The shield was up. She hadn’t been able to see in from the outside, but now she had a stunning panoramic view. Drawn, she crossed over to the controls. How would it feel, she wondered as she sat in his chair, to pilot something so huge, so powerful? She scanned the buttons and switches spread out before her. Was it any wonder he loved it? Even a woman who had always been firmly rooted to the ground could imagine the wild, limitless freedom of traveling through space. There would be planets, balls of color and light. The glimmer of distant stars, the glow of orbiting moons.
She liked to think of him that way, weaving through the stars the way he had woven through the trees with her on the cycle.
Libby took a last scan of the controls, then studied the computer. A little ill at ease, she glanced around the empty bridge before she leaned forward.
“Computer?”
Working.
She jolted, then swallowed a nervous laugh. There were two questions she wanted to ask, but only one she truly wanted the answer to. Because she believed in facing facts, Libby inhaled, exhaled, then plunged.
“Computer, what is the status on the calculations for the return journey to the twenty-third century?”
Calculations complete. Probability index formulated. Risk factors, trajectory, thrust, degree of orbit, velocity and success factors locked in. Is report desired?
“No.”
So he was finished. She’d known it, even when she’d tried to tell herself she had a few more days with him. He hadn’t told her, but she thought she understood why. Cal wouldn’t want to hurt her, and he would know, would have to know, how she felt. No matter how hard she tried to treat their relationship as a single moment in time, one based on passion and affection and mutual need, he had seen through her. He was trying to be kind.
She wanted to be glad for him. She had to be glad for him.
She took a minute to adjust, then asked what she had asked once before.
“Computer.”
Working.
“Who is Caleb Hornblower?”
Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired. Born 2 February, to Katrina Hardesty Hornblower and Byram Edward Hornblower. Place of birth Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Graduate Wilson Freemont Memorial Academy. Attended Princeton University, withdrew after sixteen months without degree. Enlisted ISF. Served six years, seven months. Military record as follows...
With her lips pursed, Libby listened to the readout of Cal’s military career. There was citation after citation—just as there was reprimand after reprimand. His record as a pilot was flawless. His disciplinary record was an entirely different matter. She couldn’t help but smile.
She thought of her father and his ingrained distrust of the military system. Yes, given a bit of time, she thought, he would have grown very fond of Cal.
Credit rating 5.8, the computer continued.
“Stop.” Libby heaved a sigh. She wasn’t interested in Cal’s credit rating. She’d pried far enough into his personal life as it was. Any other answers she wanted would have to come from him. And quickly.
Rising, she began to wander through the ship, looking for him.
It was the music that tipped her off. She heard it first, distant and lovely, with a vague curiosity. Something classical, with a kind of swelling passion. As she followed it, she tried to identify the composer.
She found Cal asleep in his cabin. The music filled the room, every corner of it, yet it was soft, soothing, seductive. She felt the tug, the almost irresistible urge to slip into the bed beside him, snuggling close until he woke and made slow, sweet love to her.
She shook it off. The music, she decided. Somehow it was comforting and erotic at the same time. Exactly the way his kisses could be. She wouldn’t let it influence her or let herself forget that she was angry with him.
Still, she took a picture of him as he slept, then slipped it, almost guiltily, into her pocket.
After leaning against the doorway, she lifted her chin. It was a deliberately defiant pose, and she enjoyed it.
“So this is how you work.”
Though she’d pitched her voice above the music, he went on sleeping. She considered going over and giving his shoulder a shove, then came up with a better idea. She slipped two fingers of her left hand into her mouth, inhaled, then blew out a sharp, shrill whistle, just as Sunny had taught her.
He came up in the bed like a rocket. “Red alert!” he shouted before he saw her smirking at him from the doorway. After leaning back against the cushioned headboard, he ran a hand over his eyes.
He’d been dreaming. Out in space, whipping through the galaxy, with the controls at his fingertips and worlds racing by hundreds of thousands of miles beneath him. She’d been there, right beside him, an arm wrapped around his waist, all the fascination, all the thrill of flying glowing on her face.