Galaxia

by Kevin McLaughlin

  As she climbed into her cockpit and strapped in for the flight, Diane felt the anxiety and heartbreak of her home life drop away from her like discarded rags. “Circus” the fighter pilot was a totally different person from Diane Klingerman, the wife and mother. Diane never knew what to say or do. Every interaction felt difficult, and each conversation felt jagged and tense. Circus was the opposite: fluid and free, a bird soaring through the empty spaces. When she was in her Spitfire, the troubles of life on the ground no longer had any meaning. She felt alive.

  The flight squad took off, one shrieking engine after another. They climbed up through the atmosphere without any conversation, just enjoying the freedom of flight. Everything went smoothly and all was calm. The Spitfires floated up through the clouds and the blue beyond them, streaking up toward the darkness of outer space. Diane breathed easy knowing she had made the right choice in returning to work. Between T3 and the moon, she saw their objective on her radar. Her voice was matter of fact, as if she was discussing the weather. “Approaching the Poseidon.”

  The others acknowledged, and just a few seconds later she saw a second dot on her screen. It was the car they were escorting, with one of the Federation’s traveling diplomats inside. Travel to some of the more distant colonies was still difficult and time-consuming, in some cases inhospitable or even dangerous. New Atlantia kept access to the surface strictly limited; Gaia was caught up in yet another of their endless civil wars; Pyotr was under the domination of an uncontrollable crime syndicate. Under the circumstances, the Federation couldn’t maintain a permanent diplomatic presence on every colony yet. The traveling ambassadors filled in the gaps, doing their best to represent a central government with no real governing authority over many of its star systems.

  Not everyone wanted that central government to get any more powerful than it already was. That’s why the diplomat needed an escort, even if Bug and the others considered the flight a milk run.

  The car opened a channel on the holo, and a male voice came over their headsets. “This is Ambassador Menendez’s private vehicle. Are you the escort flight?”

  Diane had no idea who else they believed it could possibly be — the No faction didn’t have its own fighter squadrons, after all — but the question did show a healthy sense of caution. “This is Flight Sergeant Diane Klingerman, callsign Circus. We’re Red Flight of Squadron 7, attached to Fleet Base Ares. We’ll be walking you in.”

  A sigh of relief, then, “Understood and confirmed. We’ll follow your lead.”

  What were they worried about? Although a terrorist attack was technically possible, it wasn’t that likely. Most of the No-voters had as much respect for the rule of law as any Yes-voter, and the extremists were just a handful of little splinter groups with no strong leadership or access to resources. Has the Ambassador’s office received a threat?

  The real reason for the escort was much more mundane, even if the danger was still real. Over centuries of spaceflight, a tremendous amount of debris had built up around T3, a ring of trash that posed a serious hazard to any passing ship. Clearing all the junk out was a major priority, but the task would take many years. To get the diplomat home without any trouble they would have to use gravity mines, small objects composed of highly compressed matter capable of generating their own small gravitational fields.

  The idea was to pull in random debris by dragging the mines behind the flight squad, with each mine tethered to its controlling fighter electromagnetically. Usually half of the debris would burn up on reentry and the rest could then be properly disposed of. Of course, this did require some fancy flying. The technique was to fly right at an object and then dodge it on the way by, resulting in a smooth capture by the gravity mines behind the plane.

  “We’ve got the Ambassador,” Diane drawled. “Flip it over.”

  The squad of Spitfires shot past the car, then turned their noses down in a tight U-shape, changing direction and heading back for T3.

  Bug pulled up into her spot in the inverted-V formation, keeping her distance so the debris they were dragging behind them didn’t hit the Ambassador’s car. “Sounding chill over there, Circus.”

  All the fighters were forced to fly some distance apart or ahead. This ensured a smooth flight path for the driver of the car but also meant that none of the fighters could really support the others except with long-range rockets — the one thing they were least likely to use on a mission like this.

  As they formed up at some distance from the car, Diane spoke over the holo system. After Bug’s little comment about sounding “chill,” she gave her next order with a whip-crack urgency. “Deploy gravity mines!”

  Hee-haw replied, deliberately exaggerating his country yokel accent, “I sure do love being a trash collector. Best job ever.”

  “Can it, Hee-Haw.”

  “You got it, Circus.”

