2
“So?” Roberta prodded. “What’d you get?”
“You first,” Marshall said.
She held up her tablet. “Looks like I’m staying local. Just down the road at Schriever Garrison. Satellite control and intel. Says I’ll get my Delta assignment after I report.”
If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Roberta really believed her own B.S., Marshall thought as he stared at his own waiting message. There were no bad jobs in the Space Force, he thought, but some were undeniably better than others.
His heart raced as his finger hovered over the waiting notice. That a simple message could have such a hold over his life angered him at some level. He reflexively said a quick prayer, not even sure what part of his brain it came from, and tapped the mail icon:
ATTENTION TO ORDERS
FROM: G-1, USSF HQ
TO: ENSIGN M. T. HUNTER
SUBJ: DUTY STATION
YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED TO REPORT TO COMMANDER, 30TH SPACE OPERATIONS WING, VANDENBERG SFB, CA, NO LATER THAN 0700 ON 14 JUN TO AWAIT FURTHER ASSIGNMENT.
His legs rubbery, Marshall slumped into his chair, unsure of how to process this news. Specific enough to know where he was going, but excruciatingly vague as to what he'd actually be doing. “The Wing?” he wondered. “Why would they send me to a headquarters command?” It wasn’t drones, it wasn’t Starlifter spaceplanes, it wasn’t even suborbital trainers. If anything, it sounded like flying a desk.
For once, Roberta was stumped as well. “Forget everything I said a minute ago.”
The chief instructor said much the same as Roberta had, not that Marshall had expected any different: “It’s not garbage duty, Hunter. They could put you anywhere, and probably will at some point.”
“Meaning garbage duty, sir.”
His commander’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I should have to remind you, but this is a fault on my part since I obviously haven’t trained you well enough: You’re a junior officer, Hunter. Being rotated between assignments and given the occasional shit job is part of learning the ropes. Just because you’re a hot stick doesn’t mean the service won’t put you where they need you at the moment.”
“‘Hot stick’?” Marshall said. “Sir, I busted my final check ride.”
“And you didn’t bust your retest. In the meantime, HQ had to make duty assignments. That’s just how the cookie turns and the screw crumbles. You’ll make a good pilot, Hunter. Suck it up, get past this setback, and trust that your next IP out in the fleet won’t have such a hard-on to bust you.”
That was what he couldn’t figure out: he hadn’t flown with the guy before, and he wasn’t aware he’d had that kind of reputation. “May I ask a question, sir?”
A nod.
“Is that normal IP behavior for a check ride? I mean, pressuring me to set myself up for failure just to see if I can pull it off at the last second? It all seems counterproductive, sir.”
The commander straightened up, leaning forward. “My instructors can behave any way they see fit, within limits: no fraternization, and don’t smack the students around. Otherwise they have latitude to do whatever they think is necessary to accomplish the mission, which is to make sure we are sending properly trained pilots upstairs to become fully qualified spacecraft operators. Period, full stop.” He paused before continuing. “Having said that, sometimes the individual shows through and their agenda threatens to get in the way.”
Marshall looked perplexed. “I don’t understand, sir.”
The commander drummed his fingers as he considered his words. “We don’t pay you to understand yet, Ensign. There are machinations behind the scenes that would curl your hair, only because most of it is unintentional and it rarely makes sense. The only advice I can offer is to treat every assignment like it’s the best deal you could imagine. It’s like the grunts say: ‘embrace the suck.’”
The ride to orbit had indeed been a good deal more exciting—and noisier—than the trip up that clunky gantry elevator. Stardust rattled and roared for nine straight minutes and seemed on the verge of shaking itself to pieces, when suddenly all became still. The spacecraft which had at first felt so crowded sitting atop its booster suddenly seemed to triple in size as they experienced the first liberating sensations of zero g. The floor was no longer the floor—it could be the ceiling or a sidewall if someone wanted it to be. Impossibly bright, unfiltered sunlight exploded through the windows along one side while the blue glow of Earth filled the other, turning their little spacecraft from a ride in a barrel over Niagara Falls into a kaleidoscope of novel sensations.
Of the group, only Giselle and Whitman had been here before. Experience had apparently done nothing to blunt her enthusiasm, as Nick noticed her turning to the nearest window every chance she had while stowing her pressure suit. It didn’t seem to slow her down as she worked her way through checking out their spacewalk gear, a top priority before Whitman began the series of burns that would raise them into a geosynchronous transfer orbit. And for his part, the pilot’s focus had not wavered since their rocket first roared to life. If the view outside threatened to distract him he’d yet to show it. Other than stowing his gloves and helmet beneath his seat after engine cutoff, the pilot had barely moved. Nick watched as his eyes darted around the control panel, scanning critical instruments as his hands barely touched the controls. An occasional tap on a control stick set thrusters to banging outside, otherwise the spacecraft was remarkably quiet.
It was therefore no surprise that Billy/Xenos would be the one to interrupt it. “Oh my God it’s stuffy,” he complained, and reflexively honked his nose against his hand.
“It’s the fluids in your body stabilizing,” Giselle said as she pushed away from the EVA locker. “Just like we are in this spacecraft, your insides float along with you.”
That they’d all been warned about this in training didn’t seem to matter. He tried blowing his nose again.
“That won’t really work like you think it should,” Giselle said. “Give it time, you’ll get used to it.”
The kid looked at her disdainfully. “Doubtful,” he said. “Not if the conditions don’t change until we’re back in gravity. How can you enjoy this?”
That prompted a reaction from the stoic Whitman. He turned his head slowly—either for effect or for avoiding sudden movements that might upset his vestibular system—and stared. “You’re kidding, right?” he finally said, and motioned to the nearest window. “You’re in space, kid. Millionaires still spend big money for trips to orbit. Businesses invest all kinds of dough into training schlubs like us to work up here. You’re in an exclusive club.”
Billy/Xenos appeared uninterested and proceeded to begin checking over his own equipment stash. “I was in an exclusive club before this,” he sniffed.
Whitman exchanged an amused look with Nick. “Very well, then. A reminder, people: we have one orbit to check out the spacecraft and our equipment before we start our first transfer burn. If you have any concerns or no-go calls, you have exactly”—he checked his watch—“eighty-nine minutes to tell me. Otherwise, enjoy the ride.”
Nick Lesko’s smile was less for the experience than for the satisfaction of seeing that the pilot they’d selected seemed more than willing to keep this gaggle of oddballs on task. After they reached GEO in another day, it would become life or death. And that was information he preferred to keep to himself.