Operator B

piloting a craft made by an alien race was hard enough to reckon.

By now, he had learned that a cleanly focused thought was enough to keep the OEV headed on a base trajectory. He needn’t keep his hands in the detents at all times.

Wentz removed his hands from the panel, and reached for his gloves.

“You don’t need to do that, sir,” Ashton said. “Not on my account.”

“Yeah? What about my account?” he sniped back and slipped on his mitts. “You ever think of that?”

“General, if you’re uncomfortable about your hands—”

“Oh, yeah, there’s the right word. Uncomfortable. Try appalled. Try disgusted. I’m a freak, Colonel Ashton.”

“No, you’re not.” Ashton’s voice was cool, stony. “You’re an Air Force restricted test pilot. Your job is to discharge your duty for your country. You knew the score the first time you re-upped. You’ve made sacrifices in the past, and you’ve made a sacrifice now. I’ve made sacrifices too—to be in this position, we all have. So stop whining about your hands.”

Wentz yanked his stare around. “Whining?” He couldn’t believe it. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got ten fingers, I’ve only got six!”

“You’re whining, sir—”

“I can see our trip to Mars is starting out great.”

“—and you’re jeopardizing the integrity of the mission.”

“How’s that…toots?”

The same cool voice answered, “By allowing yourself to be inhibited about your hands, you’re potentially tainting your mental state. Your mental state runs the OEV. If you’re inhibited, self- conscious, or depressed, those negative emotions can spill over into the vehicle’s efficiency and function.”

Wentz was about to rail at her…but then he caught himself, thought about what she’d said.

A few moments ticked by.

“And you might want to know, sir,” Ashton topped it off. “General Farrington was disciplined enough to not be self-conscious about his hands.”

Wentz didn’t like that, but he also knew what she was doing. Bitch psychology. She was leveling Farrington’s performance against his.

He unzipped the leather mitts, flung them off. “Who needs gloves anyway?” Then he half-smiled at her. “It’s too bad I can’t give you the finger…”

««—»»

“So what’s your story?” Wentz asked later, when their tempers had cooled. “Got a husband, kids?”

“No, sir.”

“Let me guess. Air Force boyfriend, then, right?”

“No boyfriend,” she replied. “That whole scene…it’s not for me. Not enough time for a relationship and the service. Besides, it’s not my style.”

“Big bad Air Force girl with super-secret clearance—that’s your style?”

“Guess so, sir.”

Wentz didn’t push it. In the window, space streamed by. He realized the impossibility of attaching a true- speed gauge; nevertheless, he was dying to know their approximate velocity. Perhaps telemetry and even the detailed nature of each mission profile regulated when and for how long the OEV would exceed light speed. And perhaps Ashton was correct: maximum performance depended on the psychological attitude of the operator.

“Tell me about Will Farrington,” Wentz requested.

“A great man…and an unhappy one,” she said. “It all seemed to pile up on him one day. All the things serious pilots leave behind. Wife, children, PTA meetings, the white picket fence.”

The words nudged Wentz in the head, like someone palm-heeling him. “So Farrington had a family?”

“Yes, and he didn’t think twice about abandoning them. He knew he had to, in order to become Operator ‘A.’ He deemed it as his duty—just as you have. He did what he had to do because there was no other way. When you consider the utilities of the OEV, its potential for national defense…I’m sure you agree.”

Did he? Wentz still wasn’t certain. “Are you sure it was duty and not just fighter- jock envy? To be honest, I’m still not sure if the reason I took the mission wasn’t more for my own ego. Jealousy. Maybe the real reason I’m sitting here with three-fingers on each hand is because I subconsciously couldn’t stand the thought of someone else filling this seat. Some Tom-Cruise-looking Navy hammerhead. Some hot shot who’s not as good as me.”

“I don’t think that’s the case, sir. And it wasn’t the case with General Farrington. In between test runs, he lived at a compound near Andrews. Heavily guarded, mind you. We knew Farrington was becoming depressed because of his TATs, MMPIs, and his digital polygraphs. He actually tried to escape the compound several times. Eventually, we couldn’t trust him; we had to put cameras in his suite and a HIR direction-finder on his ankle. And you know what? He still escaped.”

Escaped? Wentz wondered. The job must’ve turned him into a prisoner. “Why, though? Why did he escape?”

“To see his daughter. She’d been adopted after his wife killed herself. A TACLET squad caught him and brought him back.”

Yes, Wentz thought. A prisoner. Now I’m the prisoner. Did the same await Wentz once this mission was over? To be locked up in some luxury suite, surrounded by guards, beckoned by suicide?

Wentz didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about what might happen to his mind five or ten years from now.

“Tell me this, and be honest,” he asked, unable to resist. “Was Farrington… Was he better than me?” Wentz looked at her. “Be honest.”

“That’s really not the point, sir—”

“Tell me!” he barked at her. “That’s an order! Was Farrington a better pilot than me?”

Ashton smirked, sighing. “Yes, sir, in my opinion, he was.”

Well, I asked for it, and I got it. But why should such insecurities arise now? Wentz knew that Farrington was better, better than anyone in the world. “I guess I should stop acting like a kid and just be happy that I’m second best.”

“Be real, sir. You’re the second-best pilot in the world. That’s pretty good.”

Wentz nodded. She’s right. I don’t see any Navy punks from Miramar flying this thing. I see ME.

The OEV cruised on, the strange hum in the cabin somehow comforting. Ashton unstrapped and got out of her seat. “I’ll be right back. I need to check the APU’s and the range-reply readouts.”

Wentz shrugged from the pilot’s seat. “Why? My brain tells the guidance system where we’re going.”

“Not if you day-dream. Not if you happened to be thinking about Miss July when you were adjusting your trim.”

“Aw, Miss July was a dog—”

“Our double-R computer is the only way we can know for sure that we’re on course.”

Ashton stooped to the rear of the craft where brace-frames mounted the only hardware aboard that was manufactured by human beings. Here we go again, Wentz thought. He could see her in the wind-screen’s reflection. She knew they were on the proper trajectory; she didn’t even look at the range-reply coordinates.

Instead, she reached into a pocket, withdrew a pill, and popped it into her mouth. Over the past month, Wentz had seen her do this several times.

She returned to her commo seat. “I apologize, General. It’s clear you weren’t thinking about Miss July. Your mental integrity is straight-on.”

Wentz wondered what he should do, then he just said it. “Look, Colonel, just because I’m a knucklehead plane driver doesn’t mean I’m not observant. What’s with the pills you’ve been popping behind my back?”