“What is he doing here?” Uno asked as Moscow found a seat and strapped in.
“Bringing some talent to this sorry-ass group,” Moscow said, apparently having heard the remark. “Isn’t that right, O’Neil?”
Coda ignored him and took some sadistic pleasure in hearing how Moscow’s injuries made his words come out with a slight lisp. Commander Coleman floated down the aisle toward the front of the ship. Once there, he anchored his feet in a pair of handholds and peered over the gathered pilots.
“Welcome aboard,” Commander Coleman said. “The Sol Fleet doesn't often show its appreciation for its service members—there are ceremonies and awards for that sort of thing. But as I look over you now, I want you to know that I appreciate you taking this risk and joining me. I know you have a lot of questions, and I promise you, answers are coming. But in the spirit of military efficiency, we’ll wait until the rest of the squad has arrived.”
Commander Coleman gave them a small grin, drawing a few nervous laughs.
“But when you look around this shuttle and see the quality of pilots we've assembled, I hope you agree we’re beginning something special. I can't tell you what that is yet, but I can tell you where we’ll go to begin our journey.”
Coda perked up. Only a few hours had passed since his discussion with Commander Coleman, but already he felt like a man drowning in a sea of questions, grasping for answers.
“We fly to Jumpgate Sol Four, where we’ll hyperjump to Proxima Centauri B, and rendezvous with the SAS Jamestown and the rest of your squadron. There, you'll get your answers and begin your training. So buckle up and get comfortable. We’ll be at the jumpgate in four hours.”
Coda could imagine worse things than being strapped into the gel seat of a transport vessel for four hours but not many. Unlike the battle cruisers and capital ships that made up the bulk of the Sol Fleet, transport vessels weren't equipped with much in the way of entertainment or facilities. They ate terrible food, shat in something closer to a bag than a toilet, and were forced to entertain themselves. That mostly meant conversation and simple games, and Coda, leery of Moscow, had to force himself to partake in any of it.
He knew it was an important bonding time for the squadron: friendships would be made, alliances solidified, and old rivalries made worse by adding new players. In typical Moscow fashion, he was already making new friends and turning them against Coda. He could feel their eyes, hear their laughter and caught more than one glance in his direction.
Coda tried to ignore it and focus on the group he was engaged with, but it was easier said than done.
“So something I'm trying to figure out,” Squawks said, speaking fast and loose in something that resembled a verbal swagger, “is how you all earn your call signs? I mean some make sense, right? Squawks—I talk a lot. Squawk, squawk, squawk. Makes sense. Uno—first, I thought it was cause you only had one nut or something, but then you shot me down with one shot. Boom. Dead. Uno. Makes sense. But then you got Noodle.” Squawks gestured toward the thin pilot. “I have a few guesses, but tell us, what’s your story. Someone just razzing you or what?”
Noodle’s pale faced colored. There were two kinds of call signs: those that were earned and those that were given. The ones that were earned were generally forms of respect like Uno, but the ones that were given were an altogether different story.
Some could be innocuous, little more than simple jokes. Buster had given a new pilot in Viking Squadron the call sign “Crash” due to his early propensity to, well, crash. But others could be downright insulting. A guy in the class ahead of Coda had been called “Sluf,” which had been given to him because someone had overheard one of the female pilots calling him a “short little ugly fucker.” The call sign Sluf was born, and it had stuck.
If Noodle’s embarrassed reaction was any indication, his call sign had been given, not earned. “I just don’t like working out,” Noodle said quietly.
Squawks looked at him skeptically, then his face split into a broad smile. “Noodle. Cause you’ve got noodle arms?” He laughed. “That’s good. Accurate too. I’ve seen skeletons with more muscle than you.”
Noodle’s face burned crimson, something he tried to hide with a fake laugh. If Squawks noticed or cared that he’d made his squad mate uncomfortable he didn’t show it.
“What about you?” Squawks said, turning his attention to Coda. “What’s Coda even mean?”
Coda bit back a sarcastic comment about looking it up in the dictionary. Like Noodle, he wasn’t comfortable talking about his call sign. His hadn’t been given or earned. He’d come up with it himself and convinced the other pilots to call him by it—not an easy feat since that wasn’t how things were supposed to work.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Coda said.
“C’mon, man. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other.”
“Another time.”
“You’re no fun.”
Deceleration began thirty minutes before the transport ship docked with the jumpgate. The ship flipped on its axis so that the thrust of the engines pointed away from the direction they were traveling, and as if to remind them why their seats were made from a soft gel material, the pilots were shaken, battered, and bruised for the duration.
Jumpgates were a modern marvel—the first faster-than-light travel conceived by the human race. The how and the why were closely guarded secrets, and while its science well above Coda’s pay grade, he did understand it on a crude, fundamental level.
The jumpgate itself was like a giant gun that the transport ship would be loaded into, though instead of being shot across space, the ship was shot through it, arriving almost instantaneously at its destination. The jumpgate had limits on how far it could send them, of course, just as the ships equipped with EmDrives had similar, albeit much larger, limitations. However, Alpha Centauri, only 4.367 light-years away, was well within jumpgate capabilities.
