That morning started with a tiny pool of water, swimming in gentle circles around a metal bowl. The toilet shook as I did, clutching its sides as my head swam. “C’mon, throw up now so you don’t do it in your helmet later,” I muttered. If the entire Conjunction armada came down on us today and I had to pull five G turns dodging missiles, I’d be doing it while squinting past last night’s dinner unless I was done cubing it already.
It was no use. I’d calm my stomach, get breakfast, eat it gently, go to morning briefing and pray I’m not on patrol. I straightened up and made my way out of the stall. The bathroom was empty save for me. I drank gratefully from the sink for a few seconds before straightening my shirt and wandering out towards the mess.
Anyone aboard Atlantis for a day or two would swear the entire place was made of nothing but steel passageways. Everywhere you looked there was another twisting path with a bunch of color coded lines on the wall, indecipherable to anyone who wasn’t part of the crew. I followed the orange line to a crowded cafeteria, dodging the occasional ensign walking in the other direction. It was strange, over time the sound and movement of the ship stopped being noticeable. Even the occasional burst from the pneumatics on the flight deck and the voice of the communications officer had just become white noise.
A better name for the mess hall would have been “Food assembly line.” I’ll be frank about the food on ACP ships. It sucks, my god does it suck. Breakfast lunch and dinner were all a nasty sort of paste that was supposed to have been generated to fit your taste buds, but it really just tasted like random pieces of different food tossed in a blender. Sometimes it was chicken and cat food, other times it was liver and rye bread. The only thing bearable about the food was the juice that came with it. Every day we got one precious glass of orange juice with our paste. It wasn’t a luxury, had to get the vitamin c from somewhere.
I filled a bowl with mystery paste and took my glass before sitting down across from Spin-Out. He was a good pilot and a friend. We had met together in flight school, been separated for our first tour, and then through a stroke of luck, good or bad, we had ended up on Atlantis together.
“The red baron returns! How ya feelin’ Leo?” he said, kicking a chair out for me to sit down.
“Morning.”
“So we get to sound the trumpets and toss laurels to the gallant interns this fine day out in the middle of space.” We were getting nuggets, new pilots, some fresh out of basic flight.
“Don’t remind me,” I said with a smile at his joke. Every now and then some of us just wanted to tape his mouth shut. Spin-Out was thin but wiry. He was always just a bit too happy, smiling wide and showing off his thin beard. He would have done stand-up if he hadn’t been a pilot.
“You really got hammered last night, man,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.
“Yeah. I figured that out when my head tried to split open. Did I happen to mention why?” I took slow careful swallows, the water had helped.
“Something about temp. ground duty transfer, I think,” he said, forcing down a bit of his own paste and making a face. “Sourdough bread and…some kind of fish, I think.”
“Ugh. Transfer,” I said, rubbing the side of my head as I remembered exactly why I had felt the need to get drunk last night. There had been a message sent to every pilot the previous morning. They were short of marines after transferring the last batch of them off during post tour, meaning they were going to have to borrow some pilots. Every pilot onboard a GLA warship knew how to handle himself on the ground, just in case they crash landed or needed more soldiers. And now they needed them. Boots on the ground work may not have been a big part of the war, but I needed a Falcon, that was my real weapon, my real body. It didn’t matter that it was unlikely, even the idea that I could have been sent down was enough for me. Of course there wasn’t a whole lot a 1st lieutenant could say to get them to change their minds if he was picked.
There was a soft thud on the seat next to me that made me jump. I turned to face Dub. D was a weird kind of guy that just sort of latched onto us when he became my wingman. He almost never spoke, and the times that he did were only when it was absolutely necessary.
“Morning,” I said. Dub said nothing. I sighed and took another swallow.
“Hey, you could be flyin’ with my wingman. Be happy,” Spin-Out said rolling his eyes. He had been flying with a pilot called Faceplant, who had earned that nickname. The poor bastard had recently transferred from C to T-class fighters, and he really wasn’t used to the T’s yet. He couldn’t get into the cockpit without stumbling, and he flew like his foot had been glued to his dampeners. I was very grateful that Dub at least knew how to fly a Falcon without crashing.
