by Sean Robins
I took advantage of a moment when no one looking at Tarq and told him, “I’ll punch you in your fucking ugly face if I catch you ogling Liz one more time.”
His pipe fell off his lip, but he pulled himself together. “You literally can’t, but point taken. Sorry about that.”
“As long as we are naming things, I want to call people under my command ‘the Commandos,’” said Kurt.
I was jealous. “Wow! That’s a really cool name. I want a cool name for the pilots too.”
I suggested, “X-Force,” “Inglorious Basterds,” and “Green Hornets,” none of which stuck. Tarq’s suggestions were even worse: “Deadly Vipers” and “Killing Machines.” Allen, the helpful and considerate person that he was, recommended “the Pussies.” Kurt offered “The Wild Geese” and “The Dogs of War”—his favorite novels. Finally, since we couldn’t find a cool nickname, we ended up calling the pilots, well, the pilots.
Tarq, looking a bit disappointed that none of the names he suggested stuck, said, “The rest of my team is planning to leave soon. I want them to raid Zheng’s prison one more time. I need the names and physical descriptions of the inmates who are members of the Resistance.”
I smiled. “I’d love to see Zheng’s face when a spaceship shows up on top of The Coffin, again, and this time rescues a lot more people,”
Allen told Tarq, “Tell your people to try to shoot more guards in the head this time, or even better, just blow the whole place up after they leave.”
“And you still wonder why your nickname is ‘the Butcher’?” I asked him.
When the meeting was over, and everyone was about to leave, Tarq told me, “Could you please stay a minute? I need to talk to you privately.”
I exchanged a questioning look with Liz and stayed. After everyone left, Tarq said grimly, “I have just reviewed MICI’s report on your mental status and characteristics. I saw something I do not like at all: According to MICI, you have serious racist inclinations.”
I was dumbfounded. I was definitely not a racist. If someone wanted to drive me crazy, accusing me of being a racist would do it, right next to calling me a coward or a bad pilot.
“I’m not a racist,” I said.
“You say so,” said Tarq, “but MICI is never wrong. It knows your darkest secrets better than you do. I have to warn you: We Akakies are an extremely open-minded people and showing respect to the other species who are different from us is a big part of our culture. I will not tolerate any racist behavior from the people under my command. Is that clear?”
I wished I could punch him in the face, shoot him in the foot, or strangle him to death. Anything, really. But all I could do was yell, “Read my lips, you stupid alien. I am not a racist.”
“We shall see. You are dismissed.”
On my way out, I slammed his office door with such force the walls shook with the impact.
Chapter Six
Two days later, we gathered in the Command Center to watch Tarq people’s jailbreak operation. Tarq had Barook broadcast it through a live feed for the whole world to see.
Since Tarq was planning to save a lot more people this time, he sent five Fireflies. As soon as the Fireflies appeared over the Coffin, some of the guards dropped their weapons and ran away. The Akakies let them go, but they made a point of killing every single guard and prison official who stayed at their post and tried to defend the Coffin. The newest STCU director who was in the prison investigating our escape was among the dead. Six F-44 fighter jets approached the Fireflies and shot a few beyond visual range missiles at them, but after the spaceships blew the missiles out of the sky, the air force pilots kept their distance. The Fireflies came back to Winterfell with some two hundred Resistance members on board.
The new recruits’ initial orientation was held in Winterfell’s movie theater because the Command Center wasn’t big enough for so many people. When Kurt, Liz, Allen and entered, we were surrounded by the recently freed Resistance members, with hugs, handshakes and high-fives all around. Kurt and Allen were the center of attention. Liz and I got our share too. Our sensational escape from the Coffin had made us superstars.
“You know, you’re right,” I told Liz. “I like being a hero.”
The initial orientation was the same as ours minus the this-is-heaven charade. Our presence added a lot more credibility to Tarq’s story. During the orientation, Allen got a cigarette from one of his old Resistance friends and doggedly tried to smoke, only to keep coughing and choking, much to Tarq and Barook’s amusement. After the orientation, everyone went through MICI and were assigned duties.
