14. True Bearing

Lassiter gave Auggie a squeeze on the arm as he shuffled out of the medical suite. He nodded at Lassiter as he released a long yawn, and stumbled along the main corridor towards the barracks, nearly colliding with some bustling bridge officers rushing out of the commissary. Lassiter watched him until he disappeared down the ramp into the barracks, satisfied he would make it on his own. He stepped into Medical, and spotted Nurse Turlova tapping vigorously at her console.

Turlova’s eyes lifted briefly to acknowledge him. He waited until one of the technicians finished with a tray of blood samples behind her and carried it gingerly into one of the adjoining labs. When the door slid shut behind the technician, Lassiter stepped towards Turlova’s desk.

“How is he?” he asked.

She sighed, and pushed herself away from the console.

“Sleep deprived. Dehydrated. Borderline malnourished. Hypertensive. Afflicted with visual and auditory hallucinations, and feelings of generalized paranoia. Textbook symptoms of stim addiction.”

Lassiter waited for her to look him in the eye.

“How bad is it? I mean, how far progressed?”

“The ship just had a wholly unexpected biohazard drill yesterday. On one hand, I’m grateful we’ve managed to test the response system without anyone being in actual danger. On the other hand, it leaves us with a Deck Chief whose brain is blurring conscious and subconscious faculties.”

“Lena,” Lassiter muttered as he took a seat across from her desk, “Auggie’s a good friend of mine. Something like this could create a serious... I mean serious... investigation. Could mean a court martial.”

She closed her eyes in exasperation.

“Lieutenant, I’ve known Auggie longer than you have, alright? I know what this means for him.” She opened her eyes and leaned forward. “And I know what he’s about to go through. I’ve walked more officers and airmen through stim addiction than I can remember.”

“So you won’t report him to Prazzik?”

“No, Lieutenant, I won’t report him to Prazzik. However... in exchange, I require that you work with him. Daily. Ok? This is as much a mental addiction as physical, at this point. He drove himself to the point of desperate physical need. He’s literally working himself to death. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Lassiter drew a breath to answer, but Turlova cut him off.

“I’ve been dealing with this... well, a long time. And I’ve lost people over this. Good people. And the ones I lost? None of them had support. No friends. No one to smack them upside their heads and tell them ‘Enough! You’re dying!’ And I have to know you’re going to follow through. Otherwise, I’m doing Auggie a favor, and getting Thalassa involved.”

Lassiter held up his hands.

“I swear. I’m going to stick with it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am, too.”

Turlova turned her head, and put a finger to her nose. Her face flushed somewhat, and she took a moment to compose herself.

“And there’s one more thing.” She turned to him with bloodshot eyes. “These guys aren’t cooking up their own stimpaks. He’s getting them from somewhere. It’s a controlled substance. And anyone without at least a Class B Medical Certificate isn’t allowed to dispense it. I mean, Christ’s sake... these things were meant to stabilize a patient on an operating table. And these boys are smacking them two at a time sometimes.”

Lassiter nodded as she balled a fist.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find out who’s dealing. Because our Deck Chief is getting them. That’s bad, alright? But what if it’s a bridge officer. Or a pilot? Someone on whom lives depend. Whoever is smuggling the packs in... that son of a bitch has to go down. Will you do that for me?”

Lassiter nodded anxiously.

“I will.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “I gave him a sedative. He’s going to knock out for at least twelve hours. He’s going to need lots of water. And oversight. If we’re going to pull him through, you’re going to have to run interference with the Bridge.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she snarled, leaning forward with alarming intensity. “He’s dying. Do you really understand what we’re doing?”

Lassiter stared at her dumbly.

She continued, “He’s going to be sick, Lieutenant. Very god damned sick. He’s going to feel worse than he’s ever felt before. He’s going to want to stop. He’s going to want to give up. Resign. Anything to stop. He’ll want to die. And we’re not going to let him. We’re going to torture him, Lieutenant. Do you really understand this? For Auggie’s sake, we’re going to have to torture him.”

