Threshold of Victory

by Stephen J. Orion

  Tarek smiled a little, the frustration at the punishment upstairs was fading fast in the face of a real soldier’s approval. “One hero to another, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. When I was first starting out as an Arc-Corporal I had them hold a cell for me.” She gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve gotta get back before all this fraternizing gets us both in trouble, it was nice meeting you…” She paused to read his name tag. “Tarek.”

  “Andrew,” he offered.

  “Yeah, I guess a daring rescue is pretty much a first name thing.” She stopped walking and held out a hand. “Kyra.”

  He turned and shook it warmly. “Kyra the Wolf-Lieutenant.”

  She smiled back at him. “Andrew, the Puller of some Seriously Whack Shit.”

  They broke contact, and she started to leave, but before she was out of earshot there was something Tarek had to get off his chest.

  “I’m sorry about Connor,” he blurted out. “I wish I’d been in time.”

  He immediately regretted it. She checked her step and responded with some quip about ‘intolerable stories’ and it being ‘how he’d have wanted to go out’.

  But he’d pulled at the edge of the cracks and suddenly the glow seemed that much more fragile than before.

  ****

  Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia

  Battlegroup Olympian

  Grimball Local Sector, Bryson System

  20 April 2315

  Kelly was standing on the hangar deck in assembly with the rest of the pilots of the Arcadia’s air wing. The deck was crowded with machinery since the Arcadia had completed the recovery of the last of the Box Grid garrison. The elegant Snowhawks from both Cold Sabre and the Undying were roughly squeezed into two nose-to-wing ranks against either wall, leaving just enough space to drive a fuel-tender between them. More than a third of the hangar had been surrendered to the ground pounders. Towards the stern, knelt two ranks of arcoms, silent metal statues that walled off their land claim before giving way to the chaotic sea of tanks, IFVs, and assorted support vehicles that had been recovered.

  The stink of oil and ozone filled the air as the Arcadia’s technical staff worked with mechanics from Box Grid to try and triage and repair damaged arcoms and vehicles. The flash and flicker of welding was almost constant along with the clang and clatter of machine work, all threaded throughout by voices shouting instructions. The hangar that had seemed so vast and serene on the trip out had become cramped and noisy in just twenty-four hours. It was a transformation that reaffirmed Kelly’s commitment to never being a part of the ground combat arm of the Constellation Military.

  The whole mess left the assembly of the Undying, Cold Sabre, the CAG, and the support arm pilots squeezed into the cramped open space at the fore end of the hangar. They were gathered to welcome six more spacecraft, strategic bombers from the CNS Tartarus to round out Arcadia’s attack capabilities, and presumably they were going to hang them from the ceiling or something. The deck controllers had so far demonstrated a champion ability to break physics and create more space in the same sized room, but Kelly was starting to have doubts.

  While she was still trying to remember the dimensions of the B-77 Duke Bomber, Lieutenant Commander Phillips stepped to the head of the squadron and drew a line across his lips for silence. Conversation died off and one by one their eyes came to meet his.

  “I’ve just received word from flight control that our new colleagues will be arriving shortly.” He paused as though gathering his thoughts. “In case you haven’t put two and two together yet, I ask you to remember that the Tartarus is withdrawing to port because of heavy damage, and that likely means casualties as well. These people have probably lost friends recently, so let’s be sensitive and give them a warm welcome.”

  Heavy damage was an understatement. Kelly had been flying escort patrol for the Arcadia when it had finally rendezvoused with Battlegroup Olympian. The Tartarus was a heavy cruiser, uniquely identifiable by the fact she looked like someone had taken a massive pick hammer to her bow and flanks. She had a split along her port side that Kelly could have confidently flown her Snowhawk through.

  What had made her even more uncomfortable was that nearly every other ship in the task force showed some scorch-edged wounds or blistered plating. Like a pale faced rich kid hanging out with a bad crowd, the Arcadia’s lack of broken nose or scarred cheeks made her seem like an invitation for the worst kind of punishment.

