Under Strange Suns by Ken Lizzi Page A

paths he crossed, each moving purposefully but with the contained stride of those used to working in a desert environment. He got lost just once, finding his destination–looking like a Quonset hut with a Napoleon complex–with a minute to spare.
    Aidan shrugged off his duffel bag, opened it and retrieved the camouflage jacket. It was too warm for a jacket but he felt the military touch would help. The jacket sensed the ambient temperature and numerous apertures slid open to assist airflow. The nano-tubes within the smart fabric began circulating coolant. He was still too hot.
    He straightened the jacket, ran a hand through his hair, which was about a week overdue for cutting if he wanted to maintain a high-and-tight, and knocked on the door, right beneath the cheap, magnetic placard labeled “Vance Aerospace.” And waited. He jiggled the door handle. It was locked.
    He checked the time on his wrist datapad. “Typical civilians,” he said.
    “How so?” came a smooth, alto voice.
    Aidan looked up. A woman walked toward him; young, maybe late twenties. She was compact, going five foot four in the knee-length boots encasing her legs. A ponytail, dirty blond, escaped the back of the battered grey ball cap on her head and aviator glasses concealed her eyes. A looker, Aidan decided–maybe a bit unconventionally so, but still a looker.
    “Casual about time,” he said, attempting to hide his chagrin. “You here about a job also?”
    “That depends,” she said, head tilted as she studied him. “I’m always open to a job if the pay is right. What job are you here about?”
    “Supposed to meet a Captain Vance at, oh, two minutes ago about the Security Officer position aboard a starship. Hard to make a good first impression when there’s no one to impress.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. I think the interview’s going well so far. You’ve demonstrated excellent promptness. Also contempt for civilian employers.” She produced a key and stepped past Aidan to unlock the door. She pushed it open and gestured to him to enter. “I’m Captain Brooklynn Vance. Come on in.”
    Aidan flashed the “aww-shucks-you’ve-caught-me” grin that he’d always employed when a superior supplied a dressing down. It was a look that displayed contriteness without a hint of servility, a good-natured acceptance of discipline but no willingness to take any bullshit. He hoisted his duffel again and entered.
    The offices of Vance Aerospace certainly didn’t appear any larger on the inside than the outside. Whatever money was backing the enterprise wasn’t tied up in leasing or furnishing elaborate headquarters. The prefab metal structure was walled off into maybe five rooms, including the bathroom and supply closet.
    Captain Vance slid by Aidan, letting the door swing shut behind her. Aidan followed her into the first room on the right, apparently her office though without any nameplate on the door. A flat screen display desk dominated the windowless room. A few framed photographs hung on the wall: a young girl and a woman; the Eureka separating from the first rocket stage; the Eureka II on the launch pad; the same young girl and a man bearing a familial resemblance to the woman. Some of the photos transposed to similar shots, mostly family pictures, Aidan judged, seeing the young girl at various stages of life up through images that were clearly of Captain Vance at near her current age. Some were looped video. Others were actual old-fashioned still photographs.
    Aidan took the guest chair when Captain Vance gestured to it as she sat behind the desk. “Right,” she said, “let’s get this interview underway. We’re at least three minutes behind schedule.” She tapped and swiped icons on the desktop. Bringing up his resume, Aidan figured.
    “You are, I assume, Aidan Carson. Picture looks like you. You letting your hair grow out? Okay, formerly a sergeant in the United States Army. Honorable discharge. Pretty high incentives to stay in,