First Flight

by Claremont, Chris

  "Am I so scary, Nicole?"

  "Yes," she replied, so softly she was sure he couldn't hear her. And as certain that he had.

  Wanderer was silent when she awoke, positive something was wrong. She shook her head to clear it. The motion pressed her up into the catchweb. She discovered Ciari lying snug against her, arms around her waist, hers holding his, their legs slightly tangled. One of his hands covered her breast and as she realized their position, the nipple suddenly hardened against the thin fabric of her T-shirt, prompting a sharp, surprised breath. He stretched, still more asleep than awake, but responding to her physical cues, and she felt his erection between her legs. He nuzzled her ear from behind—the sensation felt delicious—and she turned her face until their lips touched. His eyes opened and she saw the beginning of a smile; to her amazement, he looked a much younger, and gentler, man, and she became aware that she was experiencing a rare privilege, that Ciari was revealing a part of himself ordinarily kept very deeply hidden. She stroked his belly with her nails, glad to hear him gasp as loud as she.

  Then, the phone rang.

  "Shit!" Nicole cursed, her mood not improved by Ciari's laughter at the timing of the interruption; she slid free of the web and fumbled for the communications board. She found it on the third try, and accepted the call, audio only.

  "I trust all concerned are suitably refreshed," an all-too-familiar voice crackled from the speaker. "A new day has dawned and it's past time you were up and about."

  "We hear you, Major," Nicole said, stifling a yawn. She gazed Wearily at the clock beside the phone and her eyes. opened wide in shock. "Twelve hours," she squawked, "we've been out twelve hours!"

  "Relax, Nicole," Cat told her. "The Medical Board felt the entire crew needed the extra downtime. The launch window's wide enough to allow such leeway. It's not unusual, on first flights, for novice crews to let their enthusiasm get the better of their judgment. I was no different. More sensible to delay departure a bit and thereby ensure maximum performance from all concerned rather than push to meet an arbitrary schedule and risk someone making an idiot mistake that might punch all our tickets.

  "You've an hour to make yourselves presentable, Wanderer, before the rest of us start shlepping aboard; I trust that's sufficient. Garcia, out."

  "Wanderer, out," Nicole acknowledged automatically. She tapped one foot against the headboard and hovered with legs crossed in midair, a little above the bed. Her underpants had rucked down about her hips and she automatically pulled them back into place. "D'you think she knew—I mean, what we were just doing?"

  Ciari made an amused growl, stretching every centimeter of his body, like some great jungle cat, and nodded. Nicole buried her face in her hands with a wail, unaware that movement had started a slow forward somersault until Ciari caught her, almost completely upside down.

  "Isn't there such a thing as privacy?!"

  "In pre-launch, in Lunar orbit, on a novice mission?" he replied, helping her twist herself upright. "I'm sorry, Nicole—truly—I should have warned you."

  "What they must think down there...."

  "It's nothing they haven't seen before. It's no disaster, either; it's not as if they were filming us, all they were doing was watching our bio-telemetry and making a few smart-ass extrapolations. It could've been worse."

  "Yah," Nicole looked at him with a wicked grin and started to chuckle, "Cat could've called five minutes later."

  "Or five minutes earlier. I figure she timed it just about right."

  "I guess I owe her?"

  "No big deal. But crew takes care of its own."

  "Another thing to remember."

  "That's what you're here for, Red, to learn."

  Nicole made a face. " Ugh. Good thing we didn't kiss for real, my mouth tastes like somebody died in it."

  He hooked a hand around an ankle and pulled her close, until they were barely touching.

  "You're tense," he said.

  "No fooling."

  "I still scare you, Shea?"

  "In some ways, more than ever." But, she thought, do I scare you, Ciari, that's the question? "What d'you plan to do about it?"

