradition, going back centuries, that pilots physically check their ships before taking off.

  She tugged on the microshield array, then checked it off, wishing she could skip the rest of the steps and just take this beauty out into space. It took a force of will to methodically check off each step of the inspection.

  It was hard to believe that she’d soon be flying an actual Wasp, the ultimate sports vehicle. This may be the “T,” or training version, its weapons only dummies and without the still-classified capabilities of the “X” version she would be flying in the squadron, but it was still a Wasp. Fifteen weeks ago, she’d been a grounded Hummingbird pilot, and now she was at the pinnacle of single-seat flying.

  Three days after meeting with Commander Tuominen at Nexus Prime, Beth was saying goodbye to Bill, Absinthe, and the rest, and leaving the HB station—not before Accountant Eight Huhn had tracked her down and told her she was still liable for her fine until Mzee Tenerife, who was also at her farewell party, told him to go pound sand. A few days later, she, along with close to 200 other recruits, was being sworn in to the Navy at the Naval Training Station, Region 1.

  The next eight weeks sucked, to be blunt. By far the shortest and one of the oldest people in the company, she’d endured her share of harassment from her fellow recruits. “Sandblower,” “Grandma,” and “Housekeeper,” were among the least insulting terms. All the time, she was aching to put some of the others in their place by telling them that while almost all her fellow recruits were going to be Seamen Apprentices doing scutwork in their various fields, she was not only going to be a petty officer, but a Wasp pilot.

  Only she couldn’t. The chief who had met her as she got off the ship had told her in no uncertain terms that she had to keep quiet. What the commander and his bosses were doing was highly unusual, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better. Beth got the impression that much of what VFX-99 was doing was unusual, not just what was happening with her.

  So, she put up with the hazing, she put up with the runs where her short legs were a handicap—why did sailors, except for the commando-types, have to run, she wondered while laboring through each exhausting run—she put up with the insults by keeping her eye on the prize.

  And here was the prize. After logging in her 18 flights in the simulator, she was going out for the real thing. She ran her hand over the smooth bow of the Wasp, unable to resist. With only two more items on her checklist, she should be underway in mere moments.

  Second-to-last was to check the vector ports. Unlike her little Hummingbird, a Wasp had the same FC powerplant as capital ships. What made a Wasp unique was the vectoring system that could channel the thrust from various ports, making it extremely maneuverable. Larger ships had bow thrusters which assisted maneuverability under the same concept, but within the Navy, at least, no other vessel could vector the thrust in almost any direction.

  A Wasp had 12 vector ports in addition to the main array. Beth checked the readout first. All 12 were closed, the system green. Next was a visual and physical check. She gave each of the lower ones a quick glance, then ran her fingers over the port, seeking any misalignment. She hurried, anxious to get into space. Too short to reach the upper ones, she pulled her little stepladder up so she could climb and reach the ports. She gave the Port 7, the upper midships port, a quick look. Like the first six, it looked fine. She ran her fingers over it, already looking to its twin, a meter to the starboard, and almost checked it off when something registered with her.

  Did I just feel something?

  She straightened up on her ladder for a moment while she contemplated what she’d just felt, then leaned forward and gave it a careful look again. It still looked good. She ran her fingers once more over the seam.

  There it is.

  Very faint, almost imperceptible, she had felt something. She glanced up at the chief, who looked bored.

  She checked the readout again, specifically pulling up Port 7 in isolation. Green. She hit the reset, and within seconds, the light turned green again.

  What now?

  She reached out one more time, rubbing her finger over the featureless skin of the Wasp, and now she was sure she felt the tiniest imperfection.

  “Are you going to dawdle here all day, Dalisay? I’ve got things to do, even if you don’t,” Chief Wolfwitz said, his voice expressing his displeasure.

  Behind him, NA2 Rymer, whose sole purpose in life was to keep FT6-142 spaceworthy, looked concerned.

  Beth still couldn’t see any imperfection in the seam. It looked fine, and the readouts were green. Still, she had felt something.

  A Wasp pushing the performance envelope underwent tremendous forces, forces that wanted to tear the fighter apart. A minor technical mishap at .91C could have catastrophic results.

  But I’m not going .91C today, and I really want to try this baby out.

  “Well, Dalisay? Are you going to fly today, or are you chickening out?”

  She bristled at the insult and was ready to check the last ports and finish the inspection. She wasn’t hesitating because she was afraid. The Wasp checked out green, and so she t
rusted it.

  Ah, hell. I can’t do it. Regulations are regulations.

  “I’m sorry, Chief. I can’t up-check this fighter,” she said, her heart falling.

  By giving it an official down-check, she was taking the Wasp offline for several hours at a minimum. It would take Rymer’s time, Senior Chief Win’s time, then Lieutenant Franks’ time as safety officer to up-check the craft again.

  And she would miss her flight until she could be slotted in again.

  “Why not, Petty Officer Dalisay?” he asked.

  “I felt an imperfection around Port Seven.”

  The chief took her readout, looked at it, and said, “It reads here as green.”

  “I know that, Chief. But I also know what I felt.”

  “And you, a boot, know more than the readouts, more than Rymer here?”

  “I’m not saying I do,” Beth said, feeling miserable. “All I know is that I feel something that shouldn’t be there. I can’t up-check this craft.”

  “And that’s your final word?” the chief asked, hands on his hips as he leaned into her, his eyes ten centimeters from hers.

  “Yes, Chief. That’s my final word,” she said, not willing to back down.

  “Very well,” he said, his tone completely changed from antagonistic to . . . well, normal. He looked to NA2 Rymer and said, “Take her back and bring out 131.”

  Rymer winked, a smile on his face, and said, “I’ve already got her ready, baby seat installed.”

  What? Was that a test?

  Beth was shorter than any other pilot, too short for the standard Wasp seat. For her to fly, she needed an additional insert installed, nicknamed a “baby seat.” She wasn’t the only pilot who needed one, and they took only a few minutes to connect, but Rymer wouldn’t have already had it in 131 unless he expected her to fly that instead of 142.

  “Since you didn’t want 142, you’ve got 131 and another inspection to make,” he said.