"Come in, Mark," Nykinnen said in reply to his knock. "Sit down - do you know how good it is to be able to say that to you again? What can I do for you?"

Mark swallowed. All this time wanting nothing more than to be rid of this job...and now it was over. He handed the forms over. "I'm sorry, Commander. Officially, I'm being transferred to Team Eight."

"Unofficially? Or, should that be 'more officially'?"

Mark glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was shut. He rubbed his forehead, suddenly disbelieving that this could be happening. "I'll be taking command of G-Force back sometime in the next few weeks."

Nykinnen's jaw dropped visibly. "That's great news! Only...is Jason okay?"

And this would be why I wanted to be here in person. "No. No, he's not. Not hurt, but...command isn't for him. He's been having a rough time."

"Anything I can do to make it easier on the pair of you, you let me know." Nykinnen sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Can you bring Todd up to speed on what's in progress?"

"I'll do that next. But there are some things I have to bring you up to speed on first."

Nykinnen nodded slowly. "Fill me in. I take it this is black section stuff?"

"It is. You remember the application request from a chemist called Donald Wade? You need to know who he really is."

Nykinnen raised both eyebrows and put his coffee mug down to listen, and Mark told him the whole sorry story of the Hawk, G-Force's first mission, and, more than three years later, their eighty-fifth.

.

"Wow," was Todd's response to the news that Mark was leaving and why. "Commander, that's great. I don't suppose you know who'll be replacing you here?"

"No clue. Probably nobody just yet, because of the clearances involved. I'd see if I could get you some help from one of the other black section people, but to be honest I doubt any of them are going to have time to be in here for a while. You're going to have to go to Nykinnen if you're snowed under. On the bright side, if they're not in here, they don't need assignments."

"I can handle it." Todd waved at the desk, as always in complete order. "Though if you could sign a few things before you go...?"

It wasn't a big pile of things to sign, but Mark found himself dawdling over it. This little office had been part of his life for almost half a year now. It had, if he was honest with himself, saved him from self-destruction. He'd come in here and helped other people build their lives, even when he could do nothing about his own. It had given him purpose, authority, and a group of people who trusted the abilities he still had. And now he was going to have to start all over again in Team Eight, with minimal contact time and a bunch of people who had even less reason to take him seriously, because they were pilots and, as far as they knew, he wasn't and never had been.

"Oh, hell," he thought to himself, and only as Todd swung round from whatever he was doing at the filing cabinet did he realise he'd said it out loud.

"Commander? Everything okay?"

"Trying to figure out how the heck I make my cover story plausible at Team Eight without you and Nykinnen to cover for me. Especially when I'm barely going to have a spare hour over the next few weeks."

"Not my place to comment, Commander...but why do it now?" Todd closed the drawer and stood up, concern on his face. "I can cover for you here until you have time to maintain a cover operation somewhere else. Team Eight isn't up and running yet. I'll tell people you're getting ready to work there, Team Eight will think you're mostly working here, and everyone knows you still need to spend hours in rehab. Switch when life's a bit less hectic."

Mark groaned. "It's not that simple. Nykinnen needs someone doing my job. We both know you could do it, but ISO won't clear a corporal to be his exec. Not even a sergeant."

"I think we can cope for a couple of months." The door was opening, and Nykinnen stepped through and closed it behind him. "I came to ask if you had any recommendations for your successor, but Todd's right. Doing this now makes no sense. Unless you want out right away, of course."

Mark shifted in his chair. "I thought I did. Now..."

"We can do better. Let me tear up those forms. I'll second you to Team Eight as special advisor on disability rather than transferring you, we'll make sure they'll barely need you, and officially you can be mostly doing physical rehab. Not so very far from the truth, I suspect."

"If only." Mark leant back, feeling better. "I have a year of mission tapes to review. I have to get back on the flight simulators. Learning to walk without a stick is a luxury at the moment. Still...I'm going to take you up on staying here. Tear them up. I'll deal with Grant. I'm sorry to leave you both doing my job here...but I don't know who else you could have got in to do it anyway."

He glanced up at the clock, and flinched at how late it was. He needed to be back in black section. He hadn't talked to Jason yet. He hadn't flown a simulator of any kind in forever, and the only piloting he'd even thought about was when he'd put young North through his paces on the G-1 simulator a couple of weeks back. Not that either of them was going to need fast jet practice. Rick would be Force Two's jet pilot, and he suspected Tiny would be G-Force's. He was going to learn exactly what it felt like to be the one left behind on the ship. It was the only thing which made any sense.

"So get yourself back to black section and doing the things only you can do," Nykinnen said. "Major Grant's back in action? I'll talk to him about what we tell the Team Eight commander, if it isn't going to be the truth. And a word of advice, from someone who has absolutely never been where you are, but who has been thrown in at the deep end with a new command more than once. Don't burn yourself out. You can't review a year of missions in a day, or even a week. You're better off reviewing ten properly than glancing at a hundred. Unless you've developed Jason's photographic memory."

