PART 1

________________________________________________________________________________________ “Do you think they're dreaming?”

Marco and Jennifer watched the steadily-spinning SkyArc on the coilscreen. A countdown timer marked the hours in the upper right. In the upper left an endless parade of bright and earnest young men and women ticked by, one face after another.

“It's more like being in a coma,” Marco responded, then sipped at a full glass of bordeaux. It was their second bottle.

“People dream in comas, don't they?”

“Yeah, I guess. Some of 'em.”

“What do they do if something goes wrong?” Jennifer's brow furrowed. She dropped the expression immediately; she'd done it in the mirror the other day and had seen far too much of her mother staring back. Damn crow's feet.

“What can they do? It's not like they can up and launch a rescue mission off the Skyhook or something.”

“But I mean, with them all asleep like that...”

“They ain't all asleep. There's a pilot that supervises the switchover from launch laser to ramjet. Then he goes under and wakes up on the flipside.”

“One pilot?”

“Sure. Eating, breathing, pooping people consume a lot more resources than the sleepers. Why?”

“I dunno. Sounds like a terribly lonely job.”

“Sounds like an awesome job.”

“Why didn't you try out, Marco? You're the right age,” Jennifer asked, then sipped her wine.

Marco set down his glass and walked towards the dishes. “Not a lot of call for Le Cordon Bleu out in deep space, let alone the Santa Rosa Culinary Institute,” he said, the vaguest tinge of regret in his voice. “Shoulda kept at the algebra.”

“Well I'm glad you're still here,” Jennifer confided, her eyes warm. “That was the best damn mac'n'cheese I've ever had.”

“Damn right,” Marco responded. “I'll bet he likes the apple pie, too.”

Jennifer blanched then set down her glass and straightened her apron. “Did I really just leave him out there?”

“Relax!” Marco responded. “He didn't look like he was eager to go.”

Jennifer shot Marco an uncertain look and skulked through the double doors. Dining Alone sat staring into space, one hand idly playing with his wedding ring.

“I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to keep you waiting - “

“No problem,” Dining Alone said, and folded his napkin on the table. “I enjoyed the space. And the meal – Tragideli's has nothing on you.”

Jennifer smiled wide. “That means a lot, thanks.”

“So is it always this busy?”

“No, some days we've got two tables going at once.”

“That's a shame. You deserve more business than that.”

“It's not all that bad. Or it didn't used to be anyway. Tony told me that before all the space commerce headed out to Star City, lotsa folks from Virgin and SpaceX and NeoOrbital called this neighborhood home. Maybe after this SkyArc thing blows over some of it will sweep back here.”

Dining Alone fixed her with a penetrating gaze. She found it invigorating – and she couldn't look away.

“Are you going to make it that long? Say, nine months or so?”

“You know something I don't?”

“Yes.”

There was no jocularity in his tone and no mirth in his eyes. She smiled her smile and shrugged off his seriousness.

“I can always lay off another waitress, I guess.”

“I don't see any waitresses around.”

“Drat. He sees through my subterfuge. Guess you better tip pretty big then. My chef really wants you to try the pie.”

Dining Alone fixed her with a smile of his own. “And the tab. I'm late as it is.”

“And I'm guessing you can't exactly keep them waiting, can you?”

“You know my boss?”

“I've had my run-ins,” Jennifer said, and turned gracefully on one heel. The bordeaux put a twitch in her hips as she walked away. Right. Blame the bordeaux.

“They stopped the countdown,” Carlo said as she walked through the double doors. He was busily whipping up a crème Anglaise in a small saucepan.

“Why would they do that?” Jennifer asked as she pulled the completely un-cut pie from the walk-in.

“Nobody knows. But they sure are exercised about it. I haven't seen this many talking heads since the invasion of Kashmir.”

The coilscreen had switched to an expensive, frenetic newsroom where talking heads dueled each other for supremacy. SkyArc still spun in one corner, two tickers of non-information playing out beneath a white man with a beard and an earnest Asian woman with perfect English. Jennifer cut a generous slice of pie and put it on a plate, then walked towards the microwave.

“Are you kidding me?” Marco said, stopping her. He had the broiler fired up. He opened the door – it was blast-furnace hot. “How's a microwave gonna caramelize the sugar? What kind of kitchen do you think I run?”

Jennifer let Marco take the plate from her and, without missing a beat, return to his Anglaise. He deserved to work more than he did. He deserved to earn more than he did. She felt a familiar pang of guilt then put it down with a familiar swig of wine.

“Don't they, like, miss their launch window or something if this goes on too long?”

“Yeah, probably,” Marco responded, “But nobody knows for sure what that is. Virgin's been pretty cagey about the launch profile. They won't even say who's flying the thing.”

“Maybe he got cold feet,” Jennifer said reasonably.

“Fat f'ing chance! You know how many guys would kill for that job? How many they must have standing by?”

“No, how many?”

Marco glared at her. Smartypants. “Well Virgin ain't sayin' but prolly lots. Prolly dozens.”

“Prolly!” Jennifer responded, the gleam in her eyes goading Marco just a little.

Marco glowered and grabbed the slice of pie out of the broiler. Hot, steaming, golden, perfect. He drizzled it with the crème Anglaise. Jennifer grabbed the POSPad off the counter and touched its screen – Dining Alone's much-too-meager bill registered in the lilting and whimsical fonts her designer had picked out for her back when she had money. She debated charging him more for the macaroni – but that wasn't like her. Anything she made off of him tonight was more than she would have made otherwise and you just don't tempt karma like that.

