Going Ballistic

by Dorothy Grant

  "How often do they change it?"

  "Oh, every ninety days, standard maintenance cycle." She shook her head, and drank more coffee. "And it was functional; I double-checked, like I always do, on startup. Besides, if it hadn't been, the plane couldn't have made it in there for me to be flying the outbound leg."

  "What happens if they don't match?"

  "On the ground? Immediate shut down and call maintenance. If they screw up the database while I'm in the air? Things get really exciting. Had that happen to me twice now." She shivered a little at the memory, and noticed Grunveld was looking like… like a dog watching someone cook bacon. She looked from his too-alert stance to Blondie, who was standing next to the chiller, arms folded across his chest, watching her a little too intently.

  Grunveld's soothing voice was all at odds with their alert stance. "You're doing fine, Michelle. It's just us pilots, swapping tales. How far can you get in their airspace with a transponder mismatch before they're alerted, anyway? And then how much further in did you get before they actually did something about it?"

  Michelle eyed him over her coffee cup, and wondered why they'd both be so interested in airspace violations. Well, if she told them, she'd get to see. "Swapping tales, huh? Fine, I'll tell it like it happened. So, the last time was back in February, right in the middle of all the fishing rights debacle; I remember that because I had trade reps for the Imperial fleet on board. It was a perfectly lovely day, not like this last flight. Clear below one two thousand, no turbulence, and I even had a tailwind on the downhill leg…"

  13

  She was still answering questions well over an hour later when something banged, elsewhere in the house. She jumped off the her seat, but Blondie was already moving, palm down and out. "It's all right. Twitch is bringing 'em back in." He tapped his temple, in the universal signal for update from implant. She grimaced, and nodded.

  "Well, I'll take a break then, while you get the grill fired up." She was sick of being asked questions, and had too much adrenaline now to sit back down quietly.

  He nodded, as if nothing was wrong, and headed out as she made a brief bow and excuses to Grunveld before tackling the stairs back up to the bathroom. Going slow was hard, but she could hit everything exactly as intended if she took it at a run - movement was easier, and speed, than all this sitting still.

  Coming back down, the living room was full of life and movement, and the holonews was off for once. The back door was open, and the smell of smoke and grilling meat made her mouth water despite breakfast a scant few hours before. She poked around the rest of the ground floor, finding the exits, and an exercise room that promised the ability to finally cut loose and move. She bounced on the matted floor, and contemplated the rings and bars set sturdily in the ceiling. She didn't dare try them just yet, but she could crank up the music and work on her balance and timing later, when there weren't so many people around.

  Back in the main space, she could tell the board and the soldiers were mixing as successfully as oil and water, flowing around each other to clump up in little conversations. Only Grunveld hung between the two, and even he fell more on the soldier side. She'd have bet she'd fit more with the board, seeing as she was a civilian like the engineers and technical specialists… but as she made her way to the grill, she knew she'd bet wrong. They were pleasant and polite enough, but she'd already given her testimony and delivered her prize up to them, so they had no further interest in her.

  On the porch, in the welcoming soft shadows and spectacular sky of evening, Blondie kicked a chair away from the table at her approach, and Twitch dug in the cooler. He cracked the seal on a can and handed it over as she approached, without breaking the conversation. "Why the hell would they want the expense and risk?"

  "Who cares about expense? It'll be so cool!" She couldn't place the speaker, but his grin was friendly and relaxed as he manned the grill and the argument.

  "Only if we really can prove the last of the megathulu really did die out, so they wouldn't become uber-expensive snacks for ‘em." Tom replied.

  She looked at Blondie as she sat, and made an interrogative noise with her head cocked sideways. He shook his head. "The endless debate on importing whales from Theseus."

  "Ah. Yeah. Why not, if the oceans are ready? I want to hear whale song." She grinned, and took a swig of the beer. It was smooth and sweet, with caramel and honey hints.

  "Too early. We need more buffer. Whales aren't going to be okay with 'Oh, we had a bad year and didn't produce enough food to feed you, sorry, guess we'll have to cull the herd.' Hell, we don't have enough buffer to try some of the larger land animals. If we can't run elephants yet, we shouldn't try whales. Stick to cows."

