“Well, Dad, the Sixth didn’t fall apart while you were gone,” Mikey said to his father as their shuttle glided toward the ISD-II Justicar, the seat of Michael Bullian, Sr.’s command. The pilot frowned when his father didn’t answer, glancing sidelong at the other man, who hunched over an oversized datapad with a stylus, muttering under his breath. “Dad?”
His father glanced up, blinking as if startled. “Were you saying something, Mikey?”
“Never mind. What’re you wrapped up in? Someone frak something up while we were gone and I didn’t hear about it?”
One corner of his father’s mouth twitched toward a smile and he shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Just a design I’ve been tinkering with since we left home.”