“You may not be flying with him for much longer,” I said, and turned my attention back to Spin-Out.
“Right, you think they’ll shackle me with a rookie?”
“It could happen.”
“I’m really not in the mood to adjust to someone new and less experienced than Faceplant.” Wingmen need to know each other’s ins and outs. To fly together, a wing needs to be a team. With me and Dub, it was big dog and little dog. I knew how to fly, he knew how to follow orders. The intercom buzzed.
“Attention, all off duty personnel, please join the new pilots for the welcoming ceremony at this time,” said the well-known voice of the communications officer.
“You on duty?” I said.
“Nope. You on duty?” he asked.
“Nope. D, you got anything going on?”
“No,” he said in his small quiet voice.
I got to my feet. “Then let’s get this over with.”
The presentation area of an ACP starship is a single metal stage with every seat facing towards it in a bowl shape with the occasional isle for people to move around. Some ships had drama clubs, some had bands, Atlantis had booze. I could tell that all three of us were just zoning out. There was the tired chant of the Galactic Liberty Alliance anthem as the rookies stood to receive their wings. I could tell already where the serious nuggets were. Most were from Matelion, the agricultural colony Atlantis was guarding at the moment. The nuggets all had the same over-stiff stance. They looked about ready to wreck their pants. Colonel Edwards, the XO started his speech. It sounded like he was reading it straight out of the field manual. The pomp and circumstance of your first tour was really more of a Bastian thing.
I didn’t even hear him; I was still watching the new recruits. The more experienced of the bunch stood differently. They were straight backed but comfortable and looked mostly uninterested in what the Colonel was saying.
There was a mix of Human and Bast pilots. The Basts looked particularly bored. For them, this was just another day at the office. The colonel finished his speech and the pilots filed out, the more experienced sidling, the others walking in a rough sort of march. They would get used to this eventually. Sure they all knew how to fly, but they didn’t know how to fight. Desperate times, I supposed. I was about to stand up and leave when the colonel took the stage again.
“Flight squadrons stay put for a minute. As you might have guessed, you aren’t just here to greet the new pilots. Our platoon shipped out today, which means we’re short on hands for this tour. We need a few of you for ground and ship security operations.”
I tensed and sat up straight. Most of the people around me just groaned or rolled their eyes at the prospect of being stuck sitting around on their asses while they waited for a new squad of marines to be shipped in.
“I need the following pilots to report to the CIC for transfer. Artemis, Combustion, Sting, Loud-Mouth…” he said, addressing them by callsign rather than name. The list went on and on, about fifteen total. “…and Faceplant. That is all. Everyone else report to ready rooms in 30 minutes for individual assignments. Dismissed.” I let out a long low sigh of relief and Spin-Out punched the air. We were both feeling a little better about another uneventful combat air patrol. I ran my fingers through my hair and looked over the other two.
“We’ve got 30. T Bacht?” I suggested. Dub got a rare smile and nodded.
“Heh, sure. Time for one game,” Spin-Out replied. We filed in with the rest of the off duty personnel leaving the room. Back into the maze of steel and colored lines like liquid down a pipe. The stream shrank as some left for the flight deck, others for their quarters. Still, the pack was anything but small when it reached the bar.
It had never had a name. More than 40 years flying and to her crew, Atlantis’ little built-in pub was just “The Bar.” It was dimly lit, cramped, and had only one tiny TV to its name, but out here it was a palace. On the back bulkhead just above eye height was an old decorative panel. It was scratched and starting to rust, but still easily read. “ASV Atlantis. Shambala-class, All Combat Purposes. Completed on the 14th day of March, 2841 (SAC). New Light Shipyard, PB Vishnu, SYS Horizon. ‘Autcas Firwal Beieith.’” The last line was Bastian. I’d asked a Bast engineer what it meant, and she’d said it roughly translated to “Under the eyes of loving God.”
