by D. E. Kinney
The old tech smiled and jerked his thumb at Gary. “What he said.” Then he added, “Yep, it’s crazy dangerous all right, son—crazy dangerous.” He then walked back into the shade of the garage and a waiting mag.
The two continued walking down the row of garages, now busy with team techs making adjustments before sending their pilots back out on the course for testing.
“Where did Bo wander off to?” Gary asked.
Tommy pointed at the red-and-white bay of Cooper Racing, where Bo was standing next to one of the team’s mags, chatting with a driver.
Gary looked. “No way,” he said, moving toward Bo. “Billy James!” Gary stuck out his hand. “You’re Billy James.”
Billy James, one of two drivers for Cooper Racing, had to be the most popular driver in the Terran system, indeed in the galaxy. He was young, brash, and very good-looking—a poster child for all that was noble and wonderful about the Human race, and a growing annoyance to the Tarchein claim of superiority.
The bronzed-skinned Human looked away from Bo and, pushing thick dark hair back from his clear blue eyes, smiled and shook Gary’s hand. “Guilty,” he said.
“Bo, do you know who this is?” Gary asked excitedly.
Bo shrugged.
“This is Billy James,” Gary said, looking over to Tommy as if seeking a confirmation. “Billy James—he’s just the best mag pilot in the Empire.” Gary continued to gush.
Billy looked a little embarrassed. “Well…”
“He’s been the Terran champion two years in a row. What are your chances of taking the cup this year, Mr. James?” Gary blurted out before Billy could reply.
Every year, during the Trilight celebration, the top three drivers from every system’s circuit competed on Tarchein for the Imperial Cup. To date, it had never been won by a Human.
Bo looked on with a new sense of respect. “Champion, huh?”
“Well, it is a thrilling tale.” Billy flashed a broad smile.
“I’d love to hear it,” Bo said, moving a bit closer to Billy.
Just then, two of Billy’s techs moved up next to the mag. “You ready?”
Billy raised a gloved finger. “How about I tell ya over dinner tonight?”
Bo looked back at Tommy and Gary as Billy slid into his mag. “Do we have plans, guys?”
Tommy looked over to Gary. “Plans, I—“
“No plans. You two go have fun,” Gary said. He seemed more excited than Bo.
Billy looked up at Bo from inside the tiny mag cockpit and smiled while techs went about the business of strapping him in. “Well great. Can you wait while I make this run?”
Bo flashed that great Bo smile. “I’ll wait.”
The techs energized Billy’s mag-caddy and after attaching it to a hand-tug, began towing the racer toward the starting grid.
Billy nodded and pulled his helmet down over his ears. “Be back in a flash,” he said as the mag was pulled away.
Bo watched the mag until it disappeared into a tunnel that led to the track before turning to face her friends, who were both grinning.
“What?” she finally asked.
“Billy James,” Gary said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“It’s just dinner,” she said.
They both nodded and continued to grin, arms folded.
“What?” Bo said again, and they all laughed.
The next week spent on Mars was full of planed activities. There was rock climbing, a day under sail on the large lake, a short trip drifting down the river through the towering canyons, and of course the usual tourist things, including taking in all of the must-see sights. The three had quickly adjusted to a life without the relentless pressure of the Slate, but, as all restful times tend to do, their vacation was soon at an end. And so, after Ellie’s teary goodbye, along with promises to visit again soon, they were once again on their way back to the structure and stress of the Slate.
Mag racing was invented long before the discovery and development of graviton generators, which some believed would spell the end of the popular racing event. With the ability to hover, what need was there for magnetic repulsion? This has proven not be the case, however. In fact, mag racing has continued to grow in popularity, becoming the largest sporting event in the galaxy. Mag pilots from almost every species in the Empire risk life and limb piloting high-tech mags in death-defying, tightly regulated competition. Mags, that if freed from magnetically charged tracks, would tumble and spin out of control, much like a dart thrown feathers-first; resulting, tragically, with most exploding in spectacular fireballs, killing or maiming many brave pilots in the process.
