After a long minute punctuated by a series of retreating footsteps, Mark heard the side door close behind Tiny, and a few seconds after that the rear door opened. On the real Phoenix it led to the rest of the ship; in here it led to the observation room.

"With me, Commander," Anderson said.

Mark retrieved his stick from under the console and stood up carefully. The first five seconds, while his brain readjusted to something other than permanently sitting down, were always an exercise in balance. It was getting better, though. Three days ago it had been ten seconds, even with two sticks. Two days before that he'd still been using the wheelchair.

He walked across to Anderson as normally as he could, concentrating on every stride. "Where are we going?"

"Upstairs," Anderson said. "If you...?"

Another test? Is that why he wanted me out of birdstyle, because he knows it's been set up to give me as much physical support as possible? Mark mentally evaluated the staircase up to the observation room. Not too high, not too steep, and a good solid rail on the outside of the curve. "You go on ahead. I'll be with you in a minute."

Halfway up, he was forced to consider that maybe there was a reason stair climbing wasn't yet a part of his rehab exercises. Ten steps done and he was shaking and struggling. Not giving up, though. One hand on the rail, the other on his stick, leading alternate steps with alternate legs, he pushed himself upward one step at a time and forced himself to keep going when he reached the top. Anderson was over at the other side of the room, leaning over the consoles below the observation window, but he straightened up at the tap of Mark's stick on the wooden floor.

"Take a seat, Mark. How do you feel that went?"

Mark sagged into the nearest black leather chair, thankfully close to the top of the stairs. There wasn't anything he could say to explain his performance away. He didn't even try.

"Chief, I'm hopelessly out of date, both on Spectran tactics and our own capabilities. I should have taken that job in Control you kept trying to give me. My stupid mistake. Jason's doing just fine, and I'm the wrong man for the job."

Anderson's mouth twitched. "How about you let me do the analysis of what you should have done? What about what you did do?"

He shrugged. "Half the Academy seniors could have done it. It was that basic."

"And how would G-Force have reacted if I'd asked them to run a simulation commanded by an Academy senior?"

"They're pros. They'd have done their jobs."

Anderson sighed. "Let me show you something, Mark. I didn't drag you up here because I'm a complete sadist." He reached across the console and pressed a button, and a big screen over at the far end of the room slowly unrolled itself downwards. As the whine of the motor cut out, the ISO logo appeared and sharpened to full focus, with the black slash signifying top secret information across it, and the main lights dimmed.

"G-Force do not know that this information exists," Anderson said. "It stays in this room. These are the recordings from the stress monitors in the simulator's chairs. I've put up the last three runs, not including today."

The screen flickered and cleared to show fifteen basic line graphs, five rows of three, with the five current G-Force codenames down the side. Mark knew very little about such things, but he couldn't believe that being up in the top, red, section of the graph was a good thing. Jason's line spent much of the time flat against the top of the graph. Rick's wasn't much better, and even the other three had frequent spikes in the red and mostly oscillated within in the orange central section. The only line which ever dropped into the green significantly was Tiny's.

Mark didn't need to comment. He took them in, and then turned to Anderson, wondering what came next.

The image on the screen changed again. This time, just four graphs and a gap at the bottom.

"This is today's," Anderson said.

These graphs started off in the red, but rapidly dropped to oscillate between orange and green. Sure, there were some spikes, but there was no question that this showed a far happier team. At the end, every graph showed a steady green line.

"Wow," said Mark. "Are you sure the calibration's right?"

"We're sure. As you can see, everyone was tense initially - it's been nearly a year since you commanded them. There's a clear drop in stress levels as soon as the simulation started. Stress monitors don't lie. Like you said, they're pros. To outward appearances there's nothing different between this run and a thousand they've made with Rick. In terms of the strain they are under? There's no comparison. Jason in particular - look what happens every time you give an order."

The top graph certainly did contain a number of marked inverse spikes, dropping right down into the green.

"We've known we needed to make a change of commander for a while," Anderson said. "I'll be honest - you are very far from the first choice physically. But this...this overrides the physical issues. Provided you are prepared to take the risk, of course. It's your call."