At one corner table was a Tierabacht board with a sack of pieces collected from a few different sets sitting on top of it. D slid into the corner seat and scooped up the sack at once, deftly picking out the starting pieces and shuffling them. Spin-Out and I sat on either side of him. Now that we were sitting still my headache was more obvious. I propped myself up on my elbow to wait for the game to start; the rattling of the pieces seemed louder than usual.
“You okay?” Spin-Out asked.
“Depends on your definition of okay,” I grumbled.
“You want something? Coffee? Tea? Slap in the face? I could sing to you if that’d help?”
“Hahaiii, ooo don’t make me laugh, let’s start there,” I said, head throbbing.
“Ooo, I don’t know if I can do that man. I’ll try.” He screwed up his face like he was concentrating. D laughed, his was quiet and breathy, like air escaping. “There, I made Dub laugh instead. That work?”
“Sure. Deal ‘em D.” He fit the last piece into the board and started sliding our hands to us. Quick deft snaps of the wrist that sent the tiles sliding across the table to rest in a neat pile in front of us. I’d asked him if he’d ever been a professional dealer, he hadn’t answered. D finished dealing the pieces and looked expectantly at Spin-Out. He played first. I glanced at my hand, not the worst I’d ever seen. My eyes went back to D, I could tell he already had his next three moves planned. The only time I could get close to figuring out what was going on in his head was when he was playing. Spin-Out set a tile onto the board. His move didn’t effect my half-formed strategy, so I set my own in place.
D had his tile between his index and middle fingers above the board when there was a deep bass blare from the intercom and a series of red lights lit up around the walls. Any pilot still alive today will still jump at the sound of a condition red alarm.
“Attention all combat personnel, we are now in condition red, say again, condition red! Conjunction cruiser 60 Klicks out and closing fast, all pilots to the flight deck!” the communications officer shouted. Bastards had caught us with our pants down. I scrambled into the isle and ran for the exit, already plotting a way to the flight deck from here. Spin-Out and Dub were on my tail.
“How the fuck did they get this close to us without us noticing?” I asked in between breaths.
“I don’t know man and at the moment I don’t care!”
“Mistake. Trying to jump somewhere else,” Dub said, shocking me by actually answering. He was probably right, but there was no time to think about it.
We dodged people running in every direction, trying to get us into fighting shape. At last we reached the flight deck, a tangled dance of deck hands and pilots all trying to be somewhere at once. There were fighters being loaded in every corner and pilots trying to run preflight in the middle of the shit storm. Dub vanished off to the other side of the deck to find his T-class while Spin-Out went towards his own C. I dodged a few racks of 13mm rounds being towed around before squeezing my way in next to my C-class. I pulled my flight suit on in a hurry, sealing it and pressurizing in what had to be record time, climbed the small ladder, dropped into the cockpit, and leaned back to allow a deckhand to adjust a valve.
“What do we know?” I shouted to him.
“Single ship, cruiser sized, full load of fighters, and it caught us off guard. Bombardments are gonna be a real problem,” he shouted back, handing me my helmet and sliding off my fighter. I locked the helmet and harness on and started the oxygen flow. The deckhand reappeared, holding my flight package. “Preflight complete, you’re good to go. Give ’em hell Jet,” he said. I plugged in the flight package, the flight stick locked into the system and clicked eight times. I twisted it in a perfect circle and the stabilizers around the ship all let out a hiss. I was in a trance as I turned on every instrument, my eyes flicking from the OTACS to the ammo readout to the communications line. Everything was functional. I tuned to Dub’s fighter.
“D, you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
I switched to the deck channel. “1st lieutenant Leonard A. Admen, callsign Jet, C-class, ready for launch.”
“Confirmed. You will launch in the second wave. Standby for loader,” the Deck Master said. I switched to the squad channel and slid the canopy shut, firmly sealing myself in.
“Jet to squadron leader. Sigma wing is armed, on standby.”
