Clay smiled as he slipped his fighter into the Wanderer, taking great care as he did so. Normally he took pride in cutting things fine when docking, knowing his skills were good enough to handle manoeuvres that scared those managing the hangars witless. He didn’t do that here. Not on the Wanderer. Those other ships were inanimate objects, but the Wanderer was alive. That meant it deserved respect.
Returning to the Wanderer had been his choice, and he still found that dizzying. After all his time serving in the Imperial navy it felt strange being able to choose what to do and when.
When Admiral North had asked him to accompany the Wanderer he knew it was just that – a request, not an order. He could have chosen to stick with what he’d been doing, training the best fighter pilots in
