One gasp from Dylan was all the warning Mark had. His instinctive duck out of the way almost certainly saved his life, as the vicious kick intended to break his neck instead skidded off his helmet. A second blow caught him hard in the ribs, and Dylan hit the wall just in front of him, two Blackbirds in close attendance.
Two on Dylan. Another two on him. Mark twisted, trying to stay unpredictable, fumbling in his pouch. No question, this was it. He'd have preferred not to take Dylan out with him when he blew the station, but in war you rarely got to pick your plot. His hand had closed round four or five explosive charges when he heard a familiar laugh from behind him.
Two limp Blackbirds spun into view. The Condor, very much not limp, spared him a single wave before piling into Dylan's opponents. One hand on a shoulder of each and he slammed their heads together with a ringing crack of helmet. Except for their continued floating drift, both stopped moving.
Jason's stare at Mark in birdstyle lasted maybe half a second, before one floating Blackbird drifted into him and he pushed the man out of his way in disgust. "You rang?"
"The Crane did. They may be in trouble -"
"Owl and Swallow are with them. You okay, Raven?"
Dylan was certainly very white under the grey-tinted visor. "Yes, Commander."
"Cracked your head good?"
There was the sort of aborted nod which spoke louder than words, and an expression which could only be described as a grimace.
"You know the concussion drill. Stay with us. Eagle, can you keep an eye on him?"
Mark nodded, more than a little lost. He'd never been subordinate to Jason before. Heck, in a combat situation, he'd never been subordinate to anyone before. But there was no question that he was now. G-1 had arrived and stamped his authority on the situation. Just as he would have done.
"Do you know what the target was?"
He'd have given almost anything to be able to say 'yes' and demonstrate that he was still capable. Instead, he was forced to shake his head and speculate. "I'm guessing it's something under the orbit, and the station is a Trojan horse."
"The Swan thinks Rio, in ninety minutes."
"So we have to find a bomb, a missile, something?" Dylan queried.
Jason laughed, just briefly. "Their mecha was hanging off the Earthward side of the station when we showed up, with a giant satellite dish pointing straight down on the underside. We presumed it wasn't there to transmit Simpsons reruns. It's in pieces, and we just need to finish mopping up in here. How many Blackbirds did you account for?"
Mark sagged in embarrassment. "One."
"Two junctions back that way, short of a helmet, blonder than the Kite? He's on his way to the Phoenix brig."
Jason's matter-of-fact manner was about the only thing he could have handled, Mark decided as he watched his former second truss the Blackbirds neatly and efficiently, using a function he didn't remember the cablegun having. He said as much, when Jason paused.
"They've taken to going after things we can't afford to blow up." He grimaced. "And call me sentimental, but I don't much like killing in cold blood. Plus this way nobody tears strips off me for shooting first and asking questions later. They can ask their own stupid questions." He raised his bracelet. "G-3? Four more parcels for collection, this location."
"That's twelve." Keyop's voice was tinny from the bracelet.
"Two full squads," Jason acknowledged. "Likely to be all of them, but stay sharp. I'm heading for Control."
But he didn't move right away, and Mark belatedly realised just how much he must be hating this. Full combat with Blackbirds, in freefall. It was a wonder Jason was still functioning at all. He knew him far too well to comment, though, instead pointing down the corridor. "That way."
"Rabbit warren," Jason commented, moving off.
"Slowed them down chasing us, though." Mark indicated that Dylan should precede him, and the young man did just that, though his normal fluidity of movement was definitely missing. He knew his own was, too. Now that the adrenaline had slowed, all he could feel was exhaustion. This should have been the point where he stopped running on implant-enhanced speed and went back to normal, waiting to allow the implant to recharge only when it was convenient for him to let go. Instead, he was struggling with grinding physical exhaustion such as he'd rarely known. His newly rediscovered leg muscles had simply had enough. He followed along, gritting his teeth to keep going, only pride keeping him from admitting just how wrecked he was.
The control centre was occupied by over a dozen technicians, most half-invisible, their heads inside removed panels on consoles all round the walls in every possible orientation. Princess and the station commander were side by side, both focusing intently on the centre console. Princess had an eye on the door, though, and straightened up as they came in, addressing Jason.
"I've removed the last of their interference, Commander. ISO's getting normal telemetry now."
And then she stopped and stared at Mark, as completely thrown as he'd ever seen her. Not happy. Not angry. Just shocked.
He'd have given anything at all for her to come flying over to him the way she once had, raw delight at seeing him back in one piece overriding any sort of military decorum. She didn't. Not by instinct, not even after having looked and thought. He wasn't one of them any more. Acknowledging it still hurt, every time.
"Raven," the station commander asked, "is Commander Jarrald accounted for? And the rest of your team?"
Dylan froze, rabbit in headlights. At least it'll be interpreted as him not knowing and not having considered it, Mark thought, as Jason stepped in smoothly.
"Safe on the Phoenix."
Mark cleared his throat. "Someone took the security cameras out. We shouldn't leave them with a possible infiltrator still up here."