I immediately noticed a problem: Most of the more than two hundred people had ended up joining either the Special Forces Unit or various support/maintenance teams. We had only one other fighter pilot. At this rate, we’d never have enough pilots for our ten thousand strong fleet. When I mentioned this to Tarq, he said, “I will reprogram MICI to have it assign anyone with the slightest flying experience to the fleet.”
“You mean I’m going to have to put up with civilian and chopper pilots? We might as well recruit Mr. Magoo while we’re at it,” I said.
Tarq looked at me with incomprehension. I wondered why I kept wasting my jokes on him. Stupid alien.
That evening, while having dinner with Liz and Kurt, I asked them, “Have you noticed the newcomers have no problem with Tarq’s plan to give Earth up without a fight and then try to get it back later?”
The four of us had talked it out and grudgingly decided he was right, but everyone else seemed to have accepted his plan without questioning it even a little bit. Kurt asked, “You think MICI has something to do with it?”
“I’m sure it does,” I said.
“That’s the only logical explanation,” said Liz, playing with her salad. “Otherwise everyone should be freaking out.”
It suddenly hit me. “Guys, are you at all curious to know anything about the Akakies? Where their planet is? Their customs and traditions? Their sex life? Anything?”
They thought about it for a minute. Then Liz threw her fork on the table and said with disgust, “No. Nothing. Not even a little.”
The three of us stared at each other. “That sneaky bastard,” I said. “God knows what other shit he’s imprinted on our brain.”
“It’s actually a good precaution,” said Kurt. “If we keep asking questions, we might find some secrets the Xortaags might later find out and use against his people. Or we might become enemies one day.”
The things you could use that machine for! I was beginning to wonder if we could use it to cure the common cold, depression, or even impotence—not that I personally had any problem in that particular area.
Two days later, when we gathered in the Command Center for another meeting, Liz said, “What about our families? We can’t just leave them out there to turn into the Xortaags’ slaves.”
“They are probably safer wherever they are as opposed to being with us as we are planning to go to war with the Xortaags,” Tarq pointed out.
Liz glared at him. “No way. I want my family here with me. We live together, or we die together.”
I whispered in her ear, “A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“Winterfell’s space is limited,” said Tarq. “There is no place for people who are not useful, one way or another. Feel free to bring in whoever else you want; just run it by me first.”
This was how Allen’s daughter, Lilly, and Liz’s three siblings ended up joining us.
Lilly was a computer genius, and MICI tasked her with assisting Barook in running Winterfell’s various systems. Kurt and I had known her since she was a baby. Allen used to bring her to all of Kurt’s birthdays even though she was ten years younger than us. I took her for a tour of Winterfell when she arrived. She was wearing a simple white dress and looked very cute in my informed opinion.
Approaching Tarq’s office, I told her, “We’re going to meet our commander. Be careful; dude is seriously into practical jokes. Y
ou must never let your guard down around him because there’s no telling what he’ll pull.”
We entered Tarq’s office, and I introduced Lilly. Tarq stared at her without saying anything, then his lower lip trembled, and his eyes welled up with tears. He mumbled, “Excuse me” and ran out of his office.
“What the hell was that all about?” I said under my breath.
“Was this a prank?” Lilly asked me, surprised.
Liz had two younger sisters, Samantha and Theresa, and an older brother, Matias. Despite the fact that their father was an abusive piece of work, all four siblings had turned out mostly okay—I was certain Liz’s tendency to freak out easily despite her normally warm and caring nature was due to her difficult childhood, compliments of her dad. The four of them had a very strong bond, and they loved each other deeply. A couple of days after Lilly’s arrival, I entered our quarters and found Liz in deep conversation with her brother, who had just arrived. Matias was a big man, with wide shoulders, the same thick, black, curly hair as his sister, skin that was a couple of shades darker and an easy laugh. He ran to me, held me in a tight embrace, and with a hint of a Spanish accent said, “Jim, my old friend. I’m so happy to see you.”
