Three days later, he left black section. Still in the wheelchair, but finally with real hope of getting out of it in the near future. He could move again. Even after they'd removed the torture devices in his feet. He didn't fully understand what was different now, and he wasn't convinced the doctors did, either. He'd heard a lot of analogies - the most popular one being that his nervous system had been rebooted. He was reasonably sure nervous systems didn't work that way. Right now, though, he didn't care. He had a nagging feeling that if he tried to analyse it too far he might discover it was impossible and go right back to how he'd been. No, his legs worked again, and that was good enough for him.

Not just reflexes, but controlled movement. Provided no strength was involved, of course. His first attempt to get out of bed had confirmed what the doctor had said and he hadn't believed, as he'd landed in an undignified heap on the floor. Despite all the exercises and the electronics and the weight-bearing exercises, it had been too long since he'd been able to use his legs voluntarily, and all the muscle tone was gone. All of it.

Chris had, thank goodness, managed not to say, "I told you so" while he helped Mark back into bed. He had, however, taken advantage of Mark's silent disbelieving embarrassment to sit down alongside him and explain matters to him again, slowly and carefully if not quite in words of one syllable. This time Mark had listened, and had appreciated that what he had been told really was going to apply to him too. He wasn't going to walk out of there - yes, he had stood up in the common room, but that had been fuelled by a one-off rush of adrenaline, and he'd almost certainly instinctively taken almost all his weight on his arms, pulling himself up on the console. It would take weeks to rebuild his leg strength. He'd need rehabilitation of an entirely different sort, intended to get him back to full fitness instead of learning to use what movement he still had. And it wasn't something he could rush. He simply wasn't going to be capable of exercising twelve hours a day, or even six, for a long while yet. He'd need to start out slowly. Learn to stand before he could walk, to walk before he could run.

And then Anderson had come in, and had been encouraging and enthusiastic and pleased for him. He hadn't said the one thing Mark had wanted to hear, though - not that Mark had expected it, if he was honest with himself. He knew exactly how things stood. Black section would be only too delighted to have the Eagle back right this minute - but it was no longer a question of when he'd be back on G-Force. No more disruption for Earth's front line defence team. No putting them on hold waiting to see how much fitness he could get back how quickly, whether his implant could in fact be repaired. Rick Shayler's promotion to G-Force was permanent, and Mark was no longer considered part of it. Regardless of his new medical status, that hadn't changed; no miracle reinstatement for him. It had hurt for a surprisingly short time. He'd known for months that there was no way back for him. The moment he'd walked out, he'd lost all right to expect to lead them again. Not that they even knew. G-Force were on Riga, saving the galaxy again.

Right after he'd recovered from that one, he'd also learnt that one of his roles on Team Seven had become redundant. Dylan North, no fool, had put two and two together, gone to his fellow Force Two trainees, and asked them exactly who Lieutenant Commander Jarrald was and what his association was with black section. And they'd told him the truth. Mark wished he'd been a fly on the wall for that one, but sadly all he'd had was a third hand report, again through Chris. Dylan now knew exactly who he was, and there was no more need for him to pretend otherwise.

So, one more person on the list of those who would look at him with disbelieving pity. A long rehabilitation still ahead of him - to his complete lack of surprise, Chris had announced that he'd already spoken to Tariq about the change in his rehabilitation requirements. And many hours in between sessions when he'd need to be resting physically. He'd not quit the day job just yet.

"I hear you're going to be in need of a real job before long," Nykinnen said at their standard Monday morning meeting.

Mark laughed. "I already have a real job. At least, enough of one for someone who has so much rehab ahead of him it's not true. Maybe after that I'll start looking. I hear Team Three can use good pilots. Or the Red Rangers."

The other frowned. "This is none of my business, but...not G-Force?"

"G-Force has a new commander now. And a new jet pilot." He resisted the urge to trace invisible circles on the arm of the wheelchair with his finger.

"I'm sorry." Nykinnen shrugged. "Black section politics. Their loss is my gain. Like I've always said - when you want a better job, go get one."