It is due to this alarming increase in the number of growing fatalities that mags and mag tracks have recently undergone a number of significant changes designed to increase pilot and spectator safety alike. Changes that include newer, more powerful retaining force fields, improved racing suits, new high-energy automatic ejection systems, upgraded energy-absorbent material, and improved sixth-generation magnetic control disks, just to mention a few. Yes, we’re proud of our sport, a shining example of courage and cooperative fair play as exemplified by the entire Tarchein people.
- Traveler’s Guide to Mag Racing -
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saber Hawks
Another month in the trusty Firefly, and the Mudhens graduated, moving on to advanced flight training. And although most stayed on Razeier, not many stayed at the Slate. Only students deemed fit for future strike assignments—such as traditional fighters, light attack, reconnaissance, or even heavy bombers—stayed and were transferred to the Saber Hawks of TSA-555, sometimes called the Triple Nickel. The student pilots in the Triple Nickel flew the nimble AT-108 Lancer, mastering the trainer’s basic flight characteristics in the familiar skies above the Slate before moving on to the formal advanced strike training syllabus, which was carried out on the battle cruiser, Nova. It was while training from the Nova that these future strike and recon pilots would first be tested in the harsh, unforgiving environment of space.
“Come in,” Gary said in response to the chime.
The hatch slid open silently, allowing Tommy to enter Gary’s new quarters, located in the outer curved wall of the Hawks’ ringlet. He started to speak, but was dumbstruck at the sight of Cruiser admiring himself in his new pressure spacesuit—complete with a gloss-black helmet.
“What do ya think?” he asked, his voice sounding a little muffled as he spoke behind his helmet’s partially opened faceplate.
The black suit, trimmed in red, with its lightweight energy-absorbent armor, clung to his athletic body, making him look like some kind of fictional superhero.
“Nice,” Tommy responded, touching the raised red-and-black Saber Hawk patch on Gary’s shoulder.
I’m just happy they were able to find a suit that would fit my manly physique,” Gary said posing.
“Yea, imagine that,” Tommy said sarcastically.
“I just hope they—“
Gary’s chime again sounded, and he hit the hatch release without bothering to see who it was.
“Check this out,” Bo said, rushing into the room holding her suit. Then, seeing Gary, she started to laugh.
Gary held out his arms and slowly turned as Tommy collapsed onto the couch, head in hands.
“Well, I should have known you’d be the first,” Bo said.
Gary smiled and turned to Tommy. “As soon as your orders are confirmed, supply will get you hooked up.”
“But you better give yourself some time. It’s not a quick process getting these babies fitted,” Bo added, admiring the Saber Hawk symbol on her suit’s nametag.
“Speaking of time.” Tommy glanced down at his wristcomm. “You’ve got about twelve minutes before a squadron formation.”
“Formation,” Gary said disgustedly.
“Meet and greet,” Bo said.
“Yeah, and wait till you see some of our new mates,” Tommy said with a sly smile.
Gary looked confused and started the laborious task of getting out of his suit.
Bo exchanged looks with Tommy before she spoke. “Maco is in our class, Cruiser.”
“Maco, that lousy Tarhead—sorry, Tommy.” Gary remembered how his friend felt about Tarchein, and of course he too had the upmost respect and fondness for Remus. He immediately felt sorry to have said it.
“It’s okay, Cruiser, but you better hurry,” Tommy said, following Bo out of the hatch.
Damn, Gary thought, pulling the suit down off his shoulders. Damn.
Early the next morning, members of TSA-555 found themselves in one of the advanced flight training classrooms, datapads at the ready.
“Good morning. I am Commander Vance. Welcome to advanced strike training, and congratulations on your success in primary.”
Vance was an Academy grad from Imadall. His immaculately tailored uniform, which included a red bloodstone fixed atop his black pilot’s badge, gave the tall, mild-mannered instructor instant credibility.