Lassiter leaned back in his seat, and folded his hands.

“Lena... don’t worry about him. I don’t think anyone on this boat is going to rest until he’s put back together.”

Turlova nodded after a long silence, and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“Ok,” she whispered.

Lassiter stood up and nodded back to her.

“We’re going to win this one, Lieutenant,” she added as she rotated in her chair and stared at her console.

Lassiter turned and stepped out of the Medical Suite, looking back and forth in the main corridor. He spotted Jock leaning against a bulkhead down the corridor. She was staring up at the light fixtures, shaking her head. Across from her, Feyenne was gesturing with intent.

Ducking between crewmen, Lassiter made his way towards the two. Jock spotted him before he reached the two of them, and straightened her posture, pulling herself away from the bulkhead. Feyenne was still stabbing his finger as he spat some manner of vitriol at her. He didn’t notice Lassiter until he was nearly on top of him.

Jock turned her shoulders towards him and cocked her head.

“Charles?”

Feyenne blinked and looked over at Lassiter, swallowing whatever conversation he was trying to hold with Jock.

“Hey, Chuck...” he grunted.

Lassiter felt a wave of amusement bubbling up from his chest. He was unaccustomed to such sudden waves of emotion. Emotion... as a general concept... seemed to be overtaking him more and more as of late. Fits of anger, moments of uncontrollable laughter... it was very new. A recent iteration of the complex that was his person. A wild variable.

“Hey, guys,” he stated evenly.

“What do you want?” Jock spat, her eyes hard.

Lassiter shrugged, “Actually, I wanted some advice from Feyenne.”

Feyenne backed away a half-step, lowering his gaze with caution.

“The hell you say,” he chuckled.

“Seriously.” Lassiter motioned for him to follow. “Can we take a walk?”

Jock’s eyes darted back and forth between Lassiter and Feyenne, her shoulders rising with indignant stress.

Feyenne put his hands in his pockets and stepped next to Lassiter, his tirade seemingly derailed by Lassiter’s sudden appearance.

He gave Jock one more look as he stepped down the main corridor alongside Feyenne. She turned back and forth with indecision, off guard and perhaps a little panicked.

Feyenne grunted as they reached the commissary, “What’s up, Chuck? How may I advise?”

“Got a question for you, in a field of experience you seem to have mastered.”

“Ah, shit. What did I do now?”

“It’s about women.”

Feyenne laughed out loud, and hung his head.

“If you’re asking me for woman advice, then you’re doomed.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get that. What do you want to know?”

---

Sirzar Prazzik stood at his console at the rear of the bridge, overlooking the eight pits flanking the main aisle towards the tactical screen hanging at the front of the large open space. He keyed his console to rewind a length of footage within the Medical Suite. He tapped an electronic implant near his tympanic scales, boosting the volume of the transmission from his console. His eyes watched as Lassiter held a private conversation with Nurse Lena Turlova.

The transmission crackled, “No, Lieutenant, I won’t report him to Prazzik. However... in exchange, I require that you work with him. Daily. Ok?”

He watched the rest of the conversation with one eye, keeping his other eye on the Captain’s Lounge. Arkel and Kopacki had emerged, ranting one with another about some manner of artifice which Prazzik couldn’t understand. As they wandered across the bridge between the pits, Prazzik brought up Second Lieutenant August Dershaun’s work roster for the next two weeks, and pulled his hours down to nearly half, replacing him with one of his deck officers. With another rapid click of his claws against the console, he made a discreet requisition for a mental health specialist from Thalassa to rendezvous with the Racewind once they had cleared Jovian space.

Humans. So inherently conspiratory. So prone to distrust and intrigue. So myopic, they regularly failed to take in the long view.

Prazzik erased the footage with a slide of his claw, and nodded to Arkel and Kopacki as they passed him, descending the short flight of stairs into the main corridor of the ship. Prazzik pulled up his communiqué list, and spotted a new message.