  “God damn, those are F-38s!” It was Hanagan.

  All eyes moved to the descending flight elevator, necks craning to catch a peek. The F-38 Sabrecat was definitely not a strategic bomber, indeed the now almost legendary aircraft was the predecessor to the Snowhawk. Though technically an ‘older model’ they were superior to their successor in almost every way, except cost. Officially the Sabrecats had been phased out in order to field greater numbers of aircraft, but everyone knew that the war of attrition had played out such that the Constellation couldn’t afford to keep fielding such an expensive aircraft except in squadrons that exhibited a spectacular loss to kill ratio.

  Pilots weren’t officially privy to the air complements of other carriers, but in this battlegroup, there was a unit of near mythical status, the 15th Blood Iron Squadron. Like the Undying, they were led by an immortal Peer, but in their case the man was close to two hundred and fifty years old and had been fighting on the front lines since the war with the Maulers had begun. Under his leadership, the 15th had the highest number of successful sorties in the Constellation Navy and had shot down more aircraft than most carriers’ entire air wings. If they weren’t flying Sabrecats, no one was.

  As Kelly finally caught her first sight of the new arrivals, it dispelled all doubt as to the identity of the pilots. Flanking a very plain shuttle were two F-38s in a dark and gleaming gunmetal base coat with a crimson spray about the edges.

  “Stand to!” CAG Jenson’s voice suddenly rang out as the door to the shuttle opened with a hiss of equalising pressure.

  Framed in the hatchway was the Arcadia’s own Captain Pierman and his intelligence attaché Commander Lyle, but they barely registered on Kelly’s radar as she focused on the two fighter pilots climbing down from their aircraft. Every pilot in the 15th was an ace, and she’d read articles on them all, but she was struggling to guess who these ones might be from the way they moved, some part of her unable to wait until they removed their helmets.

  And then she caught sight of the rank device on the shoulder of the lead pilot.

  “The man himself,” Hanagan whispered.

  Colonel Octavius Cormento, CAG for the CNS Olympian, member of the President’s Council and squadron leader of the 15th. Finally removing his helmet to unleash a wave of ivory hair, the Colonel made directly for the assembled Undying. They all stood at rigid attention as he came to a halt before them, eyeing each one with ageless black pupils, his judgements unknowable behind his implacable hardened features.

  “Commander Phillips,” he said finally, “walk with me.”

  “Sir,” Phillips answered.

  The squadron remained at attention as their squadron leader fell in step with the man and proceeded out of earshot. Fourteen pairs of eyes were glued to them as they disappeared into one of the pilot’s ready rooms.

  “Holy crap,” Hanagan exhaled. “What was that all about?”

  “Are you saying you really don’t know?” Errant asked. “Everyone knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “I mean look at them together, it’s staring you right in the face,” Errant wasn’t about to let him off easily.

  Kelly was distracted from the conversation by a sudden insistent prodding in her ribs, she looked over to see Adai Ucoo right behind her. ‘Wraith’ was the only Exodite in the Undying and was famously ‘as quiet as the grave’ – hence the call sign.

  “Cover for me,” was all she said, ducking her head in a half bow and then falling out of formation to dash after the two immortals.

&
nbsp; It was perplexing behaviour but Exodites could be a strange bunch. They were descendants of some of humanities finest scientists and engineers who’d left Earth two centuries ago to start their own culture. As interstellar travel became faster, the universe got smaller, and about ten years ago the Constellation stumbled across their new world. It had been an awkward, if cordial, reunion. Then the maulers had arrived and suddenly it didn’t matter how different they looked or acted, they weren’t monsters and that made them friends.

  Hanagan caught Kelly’s eye and raised an eyebrow, but before she could attempt an explanation both of the Arcadia’s flight elevators began to descend once more, and his attention was entirely directed elsewhere.

