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Thanks be to all who've read. A little insight into our main man Jace that should answer a few questions in this chapter.
Also - to help keep things clear...
UTD - United Tactical Defense, with an Army division (ground forces) and AIr Force (where the pilots come from, and BP patrols).
BP - Border Patrol. Patrols assigned certain sectors - or quadrants - of the Milky Way to seek out any potential invading Mureks.
Also - to help keep things clear...
UTD - United Tactical Defense, with an Army division (ground forces) and AIr Force (where the pilots come from, and BP patrols).
BP - Border Patrol. Patrols assigned certain sectors - or quadrants - of the Milky Way to seek out any potential invading Mureks.
Ch. 1
four years later
General Kyle Anderson tossed the file onto the top of his dark mahogany desk with the glass-like finish, and leaned back in his chair until it groaned. He drummed the fingers of both hands against the rim for a moment as he stared at the dark brown manila folder with the name at the top reading Quincy, Jason. Then he averted his gaze to the digital clock on the wall over his office door.
Seven-forty nine. Another eleven minutes and the subject within the folder would be appearing in the flesh. Anderson wasn't looking froward to it. He felt like he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, and that wasn't exactly a fair assessment in regards of this kid. Anderson flipped the folder back open to the first page for the ninth time since coming to his office.
Jason Quincy – his birth-date would put him at thirty-six or thirty seven. Six feet tall, hair brown, eyes labeled as being green brown, and a pilot ranked first class and highly recommended. Field experience, Asp experience, and made squadron and team leader on more than one occasion due to that experience and his exceptional tactical skills. So on and so forth. All this wasn't listed on the first page. The first page was always dedicated to the subject's physical appearance, health status, and current posting or residence.
Quincy's file was cut and dry military perfection except for the last page. The last page of any file was reserved for 'minor' concerns involving conduct and potential reasons to be worried about the subject's mental health. Being cautious was all good and well, but whoever wrote these things did so with a stick up their butt. Anal, that was the word. The people who organized these files were anal. Colonel Antony Simmons had said as much the other day during lunch in a less than decent way.
“ You can't listen to those evaluations,” Simmons had said, tilting almost precariously back in the black plastic chair. The day had been nice – clear and cool with a strong enough breeze to make the lapels of Anderson's jacket to flip up. They'd been sitting at one of the outside tables at O'Conner's bar and grill. Not exactly Anderson's first choice for a meeting spot to discuss Border Patrol matters. When it came to business, Anderson tended to go by the book and handle it all in an office or on base. But it was Simmons calling the shots that day. The Colonel refused to set foot in any kind of an office the moment he was earth side.
Not that Anderson was going to complain. He could be lenient around Simmons. The two went way back to boot camp days. The rest of the time it was by the book to keep the subordinates in line.
Anderson had finished his lunch of steak and a baked potato, and pushed the plate away for the waitress to take later. He could feel Simmons staring at him, and smirking. The man had a grin like a feral cat sighting the mouse. Tall, lean, with broad shoulders, a bald head, cool gray eyes, and a scar running ragged down the side of his face – Simmons could have easily been mistaken for an escaped serial killer than the head of the fifth 'Border Patrol' command. Simmons intimidated those who deserved it, but between him and Anderson, his appearance was an inside joke. Beneath the weathered soldier exterior was a man so easy going it was a continuous shock he was even military. It was rumored that he never raised his voice. When he wanted results, he glowered, glared, and never said a word.
Anderson had taken a drink from his glass of iced-tea before responding. “ They're there for a reason.”
Simmons had snorted, shaking his head and letting his arms dangle back. “ To make us all paranoids and to make the favorites of the brass stand out.” Simmons leaned forward and let the legs of his chair slam down. “ Have you looked into the incident? I mean really looked? Because I have. And I met Quincy. Yeah, granted briefly during transfer, but brief's plenty of time for me. Nice guy, Quince, and one hell of a pilot. More than that, he's a people person. You either like him or you don't and he doesn't care either way. At least that's the impression I got.”
“ So you don't buy into what's been said about the Rodella incident?”
Simmons had folded his hands on top of the table, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “ Hell no. Like I said, I've talked to people, including members of his old Squad. Their replies were the same as in the reports. The kamikaze run was supposed to be his. He kept saying so over the com and told everyone else to back off. Mick Rodella beat him to it because Quincy's fighter had been damaged and he hadn't been able to pull enough Gs to beat Rodella to the punch. Look, Rick, you know as well as I do that the whole investigation was a load of crap. Rodella's parents were rich, pissed, and wanted retribution for what happened to their son. And because they whined and threw money at the right lawyers, the higher ups couldn't say no, despite the fact that an Asp pilot is told from day one that there are at least one hundred ways they could die, and self sacrificing is one of those top ten ways. They made Quincy out like he'd... brain washed his entire squad or something. It was ridiculous! Crap, Rick, they'd hung this kid out to dry just to suck up to some frikin politician. It was a circus show for the masses and nothing legit about it.”
And blow it all to hell if Simmons wasn't right. Anderson might not have done the in depth research as Simmons, but he'd still done his research. War scares people, especially one that drags on in the same dance of seek and confrontation with no apparent end in sight. So when soldiers die, most mourn, while others get angry and seek out metaphorical punching bags to vent on. Anderson had been made to sit in on the occasional trial attempting to court marshal some poor commander or squadron leader into the ground. Not that a court marshal ever happened, but the hell those trials put those people through makes them wish it had. It left a mark in one's record like a nasty scar that people couldn't help staring at.
Snapping back to the present, Anderson turned to the infamous last page.
The real issue with the trials tended to be all the skeletons they dug up in the end. Quincy only had two, two that were more than likely blown out of proportion, and which Anderson intended to ask Quincy about. Hopefully, higher rank would be able to pull a little more insight out of the pilot, if not in words than at least in reaction.
Anderson glanced up at his clock that read eight on the dot. At the same time, a holographic screen, like a plasma TV without the frame, expanded before him. Anderson's secretary looked up from the data pad she was working on.
“ Captain Jason Quincy is here to see you, sir,” she said. Anderson nodded.
“ Send him in Kathy.”