It was sent by Short Throw... the counter-intelligence agent aboard the Racewind. He had received only very terse communications from the deep cover agent to date. One to warn him of the carrier signal which Lassiter had already begun to isolate. The second was to warn him of a rogue operative aboard the ship. That message had come in just hours prior to the engagement at Saturn.

Whoever this enemy was... they had an agent aboard the Racewind. Prazzik didn’t have the full support of Intel. He had their courtesy, but not their cooperation. They deigned to inform him of the agent which had infiltrated the Racewind. That agent had taken it upon himself to contact Prazzik three times now. But he had no clue as to the actual nature of the enemy, nor of the operative which had used his ship as a staging ground for an attack on his own pilots.

And after the false alarm of the previous morning, he was eager to avoid any situation that the Tettnanger had suffered prior to its demise. Lives and honor were at stake.

He opened the communiqué from Short Throw.

“FIFTH WING RESTRUCTURED. SEARCH FOR ENEMY OPERATIVE COMPROMISED. NEW CODE TRANSMITTED IN AUTODOCK TELEMETRY. REQUIRE COMMAND INTERVENTION.”

Prazzik cocked his head, and blinked rapidly. He brought up the flight roster for the Racewind pilots, and noted that one of the Fifth Wing pilots had been reassigned to the Second Wing. A Consuela Gonsalves. He crossed his arms and ruminated over the situation. Autodock telemetry. Ships communicated regular bursts of proprioceptic coordinates to deep space platforms and orbitals whenever they attempted to dock. It was a passive system, similar to the fire mitigation processing, but it was housed in the hangar itself.

Prazzik lifted his head, took in the view of the bridge, and spied the logistics pit near the front of the bridge. Lassiter’s new second was sitting in her seat, her black hair moving back and forth as she swung her chair from station to station.

With a quick clearing of his communications queue, Prazzik gathered himself and marched towards the front of the bridge. He paused over Lassiter’s pit, and stared down at the dark-skinned officer sitting in her chair.

“Officer Naamdi?” he barked.

She jumped in her seat, then stood at attention, sending her rolling chair flying against the pit wall behind her.

“Sir?”

“A word, Officer Naamdi?”

She watched him with trepidation as he descended into her pit.

---

Feyenne stepped alongside Lassiter, trying to concentrate on his words. But it was difficult. His brain was still spinning from his conversation with Jock.

“The Cascadian is being decommissioned,” she had said.

It didn’t seem fair. The old boat deserved a proper send-off... not to be cannibalized by two carriers and sent packing to Thalassa for personnel reassignments. She deserved better.

Bosco deserved better.

He was trying to imagine what Captain Bosco was going through as Lassiter bumped his shoulder to get his attention.

“Any thoughts? Hello?”

Feyenne shook his head and looked over to Lassiter.

“Sorry. What now?”

“The necklace.”

“What about it?”

Lassiter squinted.

“I’m talking to a steel bulkhead, I can tell.”

Feyenne held up his hands and said, “Chuck, sorry. I’m going a million places at once, here. What now... you’re wanting to give her jewelry?”

“Right. I picked it up for Mel back on Novi Mir two months ago.”

“How long have you been seeing her, again?”

“Three hours. Roughly.”

Feyenne laughed out loud, catching the attention of passers-by.

“She must have made an impression on you, man. Why jewelry? Why now?”

Lassiter put his hands in his pockets.

“Well... I mean, I wanted to give her something. You know. It seemed like it was proper.”

Feyenne stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed his arm.

“Chuck. Honest truth. The two of you fucked already?”

Lassiter wrinkled his nose at Feyenne’s vulgarity, but nodded bashfully.

“Look, man,” Feyenne continued. “She’s not trading sex for jewelry. I mean, if she was, then you need to up your game a touch. But look... you don’t owe her anything.”

“I disagree.”