As the transport vessel slid down the chamber of the jumpgate, Coda found himself growing increasingly uneasy. He had never given much thought to how he would die—he’d always assumed it would be somewhere on the front as his battle cruiser went down in a hail of gunfire—but he thought about it now. He could almost hear the news reporter on the vids.
“Lieutenant Callan ‘Coda’ O’Neil and fourteen other Terran Academy graduates, along with the heroic Nighthawk pilot, Commander Chadwick Coleman, are confirmed dead after a jumpgate malfunction.”
The reporter would keep her tone somber, her lips slightly downturned in mock sadness before she sent the program to a commercial break. It would be another tragic chapter in the O’Neil family story and one that would bring his father’s mistakes back to the forefront of public consciousness.
Coda did his best to hide his growing unease. Jump travel was, after all, a common form of travel these days, especially among the Sol Fleet. The front was uncomprehendingly far away and only accessible via the jumpgates, so fearing it was useless. But fear, like all emotion, was an irrational beast, and no matter how much Coda attempted to talk himself through it, his back still grew wet with sweat, his hands clammy and trembling, his breath shallow.
The loading procedure took several minutes, but once complete, the power-up process began. Blue bands of energy like a tempest of pure electricity stretched throughout the interior of the jumpgate, shining bright enough to wash out the backdrop of distant stars.
The ship began to vibrate. It wasn’t painful or nearly as violent as the acceleration and deceleration burns. Instead, Coda felt as if he and everything around him were brimming with energy, trembling with adrenaline-infused anticipation. Then, without any word from the ship’s pilot, the length of the ship appeared to stretch, the seat in front of Coda seemingly pulling away from him. When he reached out to touch it, his fingers brushed against the back of the gel cushion, and his arm looked as if it had stretched too.
The sensation was beyond disorienting, and he fought with everything he had not to vomit. The
n, just as before and without warning, the world snapped back into perspective, and everything around him returned to normal. Even without being able to confirm it, Coda knew they had arrived in the Alpha Centauri System.
6
Hangar Deck, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Less than a full day after having his future ripped away from him, Coda found himself and the rest of the select group of pilots from the Terran Fleet Academy on the hangar deck of the SAS Jamestown. Commander Coleman stood in front of a squadron of Hornets.
Coda fell into parade rest with the rest of the squadron, watching his commander but wishing more than anything that he could run his hands along the dark exterior of the drones, feel the contours of its smooth body, trace its fuselage with his fingers. Seeing the ships felt like seeing an old girlfriend. Buried emotions swelled to the surface.
“Welcome aboard the SAS Jamestown,” Commander Coleman said. “This is Hangar Bay 7B. We’ll be spending much of our time here, but right now, follow me.” He spun on his heels and strode across the hangar through a set of double doors that hissed open as he approached.
They entered into a light-gray corridor lit with series of artificial lights set into the wall near the floor and ceiling. Having spent a year and a half in the wheel of the academy’s space station, it was odd seeing the corridor stretch out straight in front of him. The SAS Jamestown was one of the oldest ships in the fleet equipped with artificial gravity, and the lack of curve somehow made everything appear both bigger and farther away.
The Jamestown was a warship through and through, the evidence plain for all to see. The corners of the walls were rounded and coated with a compound that was soft to the touch, and spread throughout the corridors were various handholds to grab should the ship shake or spin in the heat of battle.
Coda found himself smiling as a sense of satisfaction welled up inside him. He couldn’t help feeling as if he’d made it. He was aboard a warship. The opportunity for glory rested at his feet.
Commander Coleman led them into an area of the ship that was less busy. “These will be your quarters,” Commander Coleman said. “These four barracks sleep twenty-five a piece. The rest of the squadron will be arriving shortly. In the meantime, the facilities are that direction.” He pointed down the corridor back the way they had come. “So, take a shower, get in a workout, do whatever you need to do to mentally prepare yourself for what comes next.”
“The rest of the squadron?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Commander Coleman said. “You didn’t think you were the only pilots vying for a spot in this squadron, did you?”
The pilot who asked the question, Autumn “Whiskey” Jones, stirred under the commander’s patronizing gaze.
“There aren’t even enough pilots here to fill out a squadron, let alone build one,” Commander Coleman said. “Yes, other pilots will be joining us. A lot more, in fact. I said each of these barracks sleeps twenty-five, and we have four of them, so even the worst student here should be able to figure out that means one hundred pilots. You number only fourteen. So you can expect to see a lot of new faces. Now get ready—your briefing begins in two hours.”
Commander Coleman disappeared down the corridor, and the pilots began filing into the various barracks. Coda noted which barracks Moscow entered and avoided it.
“Bunk together?” Uno asked Coda and the two other pilots who had enjoyed the flight with them.
“Sure.” Coda pointed toward the nearest barracks, the one farthest from Moscow’s. “This work?”
“Doubt any of them are different,” Squawks said. “And it’s closest to the crapper, so it works for me.”
