1. The Fifth Wing

“What was it like?”

“Fucking depressing.”

“No shit. I mean, what did they do?”

“Let me give you a mental picture. Six Captains spending three hours at a podium discussing flight safety and the sacrifice airmen make in the name of blah blah shitcakes.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah. That’s what was so depressing. I recognized, maybe, four people there. Stand by... Racewind CNC, Lariat Three, completing our sweep, we’re five by five.”

“Received Lariat Three, return to carrier.”

“That’s affirm Racewind... anyways, maybe four people. The Cap, couple El Tee’s.”

“Well, it was a quick turnover.”

“Bullshit. No one was there, Vick. No one who knew him.”

“Wish I could have been there, man.”

“I know, I know. That’s not a thing. Just... I don’t know. Time was, you honored a serviceman, you know? You don’t turn his funeral into a god damned object lesson.”

“Well, that’s brass for you. At least the Cap went.”

“Yeah.”

“Racewind, Lariat Two.”

“Go ahead Lariat Two.”

“We’re tucked and folded. Give us a door.”

Two skipper-jack class fighters sliced through space high above the colonized planet of Terranova, approaching the hulking carrier parked just beyond its moon. The fighters angled in mirrored turns, as their wings withdrew, sliding back and beneath their airframes. An elongated dome slid back slightly from the aft of the capital ship, telescoping in onto itself, as tiny clouds of water vapor puffed near the joints. Two sets of running lights began to strobe, as the fighters entered their approach vectors.

“Lariats Two and Three, you are cleared for hooks. Welcome back, Punch.”

“Thanks, Mac,” replied Airman Gustav Feyenne, as he set his nav com to remote landing. He opened up all of his airvents, and cycled his air a few times.

“Gus?”

“Yeah, Vick?”

“Any word on our new Wing Leader?”

Feyenne pulled a tiny cylinder from his flight suit, and sprayed a fine mist of air freshener in front of him, nearly choking on it.

“Shit, Vick. I figured they’d already tapped you by now.”

“No, and you know better.”

Airman Vitali Sokolov leaned over in his seat, squinting through the Strexar bubble at his wingman.

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” Feyenne replied between coughs. “What? They haven’t assigned a Wing Leader yet?”

“I figured you may have heard something while you were polishing the brass over on Thalassa.”

“No.”

The skipper-jacks bucked as retrojets fired, rapidly decelerating the small craft. The slipped beneath the dome, as a series of hooks and cables snatched the catch bars underneath. The fighters dropped down onto thin rubber wheels before jerking to a rapid stop. The dome behind was already telescoping back to a closed position, as the air just beneath it sizzled with electric blue light.

An automated electronic voice boomed slowly through the thickening air around the ships, “MAGNETIC FRONTIER RESTORED.”

Feyenne and Sokolov stepped down from their gangplanks, as trolleys arrived to tow their ships to the pits. Feyenne squinted up at a row of Strexar windows high above the deck, and gave the Air Control Officer a quick wave. Sokolov stepped alongside him, helmet under his arm.

“We had a thing in the bullpen.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Someone managed to get a cake past the LogOff. Boys from Fourth Wing came too, but I think that’s because Jock brought some bourbon.”

“And I missed that?”

“Hell, we figured you’d be sipping champagne and throating caviar crackers.”

Feyenne shook his head with a grimace.

“The only ones there with any hooch to speak of were the goddamned Dags.”

“Surprising, with all the high command.”

“High command doesn’t have time for a Wing Leader’s funeral, Vick. Just one big pompous photo op, and a soapbox for the green-wings.”

“Speaking of which, we’ve got two green-wings in from Academy.”

“Seriously?”

Sokolov nodded as he watched a figure approaching from across the deck.

“Heads up.”

A woman in a flight suit trotted briskly towards the two airmen, her hair cropped close to her collar, her face tight but genial.

They both gave her a salute as she reached them.

“Hey boys. We’ve got a sit in the bullpen in thirty. Just Fifth Wing.”

Feyenne lifted a brow.