“This isn’t high school, Chuck. She’s a grown woman. You’re a grown man. You two decided to screw. Fine. And she still wants to see you, even better. But don’t start making this a thing. For real.” Feyenne turned away from him and gathered his thoughts. “And you don’t have to apologize to Jock. You don’t have to involve her. Don’t have to think about her. She dumped you. It’s done. And you’re moving on... to a rebound or whatever this woman is to you. Either way, there’s no sin to wash out of your soul. And giving her Jock’s necklace isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

Feyenne looked back at Lassiter, who was studying the floor beneath his boots.

“I see your point.”

“So, if you buy her anything, make it small. Make it perishable, like I don’t know... food. Wine. Flowers.”

Lassiter looked up at Feyenne and began to pay closer attention.

Feyenne continued, “And you step it up a little at a time. Perfume. Brik-a-brak.”

“Brik-a-brak?”

“You know... glass figurines, useless shit women like to put on shelves.”

“Alright...”

“Save the jewelry for your first Fuck-Up.”

Lassiter stared at Feyenne for a moment, until his mouth began to draw up into a grin.

“Thanks, Punch.”

Feyenne did a double-take.

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Look,” Lassiter continued in a softer tone, “There’s something you should know.”

Feyenne picked up on his business tone, and stepped close.

“Yeah?”

“I just ran Auggie into Medical.”

“What’s up?”

“He’s getting pretty strung out on stimpaks.”

“Not surprised.”

“Yeah, but... seriously strung out.”

“You mean addicted? Is it bad?”

Lassiter lifted a brow.

“You know that biohazard drill this morning?”

“Yeah?” Feyenne lingered, until the reality of the situation dawned on him. “Oh really? I know Auggie triggered it, but he triggers all of the fire drills.”

“He’s working on full sensory hallucinations.”

“Fuck,” Feyenne spat. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to keep him on the wagon, to start with. When he starts withdrawing, it’s going to get ugly.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Me neither. But we’re about to find out. Second, though... Turlova wants us to track down the entry point for this medical contraband.”

Feyenne turned and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’m not down with that, Chuck.”

“I know how you feel. But this is serious.”

“So are witch hunts.”

“People’s lives are in jeopardy, here,” Lassiter countered.

“True, but... you start weaseling through the Wings, everyone starts clamming up, and no one trusts anyone...”

Lassiter stepped up into Feyenne’s face.

“Punch... Auggie’s career is at stake. His life is at stake. You’re a Wing Leader, for the love of Christ!”

Feyenne rubbed the back of his head, and stared at Lassiter.

“Yeah. Different rules, I guess.”

“It’s not about rules. It’s about our friend. And between you and me...” He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, “...there’s more. Prazzik told me there’s a CI Agent aboard.”

Feyenne closed his eyes slowly.

“Fuck. Me.”

“Right? So, if there was ever a time to shelve the Everybody’s Friend schtick, Punch... it’s now. We’re going to cut this off. We’re going to cut it out of our ship and we’re going to do it on the sharp.”

Feyenne nodded reluctantly.

“I’ll nose around.”

“Thanks, Punch.”

Feyenne shook Lassiter’s hand, and felt profoundly awkward.

Lassiter walked away, and Feyenne looked down the ramp to the barracks. He spotted Sokolov rising out of the bunk. The Slav gave him a glance, and turned away towards the gym. With a sigh, Feyenne trotted after him.

“Vick,” he shouted as Sokolov paused by the gym entrance. “Hold up.”

“What?”

“Still pissed at me?”

“No.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Well ok, so... we have to talk about something.”

“Later.”

Feyenne pushed his arm across the hatchway, barring Sokolov.

“It’s about Auggie.”

Sokolov turned to Feyenne, his stony face melting slightly.

“What’s happened?”

“Lassiter just told me something. He says Auggie’s stim addicted.”

Sokolov stared off into space, and nodded.

“You knew?” Feyenne grunted. “You knew this was going on and you didn’t tell me?”

“No. I didn’t know. But...”

