Raw Recruit

Excerpt

Chapter Three

Rene harnessed her professionalism, walked around one of the spacecraft, and eyed it critically. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Neither has anyone else. Except for the men who crew them, the mechanics who built them and a few brass—oh, and Dr. Connate, of course. He's the funny little Irish guy who designed them," he added when Rene looked up at him quizzically. "He'd like you. He likes tough women. So he tells me." Kent shrugged and kept trailing after her.

"Why are they shaped like . . . ?" Rene's voice trailed off while she hunted around for a description that wasn't derogatory.

"Flying saucers?" Kent grinned. "Form follows function. Here . . . ." He picked up a wrench from a nearby workbench and tossed it to Rene. She caught the tool neatly. "Show me some more of that throwing arm of yours, Lieutenant.
Throw that at one of the Connates—go on—as hard as you can." His grin grew broader when one of Rene's eyebrows shot up skeptically.

Kent turned his head and whistled loudly. "Hey, Mac," he bellowed over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir," the MP sitting up in the secure control tower behind them yelled back.

"You're my witness. If the lieutenant here dings a Connate, it's coming out of my paycheck."

"Affirmative, sir," the MP replied and leaned over the railing to watch.

Rene's eyebrow went up even higher, but there was an unmistakable challenge in the colonel's wide, dark eyes. She turned, took aim, and sent the wrench flying dead center at one of the spacecraft. Mon Dieu. Instead of denting the craft's shiny plating or pinging off it, the Connate's outer skin rippled. It seemed to absorb the blow almost like a gel then flattened until it was again perfectly smooth. The wrench shot off at a predictable angle and clattered across the floor.

She looked up at the colonel. He was grinning broadly, revealing a dimple to one side of his mouth.

Brown eyes and a dimple . . . I think I'm in love.

"What is that?" she said, tucking her lecherous thoughts away.

"Doc Connate calls it Tensisteel for short. It's got some complicated chemical name, but I can never remember the damn thing. Tensisteel because the tensile strength of the stuff is off the charts—and I do mean completely off the charts. Immeasurable, using the equipment we've got. It can also be stretched within limits." He led Rene over to the craft she'd thrown the wrench at. "Go on, touch it."

At first, the Tensisteel was cool—ambient room temperature—then it warmed up almost immediately, matching her body temperature exactly. Rene pressed lightly, and the metal seemed to melt around her hand—or her hand became part of the metal—and the two conformed to each other seamlessly.

"Feels creepy at first. You'll get used to it," Kent said quietly.

Rene looked up at him then returned her attention to the remarkable Tensisteel skin of the spacecraft.

"It absorbs then deflects energy—kinetic and mechanical."

"So no matter what kind of weapon you shoot at it, it deflects the impact?" Rene pulled her fingers away and flexed them rapidly. Her hand was cool, like the metal had sucked the heat out of her. The Tensisteel skin rippled then returned to its original shape.

"Precisely. Although even Tensisteel has its limits against direct and repeated pulse-cannon fire." There was growing admiration in his expression when Kent looked down her. "The craft are small because Tensisteel is incredibly hard to manufacture. Although the mechanics expect they'll improve on the refining process in time." He led her past the first shiny row of Connates and on to the slightly duller row closest to the launch doors. "Expensive up to amounts folks like you and I can't even comprehend. There's no wasted space onboard. There's room for a pilot and RIO, a nuclear-powered engine, weapons and a life-support unit."

Rene looked up and saw names were painted on each of the Connates in the second row—two names beside each hatch. The Connate the colonel was heading for was marked with the names Lieutenant Commander Richard Sparks and Colonel Kent Parnell. He slid his hand over the edge of the Tensisteel-covered hatch and it whooshed open.

"All that trouble to cover this ship with a Tensisteel skin, and they've used a conventional hatch cover?" Rene's brows drew together. From the inside, she could see the dome-shaped hatch was transparent.

"That's covered in Tensisteel too." Kent laid his hand on the dome. Like the outer skin, the hatch softened and molded to his fingers. "With slight chemical variations that allow the molecules to line up so we can see out. It's weaker though—so my ass would be plenty grateful if you could fly us out of the way of a direct energy-pulse hit." He pulled his hand back. "Tensisteel is one of the things that make these babies the hottest ticket in the service. The other one is something straight out of science fiction." He reached inside and pulled out two helmets. They looked conventional, if a little oversized, and were connected by two reinforced wires about a foot and a half long. "This is a plexus network." He turned over one of the helmets so Rene could see the inside and handed it to her. "I'm going to show you how it works. But first we get inside the Connate."