“Squadron leader to Jet, this is Tail-Burn. In the tubes. Will issue orders upon full squadron launch.”
“Acknowledged,” I said. There was a gentle hum that quickly grew into a roar from the ships powerful pneumatic systems.
“First wave launch in five…four…three…two…one…clear!” said a voice from the intercom, rising above even the alarm and the pneumatics. The roar became deafening, even in my cockpit as the ton of built up pressure forced the first wave of fighters away from the ship’s gravitational pull. The noise died and along the sides of the flight deck doors reopened to reveal empty launch tubes. A small motorized cart cruised up to my fighter and locked on with a muted thud and started towing me into the nearest tube. I glanced around and saw other fighters doing the same on all sides. The tunnel surrounded me, the loader unlocked and drove out of the tunnel before the door behind sealed shut. For a moment or two there was silence.
I felt the familiar tug in my gut, the excitement of battle, my senses sharpening. I stared straight ahead at the heavy steel airlock that kept the pressure in. From this side I couldn’t hear it building up, but I could feel it, the slow vibration against the side of my Falcon. The airlock slid open and I could just make out the battlefield, the curvature of Matelion with the occasional flash of an antimatter charge.
“Jet, gimme a go no-go for catshot,” said a voice in my ear.
“Go.”
“Second wave launch in five…” This was it. “Four…three…two…one…clear!” I pressed my foot into the thruster pedal. Combined engine fire and compressed air pushed my fighter forward and pushed me back into my seat.
The sight of the launch tube rushed past me before I cleared it and released the accelerator. The g forces dissipated as the inertial dampeners kicked in, and I floated briefly against my harness before the artificial gravity corrected. I glanced quickly down at my OTACS and made out ten or fifteen enemy fighters. Cakewalk.
“3rd squadron, split up by wing and take out these fighters, stick together and leave the cruiser to Atlantis. Weapons free, good hunting,” said Tail-Burn. Easy enough. I picked my target, a squad of five flying towards Atlantis’s port side. I accelerated and made to come from the rear.
“D, stay with me. I want you to get in there and scatter them, I’ll pick off the stragglers.” I said.
“Understood,” he said and sped up, breaking off formation and aligning himself with them. I glanced at my munitions monitor. In the rush I hadn’t been loaded with missiles, guns only. I drifted to the side and watched as Dub’s T-class discharged into the fighters, powerful twin cannons firing high caliber tracers, streaking through the void before shredding two of them. The others caught on quickly and broke off in different directions.
I picked my first target and locked on. My guns shifted as far as they could in their gimbals trying to track him. He saw me coming and twisted away, the trident shaped Conjunction craft flipping end over end. I followed him, still trying to align my cross hair. He was going to have to give me an inch sometime. He pulled a hard right turn but I spun left, I’d intercept him on the way around. It worked, my cross hair turned red. I pulled the trigger and felt the rhythmic thumping of my guns as tracers streaked straight through his ship, shredding it instantly. My heart jumped and I glanced down at the OTACS, two left.
I spun around to track the first, Dub chased the second. This one was more offensive, flying towards me at an angle, trying to lock on before I could. I couldn’t wait for the instruments. I aligned as best I could and fired, spraying rounds straight at him. He dodged, rolling to the side and I tracked him, still spraying. The line clipped his wing and he spun off at an odd angle, now firing wildly in every direction, trying to hit me back. I locked on easily and annihilated him with a quick burst. I looked over just in time to see Dub get clipped by his target as it flipped over his fighter and shot one of his thrusters. I sped after and fired, tearing it up before it had a chance to deliver the killing blow.
“D! Are you okay?” I said.
“Yeah. Lost thruster,” he said, his fighter now drifting off at an angle. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
“You’re one lucky bastard,” I said, relieved.
“Goddamnit! I can’t shake this guy! I need back up!” Tail-Burn said. He was near, I could reach him.
“Fuck. D, can you handle yourself for a minute?” I said.
“Sure. Go,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. “Are any of your thrusters still functioning?”
