In short, Van concluded, Quasar wanted someone else to pay for the costs of training pilots, and then to get them young enough to mold them into the desired Quasar mold, doubtless diplomatic and deferential and oh-so-glad to be working for Quasar.
He wondered if that was the way the other transport outfits felt.
Chapter 31
Van looked across to the command couch, where the older commander reached forward, his index finger poised over the large red jump button.
“Don’t!” Van exclaimed.
“It’s a perfectly normal jump, commander,” explained the gray-haired senior officer. “We’re just headed back to Leynstyr.” His eyebrows lifted, and for a moment his face shifted, looking more like that of a far younger officer—fair, blond, and oh-so-infallible—before returning to the image of a youthful but still gray commander.
Van wanted to explain that the jump wasn’t normal, that it couldn’t be normal. Instead, in slow motion, he watched as Commander Baile depressed the jump button.
“No!” Van exclaimed—too late.
Black became white, and white black—and then brilliant red, pain red, swirled through the cockpit, sheer agonizing pain.
Van sat up with a jolt, sweat pouring down his face, his heart pounding. Of course it had been a nightmare. He’d never been on the Fergus with Commander Baile, and two commanders would almost never be before the control board at the same time. But it had seemed so real…once more.
He wiped his forehead.
Then, the nightmares about the Regneri always seemed real. He blotted his forehead again, and checked the time. It was almost time to get up, and he doubted he could get back to sleep in any case. He took a long deep breath and swung his feet over the side of the bed in the visiting senior officers’ quarters.
Why the nightmare about the Fergus? He hadn’t done anything. Unless, somehow, his last battle with the unidentified cruiser had overstrained something. But the jump generators weren’t linked to any combat functions—not to shields, or nets, or fire control—and one of them had been replaced.
Somehow, he harbored guilt…but why? He hadn’t even been near the Fergus.
Slowly, he rose and walked toward the fresher and the shower he needed to wash away the sleep and the stench of fear, fear that he had somehow been responsible, and fear that festered within. Maybe…more exercise would help.
Chapter 32
As another ten days passed, as his exercise and conditioning efforts continued, Van discovered that all the other concerns in the Taran system that were in the market for space pilots were also looking for younger men and women. He also searched all the news archives that were open-access, but could find no new information that might have shed light on what had happened to the Fergus. He was alternating between quietly seething about Sub-marshal Vickry’s quiet hint that the Fergus might have been lost because of Van’s actions in dealing with the renegade cruiser and trying to decide why Vickry had thrown that at him.
Then, too, he was bothered, because he continued to feel that he was being watched, but by whom or why, he still had not been able to confirm.
One of the cometary mining firms—SpaceRec—did make an offer—but for an operations director. Van turned it down, wondering as he did if he were making a mistake. But he hadn’t felt all that comfortable as a military attaché, and being an ops director would have required more desk and political skills.
So on oneday, he presented himself at the New Oisin terminal, took the orbital shuttle, and once on Tara orbit control two, made his way through the crowded corridors to lock EM-ten, where the RSFS Sligo was docked.
The tech on lock duty—third class at that—saluted Van. “Welcome aboard, Commodore. Commander says we’ll be unlocking as soon as Major Dolan arrives. You have the first couch in the passenger cabin. Lockers are aft of the cabin.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ser.”
With that, Van lugged his two duffels aft and stowed them in the second locker. Then he made his way forward and settled into the first couch of the four. Its gray thermafoam was clean, but worn.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to plan what he might do once he was home on Sulyn. He’d certainly try to see what pilots’ positions might be available, but after his experiences in New Oisin, he wasn’t too hopeful. He could contact Trystin Desoll at IIS, but the idea of working for a Coalition organization continued to bother him. Much as Desoll had insisted IIS wasn’t a black or off-budget agency for the Eco-Techs, Van still had his doubts. But it was a piloting job. Of course, his family would want him to stay near Sulyn, particularly his sister Sappho. He hoped that he’d find something on Sulyn.
At the sound of steps, he opened his eyes.
Major Dolan was a tall and round-faced redhead with a thin body beneath her long neck. As she carried a single duffel past Van, he judged that she was probably only thirty-five, and with the collar insignia of logistics, and her age and service branch suggested a recent promotion.
She paused, then smiled and spoke. “Greetings, Commodore.”
“Greetings, Major. Go ahead and stow your gear.”
“Yes, ser.”
She returned quickly and settled into the couch across from Van’s. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you here, ser.”
“I was just retired,” Van said. “Once that happens…” He shrugged.
Her gray eyes studied him for a moment. “Medical? I hope I’m not prying. I suppose that’s why I’m in logistics.
