Starhawk by Jack McDevitt

looked away, Priscilla could easily imagine she was talking to the head of the gunrunning mob in the latest Brad Halloway adventure.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “Good. You’ve been approved for certification. You’ll receive your license at a ceremony in the Starlight on December 22.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Good luck, Priscilla. Enjoy your career.”
    Â * * * 
    SHE CALLED JAKE.
    â€œCongratulations,” he said. “You performed under a lot of pressure. I think you have a serious future in this business.”
    â€œThanks, Jake. Do they know anything yet about the bomb?”
    There was a pause at the other end. Then: “They’re working on it. I think there’ll be an announcement in a couple of days.”
    He knew more than he was saying, but she let it go. In the end, it didn’t much matter
who
did it. Joshua was lost, and that was all she really cared about. “I hope they catch him,” she said. “Times like this, I think we should have stayed with capital punishment.”
    Â * * * 
    TRADITIONALLY, ON HIS first night back from a mission, Jake would have enjoyed a quiet dinner at the Skyview, with its eighty-foot-long portal, which provided a magnificent view of the Moon, the Earth, or whatever happened to be in the sky. Then he’d head for the Cockpit and hang out there for the balance of the night. But he would inevitably run into friends at the Skyview, and he knew
everybody
at the Cockpit. He wanted to be alone on this night. He wasn’t sure why, or maybe he didn’t want to face the reason. Nevertheless, he had no inclination to eat in his apartment. He
never
did that. After spending days or weeks in the belly of a spacecraft, he needed people around him. Just, hopefully, not any of his colleagues.
    He went down to the North Star. And, of course, in difficult times, we never get what we want. Erin Shoma was seated just inside the front door. Erin was an attractive young woman with lush brown hair and beautiful eyes. She worked for one of the game dealers on the Wheel, and she showed up periodically with Preacher Brawley at the Cockpit. She was sitting with three other women when he walked in. She looked up, saw him, and delivered a painful smile.
    The host led him past her table, headed for a corner booth. One of the women was talking, something about the presidential race. Erin seemed to be listening while simultaneously studying her napkin.
    Jake saw three or four other people he knew, but nobody else seemed to notice his presence at all.
    Â * * * 
    HE WAS GOING to have to deal with it eventually. So he decided what the hell. He ordered a drink and a sandwich, finished them, and headed for the Cockpit. This was the hangout of choice for employees of the World Space Authority. There were about fifteen people present when Jake walked in. Mostly, they were technical-support people. A few from the admin section. Only one pilot. Some smiled, others nodded, a few looked away. He sat down at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.
    The bartender gave him a thumbs-up. “Glad to see you got back okay, Jake,” she said.
    A security officer seated around the curve of the bar formed the words
Hi, Jake
with his lips and quickly went back to the conversation with the comm op beside him.
    The pilot was Rob Clayborn. At this point in his career, Rob did only occasional assignments. He ran the
Baumbachner
when it was needed, assisting with maintenance and doing periodic flights to Moonbase. When he saw Jake, he came over. “You had us worried,” he said.
    Jake nodded. “I think we were all worried, Rob. We lost a good man on that one.”
    â€œYeah, I know. Can I buy you a drink?”
    Rob was probably the smallest pilot in the interstellar force. He barely reached Jake’s shoulders. But he’d received the Collins Medal for disarming one of the antiterraforming lunatics who, a