“GO!” he shouted. I didn’t have a choice. I spun over and streaked towards Tail-Burn, who was pulling a dangerous dance with one of the Conjunction fighters, bullets spraying all around him. Even from here I could tell he wasn’t much of a pilot. He was slugging along, missing countless opportunities for escape. Still, I wasn’t going to let him die. I aligned my crosshair, he was flying from my left to right side; I’d have to time this carefully. He was losing the chase, I’d have time for one burst. I narrowed my eyes and fired. I was early! My shots scraped the end of Tail-Burn’s wing before tearing the enemy fighter in half.
“Watch your fire!” he cried at me. I slowed my forward momentum and flipped over, making my way towards Dub before muttering “You’re welcome,” under my breath.
My headset let out a shrill wail, a fighter I hadn’t noticed had a lock on me. I pulled left hard, narrowly dodging a burst of fire. It was on me, I’d have to out maneuver it. I pulled right, trying to circle around, but it followed me. I dived hard, but it still wasn’t confused, and it was getting closer. Out of desperation I pulled away 180 degrees, trying to pull a trick it couldn’t handle. I waited for the flash and then the end. There was another sharp tone, a missile warning and I thought I was dead. The noise stopped, I was alive. “How the…?”
“You’re welcome too, hotshot,” said a voice from my com system. One I didn’t recognize, a woman with a heavy British accent. I glanced back at my OTACS and caught a glimpse of an unmarked T-class receding back into what was left of the firefight. Unregistered meant it was one of the new pilots. I would have to keep an eye out for her. My moment of shock over I got back on course. But wait, where was Dub? My heart dropped into my feet when I saw him, his drift was carrying him towards the crossfire between Atlantis and the Conjunction cruiser.
“Dub! You’ve got to get out of there, do you have engine control!?” I shouted at him. All I heard back was his breathing. Deep and fast, sometimes a wheeze here and there. He was panicking.
“Negative,” he said at last. His breathing got louder as he drew closer to the crossfire. I could hear him trying switches and buttons, trying to sort out some kind of malfunction.
“Forget it just Punch out! Punch out!” I called at him. He crossed into the flak field and with a small burst of light, the breathing stopped and my wingman was gone.
“All fighters destroyed, say again, all fighters destroyed. Concentrate fire on the cruiser!” Tail-Burn said. I turned on the cruiser and unloaded, my face twisted in a rage filled snarl. But even as we watched it vanished in a flash of light. It had jumped away having lost its fighters. I released the trigger and fell back into the seat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see three more ships coming from the other side of the planet to try and assist us. It had certainly taken them long enough. Even now they were being told that the situation had been handled. The terrorists were gone, crisis averted. The war goes on.
After a minute Tail-Burn’s words finally pierced the silence. “All fighters RTB,” he said. I spun around and aimed for the lower stern, towards the landing deck. I followed the side of the ship before pulling around and aiming straight for the opening. My HUD illuminated the landing claw for me, a large steel Venus fly-trap like device designed to rapidly decelerate landing fighters. I felt a muted thud as I caught it. My fighter quickly slowed to a stop and the claw released me. Another series of loaders towed all of the fighters into a massive elevator before ascending to the hanger and then towed us back into our storage positions.
When I felt my fighter lock back on, I shut down and cracked open the cockpit, sliding the heavy canopy forward and ejected my flight package. I handed it and my helmet to a deck hand.
“You guys really let ’em have it. Nice work,” he said, taking my equipment before running off. I pulled off my flight suit and tossed it onto the hook next to my fighter. Spin-Out jogged over and asked me with a grin whether I wanted to go get a quick drink. He clearly didn’t know what had happened. I said no, I just wanted to be alone.
“Where’s D?” he asked.
I cringed and finally said the last words to be said about any pilot after a battle gone wrong. “Where do you think?”
Spin-Out’s face fell and he nodded before saying “Somewhere better,” and left in search of a beer.
The Wings of Atlantis 