by Tony Healey
“Oh, yes. Ridge of the hand to the brow. I remember.” He saluted them. “I am Zavex, of Talnur.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Liam offered a subtle bow. “Damn those Draxx.”
Zavex drew in a sharp breath, the blues in his eyes darkened. A sizzling hiss emanated from him, something the device did not bother to translate. “It comes with great cost that the Talnurians have agreed to support the Terran Alliance.”
Aaron offered a grim nod. “I heard about that. Orbital station collided with the planet. Just like the Draxx to attack an unknown civilization.”
“We were more than they expected. The albedo of Talnur is low, and we have gone many generations without notice. We do not, however, overestimate our capability. Siding with Terrans became a necessity rather than choice.”
“That doesn’t sound like you’re very loyal.” Aaron winked at a passing female Ensign. She giggled.
Zavex pondered for a moment before emitting a slow series of sounds; seconds later, the translator chimed in. “I meant to say that the Terrans offered us the opportunity not to be destroyed. It was, forgive my weak human idiom… not much choice.”
“Don’t mind him.” Liam patted Zavex on the arm. “He’s an ass to everyone.”
Aaron picked a crumb out of his eye with a certain finger.
“So, you look a bit on the young side, what are you, about twenty?” Liam ignored the gesture.
Zavex found that amusing. “Talnurians age at an equivalent rate of one human year for every 2.73 Earth years that pass. I am, in your time, approximately fifty-two years of age. However, among my people, I am considered a young adult. In your terms, I would be nineteen.”
“Fancy that,” said Aaron.
“I don’t imagine either of you would know if they have managed to find a flight suit with proper boots?” Zavex flexed his toes.
Aaron and Liam looked at each other, then cracked up.
A loud beep silenced all conversation in the area. “Attention all personnel departing for the TU 83110 Manhattan, preliminary boarding process begins in three minutes. All civilians are asked to leave the flight deck at this time.”
The anonymous male voice silenced the commotion for about fifteen seconds, at which point the wail of a child repeating “please don’t leave” drew all eyes. Sarah’s minutes of calm clinging came to an abrupt end as her father attempted to peel the little whirlwind away from her older sister. The three pilots glanced at the outburst. Liam sighed, looking out at the shimmer of distant stars through the launch door. Aaron frowned at the sight.
Zavex bowed his head. “The Draxx have brought suffering to many people.”
“I’ll comm as often as I can, Sarah.” Emma kissed her sister atop the head. “I promise.”
The girl cringed away, burying her face against her father’s chest and bawling. Lieutenant JG Emma Loring stood at attention with reddening eyes, as her family joined the flow of people headed for the door. She tried to catch Sarah’s eye with a wave, but her sister kept hiding against her father’s coat. As they slipped through the door, Emma slouched and retrieved her bag.
Many of the assembled, men and women, had tears on their cheeks as they approached the ready line, Emma was not alone. She shuffled over to the others in the same uniform and unit patches, without a word.
“Oh, great,” muttered Aaron.
Emma looked up, steeling herself against the expected ridicule for showing weakness. At the sight of Zavex, some of her tears crawled back where they came from; she stared.
“What is it now?” asked Liam.
Aaron faced the row of shuttles. “Figures they would stick us with a split-tail.”
Emma turned red, glaring at him.
“How inconsiderate of them not to have the common decency to provide you with a blonde at which to gawk.” Liam gestured at her black hair. “They probably wanted at least one pilot in this wing capable of controlling their ego.”
“She’s gonna fall apart out there.” Aaron whirled on him. “We’re not gonna be able to keep saving her.”
Emma glowered. “I don’t need a white knight. Besides, you look like the type to try to hang on the tail of a Krait and not notice the pair of Monitors on your six. You’ll get yourself vaped long before I get in trouble.”
Liam covered his mouth to hide his laugh. Aaron turned his back on her with a grumble, watching a few NCOs pacing the flight deck with digital clipboards. They seemed to be arranging people to designated shuttles.
