Angel eyed him suspiciously. "What's wrong, Lieutenant? I've never seen that look before."
Blair surveyed the room to be sure everyone had left. "Permission to speak freely?"
"Granted."
"How are you?"
She averted her gaze. "Better."
"Why no visitors?"
She hesitated. "I don't know."
"You almost died out there. You come back and lie in sickbay for two days and won't let anyone see you. Did they tell you I came by five or six times?"
"I just needed to be alone."
"I thought-"
"Don't think too much."
"Okay. Sorry." He groped for something more, saw that she still wouldn't face him, then elected to leave. He prayed she would call after him.
She didn't.
Twenty minutes later, the ship reached the Ymir system and the jump point to Mylon. Blair and the others would ride out the jump in their Rapiers and launch within the first minute of their arrival. Having already completed his pre-flight checklist, Blair waited for a fuel Bowser to pass, then crossed the busy flight deck to where Maniac stood beside his Rapier, being chewed out by Deck Boss Peterson. The boss's furor probably had something to do with the sandwich in Maniac's hand.
"What's it gonna take?" Peterson asked, his face flushed. "A suspension? I blink. It's done. You want that?"
Maniac's face paled. "No, sir."
"Then get that food off my flight deck. Now!"
'"kay." Maniac took a huge bite and jogged away toward the hatch leading to the galley.
"I'm running a flight deck-not a day care," Peterson shouted. "Come back when you can read the rules." He faced Blair. "You illiterate, too, Lieutenant?"
Blair jolted.
"No loitering on the deck. If you're not working, get out!" He spun on a heel, ripped off his headset, and stormed toward Weapons System Chief Mackey, who had launched into a tirade of his own while shaking a finger at two frightened ordnance specialists standing before the nose of a Broadsword bomber.
"This is the most uptight ship I've ever seen."
Zarya had drawn up to Blair's side. He glanced at her and sighed. "It'll get tighter because we keep turning over so many pilots. We lost Knight and Forbes, then Spirit got transferred and Sinatra got transferred in, along with Cheddarboy and Gangsta. And now you've joined the party. We haven't flown enough with each other. That's dangerous. And we're still the smallest squadron in the wing. They're calling us 'The Chihuahuas.'"
"Hey, kids." Maniac rushed over to stand between them. "You believe that guy? I think that bastard is gunning for me."
"Maybe he's still mad about you nearly killing him," Zarya said. "Yeah, maybe that's it."
A series of beeps filtered through the ship-wide intercom, then Gerald's voice boomed: "Attention all personnel. On jump point vector. Sixty seconds. Assume jump stations."
"Whoopeedo," Maniac groaned. "We'll be sitting on our hands for this one anyway."
"Just do your job," Blair said, then jogged back toward his Rapier.
"Hey, Blair? What's your problem now?"
He ignored Maniac, gave a passing nod to his flight crew, then mounted his cockpit ladder.
It felt comforting to be back in his fighter after a three day absence, the pit like a nest of power and technology with the magic to make him forget about rejection, about the troubles his half-breed heritage brought on, about the war, about everything. He slid on his headset and helmet, buckled on the O2 mask, then attached the power and oxygen lines to his flight suit. Routine preparations performed thousands of times now took on a peculiar reverence. He sensed a certain nobility about being a pilot, and delusion or not, he enjoyed the moment. But it was time to get down to business. He switched a toggle, and the canopy lowered into place.
Now in the muffled quiet, he surveyed his instruments, noting a few differences between his present fighter, the CF-117b Rapier, and the old F44-A he had flown only three days prior. The new model had increased missile capacity to ten guided or dumbfire missiles and packed a second generation nose-mounted rotary-barrel neutron gun that allowed for longer continuous neutron fire than the old F44's first generation cannon. A switch on his stick allowed for alternate or synchronous fire, and standard laser cannons mounted to the 117's short, upturned wings provided longer-range support. The standard Tempest targeting and navigational AI remained the same, as did the jump-capable drive array and twin thruster/afterburner package. Monitors and control panels seemed slightly smaller, but that could be an illusion. The seat felt a hell of a lot better though, with the welcome addition of lumbar support. Even as Blair brought up main power and engaged the pre-flight sequence, the Rapiers on either side of him did likewise. He glanced left to Hunter. The Aussie had not attached his mask yet; he would, of course, wait until the last minute so that he could chomp on his unlit cigar, the stogie as much a permanent fixture as his shaggy hair. Though Blair and Hunter had gotten off to an exceedingly shaky start, with Hunter threatening Blair's life because he did not trust Pilgrim half-breeds, Blair's actions during their last mission had apparently won Hunter's trust. During the past three days, Hunter had treated Blair as an equal, had invited him to the rec several times, and had even asked if he could buy Blair a drink. Despite all of that, Blair still sensed that the man was watching him, probing for the first sign of waning loyalty.
The pilot to his right, one Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski hailed from an amazingly long line of Wisconsin dairy farmers who had weathered the twenty-third century's ecocatastrophe with the zeal and perseverance of ancient American pioneers. Cheddarboy's call sign had been chosen for him by his flight school instructor, who had used it as chide so often that it stuck. Of course the pale, baby-faced jock with the body of a fence picket hated cheddar cheese; in fact, he hated all cheese except the mozzarella on a well-done pepperoni pizza and had, in fact, split one with Blair only the night before. Now strapped into his cockpit, Cheddarboy gave Blair a terse nod, his face shielded by his mask, large blue eyes radiating with the nervous electricity of a new pilot flying his first real mission off his first real strike carrier.
Angel's voice abruptly sounded through his headset. "All right, Ladies. I take it we're all in tight. Pre-flight checklists have been logged and looking good-except for yours, Maniac."
"Excuse me, ma'am?" Maniac responded quickly.
"That's right. You've overlooked targeting and navigation systems."
"My chief did 'em for me. Guess he forgot to log 'em in."
"You're responsible for your own checklist. You don't subcontract it to your chief. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Blair's left Visual Display Unit flashed the words incoming communication on secure channel. Blair dialed up the channel, already knowing who had called. "No, she's not just being a bitch, Maniac. She's right. And you know that."
"No, I was being a bitch," Angel said, then her face showed on the display, or at least what wasn't rudely hidden by her helmet and mask.
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Save it. I just recommended you for some chicken guts, the Bronze Star to be exact, for exceptional bravery under fire. I'm sure it'll get approved."
"Thank you, ma'am. But I'm not sure if bravery had anything to do with it."
"I don't know any other pilot who would navigate his way through a quasar without NAVCOM coordinates. If it wasn't bravery, than it was insanity. But we don't have a medal for that."
He smiled behind his mask. "We should."
"Jump in ten seconds. Launch in thirty. Stand by." The VDU went blank.