"Not an issue." Jason's expression was borderline smug. "Proclaiming to the rest of the station crew that they should defect to Spectra kinda gave him away, apparently. He's in the Phoenix brig along with all his little Spectran friends, gassed and sleeping sweetly. And we need to go. G-2, if you're done here?"
"I'm done. The cameras are on, I've run a full sweep scan, and a body heat check on the living quarters. We have all of them."
"Then...Commander..." The station head looked nervously from Jason to Mark, and replaced it with, "Commanders, no offence to the Raven's team, but we still have a whole lot of work to do up here..."
"And no time for trainees. We'll take them out from under your feet," Jason said, and Dylan stiffened visibly.
"Thank you. For everything. I...don't know what to say..." His gratitude was more than a touch embarrassing, and Jason waved it off.
"Forget it, it's our job. Next time, raise the alarm yourselves."
The man nodded, apparently unsure as to whether the Condor was joking, and Jason simply headed for the exit without so much as looking to see who was following him.
Judging by Jason's route, the Phoenix must be docked away from the Earth side of the station. He wasn't hanging about, either. Mark set his teeth and made himself keep up. He'd seen Princess have a quiet word with Dylan and then stay close to him, for which he was profoundly grateful. He needed all his concentration to keep his lack of condition from being entirely obvious to the station crew, now out in the station corridors checking, as far as he could see, everything down to the paint finish. They were hanging back, respectfully not staring, as the birdstyled group approached...but Mark could feel their eyes on his back once he'd gone past. He could all but hear their thoughts: that's the Eagle, and he hasn't been seen in months! Anything different now, any sign of weakness at all, one loyal crewman making a comment to a less loyal friend planetside, and he'd be the lead news item in half a dozen countries whose news services valued sensationalism over planetary security.
Conversely, the Eagle's reappearance at the heart of a major foiled Spectran infiltration could hardly have been a better cover for his absence. If only it were true. Mark calculated the distance to the docking bay in terms of seconds, set his teeth, and dug for every last scrap of energy he had.
The airlock, door already open wide, was one of the most welcome sights of his life. Too tired to even attempt a proper feet-first stop, Mark took most of his speed off with his arms and let himself hit the wall hard enough to have earned a reprimand from any zero-g tutor. Princess steadied him discreetly, then, obviously aware of their audience, gestured to Dylan to precede them into the airlock.
Jason was waiting in there with poorly concealed impatience, and as Mark dragged himself inside he slammed the hatch shut. "Gravity, G-5," he gasped into his bracelet.
Protocol demanded a gentle increase in gravity to give people a chance to orient themselves correctly and get their feet on the floor. This was exactly what happened, from nothing to just enough gravity to give a sensation of up and down, and at that point Jason abandoned all protocol and threw the inner airlock door open. He took one staggering step through the gravity gradient into the Phoenix before he ripped his helmet off to show himself a ghastly shade of greyish-green. Two desperate, unsteady breaths and he bolted out of sight, heading towards the Phoenix's basic facilities.
"I thought he was in a hurry," Princess commented. "Come, Raven. Helmet off, and the Owl can take a look at you."
"Is he sick?" asked Dylan hesitantly, removing his helmet as instructed. One hand went up to the left side of his head, and he rubbed it gingerly as he walked out of the airlock.
Princess's head tilted in a way Mark remembered well, her way of indicating amusement without rudeness. "No. Just the zero g. Now..."
The two of them turned the corner, going right where Jason had turned left, and Mark still hesitated in the airlock. Princess had left him, he was quite sure, out of some feeling that he should be given some privacy to come back onto the ship that had been his. But even in microgravity he was struggling, and he knew full well that once over the threshold the gravity field would be considerably stronger. Strong enough for those who could, to be walking normally. In all likelihood he couldn't even crawl in it. Dragging himself to the flight deck on his stomach would round off his humiliation nicely.
He'd just considered that Jason should be coming back this way, hopefully before anyone else came to check on him, when Dimitri appeared round the corner. A quick signal behind him, and Paula followed.
"It is set to one quarter g," the Russian told him. "Is it too much?"
"Yes," Mark admitted. Better those two than Keyop or Rick, at least.
"Then can we help?" He didn't wait for an answer, just positioned himself to one side of the airlock door, as Paula came to the other. Mark didn't give himself time to think about whether there was an alternative, put a hand on each of their shoulders, and stepped forward.
His first thought, as his legs bucked under him, was that this was some vicious joke, the gravity field set at nearer two gs than a quarter. His second, that Dimitri of all people would never do that, and his third to wonder what he had been thinking? He'd been in a wheelchair on Earth. He'd be back in the chair the moment they landed. He hadn't walked in several months, and it was going to be long weeks of rehab until he could come close to making an attempt. For a moment he seriously wondered whether the station commander would let him stay.
And then I'd never walk again. That was enough to keep him going. But even keeping up the illusion that he was doing anything other than being carried took all his effort. Mark barely processed that he was on the flight deck of the Phoenix for the first time ever without being in command. Not until he was helped into one of the fold-down passenger seats against the rear wall did he start to pay attention to his surroundings.