Mark shook his head. "It's their call. I don't think they're going to want someone who has no idea that Spectra's massively reduced the time before they go to self-destruct, or even what the Phoenix's current capabilities are."

"If you'd overruled Jason, I'd agree entirely. The moment he let you know there was something you were missing, you stepped aside and let him handle it."

"But -"

"Mark, do you want me to recommend that you resume command or don't you?"

That was the sort of relaxed assumption of his capabilities which Mark had missed more than he'd believed possible, and he abruptly had to clear his throat. "Of course I do! But it has to be what the team wants too. We're talking about replacing the commander of G-Force with a cripple."

Anderson flinched visibly at the crude term, but his voice was calm. "You're getting less disabled by the day," he said. "Of course we'd prefer you to be fitter than you are now, but it's coming back. We can all see that."

Mark nodded slowly, still considering those graphs. Calm green lines told a story which was finally starting to untangle the self-doubt in his chest. Yes, they really were happier with him in the co-pilot's seat than Rick. Yes, Jason really would rather take orders than give them. The only thing missing from the picture was the fifth graph.

"Chief? Did you have me wired up too?"

"I wondered if you'd ask that." Anderson did something to the console, and the blank space at the bottom of the screen was filled. This graph oscillated a lot more wildly than the others, and spent a significant amount of time in the red - mostly at times when the others were in the green.

"You were a lot more worried about this run than anyone else was," Anderson said. "We hadn't expected anything else. Once it started, you settled. Giving orders didn't worry you. A bit of a blip when you considered sending Jason out on an infiltration, but it settled right back to green the moment you gave the order . And then a big spike and a high stress plateau towards the end. I take it you hadn't encountered tractor lines before?"

"Never heard of them," he admitted.

"There will be other things. Your team knows about them and will doubtless tell you when you should use them. Reacting the way you did then, letting Jason take over when he was the one with the expertise, is ideal. Now, shall we go join the group debrief?"

.

Going down the stairs was even worse than coming up. Mark fought his way down, one step at a time, leaning heavily on the implant for extra strength, and reminding himself that even a couple of days earlier he couldn't possibly have done this. He did his best to ignore Anderson, who had gone down the stairs two at a time and now stood waiting, watching his slow and painful process with an unreadable expression.

"Changed your mind?" was only thing he could think of to say when he finally reached the bottom, knees trembling and calf muscles on fire.

"Remembering that last week the rehabilitation specialists told us it would be a full month until you could manage a flight of stairs."

Not that they'd told him that, of course. Mark felt the knot of stress release a little more. Provided he could stay ahead of the rehab curve, things should work out. Should. The past year had taught him, painfully and repeatedly, that he should never, ever make assumptions.

.

Briefing room one was almost full. Mark's initial impression was of a sea of faces turning towards the door as it opened, and no spaces at the table at all. In fact, there were two. The seat at the far end of the huge oval table, Anderson's, was one. Nearer to the entrance was a space between Rick and Dylan, and Mark moved to that, murmuring "hi" as he sat down. He hadn't anticipated this. G-Force plus Anderson, Ivanov and Johnson, that was who he'd thought would be present. Instead, all the Force Two candidates were also here, as well as every senior decision-maker. Even Major Grant, though the man looked like death warmed over. And Samuels, the psychiatrist. Mark's newfound optimism shrivelled. Had Anderson given him his full support as a sop, knowing that the decision was going to go the other way?

Either side of the head of the table would normally have been G-Force's commander and second, but today it was Ivanov and Johnson, and then the other senior staff. The two teams filled the remaining seats. Rank order? G-Force was arranged that way, with Tiny next to Rick. If Force Two thought they were sitting in order, Mark suspected they might be in for a shock. Though it wouldn't have been the end of the world for him if that was how it went down. Commander of Force Two, with young North as his second? He could handle that.

"I'm aware this isn't exactly the debriefing some of you were anticipating," Anderson said as he reached his seat. "Nor is it the lecture others had been told to expect. This is a discussion on the future of our elite teams. We now have ten birdstyle operatives. That should equate to two active teams."

"Is Mark really ready?" Grant asked, and all eyes turned on him.