“But what?” Feyenne stared a hole through Sokolov, who averted his eyes. “He says Auggie’s pretty screwed up. And he’s pushing me to beat the bushes and flush out his dealer. You know I hate to start this us versus them bullshit. But I’ll do it. I mean, I have to.”

Sokolov looked up at Feyenne sharply.

“I know. I know who it is.”

“Who?”

Sokolov shook his head.

“Come on, Vick,” Feyenne moaned. “I really can’t play this game right now.”

“Give this to me,” Sokolov grunted. “I will end it.”

“How?”

“I will have a conversation.”

“What kind of conversation are we talking about, here? Am I going to regret telling you this?”

“Don’t preach at me, Gus.”

Feyenne moved his hand from the doorway.

“Look, man,” he grunted. “I didn’t want to do it. You gotta know that. I’d rather fly with A-Bomb than a hundred green-wings. She’s one of mine, you know? But I had this situation with the cadets, and they were giving me shit... because...”

Feyenne turned slowly back towards the barracks, his mouth agape.

He continued in a low voice, “Because we’re heavy cadets.”

“Gus?”

“Son of a whore.”

“What is it?”

“No...wait.” Feyenne lifted a finger as he stared wide-eyed down the hallway, his eyes moving with quick motions. “Yeah. Right. Vick? Do your thing. You know, with Auggie’s dealer. But give me until I’m off the boat. I’ve got a security detail in about two hours. Can you do that for me?”

Sokolov put a hand on Feyenne’s shoulder and pivoted him around to face him.

“I can. But what are you thinking about?”

“I gotta go make a roster change. Give me two hours.”

Sokolov nodded in confusion.

“Ok.”

“Thanks.”

Feyenne backed away, his face filled with consternation, and trotted back up the ramp to the main corridor.

---

Prazzik watched from the bridge as the tactical display hovering over the bridge pits shimmered in the bright orange bands of Jupiter. A flickering blue glyph danced to life just past Io, and the tactical readout assigned its coded Friend-or-Foe transponder as the Cascadian. The green-scaled Daganrok commander swiveled an eye down towards Lassiter’s pit, notably empty. Naamdi was still gone, and it wouldn’t be long before even a simpleton like Arkel would notice his Lead Tactical station unmanned.

Arkel stumbled up the stairs onto the bridge, three thick binders under his arms. He passed the binders to one of the deck officers, and sneered at no one in particular.

Prazzik hissed as Arkel passed him, “The Colonel is away?”

“Yeah, he’s halfway to the Simcoe by now.”

“Are these the Cascadian personnel reassignments?” he asked pointing at the binders.

“Personnel. Capital. Everything we can scrape off the old bucket that Bradstreet hasn’t already pissed on.” Arkel moved to his lounge when he paused, looking over the bridge. “Commander?”

“Captain?”

“Where’s Lassiter? I thought he was on duty.”

“He is not.”

“Then... who’s the new one?”

“I sent Officer Naamdi to the hangar.”

“Why? Computer problem again?”

“No need to worry, Captain.”

Arkel shrugged and beckoned for the binder-laden officer to follow him to the lounge.

Prazzik retired to the rear of the bridge, and pulled up his coded command screen near the back station. He moved rapidly through surveillance live feeds, until he found the rear corner of the hangar, flickering in clear security timestamped video. Naamdi had crouched down by the magnetic frontier coils near the hangar door, and had patched in her portable station into the proprioceptor controller.

As he watched the screen, Prazzik lifted a ridge of his brow. A figure stepped up behind Naamdi. The figure was holding something in his hand.

With a swift and graceful spin, the Daganrok slid out of the bridge and down into the main corridor.

---

Officer Chanya Naamdi pulled her portable workstation out of its vinyl case and began to jack in several optical cables into the small line of ports along its side. She jerked open the panel to the proprioceptor controller panel, setting the plate gingerly on the deck beside her. She gave the tall copper coils towering above her a wary glance. Even though most of the decking and non-structural members near the magnetic frontier generator were non-ferric, something as small as a set screw could become a bullet should the coils discharge suddenly.