Nothing had changed. From the patched cracks in the wall plating, to the discoloured floor where they'd been flooded far too many times, she was old and battle-scarred. In the front right chair where he still felt he belonged, a red helmet and wings lined with white. Rick didn't even glance round. Mark wasn't surprised. In Rick's position, he'd have been pretending his predecessor didn't exist too.
Keep up that line of thought, and you'll be howling for your old job back before we've even undocked. Mark determinedly turned his attention to his current job. Force Two, training and analysis of, responsibility for. He'd done the training, and now was a perfectly good time to begin the analysis. Once he'd discharged his duty of responsibility.
"Straps," he said quietly to the young team members occupying the other seats. "And helmets." That was a perfect excuse for him to look down and take a stupidly long time adjusting his own. He didn't glance up again until Dylan took the seat next to him and fumbled his own seatbelt fastened.
"You okay?" Mark asked him.
The young man flushed. "Apart from seeing two of everything and the splitting headache, I'm fine. I'm sorry, Commander. I never saw them. Nor heard them."
"Blackbirds are good," Mark told him. "You took one out. That's more than I was expecting."
"Dylan took a Blackbird out?" Mark hadn't noticed Keyop at all, but there he was, seated at his station and avidly listening. Had the kid been warned off talking to him directly, he wondered, or did he just not want to? "More than Rick's done."
There was a snort of derision from the front right seat, but nothing more.
"Commander Jarrald faked him out," Dylan commented, keeping a wary eye towards the front of the flight deck. "I just kicked him in the head. Clear shot. The Kestrel could have done it."
"Kestrel, is it?" Princess turned around, flinched away from catching Mark's eye, and smiled at the girl alongside him. "Good choice, Jenny."
"Dylan came up with it, but I like it." She was sounding immeasurably happier now they were in gravity. That was a very good sign, Mark considered. Quick recovery was almost more important than whether you had a problem in the first place. The man striding back onto the flight deck now was the prime example of that.
Jason barely glanced at the audience sitting at the back of the flight deck, taking his seat with an easy flourish to avoid sitting on the wings of his birdstyle. A rapid glance at his console - not much for him to check on a flight going no further than an orbital platform - and he called for his team to sound off.
His team. Mark bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. Dammit, he'd accepted this! It wasn't supposed to still hurt. He shouldn't need to struggle not to react, to count the scratches on the floor. He should be able to sit and listen to G-Force doing nothing more exciting than boring, everyday pre-launch checks without wanting to shriek in frustration.
He knew these, bone-deep. Could have done them himself, now, blindfolded, even after all these months. Faster than Rick Shayler, too. And all of a sudden he felt a wave of empathy for another man who had returned to the Phoenix flight deck as a passenger. Don Wade had sat and stared at the floor just like this. Was this what he had felt: waves of desperate envy for the man sitting in that front right seat doing a job he felt was his? At the time, Mark had held nothing but contempt for the former member of G-Force. Now he understood only too well how Don had felt, and probably still did. And, indeed, why Rick was pretending his predecessor didn't exist. He wanted out and away from here. It felt like forever until the Kite confirmed his readiness and Jason gave the order to disengage.
"Roger," from Tiny. The vibration, deep beneath his conscious hearing, which told of the engines winding up to their operational level. And, for no reason he'd ever been able to explain, he knew the moment they'd disengaged from the station, just a fraction of a second before the Phoenix began to move away under her own power.
Dylan, beside him, was grinning like a loon. On his other side, three eager faces focused on how the experts did it. Mark just leant back into his chair, legs aching more than he'd thought possible, and sought distraction. Paperwork was all he had to look forward to. The reports he'd be writing on the four trainees, their readiness to be a real combat team - and their desperate need for an experienced fifth member.
They weren't five minutes out when Jason invited the trainees to come take a look at the systems. Dylan immediately headed up front, stood between the two pilots, and held an animated conversation in which he appeared to have more to say than the two of them put together. Dimitri was rapidly deep in discussion with Keyop, much more emphatic speaking his native Russian. Paula went over to Princess, Jenny beside her, and listened while the Swan pointed out some subtlety of the comms system. Jenny herself, turning away from a conversation she surely couldn't understand, froze, staring longingly at Jason's console and the mass of controls needed for interstellar jump.
And Jason noticed, flicked the switches to fire up the sensors, and leant back, the sardonic grin visible even at this angle.
"You're the calculator? Find me a jump-point and a solution."
She pointed nervously at the screen and then, when he did nothing more than zoom in on the area in question, started chanting numbers. It sounded wrong to him in any other voice than Jason's, and he had nothing to check them against. Jason, though, nodded approvingly and turned the screens off again, and Jenny made her way back to her seat, her face a mixture of delight and awe.
Forced concentration in the face of adversity was something he'd always been very good at - but at that point he was so jealous it hurt, and all he could do was to shut his eyes and force himself to remember the rules of English punctuation, and formal ISO report writing style. All the way down. By the time they dived into the ocean several miles out from ISO headquarters, he had memorised the most immaculate report Anderson would have ever seen.