  She pushed away and, a moment later, was gone, kicking off the headboard like a diver and swimming through the air as she curled out the door and around the curve of the Carousel. Ciari didn't follow. Instead, with a sigh, he reached for a pack of smokes, muttering in annoyance when he didn't find them; they were in his cubicle, where he'd left them. He'd forgotten he'd spent the night at Nicole's. Stuck onto the mantle were family pictures and he flicked on the reading light to take a closer look. She was the oldest, with a pair of brothers; her parents had evidently waited before having children. The father was familiar, he'd seen the face before. He had a nasty suspicion where. At a glance, there wasn't much to look at; the only other personal item in view was Nicole's guitar, a classical acoustic, clipped to the wall. The cubicle was much like his own—a very private place, a loner's.

  A faint hiss from below along the curve told him Nicole was using the shower. He thought of joining her, but stayed away, telling himself it was best for both of them.

  "Wanderer from DaVinci Port Control, on my mark the count will be Tango minus three-five minutes and counting. Three... two... one... mark!"

  "Roger, DaVinci," Nicole responded into the tiny boom microphone of her headset. "We copy your mark at Tee minus thirty-five. All on-board systems read nominal function."

  "Affirmative, Wanderer."

  Nicole shifted uneasily in her seat; over the past weeks, she'd gotten used to working the main console in shirtsleeves, rather than the bulky, confining mass of a full pressure suit. She looked to her right at Paul DaCuhna, who mimed removing his helmet and laying it on the console before him. She glared and flicked him a finger, and his grin widened. He'd have laughed out loud if they hadn't been using an open channel, with Cat Garcia listening in from her own console behind them.

  Between Nicole and Paul was the one-meter diameter holographic navigation tank, a new addition to their avionics systems which would more accurately show their position and course in a three-dimensional setting, rather than the two-dimensional presentation on the scanscreens. The flight deck hadn't been designed with it in mind, of course, so while no doubt useful the tank was also very much in the way. Beneath it, on the lower stage of the compartment, Nicole could see the Mission Specialists at their own consoles. Hana Murai gave her a "good luck" wave, which Nicole returned. In line beside her were Chagay and Andrei, plus Ben Ciari. Unlike the others, Ciari was armed—a nasty-looking flechette missile gun in a hip holster. Another difference was that his suit was black. Outside the ship, he'd be virtually invisible, whereas everyone else's were brightly colored; they wanted to be seen and found, he didn't.

  Above and slightly behind the holo tank sat Major Garcia, in what they'd all come to refer to as the "throne," enfolded by a console that monitored every key function aboard the spacecraft as well as those of the crew themselves. If anything went wrong, she'd know about it as soon as they did and the main computer possessed an OVERRIDE program allowing her to take direct and absolute command should Nicole or Paul ever prove unable to cope. From the throne, she could run the entire ship, all by herself.

  The countdown had thus far been flawless. Wanderer was performing as expected and, although only Cat and the DaVinci controllers knew it, so were her two novice pilots. Step by painstaking step, Nicole and Paul covered the master checklist, their actions pacing the calm voice of the flight controller. They were moving quickly, but there was a rhythm to their actions; neither was rushing.

  As the countdown shifted from minutes to hundreds of seconds, however, tension began to build. Nicole found she was sweating, despite a perfectly functioning air conditioner, and that her guts had turned to ice. She shook her hands in a vain attempt to relax and grinned sheepishly as she caught Paul's eye. He was mouthing something, but it took a repeat for her to get the message: "Don't worry, boss. I feel the same way!" />
  "Wanderer, Tango minus one hundred seconds. Stand by for Main Stage Ignition."

  "Nicole," Ciari announced from his console, "final medical update. Everyone's simply splendid."

  If this is splendid, she thought, spare me an example of when things are lousy. Come on, come on—what's taking so bloody long, let's get this show on the road! They hadn't been alone since that night, and Ciari had been as taciturn with her as he was with everyone else. Nicole wondered if she'd imagined what had happened, or had he indeed been scared and backed off for his own protection?

  "Wanderer, Tango minus seven-five seconds."

  "Paolo?"

  "I'm on it, boss. Computer's handling things nicely—sixty-four... sixty-three... sixty-two... sixty-one... sixty—ignition! I have confirmation of Main Stage Ignition at Tee minus one minute—by both automatic and manual firing!"