She patched her station into the controller core tucked into the wall near the retractable dome, and waited for the systems to sync.

Footsteps clopped against the decking behind her, and she twisted on her heel to see who it was.

“Hi,” said a tall, blonde pilot in a flight suit.

She grinned uncomfortably. The man was familiar, but she wasn’t sure precisely where she had seen him before.

“Hello.”

The pilot crouched down and peered into the open panel, shifting his weight on his feet. He was holding a NicTube in his hand.... one of the nicer ones with a pistol grip. He put the tip up to his mouth, wrapped his lips around the dispenser, and gave the trigger a squeeze.

“Looking for bugs?”

“Yes, actually.”

He grinned.

“I was kidding, actually, but ok.”

“Do I know you?”

He extended his empty hand to her.

“No you don’t, and I intend to fix that. Name’s Drake. Leonard Drake.”

“You’re a pilot?”

He stood up and brushed off his flight suit.

“How’d you guess?”

She smirked up at him.

“Mostly by your raging ego.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Drake turned suddenly, and Naamdi leaned to the side to look past him. Lieutenant Commander Prazzik had nearly sprinted into the hangar, and was moving in their direction. She felt her stomach twist.

“Uh... maybe you should go find your Wing Leader.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He added as Prazzik paused near the forklifts, staring a hole through them both, “You doing anything for dinner?”

“Go.”

“Just asking.”

Drake stepped swiftly away from Naamdi. She watched as Prazzik closed with him, and gestured authoritatively towards Drake’s hands. Drake surrendered his NicTube to the Daganrok, and shuffled off with an air of indignity. Prazzik approached her, and she busied herself with the uplink.

“How are you progressing?” he asked in a soft but clear tone.

“I would go faster if I weren’t being dry-humped by pilots.” Her eyes widened quickly, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, sir. I’m sorry! That was completely out of line...”

She looked up at him sheepishly, but he seemed to be concentrating on the NicTube in his claws. She felt a wave of relief wash through her chest as Prazzik failed to respond. He began to disassemble the device, and received a sharp spray of synthetic nicotine concentrate to his snout. He sneezed and shook his head.

“What is this?” he hissed.

“Nicotine. Fleet approved dispenser.”

He tossed it onto the deck and smashed it with his boot.

“I disapprove.”

He took his leave of Naamdi, stepping back across the hangar as she looked on. She noticed Drake was leaning against one of the fighters, having an unpleasant conversation with another pilot. Probably his Wing Leader. This just wasn’t his day, it seemed.

She turned back to her portable and began to debug the proprioceptic sensor telemetry.

---

“No fucking way... I just flew two hours with Mule.”

Feyenne squinted at Drake, his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, well, thems the breaks. Get your helmet.”

“Mind if I hit the head, first?” Drake muttered.

Feyenne stared at him hard, his hands balling into fists briefly.

“Hey,” Feyenne replied as Drake tried to step away, “I had to transfer a good pilot out of my wing because of you.”

Drake stopped and turned slowly towards Feyenne, his face drawn in confusion.

“Do what?”

“Sabotaged my one real friendship on this boat doing it, too.”

“Uh... Punch? You’re scaring me.”

“You weren’t drinking with Second Wing.”

“Huh?”

“I spoke with their Wing Leader. He says the night before the medal ceremony... before Saturn? When you were three sheets? You said you were drinking with the Ravens. He says he never saw you. Where were you, Drake?”

“The fuck is this?”

Feyenne took a quick step forward, and Drake backed away, nearly expecting a fist to fly.

“I get that you people have a job to do. And I get that we’re all on the same team. Technically. But people like you are what caused the war to begin with. People like you force a man like Bosco into retirement. I’m not expecting sympathy or anything at all, really. I just want you to know what damage you’ve already done.”

Drake stared at Feyenne, his brow lifting ever closer to his hairline.

“Who... do you think I am, exactly?”

“I don’t know who you’re looking for, Drake. But do it, and do it fast. Then get the fuck off my boat!” He stood mere inches from Drake’s face, his eyes wild and his face flushed.