  Everything was going about as smoothly as it could — a milk run, as Bug had said. They flew trash missions all the time because it gave them a lot of flight hours while still contributing something useful to T3 society. There was no denying they were kind of boring, though — at least compared to actual combat, which was something that basically never happened. The occasional pirate-suppression mission or intervention in some colonial conflict was all they could hope for, but even those missions were so uncommon there was no realistic chance of earning fighter ace status by killing five enemy birds.

  Hee-Haw wasn’t wrong, though: they were glorified bodyguards and trash collectors all rolled into one. Diane didn’t mind this. What she loved was the act of flying, and she didn’t need the ego boost of being called an ace. In her years of service, she’d only been in combat two times, and both of those incidents were brief.

  That’s why the unexpected appearance of an extra dot on her radar screen came as such a big surprise.

  It was coming in rapidly, though it must have been hiding behind a piece of junk just seconds before. A warning buzz on her instrument panel confirmed her suspicions. This object didn’t appear on any of the flight plan maps or schematics. That could only mean one thing: it must have been a small, unlicensed satellite.

  Most of these illegal devices had already been captured or destroyed on previous trash runs, but no one could say they were completely wiped out. Most of them had originally been launched by criminal gangs or terrorists, hoping to interfere with passing ships. The thing might be automated, or it might be remotely controlled by someone on the ground. Either way, it was trouble.

  Diane clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes as a surge of irrational anger shot through her. If the Yes-vote won, the Fleet would be able to deal with terrorists and criminal scum a lot more easily. She didn’t have any time to indulge these thoughts, though. There was nothing between the ambassador and the satellite, and it was closing in rapidly.

  Without contacting the other pilots or even thinking about it consciously, Diane suddenly broke formation and dove down through the debris field. The Spitfire's inertia drive tech was designed to let it maneuver and respond like an aircraft, even in the vacuum of space, allowing pilots perform such sudden tactical movements no matter the atmosphere, or lack thereof. If she got up underneath the satellite before it could do anything, there was still a chance she could take it out. She expected it to launch an electronic attack on the car’s operating systems, causing the driver to lose control and drift aimlessly in orbit. Standard practice for a criminal satellite would then be to demand a ransom payment. Otherwise, the car would just be stuck in orbit forever with no way to get home.

  It didn’t happen. As she dove and pulled up, the satellite shot something at the ambassador’s car. According to her system, it was a flying drill. If that device hit the car, it would bore straight through and shred everyone inside. This wasn’t a ransom attempt: it was an assassination.

  Voices broke in as she adjusted her flight path, corkscrewing up out of her dive at an angle steep enough to intercept. “What are you doing, Circus? What’s goi
ng on, Sarge?”

  She didn’t answer. Diane had no time or space to do anything but fly, and even then it would be touch and go. She hit the burners and shot straight at the flying drill like a flaming arrow.

  Her holo system alerted her to the danger she was in. “Time until impact, three seconds. Two… One…”

  She swerved, and the flying drill swerved with her as its systems interpreted her as the new target and locked on. She missed the drill by inches, but it reoriented in less than a second. If the drill hit her Spitfire, her plane’s systems would be ripped apart like fiery confetti. She’d be torn to pieces too, blood and bone in every direction. It was an ugly possibility, but not as bad as knowing that Jack would grow up without a mother or father…

  No time to think about Jack. She just had to keep flying, trusting in her gravity mines to grab the horrible little weapon and render it harmless. In the back of her mind, she was dimly aware of voices on the holo.

  “Illegal satellite, illegal satellite. Flying drill launch.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “Little late there, guys…”

  She heard a beep and glanced down at her radar. The mines had done it! The flying drill was safely contained, caught in the gravity field.

  She called in her instructions. “Dowser, you’re closest to that satellite. Get a tracker on it. We’ll need to send a team up here later to remove it permanently.”

  “I’m on it, Sarge. But holy shit…”

  She returned to formation, dragging the drill behind her. The ambassador was safe. She had just prevented an assassination, and she knew she ought to feel great about that. But she was too shocked to feel much of anything. What did I just do?

  Bug’s voice was awestruck. “What the hell, Circus, that was some fancy flying.”

  “She ain’t Circus anymore,” said Hee-Haw. “She’s Driller now.”

  A new callsign. Great. At least it wasn’t a bad one, and it even had something to do with a flying exploit. So far, so good…

  “I don’t know, Sarge,” came Scooter’s voice, a little exasperated. “Why didn’t you ask us for help?”