A sudden flare of joy warmed me. I’d always liked Matias. He had the same passion and zeal for life as Liz, minus the occasional freak-outs. In fact, he was one of the most easygoing people I’d ever met in my life. Sometimes I couldn’t help wondering if I’d chosen the wrong sibling, even though starting a relationship with Matias would have constituted a major lifestyle change for at least one of us.
I shook his hand. “Have you been through MICI already?”
“Yes, and I still can’t believe any of this,” he said. “Sounds like one of the sci-fi movies you two always talk about.”
“Kurt would be happy to see you,” I said. “Being a Marine, you’ll be a welcome addition to his team.”
Soon after our first recruits arrived, Kurt sent a message to the Resistance, instructing them to stop any planned operations until he met them. Then he started meeting various Resistance cell leaders. His modus operandi was something like this: Either he or Allen would meet the Resistance cell leaders and tell them they had established an advanced military base and were recruiting for a final and decisive battle against Zheng’s forces. After that, one of two things would happen: they’d either immediately join up—as Tarq predicted, after the stunt he pulled on live TV, there was no shortage of volunteers—or they’d send a couple of representatives to see Winterfell with their own eyes and report back. Apparently, there was a rumor this whole thing was a government conspiracy to flush out the Resistance members. Either way, I’d send a Firefly, escorted by five Vipers, to bring them in. The Fireflies could deal with any threat Zheng’s forces would pose and didn’t need an escort, but I missed flying.
Liz and I participated in the first escort mission. This was also the first time we actually flew Vipers, a mind-blowing experience, despite having “real” memories of having done it already hundreds of times. This was when I figured out how to distinguish my real experiences from the fake ones: The fake memories had all the visual, tactile, and auditory details you’d expect from the real thing but lacked the intensity of sensation I felt when I flew. Rejuvenated by adrenaline, I felt ultra-awake. My heart raced, and warmth radiated throughout my body. The huge smile that cracked my face was also missing from the fake memories. I guess MICI underestimated how much I loved flying.
“I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar,” I murmured.
“The person who said that died almost immediately,” Venom pointed out.
Inside the cockpit, I was surrounded by an ocean of buttons, knobs, and screens, showing different measurements. Most of them were simulations shown on virtual screens hovering inside the cockpit. In my helmet, there was a visor that provided me with a head-up display, including the target indicator, fire control display, and gunsight. The control stick’s movements were used by the fighter’s computer to interpret the pilot’s intentions, and then the computer would calculate the best way to execute the intended move.
The space fighter was amazing. She was fast: she could fly at 8000 miles per hour (eat your heart out, William Knight!), and the pilot wouldn’t feel a thing inside the cockpit. I had no idea what the Akakies did with the g-force; I wasn’t a scientist, and even if I were, this was a science-so-advanced-it-looks-like-magic territory. A Viper could ascend or descend vertically or even hover in the air like a chopper. She had three laser cannons, one under each wing and one under the cockpit, which were very handy in a dogfight. She also could carry two radar-guided beyond visual range (BVR) and six short-range missiles. We called them Phoenix and Sparrow.
When we were bringing people in, everyone would be scanned before boarding a Firefly to make sure nobody carried any kind of communication or tracking devices. Once inside the force field, communication with the outside world was only possible through Winterfell’s communication center, so our location would be kept a secret. Upon arrival, the new people would sit in MICI, and after getting over the shock of the news about an impending alien invasion, they’d start their respective assignments. A few people, however, ended up complaining they were lied to and refused to join up. We erased their memories of the past few days and sent them back to wherever they came from.