Drake backed over some cables, and caught himself on the side of his fighter. He shook his head in disbelief, and trotted away.

Feyenne called to him, “We’re in the air in ten minutes, Drake. Pinch it off quick, and get your ass back before I put you on report.”

Drake paused at the entrance to the ship and thrust a finger at Feyenne.

“You’ve cracked, man. You’re totally out of your head.”

Feyenne watched Drake disappear into the ship, and took a long, cleansing breath.

He became aware of an enormous figure looming beside him. He looked up at Prazzik, who leaned against the ship beside him.

“Sir,” Feyenne replied with courtesy and exhaustion.

“You seem upset.”

“Long day.”

“You’ve transferred one of your pilots to Second Wing.”

“Yes, sir. On orders, sir.”

“I’m reversing the order.”

Feyenne looked up at Prazzik with a lifted brow.

“May I ask why?”

“I suspect that Airman Gonsalves would be more useful to Fleet serving in the Fifth Wing. What more explanation do you require?”

“What about the Ravens?”

Prazzik replied with a patient hiss, “We are receiving replacement pilots from the Cascadian tomorrow. They can manage until then.”

Feyenne ran his hands through his hair and shook his head.

“I can’t believe this.”

“What can you not believe, Airman?”

“I can’t believe Fleet would ever let a man like Bosco slip through their fingers. He’s old school. You know what I mean?”

Prazzik’s eyes swiveled down to the grating, and his bobbed his head slightly.

“There was once a pilot trainer... a noble... who operated a Bastrada camp on Zyzo Seven. He was a legend among the young recruits who survived his camp. There was more loyalty within the Bastrada for this individual than for the Zarsig and Zarsigga, themselves. At least, this became his reputation.” Prazzik looked up at Feyenne with unblinking eyes. “When they arrested him, he never once spoke ill of the Throne or his superiors. He gave his arms to be manacled, and walked proudly away with his captors.”

Feyenne put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the fighter.

“Why did they arrest him?”

“Does it matter? He had committed a subtle crime of garnering undue importance. And in doing so, he made the Bastrada weaker for it. Divided loyalties and distractions among the warriors... this was the last thing he had ever wanted. Which was why he walked silently to his trial. He would rather die than taint the minds of his pupils with misplaced affections.”

“They executed him?”

Prazzik nodded.

“Sounds like a shit deal, to me.”

“You would think that.”

Feyenne asked as Prazzik began to walk away, “He was your teacher, wasn’t he?”

Prazzik’s shoulders shuffled with muted laughter as he responded, “No. My teacher was a wine-swilling thin-browed son of a glass blower from the coast, who by virtue of his mediocrity was adept at avoiding any kind of notice.”

Feyenne grinned.

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Prazzik did not respond as he stepped up into the Main Corridor.

Feyenne remained at the fighter for another six minutes, until Drake reappeared with a helmet under his arm. He sidled up to Feyenne with an air of petulance.

“I’m back.”

“Good.”

“You still crazy, or did you take a pill or something?”

“Go mount up.”

Feyenne stepped into his skipper-jack, found a helmet slung on a hook near the gangplank, and squeezed into the cockpit. As he sat in his seat, looking over the controls, he remembered the first time he had ever flown a fighter. Almost three years ago.

Three years come June.

Flight Control gave him his clearance, and he launched out into Jovian space, with Drake close behind. The Simcoe and Cascadian were parked side-by-side near the Io fueling platform. There were several tinder ships surrounding the Cascadian. Probably called in since the Saturn engagement. They swarmed around the old carrier like flies waiting to settle onto a carcass. Waiting to start stripping useful material for the other ships.

Waiting to end an era.

“Punch?” Drake’s voice crackled over the com.

“What?”

“I’m not what you think I am.”

Feyenne felt a harsh reply bubbling up from his chest, but swallowed it back down. He just kept flying. Kept it straight. Kept it true to bearing.