“However,” he continued, “that being said, I must caution you about the intensity of advanced training you are about to undertake. No doubt you have come far, but there is still much to accomplish if you are to earn your badge.” At that Vance pointed to his own wings as if to emphasize the point.
A few in the class of twenty squirmed a bit in their seats. They were all well aware of the thirty percent washout rate, and most, like Tommy, could not bear the thought of failure now that the dream of earning their wings seemed so close.
“Now, before we get started…” Vance snapped on a large 3-D image of a battle cruiser. “Let me just say a few words about the commitment you’re making as future combat pilots.” The commander paused for a moment and ran a long hand through thick, dark gray, shoulder-length hair while taking in the room.
The black high-backed seats, adorned with Saber Hawk patches and adjustable work tables, were arranged in a semicircle of three elevated steps that closed around a small platform on which Vance now stood.
“I know firsthand the thrill of flying fighters and the horrors of combat.” He again paused, allowing the class to take a quick inventory of his awards and a row of small, jeweled campaign medallions fixed to his chest. “But remember that this job, once undertaken, is about defending the Empire,” Vance continued. “It will require a sacred oath, that I’m afraid will most assuredly require you to risk as well as take life.”
Vance again looked around the now-silent room, motionless save for the slow rotation of the huge projected image.
“If any of you has doubts as to your inclination to perform such duties, please see me privately after class, or any time before we deploy to the Nova,” Vance continued. “There are plenty of noncombat flying jobs available with the fleet, or at least jobs that do not require direct intervention. At any rate, there is no dishonor in selecting a new designation at this juncture. However, failure to carry out specific orders, as must be given to flight crews in the prosecution of combat operations, is unforgivable and will result in the most dire of consequences.”
Gary leaned in to Tommy. “Cheery guy.”
Tommy playfully pushed him back and smiled, earning a scowl from Bo.
“Okay.” Vance clapped his hands together to break the solemn mood. “Let’s get started.
Long months passed as the Hawks plowed through the advanced-training syllabus in the clear air over Slater, but finally the eighteen remaining pilots of the Nickel were ready for space flight. The Saber Hawks were finally going to the Nova.
The trip to the waiting battle cruiser would be flown in two sections of nine birds each, eight of which would be flown solo, and one, the lead, flown as a dual. Some unfortunate student in the first section would have Vance in their backseat.
Tommy, flying with Bo and Gary in the first section out, had been assigned to fly Saber Hawk Two. This position was the first Lancer in the right half of a V formation that swept back and away from the lead ship.
“Close it up, Figgins,” Tommy heard Commander Vance say over his comm. And turning his head, Tommy looked back over his shoulder through the clear steel of his long bubble canopy to watch as Ensign Figgins edged his ship a little closer to Bo’s right wing-panel.
Just past Figgins, Gary’s Lancer moved to stay even with the erratic maneuvering of Saber Hawk Four. Tommy could see his friend’s head moving with the beat of some song he knew was blasting over his helmet’s comm gear. He was impressed by the ease at which Gary flew the sleek, light gray trainer. Tommy thought again how much he admired the guy’s calm, devil-may-care attitude, and how comforting it was to be able to look over and see his bobbing helmet.
“That’s your spot, ensign, now stay there,” Vance said to Figgins while monitoring the formation and at the same time keeping a wary eye on his pilot, Ensign Magnus. Magnus was no doubt squirming a bit in the front seat as he led the formation of AT-108’s on a wide, almost vertical crescent into the cold, darkening sky twenty miles above the Slate.
Tommy, still thinking of the songs Gary had shared before the launch, grinned behind his faceplate and updated the navigation information for the Nova intercept. Of course, all he had to do was stay tucked up under Vance’s wing panel, but as the blackness of space closed in, it was comforting to know where he was and that he could, if needed, get home on his own. Home, he thought and quickly shook off the feeling.
The sensations of piloting the Lancer in the fringes of space were not new to Tommy or his classmates, as they had routinely flown training hops to altitudes well over 120,000 feet. But those flights had been primarily flown with an instructor strapped in the rear seat, and at any rate those flights had never seemed far from the bright, warm, thick air of the Slate.