Crunch time. Mark stood up as casually as he could manage, one hand on the arm of the chair, but absolutely not leaning on the table. "No, I'm not," he said calmly. "I can't fight, I can't run, and I doubt I can fly anything with foot controls. Not yet, though my fitness is improving by the day. But I can command whenever you want me to."

There was movement to his right. Jason, also on his feet. "I'm resigning, effective immediately, as commander of G-Force. That should make the decision about when a whole lot easier."

"Jason..." Princess's tone held sadness, but no real hint of protest.

"I'm a crap commander. I'm one hell of a good second, and I can lead any infiltration Mark orders just fine. We don't need a discussion. Put G-Force back the way it used to be, give Rick command of Force Two, and we're sorted."

Beside him, Rick choked. Jason sat back down as if nothing had happened, and Mark took his own seat again in lieu of anything better to do. He might have guessed Jason would have something dramatic in mind. That was stunningly blunt, though.

"Let me get this straight, Condor," Grant said, sarcasm dripping. "You're seriously suggesting we appoint a physically handicapped commander of G-Force, and the Academy prankster as commander of Force Two."

"You have a better idea? Let's hear it."

"I think we should hear Rick's comments first," Ivanov said.

Rick stood up, hands clenched in a way Mark suspected he hadn't realised was visible, and his face scarlet. It could have been embarrassment or anger, or just nerves. It was impossible to tell. The Kite blushed ridiculously easily. An occupational hazard of being blond, Rick had said once. He'd called it an inverse poker face.

"I offered my resignation to Jason some time ago. I'll be honest - we discussed command of Force Two then. I've been observing what he does ever since. I think I can handle it. At least enough to cope until I have some firsthand experience."

"The Academy prankster who has modelled himself on the Condor's command style." Grant sat back in his chair, wearing an expression of resigned disbelief. "Heaven help us all."

From the way his left hand was twitching, Mark wasn't at all sure Rick believed it himself either. Which made him a far better candidate for commander, in Mark's opinion. Overconfidence got you dead.

And then the hand tightened in decision, and Rick turned to him. "I could sure use some tips from the Eagle too. Get a second opinion on what the alternatives might have been sometimes, and why they weren't the best plan."

Because they didn't involve blowing something up, if I know Jason. Mark just nodded. "I can do that. I'm going to need to go through a lot of mission tapes anyway. I'm a year out of date on Spectran tactics."

On his other side, Dylan cleared his throat. "Um...where do the rest of us stand? I mean, are you activating us as Force Two? Now?"

Anderson looked to his left and to his right, and the senior staff nodded in turn. Even Grant. All except one.

"You know I can't give Mark a medical combat clearance yet," said Chris Johnson. "I will not sign off on him flying missions until he's fit."

Anderson came as close to rolling his eyes as Mark thought he'd ever seen. "That's not the issue now. I'm asking about Force Two."

Chris nodded slowly. "I'm happy with Force Two."

"Thank you," Anderson said. "So, we have our second team. Kite, you will command and your designation will be G-6. The rest of you...well, we have discussed this extensively. Our basic rule has always been that the pilot of the main ship should not have to make command decisions at the same time. Raven, this means that your designation will be G-10."

Dylan's jaw clenched visibly, but he nodded in acceptance.

"Osprey, you have far and away the most experience of the remaining operatives. You will be the Kite's second in command."

"Thank you, sir," Dimitri said solemnly. "I will not let you down."

"Crane, you will be our G-8. You've observed a considerable number of missions from the controller's side of the desk. You heard your commander mention his lack of first hand experience. We expect you to make sure he doesn't repeat mistakes G-Force made before he joined them."

Paula took a steadying breath. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we can ask. Now, Kestrel..." His eyes fell on Jenny, who looked at the table. "You can guess what I'm going to say. You are desperately short on experience, your hand to hand combat isn't up to standard, your piloting is barely adequate, you are fourteen years old, you are short on fitness, speed and strength, and your physical potential is limited by the fact you are female. Unfortunately, apart from the Condor, you're the only jump-calculator we have."

"Sorry, sir." It came out almost as a whisper.