Rene looked into the interior of the ship. It was cramped, even by fighter jet standards, and the controls were far simpler than what she was used to seeing. But the seat configuration made her brows draw together.

"There's only—"

"One shared seat. Yes." With his helmet tucked under his arm, Kent climbed into the fighter and slid back on the elongated seat, pressing his spine firmly into the backrest. No more than a foot of seat overhang stuck out between his spread legs.

"Then where does the pilot—?"

"Right here, Lieutenant." Kent said firmly, pointing between his legs. "And don't sit on my nuts when you get in. I hate it when my pilot crushes my nuts," he added dryly. He slid on his helmet and held his arms out of the way so Rene could climb in front of him.

There were a dozen pressing questions in Rene's head at the moment. She was surprised by the one that came out first. "Am I your pilot?"

"Affirmative, Lieutenant. Now get your ass down here and let me give you the nickel tour."

Rene hesitated for a minute, looking down at the colonel's intense, plain face peering out at her from behind his visor. She'd already had to fight off two space jockeys. She didn't want to grapple with a third. One of the colonel's golden-brown brows started to come up, and Rene's instincts told her this was a disciplined and demanding officer. The kind of officer she aspired to be. She looked down at the section of seat available to her, mentally plotted her optimal foot positions and dropped one leg into the cockpit—such as it was—lowered her backside onto the very edge of the seat and slid back slowly. She stopped when her hips were firmly cradled between his thighs and her back was resting against his chest.

"Gracefully done, Lieutenant. And thanks for sparing my nuts."

Rene grinned but kept her mouth shut. The colonel felt warm, solid and comfortable. Hmm. Suddenly she wasn't in the mood to bust a RIOs chops for getting too chummy on the job. Oh, she was so going to get busted down in rank if she voiced that opinion.

Kent continued. "As I said, the second unique feature of the Connate is the plexus network."

Rene looked down at the helmet in her hands then slipped it on her head while she listened.

"The inner rim looks like a semi-solid gel. It'll feel cool on your skin when you first put it on. A little like somebody dropped tapioca on your head, but you'll get used to that too."

She shuddered lightly and resisted the urge to blurt out the word icky.

"It's a polymer that conforms to your head, forming a perfect seal."

The gel on her forehead began to warm, followed by the gel on the sides of her face. The part going around the back of her head, just below her hairline, felt almost gooey and took the longest to warm up.

"Once it's adapted to your body temperature, it seals itself against your skin, and you won't feel it anymore."

Rene nodded. She was only vaguely aware of the gel now.

"In about two seconds, you'll feel a few stings around your head, like a cat giving you a little poke with its claws."

"Jurer." Despite his warning, Rene jumped in her seat when she felt the tiny prickles. She laid her hand on the colonel's muscular thigh for support.

"Electrodes. Now your brain is connected to the plexus."

She felt his broad chest move against her back as he took a deep breath.

Despite his professional focus, Kent's body reacted to the lieutenant's tasty ass snuggling into his crotch. Down boy. Mentally, he chastised his twitching cock before his new pilot could register the jump in his libido. I like the way my nose looks just fine and don't need her rearranging it. He remembered how his breath had caught when he'd got his first up-close look at her. Rene's complexion was flawless, her skin looked like living satin, and her eyes—his breath caught again. Her eyes were a violet so bright and mesmerizing his chest tightened at the memory of them.

Exhaling slowly, Kent continued. "Here's where the science fiction comes in." With his right hand, Kent powered up the Connate's batteries. A monitor beside him came to life and showed two plexus helmets were in use. The system recognized him but didn't recognize his new pilot. When it prompted him, he keyed in Rene's rank and name. "A plexus network allows people—in our case two—to receive each other's thoughts over short distances." He felt Rene's body tighten against his. "Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. Kind of like saying we've got a psychic twinkle. Tell you the truth, they first tried these things out with people who claimed to have psychic abilities. Maybe some of them did—I don't know for sure. All I do know is most of the early candidates were women with big hair and about a dozen cats back home. They may have been able to light up a plexus network like a Christmas tree, but they didn't know jack about flying jets."

"Colonel," Rene said in an annoyingly mature tone, "I'm certainly not psychic, and I don't believe there is such a thing."

"You don't have to believe," Kent assured her. "You just have to play along for a minute. Mostly because you're the one who's going to bring the juice."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant." Kent stretched his arms forward comfortably and loped his hands around two grab handles on the hatch in front of Rene. "I'm a linear thinker. Flight engineers are, by definition. I'm a total left-brain guy and don't have a creative bone in my body. You, on the other hand, are a leftie."

"Pardon?" This time Rene shook her head for emphasis.