  "Cows?" She frowned at Twitch. "What, sea cows? What did they call 'em… manatees?"

  "He means land cows. Twitch'll always say stick to cows on complicated shit; he grew up with cows, and thinks they're easy." Tom explained, and Twitch threw him a very rude gesture.

  "Like hell I do. Cows will turn your hair grey and run you to an early grave. They'll up and die at the most minor infection, spook over nothing, always decide to breech birth at 3am, when the vet's 500 miles away… I hate cows! Luke, give this woman some kebabs, so she can eat some damn cows."

  Michelle accepted two sticks of kebabs, and Twitch reached over and stole one from her for himself. She laughed. "You hate cows, but you like steak?"

  "I'm not a carnivore because I love plants; I'm a carnivore because I hate cows." He grinned, and plucked a chunk of steak off the stick as she laughed, shaking her head. "Now, if there's something I'd love to eat, it wouldn't be shrimp, here. It's what eats shrimp. Have you ever had cod?"

  "Oh, yes, lots." At his surprised look, she quickly tried to correct the impression. "They're thick around the Misty Isles. It's not luxury food there, just what you can catch to eat. Hell, that's why our sodden little islands out there in the North Sea have a ballistic port, for the export trade. For us, growing up, beef was the fantastically expensive import food."

  "That hurts my brain to think of. Growing up on seafood… are your parents looking to adopt?" He grinned at her, and she broke up laughing.

  "When it comes to predator fish, cod's not bad. Firm, kind of bland, but meaty enough. What I love, though, is ahi tuna. It's amazing, dense and rich and the flavor… incredible!" Her mouth watered at the memory, and she washed the memory away with another drink. "I've had it a few times, now, down on the Spice Coast."

  "Shit, I had it once, and it damn near cost its weight in gold. How did you afford multiple times?"

  "I’m a ballistic pilot. Layovers are all about figuring out what's affordable locally, and enjoying it before I'm on a burn trajectory out of there. Which is usually just food or museums, because I've been across most of the globe, and never had enough time to get further than ten miles from the airport almost everywhere." She shrugged. "Everyone likes food, so aircrews are always swapping which restaurants to hit by every airport and spaceport."

  From the look on his face, Blondie had caught the part she didn't want him to notice. "Damn, that's a harsh port restriction. So, you don't get to do anything fun like whitewater rafting or mountain climbing?"

  "In the rare event of a multi-day layover, usually when the plane breaks…" She grimaced, and hid the expression in chewing another shrimp. "These are awesome, Luke. Thank you!"

  "You're welcome, ma'am. I'd love to grill some ahi."

  "Well, you may get the chance soon if you're still around here."

  He laughed, and said, "What, you're going to fly it in for us?"

  She shook her head. "No, what I mean is…” She stopped, contemplating her beer, and tried again. “On the Spice Coast, they were restricted to long-line catching, because they are worried about having a reserve for when another megathulu or kraken shows up and decimates stocks again. But on the holonews a couple days ago, I caught a program talking about the fisheries establishing schools of 'em up here. It said they're just about rea
dy for the first harvest." She paused as the dots connected in her mind.

  "And if their independence sticks, they'll be out from under the Federation's Fisheries Allocation Regulations." Tom finished her thought, with a nod. "Follow the money, and you'll find the real reason under all the hyperbole and propaganda."

  "Oh, damn. You know how many times the Feds have tried to take over the Misty Isles by hook or by crook, to capture our cod stocks? They're not going to let Nueva Terra go." She was watching history repeat itself, and wasn't near as clear of the ravening maw as she wanted to be.

  Blondie snorted. "They may not have a choice. The Feds are long on talk, short on military power. If they do blow it up into a war, they'll be expecting this place to immediately fold. When the locals dig in, Federation's going to find it's bitten off a lot more than it can chew."

  "Huh." She frowned and pushed back from the table. "Well, I'm going to get more food. Anyone want anything from the kitchen?"