  “Oh crap,” the Hanagan said, looking from the door Phillips had disappeared through to the lowering elevator and back again. “If he doesn’t get back I’m going to have to do this.”

  “You wanted the silver bar, Hanagan,” Bracket pointed out.

  “Right… yes, I can do this.”

  The elevators hit the bottom of the desk one shortly after another, their surfaces entirely covered by the three bombers that rested on each. They weren’t the most attractive aircraft Kelly had ever laid eyes on – their variable wing design may have looked sleek, but their blunt noses and heavy heat-shielding tiles gave them the impression of a swollen jaw. Combined with their size it gave the impression of a pugilist rather than a space fighter.

  The pilots that stepped out of them were another thing entirely. Thin, petite, and pale with long flowing hair and wide eyes that somehow conveyed inquisitiveness in any expression. They were features Kelly had been looking at just recently when she’d been looking at Ucoo.

  They were all Exodites.

  “Crap,” Hanagan said, the nerves that had gradually been settling suddenly rising straight back up again. “I can handle combat leadership but this is like… statecraft, diplomacy.” He glanced towards the ready room once more. “Phillips, get back here, you prick.”

  “Language,” a voice coolly intoned.

  The owner was in the grey fatigues of the Blood Iron, not the Colonel but Candice ‘Peril’ Quell, known in the magazines for her long blonde hair, stunning looks and, of course, her astonishing combat ability. Her double silver bars also meant she was a Lieutenant Commander, able to lead her own squadron if she hadn’t chosen to serve under Colonel Cormento.

  And quiet, Kelly added mentally, no one had mentioned that in the magazine articles, but this woman had slipped right into the spot where Ucoo had been standing moments ago, without anyone noticing.

  “Backs straight, heads held high.” Quell continued. “Be welcoming, but remember that you are fighter pilots, the proud warriors. Without us the only target they could bomb would be their own flight deck.”

  The Exodite pilots, Embassy Squadron according their patches, had to walk past all of the assembled pilots before they reached the CAG at the end. As they passed the support pilots, not one of them so much as turned a head.

  As they reached the Undying, Hanagan stepped out and saluted their squadron leader, “I’m 1st Lieutenant Bryce Hanagan,” he said. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you aboard the Arcadia. If there’s anything we can do to help you settling in, you come right to me.”

  The Exodites stopped, their wide eyes making it seem like they were shocked at the interruption. For several moments, none of them spoke. Then their second in command, a sullen looking Lieutenant, glanced at Hanagan’s unit patch and nodded.

  “Hanagan, of the rookie squadron that only succeeded in its first mission because of a grandstanding support pilot?” It was phrased like a question, but his tone suggested it was anything but. “Why would I go to you if I wanted something? You would no doubt fail to bring it to me.”

  Kelly had taken a half step forward before she checked herself. She looked at Hanagan and though his mouth moved, he seemed at a loss for words.

  “This is your war, rookie,” the sneering Exodite said. “I am disinterested in fighting it for you, so do not assume that we are friends. We will keep to ourselves and you will keep your distance. When we fly, you will protect us because, if you do not, it is your worlds that will be destroyed by the Maulers.”

  Hanagan said, “I’m pretty sure we can handle the loss of a few—”

  “Not that you have shown yourselves to be much good at protecting anything so far. Good day, Lieutenant.”

  With that he nodded and continued on towards the CAG.

  “Man, that guy was a bastard,” Quell said stepping up to put a reassuring hand on Hanagan’s shoulder. “Tell you what, you can sortie with someone a thousand times, but until you are on the ground with them, you never realised what a colossal dick face they are.”

  Kelly couldn’t stop laughing and was glad that she wasn’t alone. The magazines had missed a lot about their favourite poster girl. Hearing such rough language passing from those angelic lips was so implausible, and yet there it was. Candice Quell, warrior, space princess, trucker-mouth.

  Technically still their officer, Hanagan abbreviated his chuckles as quickly as he could. “What happened to language, sir.”