Kathy nodded once and tucked a loose strand of brown hair back behind her ear rather than trying to tuck it into the bun she always wore. Her image blinked out of sight, and seconds later Anderson's door buzzed and Jason walked in wearing gray-green flight fatigues and polished boots. He stood straight and saluted, loose without being informal about it. Anderson saluted casually back and gestured at the padded gray chair before his desk.
“ At ease and sit captain.”
Jason moved around the chair and gingerly sat himself down. The pilot might have been tall but couldn't be called lanky. Even in the presence of a higher up the man radiated relaxed, yet wasn't exactly loose limbed. There was something solid about him, like one who knew how to remain ready without his stance screaming to the world that he was ready. Kind of like those big, predatory cats Anderson saw at the zoos he used to take his kids to. All at ease with their surroundings until something agitated them. Then they would move so fast one barely had time to register the change from casual to tense.
Most soldiers were like that, or at least tried to be. Jason didn't even seem to be trying. He sat straight with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his hands clasped together. His attention was focused on Anderson without being rigid about it. It almost made Anderson want to relax.
Anderson closed Jason's file and pulled it back. “ Captain Jason Quincy. UTD Air Force pilot and occasional ground forces patrol specialist.”
“ Yes sir,” Jason replied betraying no real emotion in his voice, as though he were neither here nor there about it.
Anderson lifted the file and opened it, pretending to read though he pretty much had it memorized. “ Before we get into why you're here, I'd like to get a few questions out of the way, get to know you a little more beyond what's written on paper.” Normally Anderson would have been looking at a screen, but felt hard copies to have more of an impact. He didn't know why, and chalked it up to being some sort of inexplicable quirk of his. The only reason hard copies still existed in this day and age was thanks to technological war-fare involving computer viruses. The Mureks were getting slick about how they got viruses to upload, thus making hard copies something retro.
“ You're classified as a first class ranking pilot and come highly recommended. That's impressive.”
Jason shrugged. “ Most attribute it to me being obsessive.”
Anderson peered over the folder's rim at Jason. “ Are you?”
“ I like what I do and like to do it well. My sister calls it passion, but she always tended to look on the bright side of everything.”
Anderson glanced at the folder – first page, next of kin. “ Your sister, Alicia Quincy?” He looked up in time to see Jason shift a little and wince as though he'd just said something he shouldn't have.
Jason cleared his throat. “ Yes sir.”
Anderson studied him for a moment. Jason had stiffened, and his fingers twisted in each other. He was uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, and Anderson already knew why.
“ The famous Alicia Quincy. Pianist. You know, my wife has several of her CDs.”
Jason's eyes flickered up then back down to stare at the reflective desktop. “ That so, sir?”
“ It is. Your sister... is quite talented.” Anderson had been about to say 'was', but didn't want to play that game. He preferred making allies to messing with their heads to get results. This kid probably had had enough of the latter.
“ Yes sir.”
However, some questions were probably going to agitate this man whether Anderson liked it or not. “ She raised you, didn't she? You and your younger brother after your father died in one of the early Murek campaigns?”
Jason looked up, shifting to make the chair squeak, settling deeper into it. “ Yes sir.”
Anderson didn't elucidate. The rest wasn't in the file except for Jason's mother having died earlier on when he was ten from cancer. What wasn't mentioned in the file was mentioned in one of Alicia Quincy's biographies. After the death of their father, Alicia – genius and in college by age sixteen – had dropped out and taken whatever job she could to make ends meet.
More like keep her little brothers alive and their small family together. Supposedly, the first few years after their father's death had been rough with social workers breathing down Alicia's neck and any pay she received small because she didn't have a college degree. Her unrivaled skills at piano playing had saved them when one of her former professors had finally found a sponsor that agreed to help her launch a career. Like a fairy tale, everything else was happily ever after.
Except without the ever after part.
“ She later went on to earn a medical degree, which she used to provide medical aid to refugees from Murek occupied worlds. It was one of these aid runs where she was taken during a Murek coup.” Anderson looked at Jason. “ I'm sorry to hear that.”
Jason's eyes flitted away momentarily. “ Thank you, sir.”
Anderson pondered whether to prod the pilot concerning the psyche evaluations forced on him after the matter. Soldiers with family taken by the Mureks were always shoved into mandatory psyche evaluations – especially the ones that hadn't arrived in time to save that family. Jason's evaluations were somewhat intriguing. Instead of clamming up until the therapist was forced to push things until the patient either exploded or broke down, Jason practically shut down, or at least that was the impression Anderson got from what he read. His answers were one worded yeses and nos, with an occasional monosyllabic response that was neither. Then the therapist began asking the harder, deeper questions, and Jason simply stopped talking.
The details weren't in Jason's present file, yet for some reason the therapist hadn't found any reason for him to be discharged. Strings might have been pulled to keep him around, but Anderson doubted that. If that had been the case, then Jason's own file would have spoken more kindly of him, rather than labeled him as a 'potential' liability due to mental instability that needed to be carefully monitored. In other words, the taking of his sister by Mureks and her more than likely ending up in a stalag may or may not push him over the edge... just like with every other soldier who had a loved one taken by Mureks.
They had used that very diagnosis against Jason during the trial. It was believed that his anger toward the Mureks had influenced too many of his decisions, altered his perceptions, which in turn influenced the people a part of his squadron, thus leading Mick Rodella to kill himself saving a UTD carrier by flying head on into a Murek carrier.
“ And your younger brother, Eli Quincy...” Anderson raised both eyebrows. “ Head of the engineering department for Dimensional Drives.” Dimensional Drives were the names given to the engines that folded space and time to send a ship hurtling from one part of the galaxy to another within hours instead of centuries. The generic name given to these shortcuts through space was the oldie but goodie 'wormholes'. Entering into one of these shortcuts was like entering another dimension, thus the name Dimensional Drive. And it took a lot of brain power to build one of those suckers.
“ Quite a family you've got there, Captain.”
The expression on Quincy's face could only be described as indifferent. “ Thank you, sir,” he dead-panned.
“ But your file makes no mention of you being tested to find out if you possess this Quincy trait.”
“ Didn't really care either way, sir. My interests were never really that academic... And if I may be frank, sir,” Jason's mouth twisted in a brief sardonic smile, “sometimes advertising your I.Q. sends you down paths you really don't want to take.”
