Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  Moscow entered the dogfight, attacking with desperate ferocity. His pilots were on the run, most with tails, and disappearing by the second. Moscow provided aid where he could, guiding his pilots into trajectories that brought their pursuers into his firing range. It wasn’t enough to turn the tide of the battle, but Moscow had drawn blood. And as each friendly indicator disappeared from his HUD, Coda grew more and more frustrated.

  As the battle had played out, he’d had illusions of completing it without a single casualty. That dream had disappeared.

  Coda weaved through the fray, staying on Moscow, and little by little gained on him. Then, as Moscow slipped through the edge of the dogfight, he flipped nose to tail and rocketed directly toward Coda’s fighter.

  He knows it’s me. He knows I’m coming.

  Coda settled into his seat, blinking to ensure his vision was clear. He wanted Moscow. Wanted to destroy him. Grind him into oblivion. He would only get one shot at this. If he made a mistake, Moscow would turn him to dust, and regardless of whether Viking Squadron won or not, Coda would never live it down.

  Coda tightened his grip on the joystick. He and Moscow opened fire at the same time, the two ships speeding toward each other at incredible speeds. They juked and janked, tracer fire ripping passed their cockpits, somehow avoiding the incoming slugs and staying on course.

  Three seconds.

  Coda held course, continuing the barrage, finger held firmly on the trigger, rounds erupting from the six-barrel gatling gun to the tune of four thousand per minute. Moscow did the same.

  Jerking his joystick to the side, Coda pitched his drone into a wide aileron roll. He came out of it slightly below the battle plane expecting to have a clear shot at Moscow’s underbelly. The other pilot had anticipated the maneuver. They were now on a direct collision course. Slugs slammed into each other, giving the pilots a preview of what was to come.

  Coda screamed, finger still pressed against the trigger as his ammo ran out. Moscow was still—

  The simulation faded to black. The image of Moscow’s incoming drone dissolved in Coda’s VR display.

  “No!” Coda bellowed.

  He yanked off his helmet and stood, his eyes immediately going to the large battle map overhead. Moscow had killed him. The thought was nearly enough to make him sick. The only thing worse than losing was losing to Andrei fucking Krylov, asshat extraordinaire. Except when his eyes found the vid screen above, it too was black.

  Confused, Coda looked around to find the rest of his squad throwing their helmets aside, screaming and high-fiving those close to them. Before he could register what had happened, Buster was pulling him into a hug, slapping his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

  “We did it!” Buster yelled into his ear. “Oh my god, we did it.”

  “Did what?” Coda said. “What happened?”

  Buster pushed Coda away and gave him a pointed look. “What happened? We won!”

  “We what?”

  “I said we won!” Buster grabbed Coda by the back of his head and drew Coda’s forehead to his. “Your nearly disastrous strategy actually paid off.”

  Coda finally allowed himself to smile. Maybe Moscow hadn’t killed him after all.

  “You really didn’t know?” Buster asked. “What did you think happened?”

  Coda didn’t respond. He’d grown obsessed with Moscow and had lost sight of the larger objective. He’d completely missed it when Viking Fifteen or Sixteen—he didn’t even know who had fired the winning shot—had ended the simulation and claimed victory. Then in ripping off his helmet in frustration, he’d missed the victory message that would have been displayed across his HUD.

  His superiors wouldn’t miss that act of arrogance and attitude unbecoming of a drone pilot. But he refused to worry about that now. He’d just beaten Andrei Krylov and Shadow Squadron, and his Vikings were the Ace Squadron of their graduating class. Everything Coda had dreamt about for the last several years was about to become a reality.

  2

  Viking Squadron Ready Room, Terran Fleet Academy

  Sol System, Earth, High Orbit

  Chilled champagne waited for the victors in the Viking Squadron ready room. The pilots rushed forward, pushing and shoving their way to the bottles, ready to shake, uncork, and spray their fellow victors as though they had just won the World Series.

