He'd intended to be early, but by the time he'd washed, eaten, struggled into his clothes, a ridiculous amount of time had passed. It was nearer to ten than nine by the time he finally knocked on Nykinnen's office door the next morning.

"You didn't change your mind, then." Nykinnen indicated a teetering pile of folders on the corner of his desk. "That lot's going to be yours. Still sure you want to do paperwork?"

"I'm sure." Well, sure given the parameters of what was on offer, at any rate.

"Then I'll say this once only. Any time you change your mind and decide to go do something that needs the Eagle, you tell me and go. No hard feelings. I'll cook up a believable reason for why you've gone. That said, we have some things to discuss. Coffee? Do you still drink decaf?"

Well, he did, but... "I guess I don't have to."

"You should take advantage and try the real thing while you can." Nykinnen swivelled round on his chair to face the worksurface under the window where a coffee percolator was dripping away merrily, vying for space with heaps of loose papers, box files, folders, ringbinders and manuals. "How do you drink it?"

"Black, no sugar." It had been white and sugared not so very long ago, but that had been before going to a shop to buy supplies had become something to be dreaded, requiring every shred of concentration if he wasn't to collapse in the street.

Nykinnen presented him with a mug, and Mark sipped at it suspiciously, trying to ignore the warning prickles from his implant that told him this contained a drug. He found it interesting that that was still working. He guessed it was functionality that didn't need the disabled power boost from the implant. At any rate, he found it reassuring. Something still worked the way it should. And it did taste good.

"So," Nykinnen said. "Currently we have forty-seven people on the books of Team Seven as active security officers. Of these, twenty are new Academy graduates on an orientation course and don't come in until Monday. Eight are new transfers from various UN forces, and four are only here for appearances. At least three-quarters of them consider it a personal insult that they were assigned here at all, and they sure as hell aren't going to want to do the basic level courses which are what they need. Nobody ever wants to do language courses, with the exception of Spectran immersion which everyone wants to do. That one's so oversubscribed it's by recommendation only, but it doesn't stop people trying to put themselves on it. The fighter jet courses are in a similar state, except that people are allowed to apply for that one but we're supposed to try to persuade them not to if they're not up to it. And there are a few people who seem incapable of passing basic flight, and will try anything to have a timetable which rules them out of taking it again."

"Oh, man."

Nykinnen grinned. "Did I put you off yet? It's not as bad as it sounds - I was doing it all myself until the powers that be decided to give us twenty new graduates all at once. And I'll give you Sanderson - he's been my assistant for a few months, he knows the ropes. Plus he's ex black section security, so he knows who you are."

Mark frowned. "He went from black section security to Team Seven? What did he do?"

"All I know is that he decided it wasn't for him. No black marks on his record, but it still made rather a mess of his career prospects, and he landed up here for the same reason most people do: he couldn't get anything else."

"So you've put me into his job?" The last thing Mark needed was an assistant bitter at being looked over for promotion.

"No. He's a corporal, and the powers that be took a look at the rank structure here and decided that even on a training team there should be more than one person ranked higher than Lieutenant. Which reminds me - I've put in for your promotion, but since you officially need it to hold the post, you're getting a somewhat irregular field commission right now." Nykinnen handed across a set of insignia. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander."

Mark took it, and only then the realisation struck. "Commander, I'm sorry. I'm not in uniform. I don't even know where mine are."

"I think I can forgive you that, on your first day." Nykinnen stood up. "Come meet the team."

#

"People," Nykinnen's voice cut through the chat in the common room, and there was a general jumping to attention. "At ease. I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Jarrald, my new executive officer. He'll be in charge of Team Seven's training requirements from now on."

Almost all the people in there were strangers to him. Mark very belatedly considered that many of them were older than him. They mostly looked surprised. He'd have been surprised too, to be presented with a new senior officer younger than he was and in a wheelchair to boot. On the faces of those he already knew, though, Mark read all the shocked disbelief he could have wanted.

"Mark?" Dave O'Leary, someone who he couldn't quite believe was still in Team Seven, asked him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"That would be 'what the hell happened to you, sir'," Nykinnen corrected him, but with more than a hint of amusement in his voice. "Mark, I'll leave you to catch up. Dave, can you take him through to see Sanderson and Andianov when you've made introductions? I have a meeting now, but I'll be back in this afternoon. Any questions, just shout."

Mark's "Yes, Commander" was instinctive. And then Nykinnen was gone, and he was in a room almost entirely full of strangers with all eyes on him, where his pedigree was as a Team Seven lieutenant who'd vanished without warning six months earlier.

"Question stands. Mark, what the hell? Do you have any idea how long I was quizzed about where I'd taken you? I spent six months thinking I was the last person to see you alive. I'm sure Nykinnen wondered if I'd dumped your body in a ditch somewhere."

He'd forgotten that O'Leary was the one he'd cadged a lift to the station from. At the time he'd not considered, and wouldn't have cared if he had, that his carefully dropped comment about a trip to Washington, when proved to be false, would have O'Leary's integrity brought into question.