Anderson could understand that. Had Jason been known as having as high of an intelligence as his older sister and younger brother, then he would have kissed his chances for becoming a pilot good-bye. Career choices in the UTD were free unless some special traits were discovered, such as high intelligence. Then one had no choice but to let them selves be shuffled along to where they were most needed rather than to where they wanted to go. It was the reason why half the scientists Anderson had worked with were so blasted pissy all the time.
Still, Anderson was surprised that the UTD hadn't tried to manipulate Jason into taking an I.Q. test. The UTD could only go so far in commanding its personnel around. An I.Q. test wasn't exactly essential in defending the Milky Way's solar systems, so it wasn't something they could order Jason to take. But the UTD could be slick about getting what it wanted; so apparently Jason was slicker.
Some smarts had nothing to do with academics.
Anderson nodded to Jason's comments, then closed the folder and set it down on the desk. He clasped his hands together on top of the folder, and leaned in a little. All the rhetorical questioning hadn't exactly broken the ice but Jason's body language had given Anderson more than words ever could. The sister was a touchy issue, the younger brother less of an issue, and Anderson didn't care to get into the Rodella incident since the loss of a man then being thrust into court for it was always a touchy issue no matter who you were.
“ The reason I brought you in today, Captain, is to offer you a new position, and I stress offer. I'm declaring right now that what I'm about to tell you, that what's being offered, is a choice with no repercussions if you don't take it.”
Jason dipped his head in understanding. “ Okay, sir.”
“ As head of special forces 'Border Patrol' I am hereby issuing to you the position of captain of a Phantom Covert Fighter Patrol ship, manned by a crew of your choosing.”
Both of Jason's eyebrows lifted in reaction, and Anderson could have sworn he was going pale.
“ Don't go having a heart attack for joy yet, captain,” Anderson said. “ I haven't gotten to the real kicker yet. Should you accept this position, your posting will be in Beta quadrant 0004.”
Jason's face really did go pale this time, draining away nearly all the color leaving him one shade away from pure white. The muscles of his throat contracted in a tight swallow, and he shifted a second time. “ Isn't that... uh... That...?”
“ Most tend to call it the Void.”
Jason exhaled a rush of air and sunk deeper into his seat as though he were trying to shrink out of existence. “ Yeah... The Void.”
“ I've heard the tales, read the reports that spawned those tales, which is why this position is presented as a choice instead of an assignment. You're not the first being offered the position. Hell, not even close to being the second. But Colonel Simmons commander of the fifth contingent of BP patrols has this crazy impression that you'd be the one most likely to say yes. Why? I have no idea, you'd have to ask him where he got the idea from. The Quadrant isn't as bad as the urban legends make it, so long as you adhere to the guidelines. From what I've been told of the quadrant, there's a certain sector that as long as you stay away from it, you'll be fine. There are settlements out there, they're just not all that social. Now, should you accept this command, and if things go to hell within however long you're out there, you can still rescind the position. It would just be nice to have a patrol ship in the only quadrant left that doesn't have one. If you want, you can take some time to think it over, but I'll need an answer within forty eight hours should we need to start considering someone else. What do you say?”
Jason remained silent staring at the mirror perfect shine of the mahogany desk, his brow lowered and his sights turned inward. Anderson just watched him. Jason inhaled a short breath, and for a moment held it.
“ Can I ask what's been passing through the crap-hole end of the universe that requires the need for an enema?”
Anderson fought not to laugh, and cleared his throat to stifle it. “ Signals have been intercepted over the past few months written in code that could barely be translated. Seems the Mureks have been taking sharper interest in the Void, which isn't a surprise. Most of the solar systems of that quadrant are made up of uninhabited worlds, and those inhabited are barely so. Plenty of good pickings in terms of needing a place to hide. That's why it's imperative we get a ship out there.”
Jason fell silent again, only this time his brow furrowing was joined by lip chewing. The captain was considering it, honest to goodness mulling it over rather than gaping and paling to the point of passing out.
'Don't tell me Simmons was right.'
After exactly two minutes of silent contemplation, Jason finally shrugged.
“ Sounds cool.”
Anderson tensed his jaw to keep it from sagging open. “ All right then.” He reached into his middle desk drawer and pulled out a small data chip. “ All the info's on here, along with a list of potentials to form your crew from. This I suggest you take more time to decide on.”
Jason took the chip and slipped it into the pocket of his fatigues. “ What if who I want isn't on your list?”
“ Your call, captain. Take whoever you feel would best suit your crew. That's all for now. I'll get your transfer in order, you just take it easy and start choosing. dismissed.”
Jason rose from his seat and saluted. Anderson saluted back, and Quincy left. The moment the door clicked shut, Anderson hit five on his vid-phone.
.............................................
Colonel Tony Simmons swaggered through the cavernous, sterile white chamber of the mess hall that was like an obstacle course of long metal tables, blue plastic chairs, roar-like cacophony of voices, and a sea of bodies that would get up without warning. He went straight to the table in the far left corner of the mess nearest the food line where his fellow BP commanders were gathered like a pack of wolves at a carcass. On arrival, he leaned in between Colonel Addison and Colonel Lavinsky, slapping his hands on the table with a sharp clap that made half the occupants seated jump.
One hand he lifted palm up to wag his fingers. “ Pay up, Wilson. One hundred right here. Quincy accepted, today.”
Colonel Jeff Wilson, bull of a man with reddish hair Tony liked to refer as 'strawberry blond' just for the sake of pissing Wilson off, stopped chewing and widened his eyes to the size of eight balls.
“ You're crappin' me.”
Tony couldn't grin any wider than he already was. He shook his head, keeping his hand up. “ I crap you not, buddy, now pay up.”
Wilson tossed his fork onto his tray and crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest. “ Bull.”
“ Again, I crap you not, Colonel. If you want, we can dial up General Anderson and have him clear it up for you.” Tony squeezed in between Addison and Lavinsky, pulling in a chair from the table behind them to sit. He pointed at Wilson with one hand and kept the other held out to receive. “ I told you Quincy would take it, and he did. You were wrong about the guy, so time to pay the piper.”
Wilson's expression went dark, even a little dangerous, like a pitbull just before the pounce. Instead of a pounce, Wilson reached into the pocket of his UTD issued pants and pulled out his wallet.
“ This only confirms that Quincy really is a skinny little freak after all,” Wilson said, pulling a crisp one hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He slapped the bill into Tony's palm. Tony, in turn, closed his palm and shoved the bill into his own pocket.