“I do not understand this,” said Zavex. “Are human females ill-equipped for battle?”
Holding a finger up at Aaron, Liam cut him off. “Some people think that they are. Used to be, command thought most men had some kind of inner need to protect women from harm, and it causes problems at war. Course, that’s going back a few centuries when they were banned from combat roles.”
Zavex looked at her again. The horizontal-blinking eyes drew a gasp from Emma. “She is struggling to carry her bag, perhaps there is some truth―”
“I’m not a Terran Marine. It doesn’t matter how strong I am,” said Emma, narrowing her eyes―still at Aaron. “It doesn’t take a lot of arm power to move a flight stick around. What matters for pilots is up here.” She tapped her head.
“And here.” Liam tapped his chest. Aaron gave him a patronizing look. “Dammit, Aaron, just because I don’t have any family to lose, it doesn’t mean I am any less committed.”
“Having no emotional attachments is a burden lifted from the shoulders of a warrior,” said Zavex.
Emma closed her eyes. “Having someone to fight for and protect makes it impossible to surrender.”
Their conversation stalled at the approach of a man in a black jumpsuit bearing rank markings for Petty Officer Second Class. PO2 Clarke rendered a salute, which they all returned. He checked off their names and returned their shuttle assignments, then waved them on to board.
“Your squad is missing a Lieutenant Summers. Have any of you seen him?”
They shook their heads.
PO2 Clarke raised his wrist to his lips. “Lieutenant Michael Summers, please report to shuttle approach eleven.”
In a single file line, they walked past Clarke and trudged up the stairs to the launch platform where they fell in at the back end of a queue. An E2 pushed a cart along, collecting duffels from those boarding. One by one, they stacked their bags. At the sound of running, most of the line turned to the sight of LT Summers sprinting from the top of the metal staircase. He ran past the end of the line to toss his bag on the cart, earning a disapproving smirk from the Airman Apprentice pushing it, which softened as Summers returned to the end of the line.
The boarding stairs led into the shuttle just behind a two-seat cockpit. To the right, the shuttle’s interior held forty seats. Around the outer walls, folding cushions in small hollows formed chairs out of the walls. Down the center, an island of back-to-back seats had already filled with other personnel. Most everyone else in here wore dark grey or black suits; flight crew, engineers, and support staff. Another four pilots in the rear wore white, and exchanged knowing nods with the new arrivals. Emma, Aaron, Liam, and Zavex filed to the side and squeezed into the wall seats.
As soon as Emma’s weight hit the cushion, a passive restraint system encircled her chest and pulled her snug against the seatback; the same happened for the others. Zavex made a throat noise at the sudden event, which called to mind the image of someone punting a chicken.
The torc did not bother to translate it.
Emma’s nerves got the better of her and she chuckled. Zavex seemed embarrassed, while Aaron frowned at her visible unease. Michael was the last one in, and got the seat closest to the door. He held his arms out, expecting the harness, and let them flop onto his legs once it deployed. The shuttle lights dimmed.
“Good afternoon, everyone. In the event that I have an unexpected stroke during this ten minute flight, do we have any pilots on board?”
The cabin filled wit
h chuckling.
“Good.” The room outside the shuttle moved as the craft rose into the air. “You’ll be on the Manhattan within twelve minutes, don’t bother trying to nap. I may be a lowly shuttle driver, but I want you all to know you have the Horizon crew’s deepest thanks for what you are doing.”
The laughter subsided to a somber silence, which remained for the next eleven minutes. Emma stared at Michael’s hand, dark against the white cloth over his leg. Not as dark as Zavex, whatever he was, he was space-black, but he was also an alien. She did not want to be rude. Light shimmered in through narrow view strips between the wall seats. Two inches wide, the windows were added as an afterthought; it cost two seats, but after thousands of complaints, the head shrinkers accepted that humans do not like being stuck in a metal box with no windows.
