And for Gabe, backup plans weren't psychological comforts; they were necessities.

His final destination in his trek was not a place any new arrival might visit, but being a supposed graduate of the Pilot AIT, he doubted that it would raise any suspicion. He was directed, by a non-com technician with a dour demeanor, to the nearest launch bay.

The bay itself was closed to all unauthorized personnel, of course, but Launch Bay 4's pilots' lounge, looking down on the bay through large polycarbon windows, was open to all, unless you happened not to be a pilot.

Lucky Gabe.

There was a self-serve bar with weak alcoholic beverages dispensed from machines that required a palmscan before it would serve you, so that it could keep track of how many each pilot had had. The tables were small; sized for two, but circular, admitting as many as wanted to crowd in. A few pilots were watching the bay below through the window, some in small groups, talking, and some alone. A card game was going at one of the tables, in which a senior pilot was robbing two younger rocket jockeys blind. There were a pair of sim pods in the back, currently unused, and a holograph projector in one corner with a newsfeed playing, though no one appeared to be paying attention to it.

Gabe moved to the large window, and looked down on the bay. He'd never yet been on an actual operating IF installation, and so it was fascinating to see the configuration of the bay. Those at Battle and Command Schools had been designed to load and unload shuttles; CS had had the Engineering Bay, but that housed only training fighters. In this place, each bay was self-supporting; it had its wing of fighters, but it also had docking berths for shuttlecraft, salvage and field repair vehicles, and what appeared to be an access lift down to a repair bay below large enough for a decent-sized starfighter. If this place was ever attacked, the enemy would be unable to cripple the station by simply attacking the fighter bays. All bays were fighter bays. Each bay could operate independently of the others.

And what that meant was that down there, there were many different ways that Gabe and Sol might escape, if necessary. He just needed to get in close enough to be able to plot one out.

Gabe turned, toward the table with the card game. Time to play the part.

The three men playing looked up at him when he took a seat, but made no comment. "What's the game?" Gabe asked. His voice had lost its usual detachment; or rather, the detachment had become more artificial, the withdrawn bravado that males used to try and give other males a tough first impression. Gabe had heard it countless times; the mimic was effortless.

The elder pilot, in his early forties, appraised Gabe through slightly-narrowed eyes. He was cheating these two greens shamelessly, and the introduction of a new player into his carefully-stacked game could easily upset things. He'd doctored the deck with three players in mind, after all.

Gabe had watched the man's hands when he'd studied the table during his initial inspection of the room, not closely enough to spot the technique, but he'd been able to tell that the man's hands were moving with a lot more grace, and doing a lot more work, than they should rightly have been. He had little experience in cards, but he learned quickly, and every game he'd ever seen was carefully stored in his memory. The only difficulty would be in discerning the exact con this mechanic was using against these hapless halfwits.

"Poker," the veteran pilot replied, after a moment of studying Gabe with mild suspicion. "Deal you in next round?"

The green to Gabe's right placed two cards on the table. The vet dealt two back to him; one from the top, but one slipped from the bottom with the smooth grace of a pro whose experience in cheating people out of their money was measured in decades. The second green got one card, from the top.

Gabe was watching the vet's hands, and the vet was watching Gabe. The two greens were intent on their cards. They had no idea. If the vet was as savvy as Gabe suspected, he wouldn't hit the younger pilots too hard. He had to keep them coming back, after all. But it seemed clear to Gabe, after sitting at the table for only a few moments, that these greens had no idea whatsoever. Clearly, there wasn't much caution required.

The green to Gabe's right won the round, his flush beating the vet's three of a kind and his friend's completely worthless hand. "On second thought, boys," the vet said, pushing the chips toward the winning green and sweeping his cards together, "I think I ought to quit while I'm ahead, before this losing streak abandons me."

The green who'd lost the last round started to protest, but the vet promised him he'd have a chance to win his money back tomorrow. The vet tucked the deck into his jacket pocket, and got up from the table. His eyes met Gabe's, and then he strode to the window. Gabe followed.

"You were planning on cutting in there, weren't you?" the vet asked, when Gabe arrived. He was staring down at the scene below. Techs and machines were moving in between the rows of fighters, which were lined up outside their berths, apparently undergoing inspection, or so the officers standing around unhelpfully with clipboards suggested.

"I couldn't see any reason why one shark should have all the naive guppies to himself," Gabe replied, also watching the bay.

"You any good?" the vet asked.

"I get by."

"Well this is my pond, friend. Two sharks is too many."

"Perhaps I could be convinced to go find another. Let's take a walk." Gabe nodded toward the bay.

They exited the pilots' lounged, and took a lift down to bay level. Gabe made sure that the vet, who introduced himself as Denton, was walking first. The man punched in the access code -- which Gabe memorized -- and led the way in.

"You're new here," Denton said, in the gruff, somewhat conversational tones that suggested that he wasn't particularly interested in the subject.

"Arrived today," Gabe replied, in a similar manner.

"Whose flight roster?"

"I'm here as an analyst. Probably won't see much cockpit time."

"Shame."

There was silence for a bit. Gabe was absorbing everything around him as they walked.

"So what's it gonna take to keep you from cutting in on my business?" the man asked, apparently tired of pleasantries.

Gabe stopped, turned toward the man. "Stop hunting your prey in the kiddie pool."

"Shit," the elder man said under his breath, stretching the word into two syllables. "What, now you're my conscience?"

"Talent shouldn't be wasted on the guppies. It isn't sportsmanlike."

"Hell, if I ain't gonna be able to skin the veggies, then what reason do I have to care whether you're in my pond or not? Screwed either way."

"Yes. But one option makes you a voluntarily moral man."

Denton snorted.

"The other leaves me teaching to spot all your tricks."

Denton glared.

"Good day," Gabe said, turning and walking back the way he came.

He had seen enough.

It had been fifteen minutes until he was to meet the Razor team when he left Denton standing in Launch Bay 4; more than enough time, he'd thought. But because his uniform was neither a tech's coveralls nor a pilot's jumpsuit, one of the clipboard-carrying inspection officers stopped him. As Gabe had no clearance to be here, not being on the flight roster, the officer threatened to have a report recommending disciplinary measures to his superior officer. Gabe talked his way out of it, explaining that he was new on the station and unfamiliar with the launch bay regulations, but it took time. When the inspection officer finally let Gabe leave, he was already five minutes late.

He jogged through the halls, but remaining in character only slowed him down more, because he had to stop and ask directions twice. Making his way there took an additional five minutes, and when he entered the series of small labs dedicated to the Razor project, Sol was nowhere to be seen.

"Lieutenant!" called one of the scientists within. The little man moved toward Gabe. "There you are, Lieutenant. You need to report to Conference Room B right away. Security's been called into question from above, and so we're being inspected. The IA wanted to interview you and Lt. Harrison. She already went to meet them, and we told them we'd send you along once you got here. Would you like somebody to show you the w-"