  "You, sit your ass down. Relax. What do you want? Twitch'll get it." Tom pushed her back down in the seat, as Twitch stood up. She expected him to protest, but they just looked at each other. After a moment, Twitch nodded and started walking back into the kitchen.

  "The hell?" She said, looking up at him, and over at Blondie - only Luke looked confused.

  "It's good to see you upright and walking, lovely, but you need to take it easy. Lots of rest." He squeezed her shoulder, then scooted her chair back in close to the table.

  She frowned up at him, and the others. "You, Blondie… why are you all acting so bloody worried?"

  "Here, give me a systems status check, and I'll explain." Tom held out a hand to her.

  She grimaced, but grabbed his hand, and sent him a ping. His eyes unfocused as he studied the data she'd sent. "Good, good, and not so good, and not good at all."

  "What? Only reserves are in the yellow." She let him go - but he held on, and held out a second wrist, passing her data around the table for anyone to see.

  "Did you take a look at the parameter changes, though?" His voice was soft, eyes still unfocused. "Check your reaction times."

  She pulled up her internal net, and really looked at the numbers for the first time. "Wait, what in the wide green world?"

  "That's it. See, lovely, nano packs are designed to fix damage while we're still up and fighting. They are most explicitly not supposed to knock us out and keep us under while the buggies chew up our nerves and build new ones." She understood the tone, then - he blamed himself. "I screwed up, trying to fix you, and we damn nearly lost you."

  "These parameters…" She knew where she'd seen them before. She'd studied them in catalogs, wishing and dreaming and daring to hope that someday… "You gave me a jump pilot's nerve net." A fantastically expensive conversion, and she'd gotten it free.

  "Let me see." Grunveld spoke up, coming out of the kitchen. He put a wrist out to Tom, and then grunted. "Well, it wasn't supposed to do that."

  "She was just close enough to fool the governors. How the hell did she pull that off?" When she blinked and focused on him, Tom looked more puzzled than anything.

  "Ballistic pilot. There's, what, two thousand of them on the planet?" Blondie reached across the table, catching her free hand and squeezing it. "Less?"

  "Far less." She replied. Blondie stroked her hand with his thumb, and she didn't know how to take that, so she ignored it to answer the question. "You pulled the pilot database, didn't you? That’s everyone still alive who ever got their certs. There's only about two hundred of us active." She looked up at Grunveld to see if he had different data, but he nodded.

  "No wonder the data's so thin on 'em. Lovely here might well be the first one who's been through a firefight following a shootdown." Blondie looked up at Grunveld. "So, do we treat her like any other troop post-conversion? I'll feed her up, give her a few days off duties, a little light exercise…"

  Grunveld got a distinctly mischievous smile. "Are you asking me for permission to give her… light exercise?" The way he waggled his eyebrows at the last left no doubt about the innuendo.

  Michelle was caught in the middle of taking another sip of beer when he said that, and the resulting snort of laughter sent liquid up her nose. She choked, coughed, and pulled her hands free to cover her mouth and reach for the offered napkins as the others laughed. "Ow, dammit, Grunveld!"

  Blondie waited out the laughter, and said seriously, "I'll keep her safe, until she's up to flying again."

  "Safe is good. Back in the cockpit is better." She sighed, and polished off her bottle. "I'll be just as happy when I get back where I belong and never leave again."

  She couldn't see Tom's expression, but Grunveld, Luke, and Blondie traded very odd looks. Blondie finally patted her, and said, "It's been a rough week for you. It'll get better."

  14

  Michelle came downstairs well before first light to find the holonews still on, with the Federated States Parliament voting on something real-time, less satellite lag. The sound was up, and she stopped to watch the announcer. Bright, perky, and completely falsely sincere, the young thing gushed into the camera, "The Parliament of the Federated States is voting today on the decision to form an interim coalition administration to govern the state of Nueva Terra. A junior member state, we remind you, that has rejected every reasonable demand to dissolve the current government and hold a second referendum, even though the first one was illegal. Peacekeepers are being called up in order to protect the proxy government from the small but vocal faction that has driven the country to…"

  Michelle shook her head, and continued on to the kitchen.