“It’s been twelve minutes, are we still orbiting the station?” whispered Emma.
Michael, in the seat to her left, peeked at the window. A stripe of blue light ran from his forehead, over one eye, and off the ridge of his jaw. “Nope. That’s our new carrier. It’s the first of its class. If they make any more, they’ll all be Manhattan Class fighter carriers.”
“Bloody stonker.” She gasped at the wall of metal and light sliding past outside. They were so close to the carrier that it looked like a space station.
“Means huge,” said Liam in answer to Aaron’s confused look. “The damn thing’s almost a mile long.”
The sliding surface changed direction, panels and plates slid upward as much as to the left. Moving like a train of disconnected cars, the sixteen shuttles continued alongside the massive ship. They descended to the underside of the Manhattan, entering a recessed hollow that contained the fighter launch bays as well as shuttle docking facilities. Dozens of meters of hull protected the open portals from hostile fire; in order to get a shot through a launch bay, an enemy would have to fly right into an inverted canyon of steel ringed with pulse laser turrets.
Moments later, the shuttle settled onto its pads and they disembarked. The landing bay held the same quasi-chemical scent of recycled air mixed with electrogel and various other chemicals necessary to maintaining a fighter squadron. The air was colder than the station; many apertures sat open to space with only an energy field between air and vacuum. This created a significant crosswind that whipped the length of the flight deck. Another Airman ran along the underside of shuttle eleven, opening the cargo hatches and chucking bags to the side into a military-neat pile. Once everyone had retrieved their duffels, they walked in the direction indicated by streams of floating holographic arrows.
Aaron grinned at the scenery. Liam seemed nonplused. Zavex conveyed no readable emotion. Michael plodded along with a look of grim determination while Emma stared around at everything, wearing the look of a kid in the city for the first time.
“She’s a beauty,” said Liam.
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure why they are choosing to risk this ship on a mission like this, she’d be hard to replace.”
“It gives us the best chance of success,” said Michael, his voice calm. “We are losing ground in the war; it won’t do anyone any good to cut corners now.”
“A warrior who is afraid to chip his new sword dies a coward’s death,” said Zavex.
“Yeah…” Liam made a hesitant nod. “Something like that, I guess.”
Panes of scintillating holographic light appeared in front of everyone, small windows containing system consoles. After logging in, a prerecorded welcome message played that led into a real-time navigation aid showing the path to the pilot’s staterooms.
A brief elevator ride later, they left the non-pilots behind and walked past several security stations. The Milsec personnel greeted them with nods, one eye reading screens of information as they approached.
“Everything smells like a hospital,” said Emma.
Aaron sighed.
Michael smiled. “The ship is new; this is its first deployment outside of trial runs.”
The navigation assists brought Michael and Aaron chest to chest, each facing a stateroom behind the other. Michael would have sidestepped if not for the expectant look on Aaron’s face, as the other man implied he should be the one to move. They stared at each other for a full minute.
“You’re blocking my cabin,” said Aaron.
“So walk around.”
Aaron set his stance. “Why should I walk around you?”
“Well, he does outrank you,” added Liam. “He also holds the best score on the Falkirk anyone’s gotten in twenty years, third best since it was incepted.”
“He got lucky. We both know who’s the better pilot.” Aaron’s eyes narrowed.
Zavex gurgled and clicked his contempt for the display; the translator passed along some mangled English that ungracefully conveyed the sentiment of ‘save it for the Draxx.’ Emma squeezed between the two men, pushing them away from each other.
“Will you two stop acting like little boys at recess? It’ll do you no good to get into a punch up here.”
Both men used her intervention as an excuse to move to the side. They did not walk around each other―they walked around her. A draw.
Michael was assigned a cabin with Liam, Zavex with Aaron. Emma hauled her duffel into her assigned quarters, surprising a short, red-haired figure in a black pilot’s uniform with white trim.
“Hello? Are you lost?” Emma let her duffel hit the ground.