  "We copy that, Wanderer," the flight director confirmed from the ground. "You're looking good."

  This is it, Nicole thought, we're committed. She knew she was still afraid, as she felt an almost imperceptible vibration across her seat and back—the huge engines slowly generating thrust—but now she felt okay. No ice inside, no shakes, nothing. She was actually beginning to enjoy herself.

  She heard Paul's voice, counting down to zero: "... five... four... three... two... one..."

  "Lift -off!" someone yelled; in the sudden burst of excitement, Nicole didn't catch who, couldn't even tell if it was male or female.

  "Forward motion," Paul announced, "right on the mark!"

  "Wanderer, Da Vinci. We copy your departure on schedule. Initial flight track appears nominal. We'll continue to monitor your course and systems telemetry until you pass the Outer Ring at fifty thousand kilometers, where you'll be handed over to Mission Operations Control for the duration."

  "Roger, DaVinci," Nicole acknowledged, "thanks for all your help. See you next year."

  "Been our pleasure, Wanderer; have a nice trip. Approaching one-minute mark, active systems review."

  Nicole thumbed a toggle on her console, letting Paul handle things while she indulged in a slow, deep breath.

  "Well, kiddo," she whispered, "you're on your way."

  Chapter Four

  Ciari touched her and, seemingly without effort, spun her into the wall. She cursed tasting blood; she'd bitten her lip.

  "That hurt," she hissed. "Was meant to."

  "Bastard!"

  He slapped her, hard. She tried to strike back, but he glided away from her flailing arms, always a fraction of an inch out of reach. The few times she did catch him, he broke her grip with contemptuous ease. Too late, she realized he'd lured her into the center of the compartment; in this weightless environment, with nothing at hand to grab on to or push against, she was suddenly virtually helpless.

  She sighed and forced her aching body to relax. She hated losing, especially when the cause was her own stupidity.

  "Pathetic," Ciari told her, not bothering to hide his disgust. "I get the message."

  "Like hell."

  "I'll do better next time."

  "That what you're going to say when you're by yourself in the Belt, facing down a rock full of miners, or a Wofpack? Or am I to assume some belief in reincarnation, the fuck-ups of this life to be rectified in the next?"

  "Gimme a break, Ciari! I've never done this before!"

  "You're Air Force, for Christ's sake," he complained in exasperation. "Didn't anyone teach you how to fight?"

  "Not the way you do!"

  "Let's try it again." He held out his hand and, like a fool, Nicole took it—only to find herself slammed face first against a bulkhead with her right arm yanked high up her back in a brutal hammerlock. She couldn't stop a reflexive cry of pain, or the tears that brimmed in her eyes, so she made an instant decision to turn those reactions to her advantage. She whimpered, as if the fight had gotten too rough for her, hoping Ciari would think he'd pushed things too far. Whether he did or not, however, it made no difference; his grip didn't slacken.

  She lunged across her shoulder with her free hand, going for his hair, at the same time hooking a leg behind one of his and kicking sideways, shoving them both away from the wall. Before he could recover, she wrenched free and twisted to face him. Unfortunately, she hadn't escaped unscathed; her right wrist was numb. She had no idea whether it was sprained or broken and, at the moment, didn't care.

  She sensed herself closing on the opposite bulkhead and bounced off at an angle, pushing hard this time to gain some speed. Ciari followed suit, staying out of reach, watching, waiting for her mistake, certain it was bound to come. He was a head taller than she, with a longer reach and considerably more muscle, but his greater bulk and strength weren't the advantage in zero-gravity they'd be dirtside or in the Carousels. He had to be careful with his punches, lest they send him spinning out of control, vulnerable to her counter. Speed and agility were far more important; it was only up close that the ability to shift mass became critical.

  Of course, he had twenty years' experience on her, that was the big difference between them; she knew intellectually what to do, he'd actually done it.

  Sensation returned to her hand, with a throbbing ache that wreaked havoc, on her concentration, and she cradled it under her breasts, angling her body so that it was always on the side farthest from Ciari. He was smiling, the cocky bastard, figuring he had the match locked.