“You assigning the new Wing Leader?”

She blinked a couple times, as her lips tightened.

“We’ll talk at the sit.”

She began to walk away, when Sokolov cleared his throat.

“Jock?”

She paused.

“What’s going on?” he asked with intent.

She looked over her shoulder, and down at the deck.

“Thirty minutes, guys.”

She stepped past some mechanics and towards Air Control, the pilots each snapping a polite salute as she passed.

Feyenne turned to Sokolov slowly.

“She been that way the last two days?”

“No,” Sokolov muttered. “Something’s going down.” He slapped Feyenne’s shoulder. “I’m going to go beat the bushes a little. See you in thirty. Oh... Auggie’s looking for you.”

“Alright,” Feyenne replied, as he stepped back towards the mechanics pits.

He paused by a toolbox and searched the pits below for his friend, until at last he heard the gravelly voice calling up from the mist and noise of airtools.

“Punch! Welcome back to the Ball.”

“Hey, Auggie. What’s up?”

A tall and frighteningly slim man stepped up a steep flight of steel steps, wiping a greasy rag across his forehead, arguably doing more damage than good.

“Jock grab you yet?”

“Kind of. We’ve got a sit.”

“Didn’t... bust your balls or anything?”

Feyenne squinted.

“...why? What’s going on?”

Auggie stepped forward and leaned in towards Feyenne’s ear.

“We pulled all of the small craft a couple days ago. The XO got a bug up his ass about something. We did a full nose-to-nuts once over of each skipper.”

“Ah shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Thanks, Auggie.”

“You guys got a new Wing Leader yet, or what?”

“Nah,” replied Feyenne, staring off towards the direct of Jock’s exit. “Not yet.”

Feyenne shook Auggie’s hand, and stepped back towards the foredecks, ducking past rushing Officers and Airmen, back to the bunks. He stepped down the four-step ladder into his bunk, finding wing mates crashed out on two of the six bunks.

“Gentlemen! Sit in twenty-five!”

One of the airmen jerked awake, nearly smacking his forehead on the bunk above him, staring wildly around. The other just snickered from the bunk across the room.

“Hey Punch. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Mule.” Feyenne looked up to the other bunk, and paused, cocking his head. “Who’s this?”

Mule pointed a thumb over the side of his bunk without opening his eyes.

“This is Cadet Miles Jackson Bennett Harper, the Second.”

Feyenne looked slowly back to Mule, and snickered.

“You’re serious?”

“Don’t you like it?”

Harper slid down off of his bunk, rubbing his eyes.

“Hi.”

Feyenne snickered openly, sizing up the young cadet.

“How many names did your parents feel was necessary, cadet?”

He shrugged.

“My dad... he’s, I don’t know.”

Feyenne chucked his shoulder as he passed.

“Welcome to the Racewind, Junior.”

Mule made a booming noise from his bunk.

“We have a winner!”

Harper shook his head.

“What? What’s up?”

Mule finally opened his eyes and twisted in his bunk to look down at the cadet.

“Punch, there, he’s notorious for handing out handles. Six pilots in the Fifth Wing, and he’s responsible for three of our call signs.”

“What,” he blinked. “Junior? You’re kidding! I don’t...”

“Ah!” Mule grumbled. “Don’t even try. The more you fight it, the more it’ll stick, Junior.” He chuckled. “See what I mean?”

Harper shuffled slowly to a foot locker, shaking his head.

“Punch?”

Feyenne began to strip off his shirt near the hatchway to the head.

“Yep?”

“What’s in twenty-five?”

“A sit, Junior. Situation Briefing. The Flight Lieutenant’s calling us in.”

“For what?”

Feyenne paused, and shrugged.

“We’ll see.”

He pushed into the head, and paused as he spotted a picture of a handsome young man in a flight suit hanging over the lavatories.

Wing Leader Walczak. Deceased.

Feyenne rested a hand against the mirror as he let the running water heat up, and allowed his mind to catch up with his body.