The other person turned, obvious in her adulthood by the shape of her chest. Emma blushed.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you were―”
“A lost kid? Yeah… I get that a lot. Caiomhe Riley, Piranha Squadron.”
“A bomber pilot?” Emma blinked. “That’s…”
“Rare for a girl? Yeah, I know. I just like dropping the big ones on cap ships. And maybe I am a little nutters.”
They laughed.
“Nice to meet you at last,” said Liam, extending a hand.
Michael returned it. “Knock it off, man. I’m no celebrity.”
Laughing, Liam set about packing his gear out. “You were in Diamond Squad back at the Academy, right? You mopped us every time on the sims.”
“Heh, I remember now. You were always the last one left, six thousand klicks away from the fray and picking us off. You have a gift for playing longball.”
Liam shrugged. “Yeah I guess, just wish I was better at the flying part.”
“What is wrong?” Zavex’s silken voice vibrated from the walls.
Aaron glanced at him. “For a ship this size, these cabins are small.”
“Which side of the room do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Aaron chucked his bag on the bed to his left. “They’re both tiny, but I guess it will have to do.”
Zavex emitted a series of noises reminiscent of an air hose leaking through a bucket of gelatin. The translator made a creepy emotionless version of laughter. “I don’t imagine we will be spending much time in here.”
“Attention all combat pilots,” said a voice that seemed to come from nowhere in particular.
Everyone froze in place, gazing at the ceiling.
“All combat pilots are to report to Briefing Room A by 1600 hours. For you Academy cadets, that means four p.m.”
“So soon? What do you think this is?” asked Zavex.
Aaron waved at the wall. “Oh, it’s probably just some butt-kissing ‘you are our last hope’ pep talk or something.”
“You do not seem to be taking this very seriously.” Zavex leaned on the wall, tapping the three toes of his right foot.
“We’re going to win.” Aaron hung the last of his uniforms in the wardrobe.
Zavex leaned in, narrowing his eyes to thin vertical stripes of blue. “How can you be so certain?”
“Because.” Aaron turned with a used-starship-salesman smile. “I’m here.”
aptain Nicholas Driscoll was accustomed to the looks as he strode toward the airlock that would take him fr
om Horizon Station to the Manhattan.
He was more than familiar with the ship’s design, but to see her with his own eyes―beyond the viewports, awaiting his arrival―was something else entirely. From the observation level of the station, where a half hour before he’d sat and had coffee, it had seemed impossibly large. However, the size was more a necessity than an act of showmanship on the part of the designers. The Manhattan was big because it had to be. Driscoll had never heard of a Terran Union ship carrying such a variety of starfighters before, nor in such quantity.
Indeed, the Manhattan was a self-contained fleet.
Driscoll approached the security desk but, as was so often the case, didn’t need to introduce himself. As he pressed his palm against an ident scanner and waited for the Milsec security personnel to clear him for entrance to the Manhattan, he couldn’t help but remember how he had thought his previous command―an Archon class called the Sonata―was impressively large. Next to the Manhattan, it paled in comparison. At the time, she’d been the biggest ship he had ever commanded. But now…
“You’re clear for entry,” the Milsec guard told him. “Welcome aboard the Manhattan, Captain Driscoll.”
Driscoll nodded curtly and stepped through the decontamination jets. The torrent of ionized air buffeted him from all sides like a tingly mist till he set foot on the Manhattan’s deck.
Commander Robin Teague stood there waiting for him already, hands clasped behind her back.
“Captain,” she said, and snapped to attention. “Welcome to the Manhattan.”
Driscoll returned her salute, glanced left and right. Men and women hurried this way and that. Unlike station side, they barely noticed him there with his carryall. This was how he preferred it. Away from the pomp and protocol, he was just a man leading others. That was all. But given his exploits in the past, people outside of a ship environment treated him as something different―a celebrity.
He hated it.
“At ease, Commander.”