“ No, this confirms that Quincy is a skinny freak with a hell of a lot more backbone than that guy you recommended.”
Addison nudged Tony in the side with his elbow. “ How'd you know he'd accept, Simms? You don't even know the guy.”
Tony's grin broadened. “ You want honesty, ladies and gentlemen? Then here it is. I guessed. That's right. All out, tossed it to the wind, assumed. I had a gut feeling and I went for it. Which also confirms that my people skills are just a little more sharpened,” Tony brought his thumb and forefinger in until they were only a centimeter apart, “ than yours, Wilson. Apparently, you didn't know Quincy as well as you thought, and neither did Rikter and Stiles.”
Before taking command of the eighth BP unit, Wilson had served on a carrier piloted by one Jason 'Jace' Quincy, along with Rikter and Stile who Wilson had brought with him into the BP unit to captain Phantoms. Quincy was Wilson's favorite subject when it came to the supposed A-holes of the Eumenides. Quincy was cocky, Quincy was stuck up, Quincy was weird, Quincy was this, Quincy was that, and this, and that. Quincy wasn't the only poor schmuck Wilson had ranted about, just the one he liked ranting about the most.
After Tony's momentary encounter with Jason Quincy while hitching a ride from one planet to the next, he couldn't figure out why. He'd talked to Quincy, found him easy going, easy to talk to, and easy to be around. Quincy didn't really engage in conversation with others. Others had to engage in conversation with him first, which would explain where the 'stuck-up' notion came from. However, once someone got him talking, he didn't try to back out of the conversation. He went with the flow, jumping into whatever topic was brought up. Tony had liked talking to him.
Cocky – maybe a little when it came to his piloting skills. Quincy hadn't bragged, but he always wore a smug smirk whenever he accomplished one of his smooth, grade A landings. Quincy also had a mouth, especially when push came to shove. He seemed the kind of guy that was either liked or despised. He had his friends, yet had even more enemies, and Tony couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Tony had spoken to him during lunch, and in that time had witnessed three fights nearly break out when Quincy was confronted by three men at three different intervals for the purpose of these men wanting to do nothing more than be asses. They'd said something snide to Quincy, Quincy said something rude and clever in return, and it took four to five guys just to hold the A-holes back.
Tony didn't get it, or maybe Quincy was an acquired taste, and how one judged him was an 'all in th eye of the beholder' deal. Or, a third theory, it had something to do with that trial that almost got Quincy booted from the UTD.
Tony hadn't seen an actual fight break out. Supposedly, they never did, not with Quincy according to the rest of the crew.
Tony couldn't even explain why he thought this kid would except taking up patrolling the most feared quadrant of the Milky Way. He didn't seem the type out to prove himself, or the type who jumped on the back of risk for the sake of excitement. He had seemed an honorable and duty-bound enough guy, maybe that had been it. Though that didn't feel right either.
With his winnings safely in his pocket, Tony slapped the table and rose. “ Ladies, gentlemen, my victory here is complete, so I bid you good-day.” Everyone smirked, except for Wilson who was now glowering down at his green-bean casserole and stabbing it with his fork. As Tony meandered his way through the obstacle of tables, Colonel Amanda Carlyle – tall, slim, with shoulder-length honey blond hair pulled back in a tail – caught up with Simmons and matched him stride for stride.
“ Don't tell me you haven't figured it out,” she said, face masked in stoicism but eyes looking a little bright with well-contained mirth.
“ Figured out what? That Wilson is an SOB?” Tony snorted. “ I figured that out the day I met him.”
“ Not that. About that Quincy guy. You haven't figured out why Wilson hates him so bad.”
Tony flicked a glance at her. “ And you have? You don't even know him.”
Carlyle smiled. “ Just because I haven't met him doesn't mean I don't know him. And here you are all braggin' about how you know people. Come on, Simmons. You get people, but you don't know people. Look, from what Wilson has told me about this Quincy guy and from what you told me – two different sides to the same coin here – I started thinking about it. The people Wilson harps on usually have one up on him over something. Skills, mostly, or they're just smarter than him.”
Tony raised his brow. “ Ah, so that's it. Quincy's smart. You know, he is related to that famous piano player...”
Amanda shook her head. “ No, that's not it. Wilson wouldn't be calling Quincy an idiot if that was the case...”
Amanda suddenly grabbed Tony's arm, forcing him to stop along with her, then turning him to face her, and Tony didn't like the expression he saw. The mirth was gone. Amanda was all business; all serious, even concerned, and Tony could have sworn a smidgen angry, business.
“ You sure about this?” She said with her jaw jutting slightly. “ Think about it, Simms, and I mean really think about it. You just sent some guy packing off to the Void over a stupid bet, and I'm kind of having a little problem with that.”
Tony knew he should have seen this coming. Actually, he had seen it coming, he'd just forgotten in his moment of victory. He relaxed, and put on an earnest look of his own. Amanda couldn't be called a bleeding heart (she'd knocked guys flat for lesser terms) but she didn't stifle her compassionate side. To the surprise of many hard core military, it actually made her a good leader. It gave her unit a reason to trust her, because they knew she wouldn't let them down, and knew that she would listen.
Tony smiled, this time reassuringly. “ And I'm okay that you have a problem with that, because the thing is, I didn't recommend Quincy just because of some stupid bet. Actually, the bet came after. The feeling I had about Quincy was legit, or I wouldn't have recommended him at all. He'll be in my unit, so he'll be my responsibility, so it's not like I'll be thrusting him out to the wolves. And he has the option to stop if things get dicey out there. You know as well as I do that we've been needing a ship in that quadrant for some time, and Anderson was getting desperate. So, I went with my gut since there wasn't much to lose. Trust me, I knew what I was doing.”
Amanda sobered out of her anger but the worry hovered. “ Hope you're right. The Void? That's the Bermuda Triangle of the galaxy, Simmons. Hell, from all the crap I heard, it makes the Bermuda Triangle look like the happiest place on earth. Sending Quincy there is going to make him your wandering sheep. You're going to have to keep a bigger vigil on that particular patrol.”
Tony curled the corners of his mouth into a grin. “ Way ahead of you there, Carlyle.”
