Double Blind

The encounter happened entirely without warning, in the thick of battle at Dead Star 3I. As if by design, the Fleet's most junior lieutenant sat drumming his fingers at the controls of a state-of-the-art Fleet scoutship. Light from the monitors silvered his aristocratic profile, which expressed bitterness, frustration, and longing. The scout craft Shearborn was commissioned as a chaser, handily styled for concealment. She carried just two plasma cannon. Hit and run, or follow and hide, had been her designer's intentions; 'mop-up following engagement' read the bottom line in her battle orders. Last month, even yesterday, Commander Jensen had burned for a small part in the Alhance offensive at Dead Star 3I. Today, while others were earning advancement and citations of valor for crippling the new Khalian dreadnoughts, he ached for action.

    The firing studs so near his tapping fingers were dandy, except there were never going to be enough of them to satisfy the ambition that smoldered beneath the lieutenant's faultlessly correct Fleet bearing.

    Across the cockpit, Harris slouched in the untidy gray of his pilot's coverails. The wing patch at his shoulder crumpled under his fingers as he scratched himself, paused, then whistled as if at a woman. 'What the hell?' His eyes widened, bright with the reflected flashes of battle off the analog screens.

    Jensen spoke frostfly from his crew chair. 'Have you something to report?'

    The pilot raised his eyebrows at the reprimand. His most insolent grin followed, as he banged a key for redefinition, then added in lilting admiration, 'What the blazes is a tub-engined private hauler doing blasting ass across a battle?'

I4O