"Dave, I'm sorry. I'd just had some seriously bad news. I needed to get away somewhere I couldn't be found, I was about to call a cab, and there you were. I didn't think what it would mean for you when I vanished."

"Bad news that put you in that chair?"

"Yup." Mark took a shaky breath, and slipped back into his old, familiar Team Seven persona. Open, friendly, laid-back. "It's a neurological problem. They've stopped the decline, but..." He shrugged, and indicated the chair.

"Shit. Permanent?"

"They're not sure yet."

"Oh, man. So you get a promotion and a desk job? That sucks. Anyway, who don't you know?"

Mark ended up being introduced to eight people who'd joined in the previous six months and another six who he'd barely known, if indeed their paths had ever crossed, and started to appreciate Nykinnen's insistence on uniform. Uniforms had names on, and in an international organisation, some of the names were downright tongue-twistingly unmemorable.

"So, you want to come see your new office?" Dave asked eventually.

"I have an office?" It hadn't occurred to him that he'd get anything other than a desk in the corner of the main room.

"Well...yesterday evening you had a walk-in cupboard full of old Team Three flightplans. If you're real lucky, 'Mitri and Todd have got rid of the junk by now. But I wouldn't get too excited about it."

He crossed to the long alcove leading off the main area of the room which contained a double wall of lockers, and Mark belatedly realised there was a door at the end, painted the same colour as the walls. He didn't remember ever seeing it opened, and said so.

"There's a second entrance onto the corridor, but the commander thought using this one made more sense, since most people would be going in from here. Todd was running round half an hour ago asking which department did door handles." He tapped on what was, indeed, a handleless door, and it opened to reveal an empty cube of a room, ten feet in all directions, white walls battered from its previous role, a bare lightbulb hanging in the centre. Holding the door was Dimitri Andianov, and behind him an older man whose face did seem vaguely familiar.

"Dimitri, Todd, this is Lieutenant Commander Jarrald," Dave said with some attempt at formality. "Commander, Lieutenant Andianov and Corporal Sanderson."

Mark locked eyes with Dimitri, mentally crossed his fingers that Dave hadn't suddenly become a crack linguist in the past six months, and switched to Russian. "Of course, you should know me from ISO Russia. Good to see you again, Dimitri."

"You too, Mark," Dimitri responded in English. "This is Todd."

The other's eyes were wide as he held out his hand for Mark to shake. "Commander Jarrald, it will be an honour to work with you, sir."

Mark grinned to break the tension - Todd was obviously responding to the Eagle, not to a new Lieutenant Commander, and that wasn't the world's best idea. "You'll be sick of me inside a week. And call me Mark, unless it needs to be formal."

"Yes, sir," he replied, and Mark sighed inwardly. This might take some work.

"If this is an office, it's short on the fundamentals."

Dimitri pulled a handful of papers from his pocket. "I'm afraid it never has been an office, although that was its intended purpose. So it does have power, and network connections. We have removed the contents to be stored elsewhere, there is a carpet fitter coming at eleven, and some furniture for this afternoon. And a computer terminal, which I hope I have set up correctly. You may want to have Lieutenant Shayler check it, when he is available. It is not my specialty."

"Sounds like you've got it covered," Mark said, impressed.

Dimitri fiddled with the paper and extracted a keycard, which he handed over. "You have temporary quarters in apartment one of Heron block. There was a box with the contents of your old locker in storage, and it has been sent there. Also," he handed over another piece of paper, "if you can sign this, I can arrange the same for the contents of your previous quarters. I'm afraid they wouldn't release them to my signature alone." His eyes darted to Todd, fiddling with the door handle, and to Dave's retreating back as he headed back into the main area of the commonroom, and he signed, Can we talk?

"Heron?" Mark queried out loud. "I don't remember that one."

"It is a new building. Shall I show you? The office where I must take the release form is on the way there."

"Lead on."

Dimitri opened a second door, and Mark followed him out into the corridor and along towards the part of ISO where the administrative offices were situated.

#

Heron block turned out to be on the eastern, seaward side of the main complex, one of three similar blocks recently put up to accommodate the ever-expanding numbers of ISO personnel needed for the war effort. A bland, featureless square box, four rows of identical windows. Mark felt a sudden pang of longing for his cabin at the airfield. What had become of it? He had no idea, and its gravel surround and the two steps up to the door meant he was unlikely to find out any time soon. Maybe Jason would know.

Apartment one was on the ground floor, at the far end of the block from the main door. Mark inserted the keycard in a slot which would have been awkwardly low for anyone standing on their own two feet, and then got himself in a horrible tangle trying to push the door open and move the chair forward at the same time. He felt himself flush as Dimitri came to the rescue, silently pushing the door wide and holding it while Mark used both hands to get his chair inside. There had to be a method for doing that.

"Sir," Dimitri said as he closed the door behind them. "Commander Nykinnen told me that black section authority does not yet know that you are taking this job. I'm sorry, but I need to know what I am supposed to say. I am not comfortable with lying to authority."