Mark nodded slowly, considering the desk between them, piled with unstable stacks of paperwork. The job he did now had been intended to take some of the weight off the Team Seven commander. At the time, it had. But the war continued, the teams carried on growing in size, the Academy graduated more and more new security officers, and now Nykinnen's desk looked as bad as it ever had. Mark's wasn't much better, and after his weekend in black section medical, all his overtime of the previous week would be undone and he'd be back to trying to find a space for his coffee mug. Even so, this job wasn't for him. Not permanently. Not if there was an alternative.

"I owe you one, Commander. Enough to tell you I probably won't be here four months from now."

"Nothing would make me happier. For you, of course. In the meantime, we have two new Team Seven agents who need orientation courses. Transfers in from the UN forces."

Mark grinned, long experience of hiding his real feelings coming in more than useful. "Hand them over. I know a young lieutenant who could use a couple of hours answering stupid questions."

"Is there something going on I don't know about?" Nykinnen extracted two files, apparently at random, from some way down one of the piles, and passed them across to him.

"North found out I'm the Eagle. I suspect he's more than a little embarrassed about something he said to me beforehand. He's avoiding me."

Nykinnen nodded, and continued as if the previous exchange had never happened. "Haul him in and explain what's involved - they're arriving tomorrow. I agree - he needs experience dealing with fellow agents on a relatively formal level. Is that everything?"

"That's it."

Nykinnen leant back, his leather chair creaking, and then jumped as his phone rang. He picked it up, holding a hand up in farewell as Mark performed a neat turn in the floor space available, wheeled his chair out of the commander's office, and headed back to his own.

"Commander Jarrald? You wanted to see me?" There was a decidedly nervous edge to Dylan North's tone.

Mark looked up from his list of successful candidates in basic flight - Dave O'Leary had somehow contrived to fail it yet again - and waved his visitor to the one extra chair there was room for in his cupboard of an office. "You're being assigned to run orientation for two new officers who arrive tomorrow. I'll run you through what's involved, and -"

"I'm sorry, sir. I won't be here."

Mark's eyebrows went up. "And why not?"

Dylan North, sixteen years old, barely five foot seven inches tall, and by all accounts black section's best hope for Force Two's jump-pilot, glanced desperately at the two closed doors. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" His fingers flashed, signing, Is this room secure?

"It's secure, Raven," Mark assured him.

"We're spending a week training in zero g with Major Grant. On the biggest orbital communications platform."

"I see. And if you hadn't been able to tell me this, what would you have said?"

Dylan flushed. "I don't know, sir. I hadn't figured anything out, since I...you..."

"If I'd been taken ill, you could have been dealing with anyone. Don't take shortcuts with your cover story. Not ever."

"No, sir. Sorry, sir." He gulped visibly. "Sir, I apologise for being a jerk last week. Commander Nykinnen made it very clear I wasn't to pilot the G-1 in front of Team Seven and...I saw the chance to show off for once. That won't happen again, either. I feel a right idiot."

"Good. Now, forget it. The net result was that you did me a damn good turn. When you get back, come see me. You fly that simulator adequately, no more, and some of your basic techniques need a fair bit of work."

Dylan's eyes lit up. "Sir, I'd appreciate any help you can give me."

"You may not be saying that in a couple of weeks." Mark sighed, and crossed out Dylan's name on the sheet of paper in front of him. "I guess the Osprey's out of the running too? Enjoy zero g, and I'll see you when you get back. If O'Leary's in the common room, can you send him in to see me?"

Dylan grinned, the old enthusiasm back. "Dave's failed flight again, has he?"

Mark raised his eyebrows. "It's none of your business - but since you're interested, I'll be assigning you as his mentor. He needs that rating. Dismissed."

He'd never understood how someone who drove well - even Jason said so, and O'Leary drove for ISO Racing too, these days - could be so truly incompetent in a plane. They'd teased Jason mercilessly about his lack of piloting skills, and he was certainly no superstar, but passing basic flight had never been an issue for him. O'Leary, though, had taken it three times at least already. Maybe four. And wasn't getting promoted out of Team Seven until he had the certificate, regardless of whether he was ever going to set foot in a plane again. Nor was lounging around indefinitely in Team Seven considered an acceptable option. It was past time that someone explained the situation to him in words of one syllable, and Nykinnen had obviously decided Mark was the person to do it.

