“Did you ever use one of those before?” another one of the soldiers asked.
“Not quite,” Othello replied, trying to get a handle on the balance and mass of the armor. “It’s similar to some of the mining gear we had at the Mars dig, but that’s why I’m here to practice.”
He didn’t bring up the prosthetics, they didn’t ask and Othello was just as happy that way. Even with the new setup, the biggest challenge was still adjusting to having feeling below his waist. Mastering standing, he sank to a low crouch and leaned far from side to side to test his flexibility.
“Looks like you’re getting the hang of it already,” another man added. “But remember, in a suit like that you’ll likely be in a stand-up fight.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it’s so bulky, you’re not going to be dodging a whole lot. It’s better for either a planted defense or rolling forward in an assault. That’s how most of our training in them goes down.”
“So not for recon or forward ops? Yeah, I could see that,” Othello added and stood again, feeling the blood flow back down his extremities.
***
They still had nearly twelve hours on the clock until the Flagstaff was due to engage but for the life of him, Scott couldn’t use the time to rest. He had secured a position with a team of soldiers for the defensive force and was now sprawled flat on his rack with eyes wide open.
With every movement, shift and vibration of the vessel, he was immediately filled with idea of disaster, of being boarded and left defenseless. The images started vivid and became worse the longer Scott lay there until they became too much.
He sat up straight on the thin mattress in the tiny cabin. Maybe it was claustrophobia, the thought of being trapped in the miniscule tomb against the infinite black. That was it, he thought, maybe a change of scenery would help.
Lacing up a pair of black combat boots against his plain service uniform, Scott decided to go somewhere, anywhere, else. Checking each way in the empty hall outside his room, he chose a direction and started walking. There must have been twenty klicks of passageways he hadn’t yet seen.
Scott followed his instinct and meandered back out of the crew chambers, down past a few ancillary briefing rooms and around the upper landing bays. Farther away, he hit a wide room ringed by wide, heavy doors. The entrance was empty except for a single NCO moving crates about.
“Can I help you?” the sergeant asked as Scott approached.
“What is all this?”
“Training area for the SR pilots. A gym, tactical simulator and flight sims are all back here. It’s usually a little livelier but they’re all on crew rest so it’s empty right now.”
“I see,” Scott said, nodding, then apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m pretty new to this so I’m just trying to get a feel for the ship.”
“No problem,” the sergeant replied as he dropped his loaded pallet jack against the wall. “Like I said, all the preparations are done. Hey, want to try one?”
“What’s that?”
“Want to try a sim? I can load an SR profile so you can see what it’s like to fly one.”
Scott’s eyes widened as he contemplated the offer. Years of sitting in back seats plus a self-induced crash landing gave him an edge of interest. “That sounds awesome! I took the civil crash course in avionics back on Earth, but that’s as far as I went. That was for being a transport maintainer.”
The sergeant nodded with a smile. “Then you already know the basics.” He walked over to the nearest set of double doors and held one aside for Scott to pass.
The engineer ducked through and was greeted by a line of large cases that resembled shipping containers with small stations along the wall nearest to the doors. The walls were decorated with various pictures of USC vessels but mainly featured the SR-1 fighters. Although he would have liked to have taken a closer look, he followed the sergeant over to the nearest box and up a narrow set of corrugated steel stairs.
“Do I need a flight suit?”
“No, the stuff you’ve got on will be fine for this exercise,” he replied and handed over a black polished flight helmet. “The critical feeds go through your head. It won’t be a complete seal, but you’re not going to pass out from it.”
Scott grasped the helmet and stepped into the simulator, sinking down into the thick padded seat. He first noticed the controls: they were nothing if not completely alien to him. It might have been designed by the Lyrans themselves.
Two joysticks erupted from the armrests of the seat, both covered with small switches and buttons, while blank screens were built into every other solid surface. A glass canopy was in place above him, separating the operator’s area from the concave wall of screens above.
The sergeant quickly guided him through the setup and stepped back to the platform. “I’ll be over at the control station to walk you through a scenario,” he said and closed the outer door, leaving Scott in total darkness and silence except for his own breathing. He drifted away, thinking for a few moments before the other man broke in again.
“Mr. Ryan, you there?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll bring the lights up. Touch the center panel with your palm,” the sergeant ordered as a few dim rows of aisle lighting illuminated the seams of the hatch and screens.
Scott did as he was told and depressed his hand onto the black screen. With a jolt, the systems came to life with a humanoid greeting. Outside, a scene that resembled a desert runway flickered to life beneath a rising sun. Had he not known better, he’d have assumed it was real but as he watched, the walls of the ship began to fade away.
“I can see through the skin?”
“Yes. There is a network of cameras all around that stitch a composite picture together inside the helmet. It uses a tracking system to measure movements of your head and project the view inside your mask. It can also allow you to manipulate controls by looking at them.”
The engineer continued experimenting and looked between the soft keys on the center panel. If he stared for more than a moment, the color changed and brought up a different menu.
“You can explore those more later. Take both control arms and find the rotary throttles below your thumbs.”