After cleaning up and taking a quit hit of bourbon from the bottle he had stashed in the back of the toilet, he returned to the bunks. Harper and Mule were gone. He snatched a fresh shirt from his locker, and as he took a seat to replace his boots, he overheard Sokolov outside.

“That’s seriously his name?”

Feyenne smiled as his wingman climbed down into the bunks.

“You met the green-wing?”

“One of them,” Sokolov replied. “God he looks young.”

“What did you find out?”

Sokolov shook his head.

“There’s a lot of buzz around the bridge among the Officers, but... the other wings are keeping their heads low.”

Feyenne pulled off a sock, and leaned back to let his feet air out.

“Auggie said they did a workup on all the Lariats.”

“Yeah. Two days ago.”

“Was there a security code?”

“Probably.” Sokolov took a seat across from Feyenne. “Gus, any word from HQ about who... you know... was behind it? The attack, I mean.”

Feyenne scowled.

“No one’s talking about it. It’s like the eight hundred pound gorilla.”

“I’m going to go talk to Lassiter.”

“Sure you got time?”

“Probably not.”

“Vick, man. They’re going to tap you in this sit. You know that, right?”

Sokolov sat looking down at Feyenne’s feet.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I already told Jock that wasn’t in the cards.”

“Ok, whatever man. But they’re going to pass on me.”

“Obviously.”

“Mule isn’t up for it. We’ve got two greens, and that leaves us with A-Bomb.”

“Ok?”

“You really think she’s ready? I mean, she’s wound up pretty tight.”

Sokolov looked away quickly, and Feyenne held his tongue for a moment.

“Whoa.”

“Stop.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

Feyenne chuckled and bit down on his fist.

“Why didn’t you tell me, man? You tell me everything!”

“It isn’t a thing, Gus.”

“It don’t have to be a thing, Vick! It’s just... Jesus. You got to tell me these things, so I’ll stop accidentally walking in the head when she’s showering.”

“You’re a pig, Gus.”

“I know.”

“For the record, I think she’d be fine Wing Leader. She’s a little intense, and still real green, but she’s smarter by half than anyone else in the Wing. That includes you, by the way.”

Feyenne grabbed a pair of dress shoes and started buffing them with a thin white cloth.

“Ok, that works for me.” His hands slowed to a stop and he stared up into space. “How many veterans are left, do you think?”

Sokolov shrugged.

“Either they’re back in the World, or booted up to the Brass by now. Hardly anyone left behind the stick.”

“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Feyenne resumed his buffing as a stranger entered the bunk. He was another young man, with a sturdier build than Harper, thick blonde hair, and a stronger posture.

“Evening, fellas,” he bellowed as he cracked open another locker.

“Cadet,” Sokolov replied.

“Hey, you’re Caveman, right?”

Sokolov nodded.

“It’s a damned pleasure to meet you!” He bounded forward, thrusting out a hand to Sokolov to shake.

Sokolov looked at his hand, and shook it, shooting Feyenne an amused expression.

“You’re seeing this, right?”

Feyenne shrugged and gave his shoes a quick spit shine.

The Cadet continued, “Name’s Drake. Leonard Drake.”

“Good for you, Drake,” Sokolov responded.

Drake turned to Feyenne, sizing him up.

“Guess that makes you Punch?”

Feyenne looked up from his work, and gave the Cadet a good sizing up.

“That would, indeed. Nice work with your uniform, Drake,” Feyenne added, pointing with his knuckle. “Spotless.”

Drake beamed.

“Yes sir. The uniform makes the man.”

Feyenne nodded and looked over to Sokolov.

“A man after my own heart.” He gave his shoes a couple buffs as Sokolov tried not to roll his eyes. “One thing though, Blondie.”

Drake blinked quickly as he cocked his head in interest.

Feyenne stood up with dead seriousness and looked Drake in the eye, and whispered, “Ever call me ‘Sir’ again, and you’ll wake up in an airlock with a five second delay.”

Drake’s eyes widened.

Feyenne tapped his chest with the back of his hand.