  “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Coda screamed over the din. “Hold up a second!”

  His pilots did as ordered, though they reminded him of a group of puppies, unable to sit still without trembling with excitement. They still wore their slate-gray flight suits fashioned after the ones worn by twenty-first-century fighter pilots.

  Coda surveyed the room, milking the moment and testing their patience. “I just want to say a few words,” he said. “When I took command of this squadron a year ago, I didn’t know what we had. But I do now. We have the best damn pilots in the academy!”

  Cheers erupted.

  “And so does every other pilot, teacher, civilian, janitor, and commander in this place! You are the best. The best of the best. And it’s been a pleasure serving as your squadron leader.”

  This was met with an even more enthusiastic chorus of cheers, and some of the pilots took things further, shouting their own gratitude.

  “The pleasure is ours, Coda!” Buster shouted.

  “You’re the best!” Hound added. Coda’s wingman had somehow found time to unzip his flight suit, exposing a black tank top underneath.

  “Moscow ain’t got nothing on you!” Hot Rod shouted.

  The last one made Coda laugh, even if it was a break from decorum. He should have reprimanded the pilot, but their time was coming to an end, and he didn’t want to mar an otherwise joyous moment. Besides, the ready room was a place of confidence for the pilots, a place where everyone was equal and could speak his or her mind.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Coda said. “And Shadow Squadron ain’t got nothing on you, either.” He turned to Buster, who was holding an unopened bottle of champagne. “Let me see that.”

  His friend handed him the bottle, and Coda quickly uncorked it. He held it high so all could see. “To Viking Squadron!”

  Coda took a long pull from the bottle and handed it back to Buster, who echoed the sentiment with a drink of his own then handed it to the next pilot. Around the room the bottle went, until it found its way to Hot Rod, who finished it off. Another cheer went up, then the true celebration got underway.

  Sometime later, Coda found himself sitting with Buster at the back of the ready room, watching as the pilots of Viking Squadron joked and told stories, enjoying their final moments as a group. It was one of the rare moments Coda had seen his fellow pilots completely without inhibition.

  They’d gone through their formal victory celebration, where Captain Hughes himself presented their victory pins, before returning to the ready room. With that behind them, they were left completely without supervision. No senior officers. No commanders. They could finally be themselves, and they weren’t letting such an opportunity go to waste.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” Buster said.

  “Me, neither,” Coda said. “You going to miss it?”

  Buster shrugged. “Probably.”

  “I will,” Coda said. “We really did do something special, you know?”

  “Of course I do. We beat Moscow.” Buster shoved Coda playfully. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to miss, though. I won’t miss having to juggle studies with simulations. Life’s about to get a lot simpler.”

  “You think?”

  Buster leaned back in his seat, throwing a foot on the back of the chair in front of him. “Definitely.”

  Coda wasn’t sure he agreed. Their time at the academy was coming to an end, but that only meant they would be joining the real war effort. Flying with real drone squadrons. Fighting in real battles. Stationed on battle cruisers and capital ships, not a floating school orbiting the Earth. But he didn’t want to argue with
his friend and spoil his mood. Not today.

  “When do you think we’ll get our orders?” Coda asked.

  “You’re the Squadron Leader. I was hoping you knew.”

  “They haven’t told me anything yet.”

  “It’s got to be soon, though, right? I mean, what else are we going to do? Sit around and jerk off all day?”

  Coda laughed. Like all young men, if Buster wasn’t playing with his junk, he was talking about it. The familiarity of the male banter put Coda at ease, though. “You’re right. It’ll probably be soon. So do me a favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t think about it. Just enjoy it. Enjoy this.” Because I don’t think life is going to be as simple as you think it is.

  3

  Viking Squadron Ready Room, Terran Fleet Academy

  Sol System, Earth, High Orbit

  Once Viking Squadron had emptied the remaining champagne bottles and were feeling more than a little light in the head, they left the ready room for the final time.