"I could so use that right about now." Mark sighed, standing up as smoothly as he could. "I appreciate this. I'll try to come -"

"You'll do nothing of the sort. I don't expect to see you here until you've caught up on everything you need to and there's been a smooth changeover. I mean it, Mark. For as long as there aren't enough hours in the day, we come last."

Mark grinned, and headed for the door. "Yes, Commander. I'll see you when I see you, then. There's no hurry to see Grant – I don't think he's even back on full duty yet."

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Nykinnen say, "And, while he's right that ISO wouldn't stand for a sergeant as executive officer of Team Seven, it's still past time you were promoted." The door clicked shut just too late to hide Todd's reaction, and Mark smiled to himself as he headed for the elevators to black section.

He was still glowing from his reacceptance as a full birdstyle operative at the front desk ("No need for that, Commander," he'd been told when he'd gone to sign in and collect a badge) and was heading for the internal elevators and his new-old quarters when Rick walked past, did a cartoon doubletake, and turned to match his slow pace.

"Mark, can I talk to you?"

"In private, I presume?"

"Yes...well, no. We - Force Two - could use your advice on something. Can you come to our ready room?"

Our ready room didn't sound like a major disaster and rejection of Rick as commander, at any rate. Mark said, "Lead on," and hoped Rick didn't go too fast. He had absolutely no idea where the Force Two ready room was.

Next door to the G-Force ready room, it turned out. Mark wasn't sure what had been in here before – he knew it hadn't been regularly used by people, he'd had noticed that. He thought it had been some sort of storage. It was square, rather than long and thin, but the basic elements were the same. Kitchen area, big comms screen, seating, bookshelves, table. View out towards the ocean, from two windows at the far side of the room. No ping-pong table, no drumkit.

"That was quick," said Dylan from over by the window. "Oh. Hello, Commander."

The other three turned to look - they'd been sitting side by side on the sofa with their backs to the door, and Rick cleared his throat in apparent embarrassment.

"I got cold feet. Or I thought we should get a second opinion. Take your pick."

His tone was relatively relaxed, though; the others were still smiling.

"Do I get an explanation?" Mark asked, moving to a chair.

"Sorry!" said Paula. "Sit! We, um, we're not happy with the designations we've been given. We don't think it's optimal. None of us."

For an instant Mark was taken back five years; in the room next door, with Jason ready to walk away completely. They'd sorted it then, themselves, and their solution had been far better than the proposed one. He couldn't begin to imagine not having had Jason as his second-in-command.

"Keep going," he said.

"I should be bottom of the pile," Jenny said, sitting forward, all serious and earnest. "In the only situation it would matter, me and Dylan the only ones left...it makes no sense for me to be telling him what to do."

"That's unlikely, though," Paula said, calm, professional reassurance in her tone. "What's more likely is that Dylan and I will end up paired doing infiltration or something at some point. It's only logical for him to be senior then. And him being the pilot isn't going to be an issue when we're not on the ship."

"Dylan?"

"Hell, I wanted command. I know it doesn't make sense, though. I'm a better big craft pilot than I am on jets, and Rick's the other way round. And he's got the experience." He grinned - forced, but it was there. "Maybe in four years it'll be me getting command of Force Three."

Lord, I hope not. Another four years of war? It'll be over by then - won't it? Mark just nodded, and moved on.

Dimitri jumped to his feet, proud and determined. "I feel that is as far as it should go. The second-in-command is going to have to make decisions while the ship is in combat. Also, a command team needs variety. Not two pilots. There are other aspects to be considered."

"'Mitri said it all," Rick said. "We've worked together before. I think we'll make a good team."

"So change it," Mark said. He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed Rick a pen. "You can write. Change it on the sheet."

"But Anderson -"

"You're going to have to face down a whole lot of people who are far scarier than Anderson if you want to command Force Two. And make tougher decisions than this. You want it changed, you change it. I'm not going to fight your battles for you."

"I don't expect you to." Rick deliberately pulled the sheet of paper towards him and began crossing out and writing. "You didn't laugh or tell us we were being idiots. That's enough confirmation for me. Just...do I have the authority to do this?"

"With your team behind you? Oh, yes."

He'd almost said too much, he realised. They were frowning, thinking it through, wondering how he could be so certain, and he wasn't prepared to explain.

"Was that it? If so, I recommend you go sort it right away."

"I will." Rick straightened up, paper in hand. He looked happier than Mark had seen him in a very long time. Command material? Well, if he wasn't, he was doing a darn good job of faking it. Force Two appeared to be viable. Now, could the return of the Eagle do the same for G-Force...?