  "Today, we're going to be tearing your plane apart, whilst you spend it here recovering." Tom greeted her with a coffee cup, and the day's plans. "Here, give me your wrist."

  "Sounds dead boring." She pinged him in trade for coffee, noting the rest of the team gearing up and coordinating. "Can I at least get some exercise in? With as much as you're feeding me, I'm going to be too fat to fly soon."

  "Light exercise. Light! No weightlifting without a spotter, you hear?" She nodded and went to turn away, but Tom wasn't done with her yet. He looked her up and down, jaw chewing on something unsaid, until she quit drinking the black elixir of life and focused on him. "I looked up the Fed investigative board results. You're right. They always find pilot error, even when it's as ludicrous a stretch as 'pilot failed to stabilize the damn plane after it broke in three parts.'”

  “Of course. The central government owns the airplane manufacturer. And we all know the government will never find itself at fault.” She smiled bitterly, and drank her coffee.

  Tom nodded. “I couldn't find stats on plugging the pilots, but our board confirms it's standard Fed procedure in the survivors. Which is a sodding stupid way to deal with failures." He waited out her wince, and topped off her cup before pouring the rest of the carafe in a thermos. "We don't do that. Hell, everyone makes mistakes."

  "Pilots don't. Not those of us who survive, anyway." She contemplated her coffee with a grimace, and pitched her voice to quote from training. "'If the Federation allowed a one percent error tolerance, then that would translate to six thousand crashes a day. There will be no errors allowed. If you do not do it right every time, you will be removed from the aviation system before you can harm a passenger.' That's pounded into us in training."

  "Like I said, stupid system. Humans make mistakes, and they need to learn how to recover from those mistakes. System needs to be flexible enough to recover from mistakes, too. You should move to the Empire, fly there. We understand people are human, and how to make sure everything's safe anyway. You don't see our pilots falling out of the sky all the time." Tom turned away, fussing with measuring out coffee into a new filter. "Hell, this outfit? Don't think you can make sergeant if you don't have a reprimand or an arrest on your record."

  "Maybe I should." She thought for a moment, and shook her head. "Nah. I barely speak your language, don't know half your customs, and woul
d have to learn to fly under different regulations, at different airspace heights and classifications… that's a guaranteed recipe for screwing it up, even if someone was willing to hire and pay for the retraining."

  Blondie's voice came from behind her, startling her as she took another sip. "It'd get you the hell out of an impending war zone before you get shot at again. If I could, I'd take you home with me." She turned, startled, as he came up next to her, but he was looking at the empty carafe in Tom's hand like it was an offense against nature. "You killed the pot?"

  "Hey, I just started a fresh one brewing. I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities with minutes-old coffee." Tom laughed as Blondie punched him in the shoulder. "Here, thermos. Mugs, there."

  "Bastard." Blondie picked up the thermos, and the conversation. "Before we lose you, we need to make sure no one else can ever find you. We're pretty good at disappearing people."

  She froze, and then said, slowly, "Disappearing… You don't mean as in an unmarked grave?"

  Blondie had just taken a sip; he spat the coffee back into the cup, coughed, and swore. "No, no. Definitely not. That's what we're trying to avoid, dammit!"

  "Ah." She relaxed, then, and shook her head. "That's not, ah, how the term is used in the Fed. So how do I… disappear?" The term still made her twitch.

  "First, as far your past goes, you are dead. Never contact anyone who knew you again. Not friends, not family, not old crew." Blondie faced her, his eyes deadly serious.

  She twitched at that, and shook her head. "I told my flight crew I'd give them references."

  "Then you'll have to break that promise. Because the Fed will use them to hunt you down. They'll hurt them, just to get at you. If you want to keep them safe, never talk to them again. Understand me?" He held her gaze, not letting her look away.

  She took a deep breath, curling her free hand into a fist, then thought about the crash pads, and the chaos and gunfire yesterday. With a shudder, she deflated. Tom put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, but he's right."