“Breathe, Cadet. I’m joking.”

Drake smiled uncomfortably, and looked over to Sokolov, who shook his head subtly.

“Ok, guys... I’ll uh, see you in the sit.”

Drake snatched an envelope from his locker and made a quick exit.

Feyenne took a seat again, and tossed his cloth to the foot of his bunk.

“Blondie?”

“We’ll see if that one takes.”

“You should really let us have a crack at them from time to time.”

Feyenne waved his hand dismissively.

“You think I want this responsibility? It’s a burden, Vick. An agony. I mean, I have to be interesting enough for both of us. You’re giving me nothing, over here.”

Sokolov stood up.

“Get dressed, Gus.”

Feyenne gathered himself, and followed Sokolov down the corridor, and up a level to the Sit Room, where the rest of the Wing had already gathered. Drake and Harper were sitting together by the back, Drake making continuous commentary into Harper’s ear as he sat miserably. Mule sat sprawled out over two seats, his feet hanging over two seats in front of him diagonally.

And in the front row by the door, sat A-Bomb... Airman Consuela Gonsalves. She watched Feyenne and Sokolov enter the Sit Room with deep, dark eyes. Feyenne watched as she stared at Sokolov, and he suppressed the urge to make a smart ass comment.

The two took a seat in front of Mule, knocking his feet off of their chairs. As they settled into their chairs, Feyenne gave Gonsalves another look. Her eyes were boring holes through him.

“Yeah, she knows I know,” he whispered into Sokolov’s ear.

“No doubt.”

“She’s probably pissed about it.”

“Probably.”

“You realize, now, your best chances of getting laid tonight are if you take Wing Leader position.”

“Can you shut up?”

“Probably not.”

Feyenne straightened up in his seat as Flight Lieutenant Mira “Jock” Delancy entered the Sit Room, a huge black binder under her arm. She set it onto the lectern at the front of the room, and looked up at the Fifth Wing.

“Thanks for being punctual. This is last-minute. I recognize that. So, we have some business, quickly. First of all, I want to welcome Cadets Drake and... Harper.”

Feyenne cleared his throat.

“Blondie and Junior... for the record, ma’am.”

Jock eyeballed Feyenne, and paused to make notes.

Feyenne craned his neck back and leaned over to look past Mule at the Cadets, who seemed unimpressed with their new call signs.

“Right, welcome to the UFS Racewind, cadets. You have flight evaluations to schedule, I’ll be in touch with each of you. It is worth noting, however, that no cadet sent to Fifth Wing has ever failed his evaluation. There’s real talent in this room, gentlemen. I suggest you take advantage of it.”

Drake chirped, “Yes ma’am!”

“Right. Second, welcome back to Airman Feyenne. For you new guys, Airman Feyenne recently represented Fifth Wing at the funeral of Wing Leader Walczak on Thalassa. Punch, I was wondering if you’d care to take a minute and tell us about it.”

“Ma’am?” he stammered.

“The funeral. All of us wished we could go.”

She let it hang out there until Feyenne stood up awkwardly, and turned to address the others.

“It... well. It was... a magnificent event. It kind of got to me. High command came out, and each made a short speech. In particular, there was this one Colonel... he said ‘Each of us is glorified by the sacrifice of our comrades. In death is glory, in service, eternity.’ I mean, I had to think about that for a little bit...”

Feyenne’s eyes dropped to the seats in front of him, and his voice lost its strength. He closed his mouth, and his jaw tightened.

“Thanks, Punch,” Jock interjected. “Really. We all feel the loss of Wing Leader Walczak, and he can only be followed. Never replaced.”

Feyenne took his seat, staring at the chair in front of him. Sokolov reached over and gave him a light tap on the shoulder.

“Speaking of,” Jock continued, “there’s the issue of Rabid’s replacement.”

The original members of Fifth Wing shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Jock stared down at her lectern with a tight jaw.

Mule broke the silence.

“Caveman!”

A-bomb chimed in, “Caveman.”