"I understand." Mark would have patted the younger man reassuringly on the back, if he'd been able to reach. "Don't worry, Dimitri. I'll call them in a few minutes and make this official. I appreciate what you've done, and that you didn't say anything yesterday."

"Thank you. There is one other thing - Lieutenant North."

"North?" Mark searched his memory. "He's the new jump-pilot, right?"

"He is. Commander Nykinnen spoke to me about him last night. He is concerned about him being here, newly implanted and so very young. He has been away at the Rigan flight academy for the past month, and since we believe he does not know who you are, we wondered if you might keep it that way for now. To see whether he is being as discreet as he needs to be."

Mark nodded. "I can do that - though he may well have heard my name."

"If he has, we have lost nothing. And you are rarely referred to by surname inside black section. Many people are called Mark."

"I certainly don't see any need to tell him who I am. Was." Dammit, he was going to have to get his brain round this somehow. "What's he like?"

"He is very skilled, and very young." Dimitri smiled ruefully. "He will do well. In any case, Commander, I should be getting back, not leaving Todd to work alone. Do you have everything you need?"

Mark hadn't so much as considered the room yet, but he nodded anyway. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Dimitri. You've made a hard day much easier. I appreciate it."

#

'Apartment' was a polite term for what was little more than a large room with a bathroom. Mark wheeled himself into the centre, looking around and trying not to flinch at the obvious design for disabled occupants. Everything was low. Handles to get onto the bed. There was no question he could cope alone in here - once he'd figured out how to get through the door on his own - but it didn't stop him hating the necessity for the extra facilities.

He flicked the TV on, and was rewarded with a news channel. Shots of the Phoenix firing on a giant mecha apparently based on some sort of amoeba/jellyfish creature, with little effect. Mark flinched, then blanked the screen, biting his lip hard. He was going to have to get used to this. He couldn't hide from it completely. The war was not going to go on hold while he recovered.

The main room faced out towards the sea, which was better than overlooking the car parks. There were cooking facilities in the corner - not that he particularly cared, the ISO canteen was close enough that cooking for himself would be unnecessary. That was one advantage over the airfield, he supposed. He still opened the cupboard and peered inside. Dimitri had been at work here too - a box of basic supplies. He would add some real coffee to them as soon as he had the chance.

There was a more battered box on the bed, labelled with his name in someone else's writing, which Mark frowned over until he opened it. This would be the belongings from his old Team Seven locker which Dimitri had mentioned. Not much of use, but there was a Team Seven uniform jacket in there. Mark shook it out, replaced the lieutenant's insignia with the new version Nykinnen had given him, and hung it over the back of a chair. Half a uniform, at any rate.

There was a folder lying beside it on the bed, which he flicked through - information on the TV system, the computer terminal, the phone system, how to apply to use a pool car, which side of the road to drive on. All those things which new arrivals at ISO USA might need to know. Irrelevant to him.

There wasn't much else. Bathroom - standard, apart from handles everywhere, and some kind of motorised lifting seat to get into the bath. Mark wrinkled his nose in disgust, quite sure he could cope without it. Coathooks a foot lower than he felt they ought to be. A desk, a sitting area, cupboards, a motorised curtain to screen off the alcove containing the bed should he want to, in the same blameless geometric pattern as the curtains at the windows. A bookcase, empty apart from a small pile of manuals and some remote controls.

He couldn't put it off any longer. Mark steadied himself before picking up the phone and dialing. "Chris?"

"Mark? Do you have a problem?"

"No. The opposite. I'm discharging myself. I'll be working with Team Seven, and living on site. You can get me on this number, if you need to."

There was a long pause, and then Chris said, "Mark, it's your call. I very much recommend you stick with the rehab, though."

"I plan to."

"And - we're here, if you need us."

What I need is to be treated like a capable adult again. He didn't say it. It could gain him nothing, except possibly to make Chris think he wasn't fit to make his own decisions. All he said was, "I'll be seeing you," and he put the phone down.

There. It was done. He was quite sure that recriminations would follow. Anderson would be furious, Ivanov resigned. He suspected he'd just put himself below even Jason in Grant's approval. Jason himself - Mark simply didn't know. The rest of the team, even less. He had a horrible suspicion that they would be relieved. It was six months now. Rick was a solid member of the team, Jason secure in his command. Even had everything worked out, did they need him any more? If he was honest with himself, he couldn't see why. His time with G-Force was over. Now he had to get himself fit, get back on his feet, and then he could go back to Anderson and find out whether the Eagle was needed somewhere other than in a control room. Maybe even follow his father into the Rigan Red Rangers. Mark couldn't restrain a grin at the thought of flying one of those red jets.

And first and foremost on that list was getting fit. Mark reached for the phone again, and dialed the number Tariq had given him.

"Tariq? It's Mark Jarrald here. If you have a free slot, I'd like to take you up on your offer."

The other didn't sound surprised - had Chris been talking to him again? "I'm free now. Do you want to come over?"

"Now would be great." Mark clicked the phone back into the receiver, took a last quick look round his new home, and headed for the door.