Twenty minutes and one thoroughly depressed ISO race driver later, Mark's phone rang.

"Mark, could you come to my office immediately please?" Nykinnen's voice said, and there was a click as the phone went down before he'd even opened his mouth to speak.

I guess I screwed something up. Let's hope it isn't O'Leary making a formal complaint about my lack of subtlety. Mark sighed inwardly, pulled the wheelchair towards him and with the ease of long practice transferred himself across from the standard office chair he used in here. Nykinnen normally came over to him - so either he'd decided Mark needed the exercise, or this was serious.

Or it involved too many people for Mark's tiny box of an office. Nykinnen was in there, as were Anderson and Ivanov, and Mark had to resist the urge to cut and run. What the hell?

"Commander, we have a proposition for you," Anderson said as soon as he'd closed the door behind him.

"If it involves a controller's chair, the answer is still no."

"It does not," Ivanov told him, the deep Russian voice gruffer than ever. "Please, Mark, hear us out."

He nodded slowly, refusing to show any emotion. They couldn't hurt him any more than fate already had. They couldn't make him do a job he didn't want - and there was absolutely no reason for them to take this one away from him, and no way for them to do it inconspicuously.

"Our trainees are scheduled to go up to Comsat Three this afternoon."

"I know. Grant's taking them."

"Major Grant is flat on his back in medical with labyrinthitis - that's severe inflammation of the inner ear. He's not fit to ride in a car right now, let alone spend a week in zero g."

Mark couldn't resist a splutter of laughter. "Grant's got vertigo? Poetic justice. He's been such a bastard to Jason all these years."

Anderson simply waited for quiet before continuing. "We need someone to go up and supervise their training program. Someone who is highly competent in zero g, knows all the combat techniques the trainees need to learn, and has black section clearance. In addition, we need someone to assess how they work together as a team in an unfamiliar situation. Commander Nykinnen recommended you. To be honest, I'm more than a little embarrassed we hadn't asked you to start with."

Mark felt his jaw drop. Zero g? Well, he'd certainly had the training in question, a very long time ago, though G-Force had never been involved in zero g combat for real. Their enemies had far better artificial gravity technology than ISO did.

"Mark, you would be so very good at this," Ivanov added. "And we need you, badly. You have so much expertise, and they have so little. And you, they respect. If the Eagle tells them they must work, they will."

Zero g. Where the fact that his legs didn't work - well, did now, just barely - would be irrelevant. He'd met more than one crippled pilot in rehab who was hoping for a zero g assignment. He was going to get out of the chair eventually, that was a given now that he could move again. But the thought of a week without it, right now, no more waiting and struggling, was still so tempting he couldn't find words.

"Chris has spoken to your rehab therapist - Tariq, is it?" That was Anderson again, and Mark felt a twitch of annoyance. The best thing about being fit again, apart from, well, being fit again, was going to be the end to everyone else checking his medical condition over the top of his head before telling him anything. "Long term zero g would not be a good thing for your chances of getting out of the chair. A week at this stage will be beneficial, allowing you to regain movement without too much strain. And your general fitness level is more than adequate."

He finally found his voice. "I'll do it. When and where do you want me?"

The relief in the room was almost tangible, as Ivanov cleared his throat. "Launch is at fifteen hundred hours today. Transport leaves here at twelve hundred."

"So I have an hour and a half to get ready?" Mark refused to sound surprised or excited, though he was quite sure his heart was beating twice as fast as normal. "I'd best be going. Commander Nykinnen, I'm not going to have time to finish up here -"

"You get yourself ready to go," Nykinnen told him. "We can cope."

His superior's desk had gained at least five extra files in the thirty minutes since their earlier meeting, but his pang of guilt was massively outweighed by anticipation. He'd work overtime when he got back.

"I'll need some sort of kit list, Chief. And a rundown of precisely what this training schedule is supposed to involve, so I can remind myself. Eleven thirty in black section early enough?"

"Ideal." Anderson's voice wavered sufficiently that Mark met his eyes, startled. "It's good to be working with you again, Mark. Thank you."