When nobody voiced disapproval, Coda stepped inside. Like the rest of the ship, the barracks was long and narrow, with bunks stacked two high and inset into the wall on either side of the room. At the foot of each bed was a vid screen, and each was provided with a privacy shade that could block out light and muffle unwanted noise. It was a step down from his private quarters at the academy, but as far as sleeping arrangements went, he’d heard of worse.
“Back or front?” Coda asked. “Less privacy up front, but it has its advantages too.”
“Like what?” Noodle asked.
“You’re the first people the commander sees when he enters, and the last he sees when he leaves,” Uno said. “And squadron leaders are traditionally near the door. I vote the front.”
“Oh god,” Squawks said. “I didn’t know you were a kiss ass. We can’t be friends.” He smiled as he said it, clearly making sure Uno understood it was a joke.
“So… you vote rear?” Coda asked.
“Oh no,” Squawks said. “I vote front too. Too hard to sneak my drunken rendezvous through an entire barracks of sexually pent-up twenty-something-year-old men, you know?”
“Do you always talk this much?” Uno asked.
“Call sign’s ‘Squawks,’ remember?”
“Great.”
“It’s settled then,” Coda said. “We bunk at the front.”
The group dispersed, each grabbing the bunk nearest them. That left Coda with the bottom bunk two bunks deep into the room. Uno grabbed the bunk above him, with Squawks and Noodle across from him.
Coda quickly surveyed his new space, pushing a hand against the gel mattress. It felt like standard military issue, which meant it was only a few centimeters thick and barely softer than concrete. He opened the two drawers under the mattress and a locker with a handprint security system, finding each of them empty.
We’ll probably get our flight gear when the rest of the squadron arrives.
Coda slipped away from the barracks alone, took a shower in the communal facility, changed back into his clothes, and returned to his bunk, where he pulled the privacy shade closed. Something Commander Coleman had said had been gnawing at him since they’d arrived. He’d said more pilots would be joining them, a lot more, and that the squadron would soon number one hundred.
Squadrons in the academy were on the small side, numbering only sixteen in all, but on the front, squadrons numbered an even twenty-four. Commander Coleman had said he was building a squadron. Not a wing. And not a group. If one hundred other pilots were vying for a position within its ranks, that meant more than seventy-five would wash out.
He’s going to whittle us down, Coda thought. Only take the best of the best.
Coda’s previous feelings of accomplishment vanished, immediately replaced by an anxious pit in his stomach. The odds were stacked against him. Again. And something told him this would be his toughest challenge yet.
He gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening. He would meet the challenges head-on, and he would succeed. He didn’t have a choice.
7
Ready Room, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
The ready room of the SAS Jamestown was easily twice the size of those back at the academy, though it lacked the polish of the newer space station. The chairs were worn, their cushions cracked, and the paint on the walls had faded with age. Commander Coleman stood behind a podium at the front of the ready room, prepared to address the pilots, who had already found their places. Behind him, a large digital display board, the only technological upgrade in the aging room, stood out like a new button on a well-worn suit.
The rest of the squadron had trickled in over the last couple hours. Always in groups of ten or twenty, they were as diverse as their dress. Like Coda and the rest from the academy, some seemed have been recruited from other flight schools, but others wore the light blues of stationed officers, insignias proudly displayed on their uniforms.
The uncomfortable pit that had been balling up in Coda’s gut blossomed into full-blown anxiety. Competing for a spot against other students was one thing, but how was he to compete with pilots who'd flown in real battles?
The others seemed to feel the same way too. Noodle and Uno wore uneasy expressions, their lips tight, eyes sli
ghtly downcast, and Squawks, for once, had nothing to say. Most of the officers ignored Coda and the rest of the academy graduates, but others weren't so kind and regarded them as if they were nothing more than fresh meat for the grinder.
“Good morning,” Commander Coleman said, his voice easily carrying to the back of the room. “I stand before you, looking at a sight I never expected to see again. Take a look around, ladies and gentlemen. Take note of your fellow wingmen. You all come from different backgrounds. Some just graduated and are serving in your first deployments. Others have already been deployed and have fought on the front. Still others have made a name for yourselves through years of battle. But listen to me when I say this: in this, you are all students. Your backgrounds and any previous successes mean exactly dick. Here, you are all nuggets.”
The lights suddenly dimmed, and the digital display behind the commander flickered to life. A chill of excitement snapped down Coda’s back, and he found himself sitting forward in his seat, staring at a still image taken from battle. The sleek Hornet drones of the Sol Fleet were engaged in a massive space battle with the insectoid ships of the Baranyk.
“What I'm about to show you is a galactic secret that will not be discussed beyond these walls. Failure to comply with this order will result in stiff punishment.” Commander Coleman stepped away from the podium, stopping in front of the first row of seats. “This is your last chance, nuggets. If any of you are having second thoughts, now is your chance to leave. You will not get another.”
Coda surveyed the room, waiting for someone to take the bait. Nobody did. It appeared everyone else was like him—utterly captivated.
“All right.” Commander Coleman toggled something on his tablet, and the still image behind him began to play.
Wings of Honor Page 4