Amanda rounded her eyes, shook her head, and huffed out a sharp breath. “ Famous last words, Simms. I don't envy you that particular patrol.” She started moving again, heading out, then turned walking backwards.”
“ Oh, Wilson's dislike to your new boy Quince...”
“ Yeah?”
“ He's afraid of him,” Carlyle said, and turned facing froward, sauntering away.
four years later
General Kyle Anderson tossed the file onto the top of his dark mahogany desk with the glass-like finish, and leaned back in his chair until it groaned. He drummed the fingers of both hands against the rim for a moment as he stared at the dark brown manila folder with the name at the top reading Quincy, Jason. Then he averted his gaze to the digital clock on the wall over his office door.
Seven-forty nine. Another eleven minutes and the subject within the folder would be appearing in the flesh. Anderson wasn't looking froward to it. He felt like he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, and that wasn't exactly a fair assessment in regards of this kid. Anderson flipped the folder back open to the first page for the ninth time since coming to his office.
Jason Quincy – his birth-date would put him at thirty-six or thirty seven. Six feet tall, hair brown, eyes labeled as being green brown, and a pilot ranked first class and highly recommended. Field experience, Asp experience, and made squadron and team leader on more than one occasion due to that experience and his exceptional tactical skills. So on and so forth. All this wasn't listed on the first page. The first page was always dedicated to the subject's physical appearance, health status, and current posting or residence.
Quincy's file was cut and dry military perfection except for the last page. The last page of any file was reserved for 'minor' concerns involving conduct and potential reasons to be worried about the subject's mental health. Being cautious was all good and well, but whoever wrote these things did so with a stick up their butt. Anal, that was the word. The people who organized these files were anal. Colonel Antony Simmons had said as much the other day during lunch in a less than decent way.
“ You can't listen to those evaluations,” Simmons had said, tilting almost precariously back in the black plastic chair. The day had been nice – clear and cool with a strong enough breeze to make the lapels of Anderson's jacket to flip up. They'd been sitting at one of the outside tables at O'Conner's bar and grill. Not exactly Anderson's first choice for a meeting spot to discuss Border Patrol matters. When it came to business, Anderson tended to go by the book and handle it all in an office or on base. But it was Simmons calling the shots that day. The Colonel refused to set foot in any kind of an office the moment he was earth side.
Not that Anderson was going to complain. He could be lenient around Simmons. The two went way back to boot camp days. The rest of the time it was by the book to keep the subordinates in line.
Anderson had finished his lunch of steak and a baked potato, and pushed the plate away for the waitress to take later. He could feel Simmons staring at him, and smirking. The man had a grin like a feral cat sighting the mouse. Tall, lean, with broad shoulders, a bald head, cool gray eyes, and a scar running ragged down the side of his face – Simmons could have easily been mistaken for an escaped serial killer than the head of the fifth 'Border Patrol' command. Simmons intimidated those who deserved it, but between him and Anderson, his appearance was an inside joke. Beneath the weathered soldier exterior was a man so easy going it was a continuous shock he was even military. It was rumored that he never raised his voice. When he wanted results, he glowered, glared, and never said a word.
Anderson had taken a drink from his glass of iced-tea before responding. “ They're there for a reason.”
Simmons had snorted, shaking his head and letting his arms dangle back. “ To make us all paranoids and to make the favorites of the brass stand out.” Simmons leaned forward and let the legs of his chair slam down. “ Have you looked into the incident? I mean really looked? Because I have. And I met Quincy. Yeah, granted briefly during transfer, but brief's plenty of time for me. Nice guy, Quince, and one hell of a pilot. More than that, he's a people person. You either like him or you don't and he doesn't care either way. At least that's the impression I got.”
“ So you don't buy into what's been said about the Rodella incident?”
Simmons had folded his hands on top of the table, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “ Hell no. Like I said, I've talked to people, including members of his old Squad. Their replies were the same as in the reports. The kamikaze run was supposed to be his. He kept saying so over the com and told everyone else to back off. Mick Rodella beat him to it because Quincy's fighter had been damaged and he hadn't been able to pull enough Gs to beat Rodella to the punch. Look, Rick, you know as well as I do that the whole investigation was a load of crap. Rodella's parents were rich, pissed, and wanted retribution for what happened to their son. And because they whined and threw money at the right lawyers, the higher ups couldn't say no, despite the fact that an Asp pilot is told from day one that there are at least one hundred ways they could die, and self sacrificing is one of those top ten ways. They made Quincy out like he'd... brain washed his entire squad or something. It was ridiculous! Crap, Rick, they'd hung this kid out to dry just to suck up to some frikin politician. It was a circus show for the masses and nothing legit about it.”
And blow it all to hell if Simmons wasn't right. Anderson might not have done the in depth research as Simmons, but he'd still done his research. War scares people, especially one that drags on in the same dance of seek and confrontation with no apparent end in sight. So when soldiers die, most mourn, while others get angry and seek out metaphorical punching bags to vent on. Anderson had been made to sit in on the occasional trial attempting to court marshal some poor commander or squadron leader into the ground. Not that a court marshal ever happened, but the hell those trials put those people through makes them wish it had. It left a mark in one's record like a nasty scar that people couldn't help staring at.
Snapping back to the present, Anderson turned to the infamous last page.
The real issue with the trials tended to be all the skeletons they dug up in the end. Quincy only had two, two that were more than likely blown out of proportion, and which Anderson intended to ask Quincy about. Hopefully, higher rank would be able to pull a little more insight out of the pilot, if not in words than at least in reaction.
Anderson glanced up at his clock that read eight on the dot. At the same time, a holographic screen, like a plasma TV without the frame, expanded before him. Anderson's secretary looked up from the data pad she was working on.
“ Captain Jason Quincy is here to see you, sir,” she said. Anderson nodded.
“ Send him in Kathy.”
Kathy nodded once and tucked a loose strand of brown hair back behind her ear rather than trying to tuck it into the bun she always wore. Her image blinked out of sight, and seconds later Anderson's door buzzed and Jason walked in wearing gray-green flight fatigues and polished boots. He stood straight and saluted, loose without being informal about it. Anderson saluted casually back and gestured at the padded gray chair before his desk.
“ At ease and sit captain.”
