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  Nova thanked him and continued on to her room. The doctor had been right to chide her, she thought. She only recently visited him with a dislocated finger sustained in hand to hand combat training. Two previous injuries, both minor and caused by Fynn, were not the type of accident one easily came to in combat.

  But here she was, playing war games with junior officers while the real battles were fought elsewhere. For what seemed to be the millionth time, Nova wondered why she had been transferred to Myra and then forgotten.

  Moodily, she rounded a corner, now only a few minutes away from her room and a clean uniform.

  "Nova!"

  She groaned inwardly and slowed her steps to let Fynn catch up.

  "Yo, kid, I've been looking all over for you." He had changed into his usual fatigue trousers and a black shirt clearly meant to show his torso off to its fullest advantage.

  She held up her bandaged hand, shaped into a fist. "Where the hell do you think I've been?"

  "Don't be cross. O'Neill sent me to find you."

  "I'll get down to the test center as soon as I've changed my suit. He'll have to wait a while if he wants to tell me how badly I did today."

  He took her arm and turned her around. "Walk this way, and quickly. Colonel wants to see you."

  "The Colonel?" Nova wondered why the commander of the base wanted her.

  "Yeah, and you better hurry. He's been looking for you for a while, I hear."

  "I can't see him like this!" She indicated her sodden boots.

  But Fynn was already propelling her along the hall, carelessly shouldering aside anyone of lower rank and smaller size. "You got to. He's got everyone looking for you."

  "What can be so urgent? Why didn't he just call me?" Nova looked at her wrist array and found it offline. When did that happen?

  Fynn stopped dead and whirled her to face him. "Listen, you won't say anything about my live fire on you today, huh?" He pressed her arm as if to squeeze an answer from her.

  She pulled out of his grasp. "I thought O'Neill sanctioned that. Didn't he?"

  "Well, in so many words. You know how the Colonel is. Wouldn't put it past him to demerit me because of a bit of roughhousing."

  Nova laughed humorlessly. Roughhousing! "Some day they'll throw you out, Fynn," she warned. "Transfers are coming up. We've got a hundred recruits coming in and some of us have to leave."

  His features rearranged themselves into an expression of apprehension. As much as Nova ached to leave this playground, he wanted to stay. Here he showed off his skills in friendly competition without any real danger to himself. Out there, he thought correctly, was only hard, dangerous work among pilots equally or more skilled than he. He dreaded the day that would bring his next assignment.

  He looked truly miserable and Nova relented. "Don't worry; I won't mention it. I'll see you later."

  She left him to hurry along too-slow conveyors, struggling to untangle a few strands of copper-colored hair that had escaped its clasp, patting ineffectively at her wrinkled uniform. A pleasant thought had struck her. Was she, finally, to be transferred back into serious work?

  * * *

  She was out of breath when she reached the Colonel's suite. Once admitted to his work space she found him at a desk, bent over lectures and speeches that he planned to deliver to the expected new recruits.

  She waited at a respectful distance as he spoke into a recorder. His voice still held the authoritative ring of the combat command that he had given up years ago before taking this post on Myra. As a respected commander of troops, many of his feats had passed, with suitable embellishments, into legend. No less respected now, he was charged with turning young pilots into the able warriors so much needed by the Union for her wars against a growing rebel force.

  But not for the first time did Nova notice his age, the once sharp features blurred by time, his height decreased by a slight stoop of his shoulders. She was reassured only when he looked up at her. The expression of deep concentration left his face to be replaced by a smile. It seemed to erase the years that had etched their passage into the stern facade. His eyes were clear and did not betray his emotions.

  "Father," Nova went to his desk, her stride unmistakably military. "You were looking for me?"

  His smile faded as he regarded her silently and for an uncomfortably long time. Nova clasped her hands behind her back to prevent them from fidgeting helplessly. She began to think that Fynn had sent her here for a joke to embarrass her in front of her father.

  "I did,” Whiteside said at last, rising to his feet. "I see that I caught you unprepared for this interview."

  Nova blushed and resisted an urge to fuss over her rumpled sleeves. "The race..."