Feyenne poked Sokolov in the ribs, and leaned back in his seat to see Drake adding his voice.

“Told you,” Feyenne muttered before standing up.

“Jock?”

“Punch?”

“I’d like to toss my name into the hat, if we’re opening this up to discussion...”

Delancy squinted at Feyenne.

“It’s not a discussion we’re going to have, and even if it were, there’s no way in hell.”

“Well in that case,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “It’s got to be Caveman.”

The others agreed with a quick chant of “Cave-man, Cave-man.”

Sokolov wilted in his chair, staring a hole through Jock.

“Quiet!”

They instantly clammed up, Feyenne beaming in his seat.

“Listen, I’ve got orders regarding the Fifth Wing... so, here’s the deal. We’re not going to be assigning a new Wing Leader.”

Sokolov’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.

“Why not?”

Jock eyed him cautiously.

“Scallon... I spoke with the XO. There’s a period of time we’re going to have to go through...” She looked down for a moment, then shook her head. “Ok, here’s the deal. I’m your new Wing Leader.”

Feyenne looked over to Sokolov, who was still staring holes at the Flight Lieutenant.

“Ma’am?” he grumbled.

“Yeah. I’m filling in. In the interim. That’s from the XO. I recognize, this is a wild departure from procedure...”

“No shit,” Feyenne barked.

“...but I’m sure we will adapt to the situation together, until the XO decides the time has come to assign a full time Wing Leader once again.”

There was a short period of silence, before she continued.

“Next order of business... I’ve got something here.” She lifted the black binder, easily three inches thick. “Spent all last night reading this. This is Fleet Directive Thirteen Oh Seven.” She dropped the binder onto the table beside the lectern with a heavy thud.

The pilots looked quickly at one another, except for Sokolov, who leaned back cautiously in his seat. Feyenne felt the tension rising from his wingman.

Jock put both hands on the lectern.

“In shorthand, it’s a comprehensive integration of Fleet personnel.”

Sokolov lifted a finger, and thrust it in the air directly at his Flight Lieutenant.

“I knew it!”

Jock hung her head and gripped the podium tightly.

Sokolov shook his head.

“It was just a matter of time, wasn’t it?”

Jock gave him a withering stare, and he backed down, crossing his arms in his seat.

“Fifth Wing is already a pilot heavy, but we’re gaining another. Tomorrow. And on that note, General Assembly is being called in the morning at oh eight hundred. I’m authorized to tell you that handing me this directive...” she pointed at the binder, “is the last directive the XO will be issuing aboard the Racewind.”

“What?” Gonsalves muttered. “Scallon’s out?”

“I’ll save you people the suspense. Lieutenant Scallon will be shipping out to Thalassa after General Assembly. His replacement will be arriving... from Proximal Space.”

Feyenne closed his eyes, and swore softly beneath his breath.

“Alright, that’s enough for right now. I’m going to be looking for you in the morning. Fourth Wing will be using the deck for ops training from sixteen to nineteen hundred. Junior and Blondie, I’ll be calling on you tonight, so keep it tucked in until you see me. Dismissed.”

The room shuffled to their feet, as Jock added, “Caveman... front and center. Punch, hang tight outside.”

Feyenne chucked Sokolov’s ribs as he shook his head.

“Good luck.”

Sokolov didn’t reply, as Feyenne joined the rest of the Fifth Wing as they exited the Sit Room.

Sokolov stood up slowly, stretching his arms, and staring at Delancy.

Jock rubbed her eyes, and looked up at Sokolov.

“Vick.”

“We’re seriously bringing a skull fucking Dag in as our XO?”

She took two quick steps towards him.

“Secure that mouth, Airman!”

He lifted his chin slightly, and pulled his hands behind his back.

Jock shook her head.

“Get used to this, Vick. You’re going to be flying with one come tomorrow. A pilot from the Daganrok fleet.”

Sokolov lifted his brow and held out his hands.

“Yes. Ma’am.”

“Am I really going to have a problem with this?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Go ahead, but watch it.”

