He’d assured her he was there to stay. He pretended he loved representing people who were buying and selling real estate. He made jokes about how much better the money was (that, at least, was true), and how he liked working regular hours. “I must have been crazy in the old days,” he’d told her. “I’d never go back.”

She’d smiled at him. A skeptic’s smile. Emma was no dummy, and she saw right through his routine. But she liked him enough to hire him anyhow.

He’d left his chosen profession because there was no longer a market for star pilots. The Interstellar Age was over. He’d stayed with the Academy until they shut down, then he’d gone to work for Kosmik, hauling freight and passengers to the outstations. A year later, Kosmik began cutting back, and he’d caught a job piloting tours for Orion.

When things turned dark for Orion, he was the junior guy and consequently first to go. He’d gotten a job managing a databank operation, mining, sorting, and analysis done here. He’d hated it, moved on, sold insurance, managed a desk in a medical office, even done a stint as a security guard in an entertainment mall. Eventually, he’d taken a girlfriend’s advice and tried real estate.

So here he was, on a fast track to nowhere, piling up more money than he’d ever dreamed of.

The last hundred yards was uphill. His neighbor, Hobbie Cordero, was just getting home. Hobbie was a medical researcher of some sort, always going on about genetic this and splenetic that. He was passionate about what he did. Matt envied him.

They talked for a few minutes. Hobbie was short and dumpy, a guy who ate too much and never exercised and just didn’t worry about it. He was involved in a project that would help fend off strokes, and he was capable of telling Matt about it while wolfing down hot dogs.

Sometimes, the conversation with Hobbie was the highlight of his day.

So Matt drifted through the afternoons of his life, rooting for the Washington Sentinels, and getting excited about selling estates along the Potomac and villas in DC.

REYNA WAS USED to his moods. And she knew what caused them. “Quit,” she advised.

They’d skipped dinner, gone for a walk along the river, and ended at Cleary’s, a coffeehouse that had prospered during Academy days and was now just hanging on. “Quit and do what?” he asked.

“You’ll find something.”

He liked Reyna. She was tall and lean, with blue eyes and dark hair, and he loved the way she laughed. There was no real passion between them, though, and he didn’t understand why. It made him wonder if he’d ever find a woman he could really relate to.

She was good company. They’d been dating on and off for a year. They’d slept together a couple of times. But he didn’t push that side of the relationship because he wasn’t going to offer to make things permanent. She was the woman he spent time with when no one special was available. She knew that, and he suspected she felt much the same way. “Like what?” he asked.

“How about a federal job? I understand they’re looking for tour guides in DC.”

“That would be exciting.”

She smiled at him. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. “Have you thought about teaching?”

“Me?”

“Sure. Why not?” She stirred her coffee, took a sip, rested her cheek on her fist. Her eyes locked on him. She was showing a little perspiration from their walk.

“What would I teach?”

“Astronomy.”

“I was a history major, Reyna.”

“They won’t care. Star pilot. You’ve been out there. They’d love you.”

The coffee was good. He had a Brazilian blend, sweetened with tapioca. “I don’t think so. I can’t imagine myself in a classroom.”

“I could ask around,” she said. “See what’s available.” She looked away, out the window at the river. “There’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve a friend who works in a law office in Wheaton. They’re looking to hire an analyst. Apparently, you don’t need a legal background. They’ll teach you everything you need. They just want somebody who’s reasonably smart.”

He couldn’t see himself working with contracts and entitlements. Of course, until these last few years, he couldn’t have imagined himself spending his days in an office of any kind. Maybe what he needed in his life was a good woman. Somebody who could make him feel as if he were moving forward. Going somewhere.

Maybe two good women.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

HE’D JUST GOTTEN in the door at home when Basil, his AI, informed him there was a news report of interest. “I didn’t want to disturb you while you were out.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“François was in an accident. They’re sending out a rescue mission.”

“François St. John?” That seemed unlikely. François was a model of caution and good sense. “What are they saying? Is he okay?”

“Presumably. There are no reports of injuries. But apparently the ship is adrift.”

“What happened?”

“An omega. They got in its way.”

François was the guy who wouldn’t quit. When everything was shutting down, he’d found a way to stay with the interstellars. Most recently he’d been working for the Prometheus Foundation. Probably for expenses and lunch money. “We have details?”

“They’re running an interview with Dr. Golombeck now.”

“Put it on. Let’s see what happened.”

Golombeck’s image appeared. He was seated at a table, looking forlorn, saying something about a derelict ship. He was a thin, gray man. Gray mustache, gray clothes, gray skin. He didn’t look as if he had ever been out in the sun. He was, of course, the director of the Prometheus Foundation.

François and Matt had never really been friends. They’d not seen enough of each other for that. But they’d met periodically in the Academy ops center and at the outstations. They’d had a few drinks together on occasion, including that last memorable night at Union when the Academy announced it was closing down. There had been four or five of them present when the news came. Matt had returned less than an hour earlier from a flight to Serenity. François and one of the others had been scheduled for outbound missions, which had been delayed two or three days without explanation, and finally canceled. A couple of the others had been going through refresher training.

The talk, of course, had centered on the conviction that it wasn’t really happening. A shutdown had been rumored for years, but the common wisdom was that the threats were always designed to shake more funding out of Congress. There was some hope at the table that it was true this time, too.

But if not, what would they do?

They’d talked about getting piloting jobs with Kosmik and Orion and the other starflight corporations. But the field was drying up, and everybody knew it. One female pilot had talked about going home to Montana. “Maybe work on the ranch,” she’d said. After all this time, he could still remember the way she’d tilted her head, the way her blond hair was cut, the pain in her eyes. Couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered the pain.

Work on the ranch.

And François. He’d been solid, quiet, competent. The kind of guy you wanted playing the action hero. He was a born skeptic, thought nothing corrupted people quicker than giving them promotions. What was he going to do now? He’d shaken his head. Stay in the backcountry, he’d said. Ride the ships. Matt seemed to recall that he’d added he would never stoop to selling real estate for a living. But that was a false memory. Had to be.

“They were trying to salvage what they could out of the derelict,” Golombeck was saying.

The interviewer was Cathie Coleman, of The London Times. She sat across the table, nodding as he spoke. Her dark skin glistened in lights that did not exist in Matt’s living room. He described how the Langstons had boarded the derelict, had cut their way into it. How they had cut things a bit too close. How the derelict was by far the oldest ever discovered.