By the time he'd made it back to his quarters, the computer screen was flashing at him with a whole pack of new messages: the training schedule he'd requested, a copy of the kit list that had been sent to the trainees, and messages from both Jason and Chris Johnson. So the new commander of G-Force was also on the list of people who decided what Mark was capable of before anyone actually asked him. Even if that involved an interstellar communication link to Riga. Great.

The message did make him feel a little better about himself, though. Rather you than me. Good luck. Not least because it was a normal, human message from someone he barely saw these days, other than when Jason came into Team Seven and they managed a brief private conversation in his office. That had last happened three weeks ago. And Jason was the member of G-Force he saw the most. It's for the best, he told himself firmly. They have to carry on without you. They don't need reminding of the past all the time. Let them get on with their lives.

Then he pushed it to the back of his mind and allowed himself a rueful smile. Operating in zero g for a week was, quite possibly, the only thing that he could still do better than Jason. He sent the training schedule to his handheld, and then considered the implications of Chris's message. Please call me. That one was less encouraging. If he was fit, what was the issue?

"Chris?"

"Thanks for getting back to me, Mark." There was more than relief in the tone, though. One of those I'm not saying everything edges which Mark's training made it as easy to read as if the man had said it out loud.

"What's wrong? Anderson said you'd cleared me as fit."

"I have. And you are. Physically fit. But it's only a few days since your nervous system started working again, Mark. I'm concerned that this may be too much, too soon."

"Too much what?" Mark snapped, then forced himself back under rigid control. "Doctor, I'm being asked to go make sure a bunch of trainees practice a set of exercises I learnt a decade ago. I do this sort of thing every day at Team Seven. Why does zero g make it different?"

"Who the trainees are, and what they'll be learning, makes it different. You've gone out of your way to avoid contact with black section. Are you sure you're ready to pick it right up again?"

Hell yes. That wasn't the issue, though. "You think I'm mentally unfit for this?"

"I'm not saying that."

Mark kept his temper with difficulty. "Black section medical thinks I'm mentally unfit? I doubt it, or Samuels would be making this call - he's the psychiatrist, not you. I'm up for this, and I'm going, Chris. I'm sick to death of being useless, and I don't need you to protect me from reality. I'll see you in a week."

He put the phone down without giving the other man a chance to respond, and turned his attention to the kit list. It was so short as to be almost non-existent, and it took him a couple of moments to realise that, of course, the trainees would be spending most of their time in birdstyle. He set his teeth against the pang of loss and yanked open the wardrobe door. He would be needing more standard clothing.

By the time he was at the elevator to black section the first rush of adrenaline had worn off, and Mark was struggling not to shake. This was the closest to a mission he'd been in almost a year, and pitiful though a training cruise in charge of the Force Two trainees might be when compared to commanding G-Force, he missed combat training. Missed pulling g. Missed the discipline of martial arts - sure, he could have found something he could still do, meditation didn't need working limbs, he knew there were katas for paraplegics - but it wasn't the same. This was the closest he'd come to something that was the same since he'd walked out.

Dimitri was waiting for him as he left the elevator, six foot two of muscle leaning nonchalantly against the guardpost in the brown and cream birdstyle of the Osprey. "Commander! We are delighted you will be coming with us."

Mark resisted the urge to comment that he was glad to hear he was preferable to Grant - it didn't seem right, somehow. He was here in a position of authority, not as one of the team. He needed to keep his distance - and he hoped it wouldn't be too unnatural. Dylan was entirely used to looking up to him - figuratively, if not physically. Paula Arkwright had known him as the Eagle, as had Dimitri. The new trainee, the genius mathematician who made the whole second team thing possible, he'd never even met.

"Come this way, please, Commander," Dimitri said, a whole lot more formally, and Mark followed him to a waiting room just around the corner.

His first thought was that they really were the next generation, all ready to go. Three of them plus Dimitri, in full birdstyle. One man short of being a full team. Then, memory of who they were overwrote the impression of the uniforms.

The tall, thin young woman in white and yellow, the Crane, that was Paula. When he'd first met her, she had been Anderson's com-tech. Not even a security agent. Only after she'd been drafted onto a rescue mission had she decided she wanted more than a controller's chair. He knew exactly how she felt.