Jason moved around the chair and gingerly sat himself down. The pilot might have been tall but couldn't be called lanky. Even in the presence of a higher up the man radiated relaxed, yet wasn't exactly loose limbed. There was something solid about him, like one who knew how to remain ready without his stance screaming to the world that he was ready. Kind of like those big, predatory cats Anderson saw at the zoos he used to take his kids to. All at ease with their surroundings until something agitated them. Then they would move so fast one barely had time to register the change from casual to tense.
Most soldiers were like that, or at least tried to be. Jason didn't even seem to be trying. He sat straight with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his hands clasped together. His attention was focused on Anderson without being rigid about it. It almost made Anderson want to relax.
Anderson closed Jason's file and pulled it back. “ Captain Jason Quincy. UTD Air Force pilot and occasional ground forces patrol specialist.”
“ Yes sir,” Jason replied betraying no real emotion in his voice, as though he were neither here nor there about it.
Anderson lifted the file and opened it, pretending to read though he pretty much had it memorized. “ Before we get into why you're here, I'd like to get a few questions out of the way, get to know you a little more beyond what's written on paper.” Normally Anderson would have been looking at a screen, but felt hard copies to have more of an impact. He didn't know why, and chalked it up to being some sort of inexplicable quirk of his. The only reason hard copies still existed in this day and age was thanks to technological war-fare involving computer viruses. The Mureks were getting slick about how they got viruses to upload, thus making hard copies something retro.
“ You're classified as a first class ranking pilot and come highly recommended. That's impressive.”
Jason shrugged. “ Most attribute it to me being obsessive.”
Anderson peered over the folder's rim at Jason. “ Are you?”
“ I like what I do and like to do it well. My sister calls it passion, but she always tended to look on the bright side of everything.”
Anderson glanced at the folder – first page, next of kin. “ Your sister, Alicia Quincy?” He looked up in time to see Jason shift a little and wince as though he'd just said something he shouldn't have.
Jason cleared his throat. “ Yes sir.”
Anderson studied him for a moment. Jason had stiffened, and his fingers twisted in each other. He was uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, and Anderson already knew why.
“ The famous Alicia Quincy. Pianist. You know, my wife has several of her CDs.”
Jason's eyes flickered up then back down to stare at the reflective desktop. “ That so, sir?”
“ It is. Your sister... is quite talented.” Anderson had been about to say 'was', but didn't want to play that game. He preferred making allies to messing with their heads to get results. This kid probably had had enough of the latter.
“ Yes sir.”
However, some questions were probably going to agitate this man whether Anderson liked it or not. “ She raised you, didn't she? You and your younger brother after your father died in one of the early Murek campaigns?”
Jason looked up, shifting to make the chair squeak, settling deeper into it. “ Yes sir.”
Anderson didn't elucidate. The rest wasn't in the file except for Jason's mother having died earlier on when he was ten from cancer. What wasn't mentioned in the file was mentioned in one of Alicia Quincy's biographies. After the death of their father, Alicia – genius and in college by age sixteen – had dropped out and taken whatever job she could to make ends meet.
More like keep her little brothers alive and their small family together. Supposedly, the first few years after their father's death had been rough with social workers breathing down Alicia's neck and any pay she received small because she didn't have a college degree. Her unrivaled skills at piano playing had saved them when one of her former professors had finally found a sponsor that agreed to help her launch a career. Like a fairy tale, everything else was happily ever after.
Except without the ever after part.
“ She later went on to earn a medical degree, which she used to provide medical aid to refugees from Murek occupied worlds. It was one of these aid runs where she was taken during a Murek coup.” Anderson looked at Jason. “ I'm sorry to hear that.”
Jason's eyes flitted away momentarily. “ Thank you, sir.”
Anderson pondered whether to prod the pilot concerning the psyche evaluations forced on him after the matter. Soldiers with family taken by the Mureks were always shoved into mandatory psyche evaluations – especially the ones that hadn't arrived in time to save that family. Jason's evaluations were somewhat intriguing. Instead of clamming up until the therapist was forced to push things until the patient either exploded or broke down, Jason practically shut down, or at least that was the impression Anderson got from what he read. His answers were one worded yeses and nos, with an occasional monosyllabic response that was neither. Then the therapist began asking the harder, deeper questions, and Jason simply stopped talking.
The details weren't in Jason's present file, yet for some reason the therapist hadn't found any reason for him to be discharged. Strings might have been pulled to keep him around, but Anderson doubted that. If that had been the case, then Jason's own file would have spoken more kindly of him, rather than labeled him as a 'potential' liability due to mental instability that needed to be carefully monitored. In other words, the taking of his sister by Mureks and her more than likely ending up in a stalag may or may not push him over the edge... just like with every other soldier who had a loved one taken by Mureks.
They had used that very diagnosis against Jason during the trial. It was believed that his anger toward the Mureks had influenced too many of his decisions, altered his perceptions, which in turn influenced the people a part of his squadron, thus leading Mick Rodella to kill himself saving a UTD carrier by flying head on into a Murek carrier.
“ And your younger brother, Eli Quincy...” Anderson raised both eyebrows. “ Head of the engineering department for Dimensional Drives.” Dimensional Drives were the names given to the engines that folded space and time to send a ship hurtling from one part of the galaxy to another within hours instead of centuries. The generic name given to these shortcuts through space was the oldie but goodie 'wormholes'. Entering into one of these shortcuts was like entering another dimension, thus the name Dimensional Drive. And it took a lot of brain power to build one of those suckers.
“ Quite a family you've got there, Captain.”
The expression on Quincy's face could only be described as indifferent. “ Thank you, sir,” he dead-panned.
“ But your file makes no mention of you being tested to find out if you possess this Quincy trait.”
“ Didn't really care either way, sir. My interests were never really that academic... And if I may be frank, sir,” Jason's mouth twisted in a brief sardonic smile, “sometimes advertising your I.Q. sends you down paths you really don't want to take.”
Anderson could understand that. Had Jason been known as having as high of an intelligence as his older sister and younger brother, then he would have kissed his chances for becoming a pilot good-bye. Career choices in the UTD were free unless some special traits were discovered, such as high intelligence. Then one had no choice but to let them selves be shuffled along to where they were most needed rather than to where they wanted to go. It was the reason why half the scientists Anderson had worked with were so blasted pissy all the time.