Zheng’s security forces got wind of our operation and tried their best to interfere, but there wasn’t much they could do. Kurt and his people were already very good at operating in secret. Now that they were traveling around the planet in undetectable Fireflies they were for all intents and purposes untouchable—our ships were not invisible, but even the Xortaags couldn’t detect them unless they knew exactly where to look. SCTU agents showed up a couple of times when our people were getting on board, which gave the Viper escorts something to do.
I was involved in one of these missions. Kurt and a group of Resistance fighters were in a warehouse, getting ready to move out and catch their ride at a nearby rendezvous point when they found themselves surrounded by SCTU, supported by half a dozen armored personnel carriers. Using our Phoenixes, we could vaporize them before they even understood what was going on, but Liz suggested we spare their lives, and I agreed.
We flew in together and hovered over the warehouse. I opened a channel to their command center and said, “This is Colonel Jim Harrison. Flying next to me is Colonel Elizabeth Lopez. You guys remember how we escaped your stupid prison in a spaceship, right?”
No answer. I was sure they remembered.
I continued, “Please leave this area immediately so we can get to our friends.”
Still no answer.
I tried to sound like a robot. “Go quietly, or there will be trouble.”
“Seriously?” said Liz, sounding annoyed.
And the bastards started shooting at us.
I wasn’t a bloodthirsty maniac. I preferred not to kill people, even SCTU agents. But if someone took a shot at me, my fighter, my friends, or people under my command, all bets were off. Especially if “people under my command” meant Liz.
I put my targeting plus on one of the APCs and pulled the trigger. The massive twenty-five-ton armored vehicle turned into scrap metal in a heartbeat.
I was still planning to blow up only a couple of APCs and let the rest go, but now Liz was angry that they were shooting at me, and when she got mad, there was no stopping her. She flew in and let go of her Viper’s weaponry. By the time she was done, you could gather what was left of five armored vehicles in a backpack.
SCTU also slipped a few spies into Winterfell. MICI weeded them out, and because they couldn’t communicate with the outside world, it was a moot point anyway. These guys ended up in the brig until further notice.
With the new recruits pouring in, I organized our first fighter pilot training session. Winterfell had a VR battle simulator where up to two hundred pilots could participate in a replicate dogfight with enemy ships. Once I got into the “canopy
,” there was no way to tell the difference between the simulation and an actual battle. I knew I was still on the ground, but all my senses told me I was flying in space. The simulator even pumped a hallucinogen into the canopy that made the pilots feel all the emotions they’d experience in a real battle: adrenaline rush, excitement, and even terror whenever one was in simulated mortal danger.
I opened a channel to my team. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to try to keep up with me.”
“Seriously?” said Liz.
The simulation started, and Xortaag space fighters came at me hard and fast.
Their design was completely different from ours: They were rectangular, with a cockpit front and center, and a laser weapon on either side of the cockpit. They didn’t carry any missiles. The Xortaag command had probably decided since they could easily dodge long-range missiles, and laser cannons were much more effective in close-range dogfights anyways, there was no need for them.
The Xortaags called their space fighters Deathbringers. I found that name pretentious—I preferred to call them Double Ugly—but it stuck. Deathbringers were slower and less maneuverable than our Vipers, but Tarq’s people’s research suggested an experienced pilot could hold his own against a Viper in a dogfight. The problem was most Xortaag pilots were experienced, whereas most of our pilots used to be civilians, chopper or even agricultural aircraft pilots.
When the simulated battle ended thirty minutes later, I looked at my screen and rubbed my temple. It was a good-news-bad-news situation. I’d destroyed twelve enemy vessels, but every pilot in my team, including Liz, had managed to get themselves shot down. That gave me a brilliant idea: The perfect nickname for our pilots would be “Redshirts.”
“Let me guess,” said Venom. “She tried to pull off an impossible maneuver.”
I pulled up Liz’s simulation. Yep. She had nine kills, but she’d exposed her fighter to enemy fire by attempting a maneuver I wouldn’t dream of trying. I wasn’t crazy.