“What in your history with this Wing makes you think we’re going to accept a Dag in our bunk?”

“It’s been almost five years, Vick. Five years since the Victoria Accords. Three since the Umbilical Covenants. No one knew if this was going to be anything more than a cease fire, but you know what? It is. It’s working. At least, in theory.”

“I understand, Ma’am,” Sokolov replied. “We gave them half the galactic arm. We let them dismantle two-thirds of our deep space stations. We knit nice little tea cozies with their diplomats...”

“They’ve stayed out of the Solar System. And we’ve stayed out of their system. And in the last three years, we’ve made a quantum jump forward in our technology. Propulsion design, weapons systems, even our own hierarchy. All from the Daganroks. This is working, Vick. But it only goes as far as we’re letting it.”

“My thoughts exactly, Ma’am.”

“Look. This directive comes from Harbaugh. And it’s good thinking. It’s sound thinking. It’s... right. We’re still two fleets staring at each other over an imaginary line drawn in space. We have to integrate, if we’re going to be anything more than... one long cease fire.”

“Oh right. We deserve it. We deserve this.”

Jock closed her eyes.

“What?”

“This is our prize for coming in second. We get this. We fight five years against these monsters, and now here we are, begging for table scraps, trying to keep them happy... because you know why? We lost. Right. We lost... I get it.”

“Grow up,” Jock spat turning away. “The Daganroks aren’t the enemy anymore.”

“There are no more enemies.”

Jock spun around.

“I think Rabid would say otherwise.”

A heavy pause lingered over the room as both pilots tried to contain their emotions.

Sokolov looked away, staring at his boots. With a clearing of his throat, he whispered, “Rabid was a patriot.”

“Being... in the war... doesn’t mean you get to pass judgment on high command.” She stared at him with weary eyes. “If you wanted your voice heard, you’d have taken a promotion by now. You’d be here, in my shoes, by now.”

“Leave it for one of these kids. They don’t know what it means to fly in a war. They don’t know what those things are capable of.”

“God damn it, Caveman!” Jock spat. “These kids look up to you! Obviously. I mean... What. I offered you Wing Leader twice now. Both times you say no.”

Sokolov looked away.

“And I think I’ve finally got it figured out why. You’re one of them. Part of them. And in your mind, you won’t allow anything to happen to put a barrier between them... and you. And I’m fine with that, Vick. Really. I’m perfectly fine with your particular career track. I don’t mind. You hold the record for the highest Confirmed Kills in the Race Wars, which pretty much makes you a legend with the green-wings.”

“Whatever.”

“Try to take this in from their point of view, Vick. Kids. Right? They were in middle school when the Race Wars ended. The ones from Earth, anyway. They have this idea in their heads that Fleet is something to brag about. And they need real leadership. They need the real veterans to remind them...”

She trailed off.

Sokolov took in a deep breath.

“You. Me. Punch. Rabid. A couple guys from Fourth Wing. That’s it, right?” he asked.

Jock thought about it.

“Pretty much.”

“Even the Cap didn’t serve in the Race Wars.”

“Not technically. He didn’t fly, anyway.”

Sokolov nodded, staring down at Jock.

“I don’t want a promotion, Jock... for this very reason. I don’t want to... think like you.”

Jock looked up at him with anger.

He stared her down.

“I don’t want, for an instant, to think that I’ll ever be put in a position to serve the Dags. To fly for them. To protect them. To train them. Because I’ll be honest with you. I’d rather go back to war, and get blown out of the stars, than to ever have to salute one of those green-scaled fucks!”

“Dismissed, Airman.”

Sokolov saluted the Flight Lieutenant, and made a hasty exit.

Jock turned and gathered her binder. Fleet Directive 1307. Forced Integration of Fleet Personnel.

With a deep breath, she hoisted the binder under her arm, and exited the Sit Room. She found Sokolov storming down the corridor, with Feyenne looking on from a couple doors away.

“Punch. Walk.”

Feyenne hopped to her side, watching her cautiously.

“What’s up?”