  Coda lingered behind, soaking up the view, committing it all to memory. At some distant point in the future, he knew he would think back on this moment and remember when and where his journey had truly begun. He knew that wherever his orders took him, he would be successful. He didn’t have a choice. He was fighting for something greater than himself.

  The ready room emptied into a wide corridor, where the floor curved upward in both directions. The Terran Fleet Academy, like all space stations designed before humanity had reverse-engineered Baranyk technology and learned to manipulate gravity, was built around a central axis with a spinning wheel providing artificial gravity. Students and pilots loitered in the corridor, reliving the recent battle. Coda stopped just outside the ready room. Moscow stood with a few members of Shadow Squadron outside a nearby doorway, their eyes intent on the Viking Squadron ready room.

  They've been waiting for us.

  Adrenaline pulsed through Coda’s veins, making his arms and legs feel light. He knew better than to think that Moscow simply wanted to congratulate him. Coda looked down the corridor to where the rest of his squadron was already disappearing from view, too invested in their celebration to notice their squadron leader had fallen behind.

  Coda briefly thought about ignoring Moscow and his thugs, acting as if he hadn’t seen them, but his supreme dislike for the man won out. Besides, he wasn't one to back down from a fight. It wasn't in his blood. It was the same reason he'd sought out Moscow during the simulation.

  It’s also why you have several demerits on your academy record.

  Coda leaned his back against the corridor wall just outside the ready room, directly across the corridor from Moscow and his six thugs. “Come to congratulate us on our victory?” Coda looked down at the Ace Squadron pin at his breast then back up at Moscow with a patronizing grin.

  Moscow spat at his feet and crossed the hallway. “You know as well as I do that your victory was luck.”

  “It doesn't look that way in the standings.”

  Moscow stopped directly in front of Coda, his face inches from Coda’s. “I had you, O’Neil.”

  In most instances, calling a pilot by something other than their call sign wasn’t necessarily a form of disrespect, but Coda knew better. He saw it in the way Moscow sneered as he said Coda’s last name. He was trying to connect Coda to his father, to remind him who Joseph O’Neil had been… and what he had done.

  Burying his anger, Coda feigned nonchalance. “You didn't have dick.”

  “You and me, O’Neil, let’s go. One on one.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Coda looked up, spotting the rest of Viking Squadron heading back down the corridor. Buster was at their head, his pace quick, eyes on Moscow as if expecting the other squadron leader to do something.

  “Moscow didn't get enough of Viking Squadron,” Coda said. “He wants a rematch.” It wasn’t exactly what Moscow had proposed, but Coda didn't care. He didn't have any intention of honoring the request anyway.

  Moscow shot an uneasy look at the approaching mob of Viking pilots. Even with his gang, he was outnumbered. “That's not—”

  “Thing is,” Coda interrupted, turning back to Moscow, “what’s in it for me? Battling you would be like arm wrestling a girl. If I win, who cares? I already beat you. But if I lose, well, then I got beat by a girl. It's a lose-lose. You know what I mean?”

  Laughter filled the corridor. Coda smiled and made for his squadron, turning his back to Moscow.

  “You're just like him, aren’t you, O’Neil?” Moscow’s voice was cold and sharp, and it cut like a knife driven into Coda’s back. “You’re just like your father.”

  Coda froze.

  “A coward.”

  Before Coda knew what he was doing, he’d spun, his right fist rocketing through the air in a vicious right hook. It connected cleanly with Moscow’s jaw, dropping the larger man. But Coda wasn't done. He was on top of Moscow in an instant, one fist holding his flight suit, the other driving into Moscow’s nose. Blood sprayed across Coda’s pale knuckles, staining the clean metallic surface of the corridor crimson. He heard shouts and screams as someone tried to pull him away, but Coda shoved them off.

  Nobody talked about his father like that. Nobody disrespected his family. Nobody could do that but him. The primal instinct buried deep inside him meant to use Andrei as an example of what happened when someone broke that unspoken rule.