  "I know. I just spoke to Major O'Neill. You seem to have had some difficulty with your emergency landing."

  "I did," she said simply.

  He waited for more, pleased when she didn’t budge. “We know how you were forced to land. And we know that you didn’t panic and we also know that you stayed in neural link until you landed. Laudable, Captain.” He did not mention that he had hung on every second of the transmission until the moment she left the plane safely, fearing that she would try to take manual control of the craft. “I’m less pleased with Bridger’s deportment. I will be glad to see him shuttled off my base and onto someone else’s.”

  "Fynn? Why?"

  "His time here is up. And Major O'Neill and I, among others, now agree that the best place for him is on Targon. We're sending fifty of your group to Targon in a few days."

  "Targon?" Nova gasped. Targon was the very center of the Union's military activities in the Trans-Targon sector. The few and too-short visits she had made to the planet had sparked her desire to become a part of it. Targon, the Center, after which this entire sector was named. Targon, where the Union employed the best of her warriors, weapons and planes to drive their enemy back, out of Union domain, dispatched glorious battleships...

  "...battleship."

  Nova broke out of her reverie. "Huh?"

  "Please pay attention, Captain," Whiteside snapped. "I said that Lieutenant Bridger will be stationed on Isora, the battleship cruising the Targon-Feyd corridor. A fighter plane and some strict combat discipline should make repairs of whatever it is that drives the young man. He is lucky that Targon is requesting able pilots rather than valiant characters. His record does not make him one of the better soldiers sent out from Myra."

  "Father, he is only..." Nova sprang to his defense but found no words that honestly described any quality that would endear him to the Colonel. "Well, he's a little careless sometimes, maybe," she mumbled instead.

  Whiteside shook his head in dismissal, wondering why he was using that worthless pilot to stall for time. "He will be given a chance aboard the Isora. It’s up to him to make it there."

  Nova chewed her lip. "What about me? Will I be transferred to Targon?"

  "Not directly."

  "A battleship?" she asked hopefully.

  "No."

  "A carrier, then," she said, disappointed.

  The Colonel shook his head and wandered to the large window that dominated the room. He observed the activity on the airfield below with the same expression he reserved for facing his most difficult recruits. Staff and mechanicals scurried from hangars to planes, from planes to service stations. Most of the craft belonged to the academy, representing a variety of shuttles, old cargo frigates and retired kites now used for training. Even a few enemy shrills were used here to teach maneuvers.

  There were two very different planes down there now, blocking one of the fueling stations. A third plane of that class was due to arrive soon. Whiteside stared at them with loathing. They were fine ships, possibly the best ever engineered, but he felt that their presence here was costing him too much. Costing him everything.

  "You know," he said, his eyes now searching the horizon for the two moons visible in daylight. "I have often wondered if bringing you and your mother to Trans-Targon was fai
r to you both. Although, I am sure, you do not feel like a stranger here."

  "Stranger?" Nova said. "Most of the people here are Human."

  He shrugged. "Here, yes. A small planet in the safest sector of this Union territory. A good place for Humans. But this war belongs to the Centauri and to Tharron. I have sometimes thought of taking you back to Terra, our Earth."

  Her eyes widened. "Back? That reach takes years to cross! The jumpsites are so far apart that you'd be in deep sleep for most of the way. Why would I want to go Terra? I don't belong there." Nova could not have been more indignant if he had actually asked her to return with him.

  Whiteside agreed. Nova had never known the peace and prosperity that her mother had missed so much. So green and so rich, that place where she might have come of age not knowing the heft of a gun or the face of a Rhuwac. But instead of growing up in a gentle world to become a gentle woman, Nova had turned from army brat into warrior. A fairly deadly warrior, according to the reports of her superiors.

  She looked so much like her mother, he thought. Long waves of flaming red hair forever escaping whatever bonds she tried to devise for it, pale skin that saw the sun too rarely. Green eyes that missed nothing and a broad smile that no one escaped without echoing it. But Nova's hands were trained to kill while her mother had used hers to create with paint and music. He sighed, feeling old. "Since your first trip aboard a shuttle I'd known that it would come to this."