"You will be the limiting factor on your team going operational. We need you to be a reliable enough pilot to be left alone on the ship. We simply don't have the luxury of leaving the Raven behind."

"I understand." If anything, that was even quieter.

"You will be working extensively with the Raven and the Owl on the flight simulators. This cannot, of course, be at the expense of your other training. We need to see a significant improvement within two weeks."

This time, she nodded silently, and Mark felt a twinge of sympathy. He'd been through that sort of crash training course himself, shortly before G-Force had gone active. The kid was in for two weeks of exhausting hell. Probably followed by another two weeks just the same. The worst of it was that he could do with sitting in on some of it himself. He'd never been more than a barely adequate Phoenix pilot, but G-Force wasn't going to have the luxury of leaving the Owl behind either. He caught Jenny's eye as she glanced unhappily away from the head of the table and tried to look encouraging.

"That's the timescale we are working with. Condor, Kite, I'm not accepting either of your resignations right now. G-Force stays as it is while the Eagle gets up to speed. And, yes, Doctor, until you consider him sufficiently fit."

"I'm not -" Jason started.

Anderson was on his feet, leaning forward with both hands on the desk, as close to losing it as Mark had ever seen him. "We do not have time for your theatrics, Jason! Or for your politics and attempts to manipulate me. We expect a massive Spectran attack any day, quite possibly on several fronts. We have no idea where they will strike next. We simply cannot take a week off at this point to play teambuilding. You will stay active, as you are now, until Mark is ready to rejoin the team. Is that clear?"

Jason paused, sitting very straight, then nodded slowly. "Yes, Chief."

"Eagle, you are reassigned to black section as of now. Major Grant will speak to you after this meeting."

.

Grant's office was, as it had always been, immaculate. Clear, polished wood desk, not a coffee mug in sight, nor a loose piece of paper. The files on the shelf behind the desk were neatly labelled and alphabetised, and the books on the shelf above them appeared to be sorted in order of size. Even the cactus on the windowsill was perfectly symmetrical, standing in its own neat little gravel tray.

"So," Grant said as he sat down in the chair behind the desk - rather heavily, Mark thought - "we need to discuss more mundane matters. You have to give up the Team Seven job immediately. All your effort has to go into getting back up to speed here."

"I can do that," Mark said. "Nykinnen knows that this might happen. I just need to go tell him. My cover story -"

"Is that you have been assigned as special advisor to Team Eight."

"Eight?"

"The new remote control fighter squadron. We have a number of extremely good pilots who will never fly for real again due to combat injuries. We'd thought you might be one of them, if we could find a way to explain how someone who never went near a simulator in Team Seven had suddenly become a good pilot. As it is, they'll have to manage without you doing more than making a few comments about wheelchair accessibility. You won't have time. You need to start work in here this afternoon, and we'd prefer if you stayed close, given your...current lack of foot speed. I believe your old quarters are available, if you can manage the stairs."

"Now?"

"Is that a problem? I planned to assign a couple of my people to clear out your quarters and move everything up here this afternoon."

Mark nodded, after a brief moment of panic about whether he'd left anything unfortunate lying about. He didn't think so. He'd been a whole lot more careful since Jason had shown up on his doorstep out of the blue. Not that he exactly went in for embarrassing...but used underwear on the floor wasn't exactly the sort of cool, competent image he wanted to project.

"I need today, though," he said. "I won't drop Nykinnen in it, not after all this time. I need to tell him what's happened in person, and there are also a couple of things he needs to be aware of. Who Don Wade is, for one. And all the subtleties in young North's schedule. Give me a day to clear my desk, and tomorrow morning I'll be ready to watch film. Or whatever else you have in mind."

Grant drummed his fingers on the desk. "Let me see, Commander. When's the last time you flew a Phoenix simulator? No, scratch that. When's the last time you did whirlwind pyramid in gravity? As far as I'm concerned, that's the absolute minimum physical capability you have to have, and there's no way Dr Johnson will give you a medical clearance with anything less. We'll start tomorrow at ten in the simulator, since there's no point your even trying whirlwind pyramid just yet. Here are the keys to your quarters, and your transfer paperwork."