  “Good language is for good people,” Quell said. “People like that are why we have cuss words.” She turned back to the rest of the squadron and clapped her hands together. “So who wants to check out an F-38?”

  ****

  “Let’s be informal about this,” Colonel Cormento said as they stepped into the Arcadia’s briefing room.

  Phillips took a seat in one of the chairs and said nothing as the Colonel set himself down on the edge of the little quarter deck immediately opposite. For a few moments, the silence continued, broken only by the sound of Cormento rhythmically slapping his pilot’s gloves against his leg.

  It was more or less general knowledge that very few Peers served in the Constellation Military, after all they were wealthy and privileged enough that it could never be forced on them and, compared with the average citizen, they had so much more to lose. What most people didn’t recognise was exactly how few there were.

  In fact, there had only ever been three on the front lines of the war with the Maulers; the first was dead, the second was Colonel Octavius Cormento.

  And the last was his son.

  “So you flew your first combat mission,” the Colonel said in a way that placed it halfway between a question and a statement. “Impressions?”

  “I’m not completely happy with the outcome, but I brought all my people back and that’s…” Phillips realised he’d been about to say ‘more than you ever did’ but he knew that wasn’t a fair comment to throw in the face of the Constellation’s finest pilot. After a pause he finished with, “…what I set out to do.”

  The Colonel nodded and said nothing, the gloves went back to slapping against his knee.

  “So I know you’ve seen the tapes,” said Phillips. “And I’m sure you’re just dying to share. What are your impressions?”

  Cormento met his son’s eyes and the gloves stopped. “I’ve been around long enough to hear that tone and not to bite. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, I’ll let you get back to your unit.”

  The Colonel stood and made to leave, but Phillips called out just as he reached the door.

  “Wait, I’m the one being unreasonable. I don’t promise to follow your advice, but I’d be a fool not to hear it.”

  Cormento came back and rested one arm on the lectern. “Hearing is easy, listening requires an open mind.”

  Phillips shrugged. “We all must be free to make our own mistakes. Anyway, let’s hear your analysis, old man.”

  “Well your personal performance was solid. There’s plenty that you’ll only pick up with experience, but you have my accuracy and your mother’s…” He fell into silence a moment, but caught himself before the pause grew too long. “…well you’re very good.”

  “We’re coming up on a but, aren’t we?”

  “Of course, and I think you already know what I’m going
to say, which is why I don’t understand why you don’t want to hear it.”

  “The way I lead my unit,” Phillips said.

  “Exactly. This whole ‘undying’ mantra.” Cormento waved his hand in the air like he was dispelling smoke. “It’s romantic, but without the devil’s own luck, it would have cost you the mission.”

  “They’re new, and I’d rather build an experienced team on a few failed missions then throw them to the wolves. They can’t learn anything from a dead squad mate.”

  The Colonel sighed long and tiredly, turning to gaze at the blank projection screen. Several taps of the gloves passed before he spoke again.

  “We’re immortals, as much as we may avoid the term it’s what they call us behind our backs. People come to us for timeless experience: rationality, practicality, and pragmatism. Let the mundane empathise with each other, our job is to give them what they need, not what they want.”

  “Maybe I believe you can have one without sacrificing the other.”

  Cormento’s head half turned and he cocked an eyebrow. “You think it’s an investment. That you’ll keep them all alive, and every mission they’ll become a little better every day until they’re all as good as you and you can set them loose without fear of them coming to pieces.”

  Phillips didn’t want to admit that was the truth, he wanted the very concept to be inconceivable to the man so that he didn’t have something in his vast experience he could use to shoot it down, but as always, his father had every answer, every question and everything in between.

  “I’ll be blunt, and you won’t like it, but after I’m gone I hope you’ll forgive me. Experience teaches you what can happen and what you can do about it, but the ability to match what you know with what’s unfolding in front of you, the ability to do that in the space between one heartbeat and the next, is not something anyone can teach or learn.