Dylan, the Raven, wore blue and black - and appeared considerably taller in birdstyle than out of it. Mark suspected the heels of his boots. He had used that trick himself for years. Just sixteen, Dylan was the jump-pilot, the designated pilot, and from things he'd heard, a hot candidate for commander. Mark personally thought that would be a big mistake. G-Force had always kept its pilot right at the bottom of the chain of command, and that was something he thoroughly approved of. There was no way to concentrate on the immediate tactics of combat flying at the same time as looking further ahead.

Dimitri would have been his choice for commander. The engineer had quietly become very competent at everything Mark had seen him asked to do. He would be most surprised if that didn't include making good decisions. He did wonder whether the fact that Dimitri looked more like hired muscle than a highly intelligent, softly spoken young man who always thought before offering an opinion counted against him.

And then there was the fourth team member. Jennifer Linton, fourteen years old, discovered by ISO Oceania a bare six months ago, implanted within a month. The only other person ISO had ever found who came even close to Jason's instinctive brilliance at solving the jump-equations. Five foot three and barely into puberty, Jason had called her 'the Wren' when he'd mentioned they had a new candidate for Force Two. Mark wasn't sure whether that had been a joke based on her size and combat capabilities, or whether it really was the callsign she planned to use. Hopefully there would be more details in the training schedule. He'd yet to do more than glance at it to make sure it had transferred correctly.

"Commander, have you met Jenny?" Dimitri asked him, and the other three swung round from whatever it was they'd been studying.

Good grief, she looked young. Even through the visor, and Mark knew that they were designed to make people look a whole lot older than they were.

She held out a hand, obviously uncertain. "Commander Jarrald - it's an honour, sir."

And then again, keeping his distance only needed to go so far. "Call me Mark. All of you. Unless you need to be formal." He shook her hand solemnly. "That's enough formal for now. Jenny, is it? Jennifer? Jen?"

"Jenny Wren," Paula chuckled. "That's what the Owl calls her, anyway.

The girl smiled ruefully. "I liked that - but Chief Anderson said I couldn't use it, it was too common a phrase and people might make the connection."

"So what did you choose?" Mark asked her.

"I haven't decided yet."

"We'll choose for you, if you like," Dylan put in, his eyes dancing.

"Sure you will," she responded. "And I'll end up as the Ostrich or something. I'll find one, thanks."

The door opened again and Anderson came in. "Your transport is here - Mark, can I have a word?"

"Sure, Chief." He sighed inwardly, wondering whether Chris had said something - but surprised that Anderson hadn't intercepted him sooner, if that was the case. Surely they wouldn't have let him get this close to an active posting again? Surely Chris wouldn't do that to anyone, let alone to him? He hung back as the other four left - Dylan in the lead, followed by Dimitri, young Jenny and Paula bringing up the rear. Pretty much the order he would have expected, if he'd had to guess.

Anderson waited until the door was shut and they were out of earshot, and then put a hand in his pocket, bringing it out closed around something wristwatch-shaped. "I think you should have this. It's the easiest way for you to communicate with your trainees without putting it through the station's network, should you need to."

He nodded, closing his hand round the familiar shape without looking at it. It made a whole lot of sense. Whether or not Anderson was watching to see whether he'd react to it he wasn't sure, but he was determined not to do so. Not even to show the flood of relief that Chris had apparently kept his concerns to himself.

"What do you think of them? First impressions."

"Hardly first impressions for three of them." Mark shrugged. "I don't know, Chief. They don't look like a hand-to-hand combat team to me. I'd be much happier if young North was backup rather than a frontline fighter at his age, and the kid? Tell me she's a good enough pilot that you're planning on her being the one left on the ship. Though Paula's no combat monster either, from what I remember."

"Interesting. I'll look forward to hearing what you have to say in a week." Anderson smiled, and held the door open. "Your transport's leaving from the second level basement. Have a good time, and try to remember just how young Keyop was when the war started."

"Keyop was trained almost from birth. Not pulled from some prep school in Melbourne." Mark took a deep breath and replaced his wristwatch with his bracelet. He still didn't need to look at the fastening, even after all these months. "I'll do my best to be fair, Chief. But my best guess? They're five years off being useful."