  "Come to what?" Nova was worried now. It was not his way to be vague and today he did not make any sense at all.

  His gesture invited her to join him at the window. She looked over the afternoon routine below, seeing nothing out of the ordinary until her eyes led her to the far hangar.

  Two cruisers perched ready for takeoff. They looked out of place here on the base where civilian planes had no business. One looked like a Feydan transport of some age, the other seemed to have been cobbled together out of spare parts. They were small, likely carrying a crew of no more than three or four with a little room for cargo. Her trained eye spotted multi-terrain landing gear and contours below the wings that could only be crossdrive intakes. These inconspicuous ships were designed for long distance flights far beyond the groomed runways of civilization. “Those look expensive. Ours?”

  “Eagle class.”

  Nova gaped, stunned into silence. That class of plane was a feat of engineering that allowed them to traverse normal space as fast and efficiently as any of the massive Union transports that moved among the allied planets. It had taken the fine mind of a Delphian to rethink the cumbersome crossdrive system and, at tremendous cost, fit it into a ship of minute proportions.

  “Vanguard,” she said finally. “That has to be Vanguard.”

  He nodded. “You qualify.”

  Nova grasped the window's narrow ledge, so overwhelmed by his announcement that she missed the regret in his voice. “Me? Vanguard?”

  The Colonel regarded his daughter carefully, wishing that he could reverse these orders that would take his only child into places and dangers that he doubted he would ever willingly face himself. The life expectancy of a Vanguard member was not among the best statistics he had studied lately.

  “You are an able pilot but your talents go beyond that, as you've proven in the past. You belong with the scouts and recons. Today’s performance was only a confirmation of what we already know. It was a demonstration for your new commander.”

  Nova stared into the middle distance, musing. "You know, I have dreamed of this. I never told anyone; I was afraid they'd laugh at me. I thought maybe in a few years I'd have a shot at it and that would show them all, wouldn't it? But now..." her eyes wandered back to the crafts below.

  "There are three Vanguard leads here on Myra right now." Whiteside told her. "All have been without co-pilots for a while and will take over your field training. It’s time for you to return to active duty." He paused, not liking the expression on her face. He, who tolerated weakness in no one and least of all his own child, almost wished that she would express some sort of doubt. If she showed the least bit of apprehension about joining the Vanguard, if she asked him if he thought her capable, he would consider it enough to disqualify her from this duty. But her confidence was true; he saw no fear of failure, as much as he tried to read it into her features. She was ready for this assignment. "I have met your new commander," he said.

  Nova did not miss the expression of distaste that crept over the Colonel's face. "And he’s not to your liking."

  Whiteside raised his head, surprised by her insight. After a moment he shrugged. "When did you start reading me so well? He has an excellent record."

  "But?"

  "Ah, regulations had to be bent. You are, after all, female. Long journeys can be a trial for the most..." he cleared his throat. "Long journeys can be lonely..." he broke off again, embarrassed by his inability to say what he felt must be said.

  "I think I can control myself," Nova said, amused by his discomfort.

  "You were teamed with the one with whom there would be the least risk of, well, circumstances..."

  "He is not Human," Nova interjected.

  "The Major is Delphian."

  She pursed her lips. "They don't like us much." She didn't have to add that the feeling was reciprocated by Humans and Centauri alike.

  "Perhaps not," Whiteside said. "They do tend to think we're a rabble of interlopers with no business in Trans-Targon and no reason to exist here. Sometimes I think that this whole war between us and Tharron's people amuses them. We're some nuisance to them."

  "At least they're not hostile," Nova said. "We have enough on our hands."

  "And, unfortunately, we need them. Without exception, any Delphian that ever joined the Union has shown us a thing or two."