“Settle, Hawks,” Vance said reassuringly as Razeier turned into a distant brown-blue ball. “Confirm pressurization schedules and complete your deep space configuration checks.”
Tommy had already started his checklist, happy to have something to occupy his mind. He had made an endless number of arrested landings over the last six months, but those had been simulated. And this, he thought as the distance closed to the waiting Nova, is for real.
“Nova from Saber Hawk Lead.” Vance’s voice broke the eerie silence.
“This is Nova-con, go ahead, Saber Hawk Lead.”
Tommy searched the blackness off the nose of his Lancer for any sign of the massive warship but of course saw nothing, as they were still a good distance out.
“Flight of nine inbound Lancers for approach and landing,” Vance responded.
“Saber Hawk Lead, Nova-con, you are cleared Baker. Contact Recovery Command and Control when at the perch.”
“Copy, cleared Baker, contact Reece at perch. Saber Hawk Lead—out.”
Tommy continued to focused on the rock-steady wing panel of Hawk Lead. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the readouts projected on his visor, he would have thought the entire formation was standing still.
“Hawks, standby to slow—six five zero,” Vance coolly said.
Tommy brought up his flight control panel and began punching in a velocity setting of 6,500 miles per hour.
“Two,” Tommy acknowledged when the task had been completed, and waited as the rest of the flight checked in.
“Three, four…” And so on until all eight Hawks had responded.
“Execute,” Vance finally ordered, and Tommy along with the rest of the flight engaged their newly commanded velocity. Inertial dampeners, set to max, absorbed or negated forces that would have slammed the pilots against the canopy as forward thrusters silently fired and slowed down their trainers.
The formation continued inbound for some time, with Vance reporting when at the invisible Baker. Then, just five hundred miles from the battle cruiser, he instructed Mags to fly a direct course to the perch—a point that was perpendicular and astern of the Nova.
“Mr. Papas, go now landing echelon right,” Vance said, making eye contact with the young student lead
ing the four ships on the left side of the V formation.
The echelon formation would put all of the Hawks in a line, each stepped back and out slightly to the right from the ship directly in front of them. This was a standard formation used to facilitate and expedite the roll-in to the four landing platforms and recovery tubes.
“Copy, Lead,” Papas replied.
Vance twisted in his seat, first left then right, watching closely as Papas led the four ships into their new position. He was pleased with the precision Papas had used to complete the maneuver, but in his scrutiny Vance had noticed that, once again, Figgins had strayed out of formation.
“Hawk Four from Lead,” Vance called over to Figgins.
Alerted to a possible problem, Tommy turned again to check on Four’s position, and in doing so could clearly see the large red Hawk patch on the back of Bo’s helmet as she too turned to check on Figgins.
“Lead to Four—come in Saber Hawk Four.” Commander Vance’s voice was calm but insistent.
Bo looked from Figgins, who was now dropping out of position, back to Tommy. And while raising a gloved hand, she wiggled her fingers while shaking her head.
It wasn’t uncommon for students, confronted for the first time with the isolation of space while confined in a small cockpit, to freak out a little. In fact, even high-time pilots flying alone could be overcome with a sudden dread, which resulted in a number of predictable symptoms. An elevated heart rate, hyperventilation, numbness in the extremities, and even confusion could, without warning, overtake a pilot. Now none of these sensations were in themselves fatal, but if they occurred while flying five feet from your wingman at six thousand miles per hour…
Of course, this phenomenon had been thoroughly briefed, and students had been taught a number of techniques, which if employed could be used to overcome or at least diminish the effects. But now Ensign Figgins, who was two hours from Razeier and still out of visual range of the Nova, was on the ragged edge of sheer panic. All thoughts of flying the Lancer now forgotten, he could not control his breathing, nor his wildly pounding heartbeat, and the young pilot was suddenly overcome with an intense need to open his faceplate. I must get free of this damn suit!