kept in touch in grad school—Sam had leaned on him during her breakup with the boyfriend—but had grown apart as both went their separate ways into very different careers.
Then came the invasion and the PW66 project. Sam was working on the team that figured out how to transport a nuclear warhead using the first Q drive. Leher had been a JAG lawyer on the project, fending off Pentagon bureaucrats and making sure the ad hoc team had legal room to operate. The work was top secret. Leher was among the few who knew that Sam was one of the brains that had saved humanity from instant capitulation to the sceeve.
She was a goddamn hero. One day, Sam would be in the history books—if there were going to be any more history books. But for the moment, she was just another aerospace executive.
“Mordor? Pretty geeky way to describe being a corporate Nazi,” Leher said.
“That’s Queen Geek to you, sir.” Sam smiled. Her teeth were whiter than they really ought to be. And she no longer wore glasses. Lasik? Or probably the new acuity drops made of tiny nanotech lens crafters. He kind of missed the wire frames. “Anyway, it’s a running game against a passing game,” she said.
“Much better. That sounds exactly like something a corporate Nazi would say.”
“Uh-huh. How you been, Griff?”
“Shoveling the coal of cultural linguistics into the firebox of the American war machine.”
Sam shook her head. “Goodness. Then you ought to have developed more muscles.”
“Touché.”
Sam selected one of the china cups next to the urn—all the cups bore the presidential seal—and clinked it onto a matching platter. “Guess that’s probably why you haven’t called in a year and a half.”
“No, I—”
She moved next to him and playfully shouldered him aside in order to reach the coffee urn’s spigot. He caught a trace of tobacco tang from her hair as she passed.
Oh, man, she’s back to smoking.
Time to change the subject.
“So—you’re in on the war council,” he said.
Sam nodded. “Had to head-butt my way in, but yes.” Sam’s eyes were sparkling, predatory. It was a side of her he’d rarely seen before. “I signed on as technical support and then made sure the marketing v.p. got a shit-his-britches call from Kylie late last night that sent him packing back to Huntsville.”
Kylie Jorgenson was the president of Femtodynamics, Sam’s company. Jorgenson had been navy, the director on the PW66 project back in the day. Back then Sam had hated Jorgenson—who was originally from Boston and projected Yankee bluntness—but had simultaneously been fascinated by her. She had now obviously become some sort of protégé.
“So here you are, the face of Femtodynamics at our little get-together.”
Sam nodded. She took another sip of coffee, left pale coral lipstick on the china rim. Leher successfully resisted the urge to take the cup from her and wipe it clean with a napkin.
There was a rumble in the corner. Tillich was speaking heatedly to a woman in a suit who’d approached him. Sam nodded toward Tillich. “How does it feel to be the Old Man’s designated executioner? You made a pretty devastating case for taking the offense in your summer report.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Leher said. “I take no pleasure in going against the admiral. And I’m far from sure we’ll win. Argosy is still on the table.”
“It’s going to be tricky. He’s got lots of friends,” Sam said. “Powerful ones in the Senate. I’ve gone up against him a few times, lost some battles. And you know he practically owns the space-serving Extry.”
“Never a truer word spoken,” said Leher. “Look at me. I’m right . I know I’m right and he’s wrong. But he still scares the hell out of me.”
“He can’t win this fight, Griff, or we’re toast. You know that. Better he’s taken out by somebody who respects him.”
Then a geist flickered into being in the reception-room doorway. Leher recognized the blue-green
Then came the invasion and the PW66 project. Sam was working on the team that figured out how to transport a nuclear warhead using the first Q drive. Leher had been a JAG lawyer on the project, fending off Pentagon bureaucrats and making sure the ad hoc team had legal room to operate. The work was top secret. Leher was among the few who knew that Sam was one of the brains that had saved humanity from instant capitulation to the sceeve.
She was a goddamn hero. One day, Sam would be in the history books—if there were going to be any more history books. But for the moment, she was just another aerospace executive.
“Mordor? Pretty geeky way to describe being a corporate Nazi,” Leher said.
“That’s Queen Geek to you, sir.” Sam smiled. Her teeth were whiter than they really ought to be. And she no longer wore glasses. Lasik? Or probably the new acuity drops made of tiny nanotech lens crafters. He kind of missed the wire frames. “Anyway, it’s a running game against a passing game,” she said.
“Much better. That sounds exactly like something a corporate Nazi would say.”
“Uh-huh. How you been, Griff?”
“Shoveling the coal of cultural linguistics into the firebox of the American war machine.”
Sam shook her head. “Goodness. Then you ought to have developed more muscles.”
“Touché.”
Sam selected one of the china cups next to the urn—all the cups bore the presidential seal—and clinked it onto a matching platter. “Guess that’s probably why you haven’t called in a year and a half.”
“No, I—”
She moved next to him and playfully shouldered him aside in order to reach the coffee urn’s spigot. He caught a trace of tobacco tang from her hair as she passed.
Oh, man, she’s back to smoking.
Time to change the subject.
“So—you’re in on the war council,” he said.
Sam nodded. “Had to head-butt my way in, but yes.” Sam’s eyes were sparkling, predatory. It was a side of her he’d rarely seen before. “I signed on as technical support and then made sure the marketing v.p. got a shit-his-britches call from Kylie late last night that sent him packing back to Huntsville.”
Kylie Jorgenson was the president of Femtodynamics, Sam’s company. Jorgenson had been navy, the director on the PW66 project back in the day. Back then Sam had hated Jorgenson—who was originally from Boston and projected Yankee bluntness—but had simultaneously been fascinated by her. She had now obviously become some sort of protégé.
“So here you are, the face of Femtodynamics at our little get-together.”
Sam nodded. She took another sip of coffee, left pale coral lipstick on the china rim. Leher successfully resisted the urge to take the cup from her and wipe it clean with a napkin.
There was a rumble in the corner. Tillich was speaking heatedly to a woman in a suit who’d approached him. Sam nodded toward Tillich. “How does it feel to be the Old Man’s designated executioner? You made a pretty devastating case for taking the offense in your summer report.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Leher said. “I take no pleasure in going against the admiral. And I’m far from sure we’ll win. Argosy is still on the table.”
“It’s going to be tricky. He’s got lots of friends,” Sam said. “Powerful ones in the Senate. I’ve gone up against him a few times, lost some battles. And you know he practically owns the space-serving Extry.”
“Never a truer word spoken,” said Leher. “Look at me. I’m right . I know I’m right and he’s wrong. But he still scares the hell out of me.”
“He can’t win this fight, Griff, or we’re toast. You know that. Better he’s taken out by somebody who respects him.”
Then a geist flickered into being in the reception-room doorway. Leher recognized the blue-green
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