  She nodded. While physically much like any other humanoid, evolution had broadened the Delphian mental capacities without the mechanical or pharmaceutical aids that most other species relied upon. Their intelligence and accurate recall made them better pilots, better doctors, better engineers than their Union allies. This, perhaps, as well as the tight-lipped isolationism imposed by Delphi’s government often led to resentment even among closest associates. "At least those they allow to leave Delphi. As if we weren’t spending huge resources to keep the rebels off their doorstep. Arrogant bunch of–"

  "You will keep that to yourself, Captain," Whiteside said to his subordinate. "Arrogant or not, they are valuable and they are allies. Maybe you can use this assignment to improve your understanding of them."

  "Nobody understands them, sir."

  "Then be the first." The Colonel consulted his screen. "Major Tychon," he read, then shook his head. "These people change the rest of their names with the weather. We just list Tychon."

  “Is he the spanner?”

  He nodded. “Level Three.”

  “That means…”

  “Uncharted jumpsites. Deep space work. And if you’re lucky a little exploration as time allows. Most certainly the most attractive part of this assignment for me. Being Delphian is a terrific advantage at that level and they’re not known to be cowboys. We need more spanners and I’ll expect you to learn much from him. You’ve shown the aptitude. These three commanders need new pilots and we’re giving them the best we have.”

  “Now? Today?”

  “Indeed.” He glanced at his timepiece. “Congratulations, Nova, but there is no time to celebrate your new assignment. Although now you know why I insisted that you join me for dinner yesterday. The major wishes to travel toward Targon at once. You are expected in the small-craft hangars."

  Nova embraced the elder Terran, unable to think of something to allay his fears. He had lost his wife to this war and now felt that he was losing his daughter. The fact that her new commander was Delphian likely did nothing to lift his spirits.

  "I will see you soon," she promised.

  He watched her go, not believing it.

  * * *

  Nova waited until she ha
d reached a vacated hallway on her way to the hangars before she let out a whoop of elation.

  Vanguard! Racing along the concourse, she thanked each of the currently popular gods, regardless of origin, for bringing this day so soon. She would be part of the Union's most valued division; she would visit places previously restricted, whole worlds to be seen under the protection of the Union emblem. It wasn't just a dream anymore!

  She skidded to a halt when she rounded the corner to the vast parking halls, startling the guard at the doors. She nodded coolly in his direction and proceeded into the hangar at a more sedate pace. There, dispatch told her that she was expected in one of the pilots' lounges.

  She picked up speed again to jog across the prelaunch byway which couldn't possibly be prohibited on a day as exciting as this.

  "Nova, for pity's sake!" someone called to her. "I've been looking all over for you."

  "Dylan! Have you heard? Isn't it amazing?"

  "Yeah," he grinned. "It is. I got Vanguard, too. Eagle One. And now we're both late."

  Nova followed the Lieutenant to the lounge where they received an icy glance from her superior. A Major had prepared a speech for the occasion and was now delivering it with all the long-winded formality he could muster. It dealt mainly with the rigors of teamwork and the dangers of reconnaissance and was punctuated by references to their glorious Union Commonwealth and the protection thereof.

  Nova would not remember any of it. She assumed an erect posture, staring blindly ahead to keep a dazed grin off her lips. Gradually, she was able to compose herself.

  The Major droned on, giving Nova a chance to study the other people in the room. Dylan was a good friend; she knew the other chosen one only through classes. Both of them stood at attention, like Nova still trying to understand their sudden good fortune.

  She soon realized that the only people in the room not impressed by the occasion were the Vanguard members. Since they were not required to wear a uniform, their clothing was an assemblage of off-world items, mismatched but comfortable-looking. Their assortment of weapons was also not Union issue. While their new trainees, the teachers and the brass stood in stiff formality, they perched on the arms of chairs or leaned casually against the far wall. None of them was actually sitting. It was a study of indifference in which the relaxed slouch had nothing to do with laziness. It didn’t seem to be coincidence that their backs were turned neither toward door nor windows. No one stood behind them and no angle of body or article of clothing came between them and their side arms. Nova wondered if they even had to think about taking such defensive positions. Irrationally, she was tempted to unsnap the safety of her own gun. It seemed to her that, should an alarm sound, these men would be on their feet and battle ready before she could even begin to reach for her gun.