Scott grasped each joystick and found the throttles built from radial sliders. “Found them.”
“Each one controls power to half of the ship.” His instructor’s voice crackled over the channel. “The sticks themselves control vectoring. Together you can manipulate in any way you can imagine. Without moving the sticks, bring the throttles up about an eighth of the way and let it hover.”
Doing as he was told, Scott cautiously slid the buttons up and felt the simulator lift off the ground with a reverberating hum. The picture outside changed perspective along with the movement.
“Good. Now turn to the right and push forward down the strip.”
By manipulating the arms in opposite directions, the ship rotated right with Scott’s movement. He took a deep breath and pressed forward. Instantly he felt the g-cell behind him pull back with a feeling of rising acceleration along with the simulated rumble of a fully-fueled engine.
“Keep going straight and push down on the throttles to engage the primary thrusters.”
Scott followed along and pressed the pair of buttons into the base. He felt a boost from the main engines behind him take over from the secondary ones beneath. The fighter shot forward and skimmed effortlessly over the gently rolling virtual desert hills.
He continued following the directions of the sergeant outside and quickly mastered simple maneuvers and flight paths. By pulling back on both controls and increasing thrust, Scott shot himself into the deep blue sky above.
“How high can I go?” he asked as the sky turned darker blue and nearly black, lit by the sun to one side and a sea of stars all around.
“As high as you want,” the sergeant said. “The system will procedurally generate the entire solar system from the database as you come acr
oss it but that’s a little out of scope for us today.” He laughed. “You’re here to learn to blow stuff up, right? Not to play Magellan?”
“Ha. True,” Scott agreed. “So where do we start?”
The sergeant continued to talk Scott along through the standard weapons load and how to employ each one.
“We’ll start with a ground run. I’m adding a target to your display. Take the ship back down and put an AGM on it.”
“Got it.” The engineer confirmed and changed course to match the small light on his map far below. Once he got within range, he let the shot off and watched from a radial orbit. He never saw it through the glass; only a small puff of smoke in the distance gave away the strike.
“Good hit. Good hit,” the sergeant reported. “Easy, right?”
“Sure is, when the pressure’s off.”
“Next up, I’ll give you some air targets to chase down.”
Scott shook his head, rocking the wings far to each side in an S turn. “Actually, can we try something else?”
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
The engineer’s curiosity won him over again. “Can you pull combat mission logs?”
“Sure. We’ve got all official missions of the USC onboard. Why?”
“I want you to pull one of Commander Grant’s missions. I want to try to follow him.”
“That might not be a great idea,” the sergeant’s voice quivered. “Without sufficient training you won’t get anything out of it.”
“I understand, but I don’t have a lot of time.” Scott stopped, staring through the virtual sky in the simulator. “I just want to know what he’s gone through.”
“…I can make that happen. The largest battle he was in was the final push to take Sol Charlie.”
“Sounds good. Let’s see it.”
“Coming up. Just follow the leading red ship; that’s him. Good luck.”
Scott felt the lights dim again and come back up with nothing but starlight. Ahead, a constellation of red fighters drifted through the distance. It almost felt peaceful until he heard the commander’s raspy voice through the radio, already barking orders. From somewhere else, a siren in the cockpit blared as dozens of alien ships appeared on his map.
The commander’s ship had a targeting lock as well and Scott maneuvered to trail his movement. Without warning, Grant shot to the side, avoiding a searing blast from one of the enemy’s weapons. Through nonstop twists and turns narrated by Grant’s shouts on the radio, Scott followed through chases by Aquillian fighters, strafing runs on the larger ships and operations in dangerous proximity to the Space Corps battleships.
It started manageable, but quickly increased at a furious pace to be incomprehensible. Scott’s vision started to blur at the edges and he felt himself losing sensation in his fingertips. The red ship now looked like nothing more than a red smear, darting across his screen.
“That’s it. Slow it down… need to get out…” he mumbled, his head starting to rock as consciousness waned.
“What?” the sergeant asked. “Just drop the controls and you’ll stop. I’ll end the scenario.”
“No, I can barely see…”
“Then pull the yellow release right in front of you!”
Scott’s eyes could barely focus, but he could see the large yellow handle tucked between his legs. He grasped it with both hands and lightly pulled back with all the energy he found. Instantly, he felt gravity stabilize and return to straight below him. With a pop, the seat folded away and he dropped through the simulator floor onto an elastic net just above the ground.
Groaning from his spinning head, Scott rolled to the side and fell the last half meter onto the metal floor, landing with a loud clang. Groggily, his eyes tried to focus. His helmet was off and still connected to the contraption above. From the side, the sergeant jogged up, laughing all the way.
“Told you not to try a real mission!” he said and checked Scott over. “Don’t worry; you’ll be alright in a few minutes.”
“I…” Scott tried to complete a statement, but coughed hard instead, his body struggling to right itself. “…I had no idea…”
“It’s a rough gig,” the sergeant replied, sitting the engineer upright. “They go through hell in training just to get ready for real operations. Even then it’s a lot to keep track of at once.”