Jennifer walked through the doors and presented the pie with a flourish. Dining Alone gazed appreciatively at it and picked up a spoon.

“Fabulous. Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Jennifer said. She left the POSPad discreetly at the edge of the table and turned to give him some space.

“Jennifer.”

Jennifer turned around. He was studying the POSPad.

“Yes, sir?”

“I'm at a point in my life where my assets are... liquid. You seem like a good investment. How much to get you through June?”

“I thought you weren't coming back for a long, long time.”

“I'm not.” Dining Alone bit into the pie. He nodded, pleased. “But I'd like to dine here again. And if all goes well, Virgin is going to announce the construction of a second Skyhook about ten miles off the coast. Jobs and commerce will follow with groundbreaking to commence next February.”

“If all... what goes well?” Jennifer pursed her brow at the man. He did not look at her.

“You're going to be in the middle of a boomtown if you can hold out. I'd like to help. Consider it an investment.”

“And you know this how?”

“I just do,” he responded. “That's enough to keep us both out of trouble.”

“Right,” Jennifer said. “Which is why I would love to entertain any offers at the office of my lawyer in the morning, mister...”

“I won't be here in the morning,” Dining Alone said flatly. “Like I said, I'm going away. This is a one-time, non-negotiable offer.”

Something's rotten in the state of Denmark, she thought to herself. This doesn't happen to people.

“Like I said, leave a big tip.” Jennifer smiled at the man.

He smiled back, calculating. “I've always been fond of Jennifers,” he said as he picked up the POSPad and gestured on it. “Have it your way.” He pressed the POSPad with his thumb with a flourish and set it down next to his fork. His eyes returned to the far horizon, a mischievous glint giving them new light. Quite clearly, Jennifer wasn't to take the POSPad – she returned to the bar and polished the glassware. Again.

Jennifer discreetly watched Dining Alone polish off the rest of his pie. He set the spoon down and very clearly didn't make a move for the door.

“I thought you had somewhere to be,” Jennifer asked him.

“My ride will be here any minute, don't worry,” Dining Alone responded, then returned his attention to infinity.

“Well thanks for coming in. I hope wherever you're going isn't too awful.”

“Me too.” Dining Alone fixed her with a smile. Two tall, official and unforgiving men walked through the front door, their eyes on Dining Alone.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Is my plane ready?” Dining alone turned and glanced at the men. They did not favor him with any humor whatsoever.

“You were expected over an hour ago - ” the shorter of the two started.

“You can't leave without me,” Dining Alone said. He stood up and straightened his coat. He turned to glance at Jennifer, watching.

“I hope to see you again, Jennifer. Good luck with your endeavors.”

And with that, Dining Alone walked out of Jennifer's Bistro, a thug on either arm. Jennifer watched him go then grabbed the POSPad. Glanced at it. Stared at it.

Cursed inwardly. Roger E. Erickson, whoever the hell that was, had tipped her a million dollars. Which would never go through of course. Her uncle Bob had done that when the tax-man was finally about to catch up with him. Ran around the country running up his cards like crazy, then headed into the desert on a one way journey with a .38 caliber hollow-point. Took her dad six months of legal wrangling to rid himself of Bob's debts. Victimless crime her ass.

Jennifer stomped into the kitchen, storming. Carlo turned to her. “They started the countdown again,” he said.

“Like I care,” she growled.

“What bit you in the ass?” Carlo asked. “Prince Charming turn you down or something?”

“Prince charming NSF'd his tab,” Jennifer shot back, thrusting out the POSPad.

Carlo took it from her. He studied it. His eyes grew wide.

“No... no he didn't,” Carlo said softly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Like some shady inside trader headed off to prison has that kind of cash kickin' around - “

“I just cooked for Commander Erickson,” Carlo said with wonder in his voice. A childlike smile crept across his face.

“Who the hell is Commander Erickson?”

Carlo glanced meaningfully into Jennifer's eyes then pulled out his phone. He tapped a series of keys and the coilscreen changed. SkyArc, SkyArc with colonists, SkyArc with inset of Skyhook, SkyArc with long-angle shot of a business jet, SkyArc with file photo of Dining Alone...

“Turn it up,” Jennifer said, flatly emotionless.

“...and now that all crew have reported in Virgin Enterprises has released the names of the non-colonist crew. As you know, intense secrecy has surrounded the actual operations of the Virgin SkyArc but we are able to report that Mankind's first interstellar mission will be piloted by a Commander Roger Erickson, USAF Retired. We're scrambling to gather information about Commander Erickson to bring to you but we can report at this time that anonymous sources are telling us that last hour's delay was in some way related to staffing. We now go to Rebecca Jung in the field - “

The announcer gave way to a smart young woman standing pointlessly in an unnamed suburb somewhere. Neither Jennifer nor Marco heard a word she said.

“He... did say he was going away for a while,” Jennifer offered up lamely.

“Now you gonna let me put mac'n'cheese on your hoighty-toighty menu?” Marco asked, pleased with himself.

Jennifer looked up at the rollscreen and the troubled countenance of Commander Roger Erickson, the man who dined alone. Then she looked down at the the one and its associated zeroes on the POSPad. Karma.

“Anything you want, Carlo. Anything you want.”

PART 3