Free Piranha by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown

ability to get along with so many people.
                 His
charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being
crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico—against the
Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had
treated him like a son.
                 How
did he manage to get on with so many people after polio took his legs? Wasn’t
he bitter? Why didn’t bitterness come out in his relationships, which seemed to
show no trace of anger or frustration? Zen didn’t fool himself that his own
relationships were on nearly so lofty a plain; at least privately, he railed
about his condition every day.
                 “Ready
for lunch?” Bree asked.
                 “Starving.”
                 “Red
Room?”
                 “Nah,
Admiral Allen’s there, and Ax says stay away.”
                 “Allen?
Is that who landed on my runway?”
                 Zen
gave her the gossip he’d heard from Chief Gibbs: Apparently the admiral was on
a tear because his people had gotten their fannies waved during the Piranha
exercises. One of Allen’s favorite commanders, Admiral Woods, had pulled some
strings to alter the parameters of the test in his favor—and still lost. There
was justice in the world, Zen concluded. They Navy being so damned concerned
about their little egos being crushed that a top admiral had to come and
personally try to soothe things over gave Zen immense satisfaction.
                 It
wasn’t until they were at their table with full trays of food that Zen realized
Bree was distracted. He made a joke about her choice—salad with a side of
yogurt—then one about his—a double helping of homemade meat loaf, with extra
gravy. She hardly snickered.
                 “Bad
flight?” he asked.
                 She
shrugged.
                 “Something
up?”
                 “I
fly every day,” he said.
                 “You
know what I mean. Flying a robot. It’s not the same thing.”
                 “Yeah,”
he said. He missed a lot more than flying.
                 “I
don’t know if I can do it, Jeff,” she said.
                 “You
don’t have to,” he told her.
                 “It’s
a promotion. It’s important.”
                 Zen
slid back a little in his seat, looking at her face. Breanna was not by any
definition, a worrier. Her eyes were fraught with it now.
                 “Hey.”
He paused, not really sure what to say. After an awkward silence, he stumbled
on. “There’re plenty of different projects out there. You don’t have to take
something you don’t want. But if you do take it, I know you can do it,” he
added quickly. Her lips had pursed—a bad sign. “I mean you’re beyond capable of
it. I mean, that’s why you got it.”
                 “The
Megafortresses.”
                 A
sore subject, he knew, since she had hoped to inherit Major Nancy Cheshire’s
place when she left. But Merce Alou, who outranked
her, had been tagged.
                 “To
be honest with you, Bree, the EB-52, not that it’s a dead end or anything, but
it’s now, uh, mature.” Zen hated using the bureaucratese, but it did
essentially describe the program. The EB-52 was now a production aircraft; the
advances were sure to be incremental. “The UMB. Hell, that’s the future. Or
something that comes out of it. Ask anybody. But if it’s not what you want to do,
don’t worry about it.”
                 “It’s
a big adjustment, that’s all,” she said, poking her salad. She frowned, but
this time at him. “You’re not going to eat all of that, are you? It’s pure
fat.”
                 He
laughed and reached for his soda—then yawped with pain.