Although Scott had spent years onboard ships, they were never that small and never seemed to move so fast. Questions came through. What sort of edge was Grant sitting on? Was it like that non-stop? How in the hell did he manage so many moving objects? He shook his head, still dizzy.
“If you want to try again, you’re welcome to it; now or later.”
“Thanks,” Scott mumbled. His mind traveled back to the last drop on Mars. How foolish he was to run out into no man’s land, even though he rescued the Special Forces team. Grant was running orbits from the air, but what did the commander have to go through to keep them alive? Scott remembered he couldn’t see more than a few meters in any direction on the ground, yet none of the aliens got close. The commander was exact in every movement and got them all out in one piece.
Words like ‘selfless’ seemed too over-used to fully encapsulate Commander Grant’s soul.
12
Well-rested and with a clear plan in his head, Grant stepped out onto the upper flight deck of the Flagstaff. There were only minutes left to go.
Followed by the two dozen other fighter pilots remaining with operational SR-1s, he led the way to their waiting line of ships. The black and red SR-X still stood alone, without compare, against the steel backdrop of the bay doors.
Without delay, he climbed the side and dropped into the fighter’s seat. Adjusting the straps and connections to his armor, Grant powered up the controls. Screens flickered to life on all sides, more quickly than he remembered and with a sharpened clarity. Either the Lyrans had done more to his ship or his eyes, Grant couldn’t tell.
He switched radio channels to the bridge. “Commander Fox, mike check; you there?”
“Copy that. We read you,” Came the response a half-second later.
“How are we on time?”
“Four minutes, thirty-two seconds. Standby, I’ll send you the main scope feed.”
The diagnostic screen to his right flickered and displayed the main sensor map of their surroundings. It was blank in hyperspace, except for the small digital countdown in the lower center.
“Got it,” Grant reported and flipped back to the rest of the squadron on deck with him. Together they ran through their final radio checks and waited for the call. With only a few seconds remaining, he felt a shudder through the floor as the Flagstaff decelerated from its overcharged kick through the alien gate.
***
A hundred meters forward, Commander Fox watched the same picture on the display ahead of him, below the wide picture window which still only showed a hundred and twenty degrees of dark, crackling energy. With a jolt and blinding flash of light outside, the timer hit zero and the ship slid back into real space.
“Full scan. Now!” Fox ordered the remainder of his crew, now that most had been parsed off to staff the Patriots. “Keep the course straight and level.”
Their scanning system found the lone asteroid immediately as a small gray dot in the distance with nothing else significant in the vicinity. Seconds later, the processor located a presumably artificial structure on its surface.
“We’ve got a tag,” the lieutenant reported from his station and brought up a pixelated image. It resembled the imagery provided by Omega’s probes.
“That’s what we’re looking for,” Fox said, nodding as the static in the picture began to be filled in by tags of unknown ships. “That’s not good,” he mumbled as the number increased from ten, to twenty, to thirty, individual signatures.
“What do you have?” Grant asked, staring at the scope in his ship. “I don’t have much resolution over here.”
“We’ve got a station and at least forty
-four targets on local patrol, probably launched in preparation for the attack.”
“Good, that’s what we want. Better this than them hitting Earth again,” Grant reassured him. “Any movement from them? How soon until we’re in range?”
“The computer still doesn’t know what they are, so it can only estimate their trajectories. Some movement might be towards us, but we’re still a ways out, at least another thirty seconds.”
Grant continued to stare at the monitor. Ten seconds passed before Fox’s voice broke in again.
“Scans incoming. We’ve got definite movement.” He paused. “I hope you’re right about this. We’ve got twenty tracking to intercept us.”
“Any way to know their engagement range?”
“No. They don’t match anything in the database. We’ll know it when they fire.”
It wasn’t what the commander hoped to hear. “Then keep going. Keep an angle on them to engage--.”
“Dammit, that’s it!” Fox shouted. “They just lit us up!”
He went silent as the ship’s commanding officer shouted orders to the crew around him. Through the fray, Grant yelled out above them. “Cut to port! Now! Drop the starboard upper deck doors! Engage anything that’ll target off the guns!”
He paused again as Fox adjusted to the request without a fight and waited as the metal shields dropped back from the side of the bay, exposing the entire deck to the vacuum beyond. Only seconds earlier, they could have lied to themselves and believed they were still in the dock. Flickers of light danced off in space before slamming into the Flagstaff’s shields.
The orange bursts sent a blinding glare across the deck and Grant quickly dropped his gaze, shielding his eyes with a gloved hand. “What the hell was that?” he demanded to the bridge.
Fox gripped his console, steadying his footing as the ship lurched from the impact. “Some kind of fusion charge. The volley just drained half the shield battery.”
“Any sign of the Patriots?”
“Not yet.” Fear edged into the commander’s mind and he paused for a long second. “We’ve got solutions on the nearest flight. Preparing to fire.” He paused again. More Cygnan ships appeared on the screens around him. He didn’t see any other options. “We’re in range! Commander Grant, you’re cleared hot to engage at will!
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