Coloratura was astonished when Pilot-Commodore Falca stomped into her hospital room without warning. Falca, the commander of all the War Bird pilots, was by no means Coloratura’s chum.

She had not visited Coloratura earlier and had had no social contact with her.

But, more importantly, Falca was the first Singer to enter her isolation room without a hazmat suit.

“On your feet, Pilot-Commander! You’ve malingered here long enough! Time to go back to work for your living!”

“Ma’am! Yes, Ma’am!”

Coloratura cautiously took a deep breath, testing how she felt about Falca’s scent. She didn’t feel any irrational impulse to kill Falca. She sighed with relief.

“Coloratura! Get your fat tail off the ground and move!”

Well, she didn’t want to kill Falca any more than she usually wanted to kill her.

Coloratura began to frantically shove stuff into her kit bag.

“Gods in Hell take you, Coloratura! Let the orderlies pack this junk up! I want you in my office five cursed minutes ago!”

Falca pivoted on one foot, lowered her head, raised her tail for balance and ran at full speed towards the door.

Which opened just as she reached it. Luckily for the door.

Coloratura swallowed, tossed her kit bag on the table, and ran after her commanding officer.

Falca paused at the door to her office and turned to sneer at Coloratura. “Slow! Pilot-Commander, you should have caught up to me by now! Extra laps for you until you can keep pace with your elderly C.O.!”

Several of the Pilot-Commodore’s unofficial nicknames flickered through Coloratura’s mind. She was particularly fond of ‘the old bitch’. Coloratura thought it described Falca perfectly.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Falca stalked into her office and snarled over her shoulder. “Well, don’t just stand there looking stupid! Come in!”

Like most Singer offices, there were no stools. The desk was at a convenient height to be accessed by a Singer resting on her feet and tail. Falca stalked to her side of the table, turned and continued to glare at Coloratura without relaxing into the tripod stance.

“Coloratura, I don’t like you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Part of the reason I don’t like you is that I didn’t want you on this ship at all, much less as a Pilot-Commander, responsible for eight War Birds! You are here over my strongest protests!”

“What?” Coloratura blurted.

“Oh, don’t try to pretend you didn’t know your mother the Ambassador used her influence with the Master to have you replace my choice!”

Coloratura shook her head in disbelief and negation. “Pilot-Commodore, nobody has influence with the Master. If zie overrode your request, zie did so for zir own reasons, not because of anything my mother did or said. Mom didn’t even want me here because I would be away from home for so long!”

Falca grunted. “Be that as it may, you are still one of my major problems.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, Coloratura! You are an Academy whiz-kid. You were consistently at or near the top of your class. Your reflexes are superb and, I must admit, you are a superior pilot. But you have exactly as much combat experience as your little Maker friend!”

“That’s, that’s not my fault! The last major action was against the Hiveworld years ago, before I was even born!”

“I never said it was your fault! I said it was my problem! You look good on paper, but paper burns if it gets hot enough. I don’t trust you not to fall to pieces and start crying for your mother if we see any real action!”

Coloratura stood rigidly and saluted. “Then I respectfully suggest you replace me. Now!”

Falca waved her hand irritably. “The thought has crossed my mind. But veteran fighter pilots are not exactly thick on the ground here.  There is nobody in the Fleet I could replace you with. I have to work with what I have. Relax for a few minutes and I will explain what I am going to do.”

Coloratura settled into the tripod posture and glowered at the older woman who nodded sharply before she settled into the tripod posture herself.

“About a decade ago, the Master suggested that we have our drills, our practice fights with live ammo.”

“What?”

“‘About a decade ago, the Master suggested that we have our drills, our practice fights with live ammo.’ Try to keep up, Pilot-Commander! High Command managed to persuade the Master that the benefits of blooding our troops would be more than offset by the negative effect on morale, not to mention the damage to our ships, our crews. And if we reduced the lethality of the weapons, well, we might as well just keep drilling the old way. So we kept to the old way.”

Falca leaned forward to glare at Coloratura. “But I think special measures are needed for you.”

Coloratura knew that if she had been a Maker, she would have lost all color from her face.

“Ma’am, if you order us to conduct drills with live ammo, I will protest to the Captain, to the Admiral! At need, I will refuse to obey! I would gladly spend the rest of the voyage in the Brig so my pilots will not be placed at unnecessary risk!”

“A very good answer, Pilot-Commander! You give me hope!”

Coloratura blinked at Falca.

“Don’t worry, Coloratura. I will not order you to drill with live ammo. I will, however, make your drills more difficult, more frequent. You and your pilots will fly every waking moment; you will fly until I am convinced you will do your duty if we are attacked. I will drill you until you respond by reflex, if not from actual courage!”