“Hey, suit yourself,” said the engineer. “I’ll feed back the video.”

“Fred. Wait.” Zen pulled off his headset, tossing it onto the console panel. He wheeled around, slowed by the industrial carpet. He remembered the day they had put that down, how good it had felt beneath his feet after standing for hours, watching one of the other pilots work with the drones.

Remington stood near the monitoring area, arms stiff, frowning at him.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Zen. “I mean, shit, yeah, I’d love a beer. But, uh, I haven’t had any since, I don’t know when.”

“Well, if you’re looking for an excuse,” said the civilian, “I’d say that was a damn good one. We can snag a beer in Lounge B. I’ve already prepared the report on the refuel,” he added quickly. “The colonel will have everything he needs.”

Preparing the report was Zen’s job. His anger twinged.

Had Remington done the work out of pity? Or was that just Remington, super-efficient nerd boy, always on top of things?

Not to mention thirsty.

Would he have done it before the accident? Zen couldn’t be sure.

“I should look at it,” he told the engineer.

Remington smiled. “My laptop’s in the briefcase, with the report and video,” he said, pointing. “We’ll check it out while we’re waiting for the bartender to pour some frosty ones.”

Zen laughed. If he remembered correctly, Lounge B was self-serve. Come to think of it, last time he’d been here, it hadn’t offered beer.

JEFF WASN’T IN THE FLIGHTHAWK CONTROL ROOM BY the time Breanna finished with the Megafortress. He didn’t seem to be anywhere in Bunker B, the underground suite of offices used as the Flighthawk development center. Breanna began walking toward their dormitory suite, which was located in Yellow Two at the far end of the base.

The suite had belonged to her before they’d gotten married. Approximately 250 square feet were divided between two bedrooms, a central living room-kitchenette-utility space, and a bathroom. The decor was early pressboard, augmented by some posters of Impressionist prints inherited from the previous occupant, a chemist working in one of the weapons sections. Breanna greatly preferred the condo near Las Vegas she and Jeff had bought, but they had held onto the suite because it was convenient to have a place to crash on the base. Unlike many military facilities, Dreamland had a surplus of housing; while you couldn’t count on the shower pressure in the morning, at least the price was right.

Breanna could tell Jeff wasn’t in the suite as soon as she pushed open the door. She went to the bedroom and cranked open the windows, trying to remove the musty smell that had accumulated since she’d last been here a few days before. She sat down on the bed, found herself leaning back and sinking into the pillow. Despite the success of the test—despite Jeff’s success—she felt depressed and drained. Things between them weren’t going well at all. She had known there would be trouble adjusting; she had known it would be a long process, the most difficult thing they’d ever done together by far. But that didn’t make her feel any better.

Bree got up and went to fill the tub. Baths always made her feel better.

Steam rose quickly from the tub, the water so hot she nearly scalded her fingers just pushing the stopper closed. Definitely a good-luck omen—truly hot water was as rare as good water pressure.

Straightening, Breanna began to undress. The steamy air softened her skin and sweat beaded from her face, running down the sides of her cheeks. She felt the poisons and worries that had accumulated in her body beginning to escape. She flattened her hands over her face, pushing her fingers back over her hair and then down over her chest to her hips and thighs, stretching slowly, relaxing after the stressful day.

Breanna slipped into the tub even though the water was still running. The knots in her muscles gave way; her legs slid limp against the sides of the narrow tub, the close confines somehow reassuring.

They had showered here together, many times. To be able to do that again, just once—

But those were distracting thoughts. She had to live in the present, not the past. She still loved Jeff. She might love him more, in fact—he was brave and determined and he could be stubborn, but that was attractive too. He’d nailed the test when the best pilot on the base—the next-best pilot on the base—had failed.

Jeff would never walk again. His back was broken. She could deal with that; she could survive that. And as soon as he was sure of that, as soon as he saw that she wasn’t just pitying him, it would get better. She knew it would. It would.

Breanna lowered her head to the surface of the water, feeling the tingle. She wanted to reduce her consciousness to just that feel, to just the hot tickle on her skin. Her face and breasts and legs fuzzed with the warmth.

Many times before they were married she sat in this very tub like this, thinking of Jeff. She believed she could will him there with ESP, close her eyes and he would magically appear at the door.

A knock in the hallway startled her.

Imagination?

No, there it was again.

“Jeff?” she called.

“Hey, anyone in there?”

Breanna jumped out of the tub. She grabbed the small towel from the bar, anxious to let him in.

It wasn’t until she started to turn the knob that she realized it hadn’t been his voice.

“No, it’s Mack,” said Major Smith.

Bree pushed the door shut quickly. “I’ll—I was in the bath,” she said. “Wait just a second.”

Smith laughed when she reopened the door a minute later.

“You didn’t have to get dressed for me, Rap,” he told her.

“Major.”

“My, we’re formal today,” said Smith. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” said Breanna, who’d jumped into her flight suit. As she closed the door behind him she glanced toward the bathroom, noticing her underwear on the floor where she’d left it. She went and closed the bathroom door.

“Expecting Jeff?”

“Well, he is my husband,” she told Smith. “Can I get you something? A Coors?”

“Sure.”

Breanna squatted down in front of the fridge, retrieving two beers from the bottom compartment.

“I figured I’d stop by and say good-bye.” Smith told her, taking the beer.

“Good-bye?”

“Assignment came through.”

“Oh?”

Smith shook his head. “Can’t tell you about it.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “If you want, I’ll try and get you transferred too.”

“Thanks, Mack,” she said.

“I’m serious. They’ll be closing this place soon. A few months. Nothing against your dad,” he added, sipping the beer.

Smith was attractive; good-looking and damn smart, he was also obviously bound for bigger and better things. He could play the political game and clearly wanted to be a general. She liked him, even though his ego was bigger than the room they were sitting in.

“How’s the JSF?” she asked.

“An access panel flew off and jammed one of the rods in the leading-edge assembly,” said the pilot. “The panel wasn’t secured properly. Mechanics ought to be shot.”

“That sounds a little harsh.”

“You can’t do your job, there’s no excuse. I could have augured in,” said Smith, who didn’t seem very concerned. “Anyway, I’m glad to be rid of the F-119. I just wish—”

He let his gaze drift into hers. Breanna felt her heartbeat double.

“I’m not really attracted to you, Mack,” she heard herself say softly. She knew instantly it was a lie, and he must have too. Breanna stared down at the floor.

“Bree.”

His hand felt warm on her face, reassuring like the bath had been.

She forced herself to shake her head no.

ZEN ACTUALLY ENJOYED THE BEER, EVEN THOUGH HE drank only a quarter of it. Remington and the others seemed genuinely happy about the day’s tests, and at least pretended not to notice that he was in a wheelchair.