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spy.
    The path to the ship's nerve center led through the mess area, now crowded with four men preparing food and putting up the long, narrow table and benches that had been folded down. He navigated around them, walked down the corridor, and stepped through the last door that swished open for him.
    There were still some cable bundles hanging about, and he ducked beneath one. In the pilot seat, Grimm had reclined so far back it looked almost like he was lying in a bed. He was wearing the gray jumpsuit, but it was open at the chest, and he'd shed his combat boots, feet in tight compression socks. "Ah, Kyle, thanks for coming."
    Beyond the metal shell surrounding them was the deep black of space; the screens that covered half the available room in front of the pilot seats were alive, offering the illusion of staring right into the void. Grimm leaned forward and slapped a button. The door behind Kyle whispered shut.
    Kyle refused to glance behind him to acknowledge the noise. "What's up?" He could speak in innuendo, too.
    Grimm turned his head lazily. His expression spoke of the same adrenaline haze Kyle had been floating in. "You have flight training; would you mind being useful?"
    "Co-piloting the ship?"
    "I'd prefer another human to watch the instruments while I'm sleeping. Our course shouldn't be too dangerous, but you never know."
    That was reasonable enough, but something told Kyle that wasn't all there was to it. "Any other reasons?"
    "You seem like the type who gets easily bored."
    "Not at all."
    "We could spend time together. Exchange stories." Grimm winked at him. "Also, the co-pilot seat is more comfortable than your bunk."
    Kyle glanced at the other seat, which was piled high with cable bundles and spare parts. He walked over to it, put a hand on the firm material of the cushioning and squeezed it. "I'm out of practice."
    "I don't need a fighter pilot for this. Just somebody who can wake me up when it's really urgent."
    "I should be able to execute a launch that doesn't kill anybody."
    Grimm laughed. "I didn't. I just underestimated the thrust I'd get out of this old lady after the modification."
    "Winter said you told her it was an emergency."
    Grimm hesitated, as if caught lying. "Okay. Control was about to push us back in the queue in favor of a diplomatic envoy. I didn't stand down."
    "That made you popular."
    "By the time we return, it'll be forgotten."
    Not that Kyle believed him. The hasty start pointed very much to illegal cargo of some sort. "Why do I get the sense that you're not telling me the truth? What is this? You guys in trouble with the law?"
    "No worse than you," Grimm said. "I'd say you fit right in. Let's get that pilot seat set up for you."
     

     
    Grimm did most of the calibration, which spared Kyle the associated twisting and turning. Kyle relaxed while the chair's intelligent foam filling, which kept pilots secure through the maddest maneuvers, adjusted to his weight, size, and overall distribution. Sitting in a fighter pilot's chair felt like coming home, although Kyle had to hide how at ease he was. The other Kyle, as he thought of his cover, didn't have the thousands of flight hours he had.
    Or the combat training. Fighter pilots were drawn from the Commonwealth's very best—usually law-abiding citizens, considering the value of every single ship. Wouldn't do to put a maverick in charge who'd turn tail and sell the ship (and/or his services) to any number of pirates out there. In his case, starting out with Hunter Five had fast-tracked him into the career he'd actually wanted.
    "Let's set this up," Grimm murmured, sliding his hand in between the cushioning and Kyle's shoulder. The chair made a disapproving squeak, begrudgingly adjusting to the intrusion of living tissue between the pilot and itself. Grimm ran his fingers along Kyle's arm, down to his hip, and across the curve of his ass. "Yeah, nicely responsive."
    Kyle glanced at him. "You wish."
    Grimm paused, then grinned. "I meant the