Still, Anderson was surprised that the UTD hadn't tried to manipulate Jason into taking an I.Q. test. The UTD could only go so far in commanding its personnel around. An I.Q. test wasn't exactly essential in defending the Milky Way's solar systems, so it wasn't something they could order Jason to take. But the UTD could be slick about getting what it wanted; so apparently Jason was slicker.
Some smarts had nothing to do with academics.
Anderson nodded to Jason's comments, then closed the folder and set it down on the desk. He clasped his hands together on top of the folder, and leaned in a little. All the rhetorical questioning hadn't exactly broken the ice but Jason's body language had given Anderson more than words ever could. The sister was a touchy issue, the younger brother less of an issue, and Anderson didn't care to get into the Rodella incident since the loss of a man then being thrust into court for it was always a touchy issue no matter who you were.
“ The reason I brought you in today, Captain, is to offer you a new position, and I stress offer. I'm declaring right now that what I'm about to tell you, that what's being offered, is a choice with no repercussions if you don't take it.”
Jason dipped his head in understanding. “ Okay, sir.”
“ As head of special forces 'Border Patrol' I am hereby issuing to you the position of captain of a Phantom Covert Fighter Patrol ship, manned by a crew of your choosing.”
Both of Jason's eyebrows lifted in reaction, and Anderson could have sworn he was going pale.
“ Don't go having a heart attack for joy yet, captain,” Anderson said. “ I haven't gotten to the real kicker yet. Should you accept this position, your posting will be in Beta quadrant 0004.”
Jason's face really did go pale this time, draining away nearly all the color leaving him one shade away from pure white. The muscles of his throat contracted in a tight swallow, and he shifted a second time. “ Isn't that... uh... That...?”
“ Most tend to call it the Void.”
Jason exhaled a rush of air and sunk deeper into his seat as though he were trying to shrink out of existence. “ Yeah... The Void.”
“ I've heard the tales, read the reports that spawned those tales, which is why this position is presented as a choice instead of an assignment. You're not the first being offered the position. Hell, not even close to being the second. But Colonel Simmons commander of the fifth contingent of BP patrols has this crazy impression that you'd be the one most likely to say yes. Why? I have no idea, you'd have to ask him where he got the idea from. The Quadrant isn't as bad as the urban legends make it, so long as you adhere to the guidelines. From what I've been told of the quadrant, there's a certain sector that as long as you stay away from it, you'll be fine. There are settlements out there, they're just not all that social. Now, should you accept this command, and if things go to hell within however long you're out there, you can still rescind the position. It would just be nice to have a patrol ship in the only quadrant left that doesn't have one. If you want, you can take some time to think it over, but I'll need an answer within forty eight hours should we need to start considering someone else. What do you say?”
Jason remained silent staring at the mirror perfect shine of the mahogany desk, his brow lowered and his sights turned inward. Anderson just watched him. Jason inhaled a short breath, and for a moment held it.
“ Can I ask what's been passing through the crap-hole end of the universe that requires the need for an enema?”
Anderson fought not to laugh, and cleared his throat to stifle it. “ Signals have been intercepted over the past few months written in code that could barely be translated. Seems the Mureks have been taking sharper interest in the Void, which isn't a surprise. Most of the solar systems of that quadrant are made up of uninhabited worlds, and those inhabited are barely so. Plenty of good pickings in terms of needing a place to hide. That's why it's imperative we get a ship out there.”
Jason fell silent again, only this time his brow furrowing was joined by lip chewing. The captain was considering it, honest to goodness mulling it over rather than gaping and paling to the point of passing out.
'Don't tell me Simmons was right.'
After exactly two minutes of silent contemplation, Jason finally shrugged.
“ Sounds cool.”
Anderson tensed his jaw to keep it from sagging open. “ All right then.” He reached into his middle desk drawer and pulled out a small data chip. “ All the info's on here, along with a list of potentials to form your crew from. This I suggest you take more time to decide on.”
Jason took the chip and slipped it into the pocket of his fatigues. “ What if who I want isn't on your list?”
“ Your call, captain. Take whoever you feel would best suit your crew. That's all for now. I'll get your transfer in order, you just take it easy and start choosing. dismissed.”
Jason rose from his seat and saluted. Anderson saluted back, and Quincy left. The moment the door clicked shut, Anderson hit five on his vid-phone.
.............................................
Colonel Tony Simmons swaggered through the cavernous, sterile white chamber of the mess hall that was like an obstacle course of long metal tables, blue plastic chairs, roar-like cacophony of voices, and a sea of bodies that would get up without warning. He went straight to the table in the far left corner of the mess nearest the food line where his fellow BP commanders were gathered like a pack of wolves at a carcass. On arrival, he leaned in between Colonel Addison and Colonel Lavinsky, slapping his hands on the table with a sharp clap that made half the occupants seated jump.
One hand he lifted palm up to wag his fingers. “ Pay up, Wilson. One hundred right here. Quincy accepted, today.”
Colonel Jeff Wilson, bull of a man with reddish hair Tony liked to refer as 'strawberry blond' just for the sake of pissing Wilson off, stopped chewing and widened his eyes to the size of eight balls.
“ You're crappin' me.”
Tony couldn't grin any wider than he already was. He shook his head, keeping his hand up. “ I crap you not, buddy, now pay up.”
Wilson tossed his fork onto his tray and crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest. “ Bull.”
“ Again, I crap you not, Colonel. If you want, we can dial up General Anderson and have him clear it up for you.” Tony squeezed in between Addison and Lavinsky, pulling in a chair from the table behind them to sit. He pointed at Wilson with one hand and kept the other held out to receive. “ I told you Quincy would take it, and he did. You were wrong about the guy, so time to pay the piper.”
Wilson's expression went dark, even a little dangerous, like a pitbull just before the pounce. Instead of a pounce, Wilson reached into the pocket of his UTD issued pants and pulled out his wallet.
“ This only confirms that Quincy really is a skinny little freak after all,” Wilson said, pulling a crisp one hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He slapped the bill into Tony's palm. Tony, in turn, closed his palm and shoved the bill into his own pocket.
“ No, this confirms that Quincy is a skinny freak with a hell of a lot more backbone than that guy you recommended.”
Addison nudged Tony in the side with his elbow. “ How'd you know he'd accept, Simms? You don't even know the guy.”