"You're left handed. Creative and gifted in intuitive logic. Right-brain dominant and it's one of the lobes in the right side of the brain the plexus network jacks into. You use both sides of your brain equally during flight. You're creative and disciplined at the same time, so you'll be able to work this baby with no sweat. You could hook a hundred guys like me up, and we couldn't see a rainy day coming if we were standing knee-deep in flood water. It takes one pilot like you to make a plexus work."

From her silence, Kent could tell she wasn't buying it.

"Yeah, I can smell your skepticism from here. But like I said, you don't have to believe. You just have to play along for a minute. Now, having a brain lobe capable of powering one of these babies isn't enough. You need endorphins floating around up there as well. They serve as the neurotransmitters that allow the plexus to reach into your brain and transmit your thoughts to me. Kinda like the grease for the wheels. Once the link is established, you'll be able to hear my direct thoughts as well."

"Have you had a CAT scan lately?"

"Last week. Why?"

"You should look into having another one because something up there's got loose."

Kent laughed and Rene didn't know whether to smack him for jostling her—or lean back into his muscular warmth and enjoy the ride.

"Can't blame you for thinking that, Lieutenant. But humor me for another minute and play along. Like I said, your body needs to generate endorphins and it does that one of two ways—pleasure or pain."

Pleasure? Pain? Tabernacle. Either the guy had a raging case of space dementia or she was being set up for a whopper of a practical joke. "What?"

"The physical sensations of both produce endorphins. Now remember my face shield is up so don't bother hauling off and trying to break my nose like you did Major Rougeau's." Kent shifted slightly and laid his left hand on Rene's shoulder. "I'm going to pinch you. Hard enough to hurt but I promise it won't be too bad. Ready?"

"No."

"Tough." Kent pinched the skin at the base of Rene's neck between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently—then a little harder and a little harder still. He stopped squeezing when she winced. He eased off on the pressure then started to squeeze again.

By the third pinch, Rene was ready to crack her helmet back into him. What was it with these space jockeys and their roaming fingers?

Can you hear me now, Rene?

"Wh . . . ?"

Don't use your mouth . . . just think it deliberately.

"This is insane." Rene gasped and tightened her grip on the colonel's thigh. She'd forgotten she was still holding on to his firm, muscular leg.

Thanks. You've got great legs too.

Rene sat up very straight.

You'll learn quickly to direct your thoughts unless you want me to know everything about that kiss ‘n tell boyfriend you had in grade two, amongst other things.

Rene yanked the helmet off her head. The electrode points pressing into her skin retracted immediately, and it came off painlessly. She spun around and stared up at the colonel. He pulled off his helmet slowly.

"I didn't have a boyfriend in grade two," she blurted out accusingly.

"I know." Kent grinned, revealing the cute dimple in his cheek. "I made it up. I was yanking your chain." Then he grew serious. "What I'm going to tell you is the make-or-break point in flying a Connate. The relationship between pilot and RIO is intimate. And I do mean intimate. We will be inside each other's heads every time we fly. There are bound to be unguarded moments, and I'll reveal parts of myself I'd give my left nut to have back. The same goes for you . . . except for the nut part."

Despite herself, Rene grinned. Even with the implausibility of everything he'd said, she liked the quickness of his mind, the way he instantly switched from aw-shucks-ma'am Southern charmer to large-and-in-charge full-bird colonel. "All right—let's say I believe this isn't a gas-induced hallucination. Why?"

"Why what?" Kent's big shoulders punched up, and Rene liked the feel of his powerful body moving against hers.

"Why would we want to go all psychic on each other?"

"So we can fly as one person." With his right hand, Kent began to manipulate the system controls, bringing the ship's status up on a screen in front of Rene. She shifted her body so she was again facing forward. "Currently, every time you perform a maneuver, change course, speed or spot a landscape that reminds you of your Aunt Millie's gigantic ass, you say the words out loud." The fuel-tank status bars came up on the screen, and his fingers paused on the controls. "It's what we're trained to do. Verbalize so our intended actions are recorded." He reached forward and tapped the slot for the flight-data recorder—a scaled-down version of the brain Rene was used to. "If you were to perform a ballistic climb, slam our craft into a sideways drift then drop in behind an enemy's tail using a port thruster, I'd react to your monologue by checking the engine output so I could direct additional power to the depleted thrusters. When we are connected through the plexus network, I'll know what maneuvers you're going to perform before you make them. There's no delay between thought and action. I direct engine output to the appropriate thrusters before you deplete them. When you need power, I've already put more than enough there for you to use. I know what weapons you're going to need and what your planned trajectory is so I can check the field for friendlies. Those are just some examples."

