by Deborah J. Ross, writing as Deborah Wheeler
Epilog
The Fifth Federation Star Service
personnel lounge on New Paris teemed with men and women waiting to be shuttled
up to their cruisers or for boarding permission to smaller ground-based ships.
Almost everyone was in uniform--the beiges and greens of officers and pilots,
the blues of medics and science, a scattering of diplomatic whites. By the
western window, a huge curved sweep of double-glass looking out over the
spaceport itself, a man and a woman in the severe black of the Courier Corps
watched a stinger undergo its final safety checks. Refitted for prolonged travel
for a crew of two, the graceful craft was packed with specialized equipment and
the most modern, powerful jaydium drives.
"It still amazes me how beautiful
it is," the woman murmured. "And it=s ours."
The man nodded and put one arm around
her shoulder. They moved away from the window, talking quietly.
Kithri, sitting at a table in one of
the darker corners of the lounge, watched them go. They=d
get their clearances soon, and they=d
be off to the stars, bound on some secret mission. Everywhere they=d
go, people would notice the black uniforms with respect and not a little envy.
She set her juice drink on the table of
heavily varnished Terillium oak and watched the pink bubbles spiral upwards.
Her claret-colored shirt was loosely cut, gathered at the sleeves and yoke. The
fabric was soft and heavy, so different from the crisp, tailored uniforms of
the Service. She wore it tucked into her pants and belted with a wide strap of
real leather. Only the small round patch on the left collar, a scout ship
crossing a stylized "E", indicated it was something other than
ordinary civilian clothing. Explorers didn=t
wear uniforms.