Tony's grin broadened. “ You want honesty, ladies and gentlemen? Then here it is. I guessed. That's right. All out, tossed it to the wind, assumed. I had a gut feeling and I went for it. Which also confirms that my people skills are just a little more sharpened,” Tony brought his thumb and forefinger in until they were only a centimeter apart, “ than yours, Wilson. Apparently, you didn't know Quincy as well as you thought, and neither did Rikter and Stiles.”
Before taking command of the eighth BP unit, Wilson had served on a carrier piloted by one Jason 'Jace' Quincy, along with Rikter and Stile who Wilson had brought with him into the BP unit to captain Phantoms. Quincy was Wilson's favorite subject when it came to the supposed A-holes of the Eumenides. Quincy was cocky, Quincy was stuck up, Quincy was weird, Quincy was this, Quincy was that, and this, and that. Quincy wasn't the only poor schmuck Wilson had ranted about, just the one he liked ranting about the most.
After Tony's momentary encounter with Jason Quincy while hitching a ride from one planet to the next, he couldn't figure out why. He'd talked to Quincy, found him easy going, easy to talk to, and easy to be around. Quincy didn't really engage in conversation with others. Others had to engage in conversation with him first, which would explain where the 'stuck-up' notion came from. However, once someone got him talking, he didn't try to back out of the conversation. He went with the flow, jumping into whatever topic was brought up. Tony had liked talking to him.
Cocky – maybe a little when it came to his piloting skills. Quincy hadn't bragged, but he always wore a smug smirk whenever he accomplished one of his smooth, grade A landings. Quincy also had a mouth, especially when push came to shove. He seemed the kind of guy that was either liked or despised. He had his friends, yet had even more enemies, and Tony couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Tony had spoken to him during lunch, and in that time had witnessed three fights nearly break out when Quincy was confronted by three men at three different intervals for the purpose of these men wanting to do nothing more than be asses. They'd said something snide to Quincy, Quincy said something rude and clever in return, and it took four to five guys just to hold the A-holes back.
Tony didn't get it, or maybe Quincy was an acquired taste, and how one judged him was an 'all in th eye of the beholder' deal. Or, a third theory, it had something to do with that trial that almost got Quincy booted from the UTD.
Tony hadn't seen an actual fight break out. Supposedly, they never did, not with Quincy according to the rest of the crew.
Tony couldn't even explain why he thought this kid would except taking up patrolling the most feared quadrant of the Milky Way. He didn't seem the type out to prove himself, or the type who jumped on the back of risk for the sake of excitement. He had seemed an honorable and duty-bound enough guy, maybe that had been it. Though that didn't feel right either.
With his winnings safely in his pocket, Tony slapped the table and rose. “ Ladies, gentlemen, my victory here is complete, so I bid you good-day.” Everyone smirked, except for Wilson who was now glowering down at his green-bean casserole and stabbing it with his fork. As Tony meandered his way through the obstacle of tables, Colonel Amanda Carlyle – tall, slim, with shoulder-length honey blond hair pulled back in a tail – caught up with Simmons and matched him stride for stride.
“ Don't tell me you haven't figured it out,” she said, face masked in stoicism but eyes looking a little bright with well-contained mirth.
“ Figured out what? That Wilson is an SOB?” Tony snorted. “ I figured that out the day I met him.”
“ Not that. About that Quincy guy. You haven't figured out why Wilson hates him so bad.”
Tony flicked a glance at her. “ And you have? You don't even know him.”
Carlyle smiled. “ Just because I haven't met him doesn't mean I don't know him. And here you are all braggin' about how you know people. Come on, Simmons. You get people, but you don't know people. Look, from what Wilson has told me about this Quincy guy and from what you told me – two different sides to the same coin here – I started thinking about it. The people Wilson harps on usually have one up on him over something. Skills, mostly, or they're just smarter than him.”
Tony raised his brow. “ Ah, so that's it. Quincy's smart. You know, he is related to that famous piano player...”
Amanda shook her head. “ No, that's not it. Wilson wouldn't be calling Quincy an idiot if that was the case...”
Amanda suddenly grabbed Tony's arm, forcing him to stop along with her, then turning him to face her, and Tony didn't like the expression he saw. The mirth was gone. Amanda was all business; all serious, even concerned, and Tony could have sworn a smidgen angry, business.
“ You sure about this?” She said with her jaw jutting slightly. “ Think about it, Simms, and I mean really think about it. You just sent some guy packing off to the Void over a stupid bet, and I'm kind of having a little problem with that.”
Tony knew he should have seen this coming. Actually, he had seen it coming, he'd just forgotten in his moment of victory. He relaxed, and put on an earnest look of his own. Amanda couldn't be called a bleeding heart (she'd knocked guys flat for lesser terms) but she didn't stifle her compassionate side. To the surprise of many hard core military, it actually made her a good leader. It gave her unit a reason to trust her, because they knew she wouldn't let them down, and knew that she would listen.
Tony smiled, this time reassuringly. “ And I'm okay that you have a problem with that, because the thing is, I didn't recommend Quincy just because of some stupid bet. Actually, the bet came after. The feeling I had about Quincy was legit, or I wouldn't have recommended him at all. He'll be in my unit, so he'll be my responsibility, so it's not like I'll be thrusting him out to the wolves. And he has the option to stop if things get dicey out there. You know as well as I do that we've been needing a ship in that quadrant for some time, and Anderson was getting desperate. So, I went with my gut since there wasn't much to lose. Trust me, I knew what I was doing.”
Amanda sobered out of her anger but the worry hovered. “ Hope you're right. The Void? That's the Bermuda Triangle of the galaxy, Simmons. Hell, from all the crap I heard, it makes the Bermuda Triangle look like the happiest place on earth. Sending Quincy there is going to make him your wandering sheep. You're going to have to keep a bigger vigil on that particular patrol.”
Tony curled the corners of his mouth into a grin. “ Way ahead of you there, Carlyle.”
Amanda rounded her eyes, shook her head, and huffed out a sharp breath. “ Famous last words, Simms. I don't envy you that particular patrol.” She started moving again, heading out, then turned walking backwards.”
“ Oh, Wilson's dislike to your new boy Quince...”
“ Yeah?”
“ He's afraid of him,” Carlyle said, and turned facing froward, sauntering away.
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