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sampling that on purpose. As soon as he can, he unplugs, and I do the same. Even though I don’t know him, not even sure if I like him, I already miss him. You don’t know what it’s like to be alone until you’ve had someone inside your head.
    And that, you see, is why so many pilots and jumpers wind up sleeping together. It’s too much on the senses—that mutual stimulation needs an outlet, and there comes a point when nobody else will do. You want to share your body the way you’ve shared your mind, so many times, and the sex is better, stronger, and so intense.
    Some pairs do it while jacked in, not while jumping, of course, but in the cockpit, joined both ways, writhing together, ecstasy washing back and forth in a closed circuit, constantly driving things higher. It becomes its own addiction after a while, and I’ve known pilots who simply can’t perform unless they’re with a jumper.
    Anything else is just too vanilla.

CHAPTER 5
    Like he knows what I’m thinking, March flicks me a scathing look as he signals the crew it’s safe to unstrap from the harnesses and remove helmets. While they report back, I decide that doing me, jacked in or otherwise, is the last thing on his mind. That’s good; it’s a complication I neither want nor need. I stretch, conscious of no more wear and tear than a residual headache, like a day-old hangover.
    I’ve had worse.
    Leaning forward, I take a look at our updated position on the nav charts, and yeah, we came out right on target. Lachion’s less than a two-hour cruise, and I settle back to watch. Don’t know what I think I’ll learn, but he’s good at what he does; sure, capable hands manipulating the controls, attentive to various readings. Stuff I don’t understand, to be honest. I’m not a pilot, although I’ve spent almost half my life on board ships.
    â€œGood jump,” he says finally.
    And it’s a surprise to hear his voice, different, more forceful. Then I could sense his uncertainties and constant grief. Now he’s all steel and implacable resolve again.
    â€œI don’t think it was my fault,” I blurt, before I’ve formed the words inside my own head. But I need to say it. I need someone to believe me. Don’t know whether March is that someone, but I need some of the weight off my soul.
    He cuts me a sharp look, a full ten seconds away from the control panel. “Matins IV?” As if there’s any doubt what I mean.
    â€œYeah.” I don’t look at him. Instead I stare out into straight space, nothing too fascinating there for one accustomed to wildfire. But it’s better than measuring his expression, doubting my own credibility.
    â€œWe don’t think so, either,” he answers, neutral.
    Something in his tone tells me he’s speaking more for others than himself. Having seen inside him, I can say with authority—March is a man, who, if asked to capture the legendary pink orangutan of New Inglaterra, would devise a foolproof plan to catch said beast and equip himself with all necessary accoutrements, and never mind the fact that he doesn’t believe in the thing. So, no, he doesn’t necessarily believe me. But that doesn’t matter to him because he’s been asked to deliver me, and I’m starting to wonder why.
    â€œWhy me?” I know I don’t need to clarify.
    One of the advantages to the pilot/jumper bond is that even when you jack out, you carry certain awareness with you, remembrance of how your partner’s mind works. He’ll know what I’m asking although he could choose to be an ass and feign incomprehension. I respect the fact that he doesn’t.
    â€œYou’re pretty old,” he tells me, not unkindly. I’ll be thirty-three this year. “And you’ve logged over five hundred successful jumps and more new charts for the Corp than any navigator ever. There are people who