It's A Deadly Job, But Somebody's Gotta Do It

Tradition. I'm sure if I asked them, they'd say it was tradition. One day, tradition's gonna to put us all out of a job. If it doesn't kill us first.

I stood and left my office. In all my years fighting in the Fleet, I learned one lesson better than any other: Never read bad news in your office. You have to spend a lot of time in your office. If you do nothing but read bad news there, eventually you aren't gonna to like the place anymore. Since High Command, or even Station Command, isn't too quick at granting accommodation transfers, you don't want to hate the place you work.

I strode down the stark grey halls, listening to the thrumming sound from the trix-fusion generator. Above, the lights flickered, and I wondered when maintenance was gonna get around to fixing them. Then it occurred to me: I'd been on SO-4 nearly eighteen months and the lights had always flickered. Maybe they were meant to.

Once I was far enough away from my office, I tore open the envelope. Withdrawing the papers, I took a deep breath and glanced at the top sheet.

I stopped in my tracks. I read the page again.

Commander Cougar,

"Oh, crap," I said, and my hand began to tremble.

Fear is funny. Fear can be your closest friend, a comfortable companion with whom you've spent many long evenings. Fear can be your direst enemy, freezing you in your tracks, making it impossible to fight, and costing you the lives of your entire squadron.

Sometimes, Fear jumps out at you when you least expect him. Other times he sneaks up on you slowly. You know he's there, getting closer, but you can't see him, and your heart starts beating faster with every moment, until you're sure it's gonna burst.

Sometimes he hides. You know he's out there. You know that, eventually, you'll stumble upon him, and your day will be ruined.

Today, Fear turned the corner ahead of me and waved.

"Commander Cougar," said Station Commander John Fear. "I see you've gotten your orders. Why don't you follow me, son. We have a lot to talk about." With no additional preamble, he turned, his dark boots echoing hollowly down the otherwise silent hallway.

I hurried to follow. "There must be some mistake, Sir," I said when I reached his side.

"No mistake, pilot," he replied, shaking his head. Fear had brown hair, streaked white at the temples. His eyes were blue, somehow distant and intensely focused at the same time. His face was worn, only slightly wrinkled, and tired. "But let's not talk about it just yet. Why don't we find someplace a little more quiet."

I frowned, listening to the echo of our footfalls. "Quiet, Sir?"

He laughed. "Okay," he admitted. "Bad choice of words. Let's wait till we get someplace a little harder for other people to listen." He quickened his pace as he spoke, until we nearly jogged down twisting corridors of SO-4.

I noticed for the first time how quiet SO-4 was. Not that it usually bustled with life and activity. But generally you saw a tech or two wandering the halls, if not a pilot or marine. Today the station was dead; not even a maintenance robot whirred through the halls.

Commander Fear stopped before a hangar door and punched a series of numbers into the keypad. His action wouldn't have registered, except that the hangars were never locked.

My curiosity was finally piqued.

Fear strode into the room as soon as the door whooshed open. I followed, quickening my step, and entered the hangar only a half-second behind the commander.