Rene was quiet for a moment, considering the benefits of communicating with her flight engineer without being hampered by the imperfection or delay of speech. "For the record, Colonel, my Aunt Millie's got a great ass," she said drolly and grinned to herself.

"Noted, Lieutenant," Kent said dryly then chuckled. He powered down the system controls then loped his hands over the hatch handles again. "If we fly together, we trust each other not only with our lives but with our deepest, most shameful secrets, and we need to be prepared to ignore things that flash through each other's minds inadvertently. I'm ready to trust you. Can you do the same?" There was an edge of absolute command in his voice. It was the voice of an officer used to bringing out the best in the people around him.

"Do you . . . did you have that kind of trust with Lieutenant Commander Sparks?" She twisted so she could look at him again. His eyes were darker than before, focused, but she saw warmth there too.

"Sparky? Absolutely. We've been together since before the Connate Project was launched."

"Then why switch?"

Something in the colonel's wide eyes dimmed, and he looked away from her. "Put your helmet back on, and I'll tell you."

His tone was ominous, but Rene slipped her helmet back on despite that. This time, the prickling of the gel rim wasn't as pronounced. He was right—she was getting used to the sensation. The discovery made her start to believe some of the other things he'd said.

This time, instead of pinching Rene, Kent laid both hands on her shoulders and started to rub them. His large, warm hands manipulated her muscles delicately. Her neck relaxed as Rene felt the tension start to drain out of her. He worked her shoulders gently. The corners of her mouth had turned up in a contented grin as she rocked lightly in time with the colonel's incredible, talented fingers.

Thanks. You've got good muscle tone.

You're back.

Yep.

Why didn't you pinch me?

Pleasure or pain, Rene. Both release endorphins. Pleasure is easier to maintain, less jarring, and your responses to the stimuli are relatively constant.

How so?

The amount of pain you can handle, and the amount you need to produce a steady flow of endorphins varies and depends on a number of factors—your anxiety level, your overall health, where you are in your menstrual cycle—although I suppose that won't affect you too much because they probably gave you a birth control inoculate before you came up here. Right?

Yes.

"You haven't answered my question." Rene switched to speech. She wasn't used to talking to someone with her mind, and it was tiring. Besides, filtering her thoughts like she filtered words was hard work. "Why switch pilots? Who wouldn't want to take off on patrol with your magic fingers on their shoulders?"

The colonel was quiet for a long while, and, for the first time in her life, Rene felt lonely inside her own head. She squeezed his thigh gently.

"It won't be your shoulders I'll be touching, Rene." The colonel sighed loud enough for her to hear then he lifted his left hand off her shoulder and extended it forward until she could see it. "The cockpit set-up gives me right-hand control of on-board systems like fuel, weapons, radar . . . ."

Flight engineer shit.

She wasn't sure if the thought was hers or his.

"A one-handed shoulder rub won't cut it."

Rene thought about that for a moment. He was correct. While a little one-handed muscle manipulation would keep her happy for a few seconds, it took the even pressure of two hands, working in tandem, to produce the deeply relaxed sensations that had opened up the mental communication between them. Problem was, she couldn't imagine performing optimally if she was zoned out. Plus, a massage during the heat of combat would probably irritate the hell out of her.

"My left hand"—this hand—"will be moving over your erogenous zones, maintaining your body in a state of constant, low-level pleasure." He dropped his hand to her waist, and his long, powerful fingers slid over her abdomen and stayed there. And before you ask, yes, every time Sparky and I fly, his dick is in my hand. A lot of good men have washed out of the program because they couldn't handle the intimacy. We've been in the program for six months, and we're at the point where we just about can't stand it any longer.

That's why women—

Are deliberately being added to the Connate Project, yes. Even with the Omegons out there. We've got eight new ships we need to crew. None of us can stomach flying with another guy anymore.

Rene was quiet for a moment. As the seconds passed, her awareness of Kent's thoughts in her head faded, along with the pleasant endorphin buzz he'd built up in her. She felt him coming back, almost like a prickling awareness on the back of her neck when he resumed massaging her shoulders. It was the same feeling she got when someone was watching her.

Yes. You should do that.

"Hmm?"

Contact General Stephenson. Confirm what I'm telling you. Confirm this isn't . . . how did you put it? A dating service for guys who've been in space too long.

Along with his words, she saw in his head the initial Connate Flyer trials Kent had participated in. Felt his revulsion then discipline as he touched another man. Saw everything he'd told her was true. When he stopped rubbing her shoulders and laid his left hand on her belly, she covered his fingers with hers. "What do we do now, Kent?" she asked quietly.

"Now?" Now you take me back to your quarters, and I start learning how your body likes to be touched.