“Auggie told you about the full bore scouring we gave the fighters this week?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I warned you about disabling the cockpit fire system before.”

Feyenne stared forward, a smirk barely contained on his lips.

She shook her head.

“One of these days, Punch. You’re going to burn alive in your cockpit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do it again, and I’m busting you to deck officer. I’m not joking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She paused, and turned to Feyenne, her eyes drawn in some kind of muted sorrow.

“Punch? I’m going to have trouble... with Caveman. I know it, he’s said as much.”

“The Daganroks, you mean?”

“How much did you hear?”

“Look, Jock. We got real used to hating them. But, well... This pilot... he’s taken the officer’s exam, right?”

“Right.”

“So, if he wears the uniform, he’s one of us. We’ll just have to get used to it.”

Jock grinned.

Feyenne added, “Caveman’s just dealing with stuff right now. He and Rabid were both EUNiS. He’s got to deal first. Then he’ll come around.”

“He’s a smart man, you’d think he’d be able to...”

“Smart’s smart. But you’re not asking him to tolerate a Dag. You’re asking him to accept one. ‘Cause we’re not going to be able to simply tolerate someone in our wing. That doesn’t work.” He smirked. “Take you, for example. We’ll never accept you into the wing...”

“Shut up.” She looked down the hallway, and produced something from inside her jacket, laying it discreetly into Feyenne’s hand.

He opened it to find a long, handrolled cigar.

Jock whispered, “If it keeps you from smoking these in the cockpit, then come to my bunk after nineteen hundred.”

Feyenne screwed his brow up.

“Lassiter won’t mind?”

“Who do you think buys these for me?”

Feyenne chuckled uncomfortably, then tucked the cigar into his uniform.

“Right. See you then.”

She looked down at Feyenne’s feet, and rolled her eyes.

“Are you kidding me with this?” she grumbled.

Feyenne looked down at his bare feet, and wiggled his toes.

“You know, I thought it felt chilly in here.”

Jock gave him a withering stare, and tried not to smile.

He trotted back towards the bunk, as Jock proceeded to the lifts up the bridge. Several officers stepped in with her, and after a short ride up two levels, they all spilled out onto the command deck of the UFS Racewind.

A titanic crystal display hung from support mounts in the center of the room, as a thin ribbon of Strexar windows lined the far wall, revealing the disk of Terranova just beyond. Rows of tactical and logistical stations spread out from the center of the bridge, leading to the ComCon.

Jock paused by one of the logistics stations, crouching down to the row of heads just below the deck.

A young man looked up from a mess of ribbon cables and fiberoptics stringing out of a dismantled computer console. He blinked up at Jock, and pulled himself to his feet.

She leaned down further, and whispered, “We’re going to have company tonight.”

“Who?”

“Feyenne.”

“My ass.”

“Don’t give me shit about this. It’s... important.”

The logistics officer put a hand to his head.

“Alright.”

He dove back into the mess of wires as Jock continued along the bridge towards the ComCon.

As he ran a few ribbon cables between his fingers, he watched from a crack below the console, spying a view up to the deck of the bridge from his pit.

A deck officer next to him began to call out numbers from a schematic, as he tried to concentrate.

Between tagging wires, he spotted Jock having a quick conversation with Scallon.

“Chuck!”

He blinked, and shook his head.

“Repeat that?”

“Thirteen twenty-six.”

“Thanks.”

A pair of heavy boots clanked up to the pit overhead, and he pulled himself out from beneath the console to find a tall, chestnut-haired man in the full white-blue-and-gold Fleet uniform. With hurried motions, he extricated himself, and snapped a salute.

“Captain?”

The Captain gave him a brief glance, and said, “Lassiter. See me in the map room after your shift.”

“Aye, Cap.”

As the Captain stepped on towards the ComCon, Lassiter turned to his partner.

“The hell’s going on? What did you do?”

Lassiter shook his head.

“Nothing. I hope.”

He swallowed hard as he crouched back down beneath the console.

“Thirteen twenty-seven.”