  When someone finally wrestled him off Moscow, Coda’s eyes stung with tears, and he could barely lift his arms. Lying helpless on the floor, his face barely recognizable, Moscow groaned, moving slowly.

  “We need to get out of here,” Buster said. “Come on.”

  Buster pulled Coda away from the scene, dragging him up the corridor through the group of Viking pilots. They watched him in shock, eyes wide, mouths agape. Coda’s face burned with shame. He'd lost control of his emotions and let Moscow goad him into doing something stupid.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe you are like your father.

  Buster hauled him to his private quarters. “Get inside.” Buster shoved him again, and Coda fell into the small room, catching himself on the edge of his bed. His friend followed him into the room, closing the door behind him. “What the hell was that? Christ, man! What was going through that tiny-ass brain of yours?”

  “He insulted my family,” Coda said.

  “I don't care what he did. We’re twenty-four hours away from graduation and receiving our orders. Do you have any idea what you just jeopardized?”

  Coda didn’t know what to say. He couldn't believe the sudden turn of events. An hour ago, he’d been primed to become one of the newest recruits on a ship on the front, and now he was… what? He had no idea what the future held in store now.

  “I know your family name doesn’t have the best… reputation,” Buster continued, “and Moscow can be a royal ass. But you can’t go around hitting everyone who insults your family’s honor.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No, Coda. I do. Your father disgraced himself and everyone he’s ever known. And you’ve taken it upon yourself to undo that.”

  Coda opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his tongue.

  “You see,” Buster said. “I understand more than you think, and I respect the hell out of you for it. But you’re not going to do any good if you’re kicked out of the academy.”

  Coda found the edge of his bed and took a seat. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. “You don’t think it’ll come to that, do you?”

  “You beat him pretty bloody.” Buster crossed the small room, grabbed the only other seat, and dragged it in front of Coda. “But no, I don’t think they’ll kick you out. You’re too damn good. Besides, what do they think will happen when they put five hundred soldiers together in a metal container floating through space and tell them to battle one another? And it wasn’t like Andrei didn’t deserve it. He had you up against the wall.
Had his boys with him. What you did to him was self-defense.”

  Buster’s version of the story wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was close enough to the truth that it gave Coda hope.

  “Thank you,” Coda said.

  “No problem.”

  “No. I mean it.”

  Coda had spent so much time planning for his future that he hadn’t thought about who would be in it, and for the first time, he realized Buster probably wouldn’t be a part of it. Meeting his friend’s gaze, he saw that Buster had come to the same conclusion a long time ago.

  No wonder he’s so angry. I took away what was supposed to be his final happy moments with his squad mates.

  “Go on back,” Coda said. “Find the guys. Celebrate. Tell them I’ll join them when I can.”

  “I’m not leaving you here, Coda.”

  “I’ll be fine. They’ll be worried, and I don’t want to ruin their night. Please, go.”

  “You sure?”

  But Coda didn’t get a chance to answer. There was a knock at his door. Then a moment later, it opened, and two officers stepped inside.

  “Ensign O’Neil,” the first officer said, “come with us. Captain Hughes demands your presence.”

  The cold hands of despair strangled Coda’s remaining hope. If Captain Hughes, Commander of the Terran Fleet Academy, wanted to see him, he was in more trouble than he’d realized.

  4

  Captain Hughes’s Office, Terran Fleet Academy

  Sol System, Earth, High Orbit

  “Tell me, Ensign,” Captain Gary Hughes said, “do you consider yourself a special kind of stupid?”

  If Coda hadn't been standing at attention, his eyes on the wall behind his commanding officer, he might have stirred under the weight of Captain Hughes’s gaze. Even sitting behind his desk, he was nearly as tall as Coda.

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” Captain Hughes feigned surprise. “Then tell me how someone can be dumb enough to beat up one of their fellow students on the same day they were supposed to graduate.”