  She stuck out a leg, pivoting on her sneaker to jam herself into a corner—the junction of two walls and the ceiling—bracing herself in place with her legs while she tore off her sweatshirt. It wasn't easy, one-handed, and for a few seconds, as she dragged the shirt over her head, she was blind. As expected, Ciari came after her, in a bull rush full-tilt across the compartment. Nicole faced him like a matador, flipping the shirt into his face at the last instant and diving under him, grinning wildly as she heard a thump and curse behind her.

  She arched her body, snaring both his ankles, and pulled them towards her. Fire streaked' up her right arm past her shoulder, but she ignored the pain as her maneuver turned her and Ciari in opposite directions. She flattened out along his back, bending at the waist to bracket his head with her legs. He was jammed into her crotch and she hooked her ankles together, squeezing for all she was worth. He tried to break loose, but she had the leverage; if this had been a combat situation, it wouldn't require much pressure to snap his neck.

  He patted her buttock and she heard a muffled exclamation which she decided to assume was his surrender. But to be on the safe side, when she let go, she made sure she was out of reach. He made no move to follow, but floated in a half-crouch, face flushed dark crimson, rubbing his neck with both hands.

  "Not too shabby," he conceded finally.

  "You mean the exercise, Marshal, or me?"

  He smiled, slowly and appreciatively, as if he'd only just noticed she hadn't been wearing anything under the shirt. His expression turned serious, though, when he saw a bruise over her right breast, and he pushed over to her. "I do that?" he asked.

  "Among other things," was her reply. "Careful," she yelped as he touched her injured wrist.

  "Sore?"

  "Very."

  "You were using it pretty well there at the end, so I doubt it's sprained or broken, but we'll X-ray it anyway."

  The wrist didn't feel any better when he'd finished taping it in the infirmary and Nicole grumpily told him so. He wasn't very sympathetic.

  "No EVAs for a couple of days," he said, scribbling notes on a compad, "no heavy work; in fact, try to use that hand as little as possible. I'd suggest bagging in zero-gee, at least for the next few days, less danger of accidentally rolling over on it in your sleep. If the pain gets too bad, take some aspirin; better yet, soak it in a hot whirlpool."

  "Cat's going to love this." When he didn't respond, she asked, "Should I show it to Chagay?"

  "If I'm busy or asleep."

  "And then what, another lesson in the mat room?"

  To her su
rprise, he took the question seriously. "I'll check the wrist every day," he said. "Directly the swelling settles down, and you can move it without much trouble, we'll pick up where we left off."

  "Terrific," she said, as dryly as possible. "That's really something to look forward to, Ciari, y'know—the two of us bashing away at each other until I'm in a full body cast, or maybe a bag."

  "You won today, remember?"

  Nicole made a face. "Luck."

  "No such animal, Lieutenant, and I wasn't holding back."

  "Don't bullshit me, Ciari, you weren't going anywhere near flat out."

  "If I had, one of us would be dead. I was fighting as hard as I could in a practice duel; the combat edge is something you can't fake." He ushered her out the door towards the weightless core DropShaft. "Next time, we'll try it in pressure suits, minus, for the initial sessions at least, backpacks and helmets."

  "Seems like a wasted effort. There are occasions when I'm wearing a suit I think I can barely move. How d'you expect anyone to fight?"

  "It's done all the time, Red."

  "At the Academy, they told us it wasn't practicable. I mean, so you punch some sod; how the hell is he supposed to feel it through five centimeters of re-enforced cloth and armormesh? And if you're not anchored, the reaction'll send you flying off in the opposite direction." She looked up the DropShaft at the CM hatch twenty-five meters away, then down between her feet at the Stores Modules, slightly closer; the Carousels spun around her but in the core all was still and she stretched lazily, as if she was already on her bed. That was one of the nicest things about zero-gee, you were almost always comfortable, no matter what your position. She could hear singing, far away, muted by walls separating them—Andrei, passing the time while he worked—and, even though she didn't know the tune, not being much of a fan of opera, she smiled at the pure beauty of his voice.