  Scooter was a new mother, so she saw things a little differently than some of the others. On top of that, Scooter was the one who should have seen the satellite first and given the warning — but Diane’s reactions had been sharper.

  Diane shook her head, hardly even believing what she was about to say. “It didn’t even occur to me. I was going on instinct.”

  This was so uncharacteristic of her that she had trouble admitting it, and the others knew it too. They laughed, but Scooter continued with her criticism. “You really shouldn’t put yourself at risk right now, you know? Didn’t you just say earlier that your husband and your kid were sick? You’ll want to be able to get back and take care of them...”

  Diane’s voice was flat, verging on cold. “This is the Fleet. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good. And if we do our jobs, the Fleet does its job and keeps everyone safe. Including my family.”

  Scooter could tell she’d hit a nerve. “Consider me reprimanded. That was still incredible, the way you just grabbed it like that. Nice flying… Driller!”

  Chapter Seven

  At Jack’s school, Mrs. Lane-Roc was describing the Federation’s system of government. “The Federation government is democratic, whenever it can be. Can anyone tell me what that means?”

  She glanced over at Jack, who would usually have been eager to answer a question like this. But he was distracted, too busy thinking about his father to focus on his teacher. A girl in his class put her hand up, and Mrs. Lane-Roc called on her. “It means we vote.”

  “That’s right, Ellen, it means we vote. But we don’t vote on the law ourselves, now do we?”

  Mahmoud scoffed. “The Council makes the laws.”

  “That’s usually true, Mahmoud. But our system is mixed. Some things are under civilian control, like T3 itself. Some things are under the control of the military, like the off-world colonies. Military law applies when you’re off T3.”

  “They’ll be telling us what to do here, too. As soon as the Referendum’s over.”

  “That just isn’t true, Mahmoud. If people vote Yes on the Referendum, the laws will say exactly what powers the military has and what powers the Council has. If people vote No, everything will stay the way it is right now. Yes, Frederick?”

  “Why isn’t the Council just in charge of everything? They’re the ones we vote for!”

  “That’s an excellent question, Frederick. We do try to be a democracy, don’t we? That’s why we vote for the Council. But sometimes there are people who don’t want to listen to the Council and who cause all sorts of problems. That’s why we have a military, to make sure people listen to the Council when they need to. It’s for the good of everyone. The Referendum is our chance to decide what the Council will be in charge of and what the military will be in charge of.”

  Jack was still too distracted to participate actively in the conversation. Not only had those men come to his house and taken his father, but it also looked like there was a chance they would take him as well. His mother said they wouldn’t, that they just wanted to give him some tests, but he wasn’t sure he believed her.

  Anyway, why wouldn’t the school tests be good enough? He always did well in them, but he didn’t want any extra tests. It didn’t seem fair. First, they took my Daddy away, and now they want me to take extra tests on top of that! And what if they take me too? Will I ever be able to do anything fun? Will they even let me see Mommy anymore?

  Whatever they were doing to help his Daddy, he hoped it was working, that they might be able to make Daddy less angry. If they could at least do that, it might make up for everything else.

  A tone sounded from the ceiling, and Mrs. Lane-Roc announced, “It’s time for recess, children.”

  They filed outside, but Jack was still just as lost in his thoughts as he had been before. He didn’t even notice Mahmoud coming up to him. “There you are! Jack the Fed-lover!”

  He didn’t know what to say at first. Why is Mahmoud so mad? Why is everyone always so mad?

  “The Federation helps people,” he muttered quietly.

  Mahmoud stepped closer. “That’s a lie, Jack! You’re a liar! All Federation people are the same, you and your Mommy and Daddy and all the rest of them. You want to keep the Council from helping regular people!”

  Jack surprised himself — and surprised Mahmoud even more — with the icy wave of anger that seemed to wash over him at that moment. He stepped even closer to Mahmoud and narrowed his eyes. “You shut up about my mom and dad.”

  Mahmoud didn’t say anything a child would usually say in that situation. He didn’t say anything about “how will you make me?” or “you and what army?” He just stepped back a little.

  Jack balled his hands up into fists just like his father did when he was mad. He was so angry that spit came flying out of his mouth when he talked and landed on Mahmoud’s face. “The Federation helps people. You don’t know anything!”

  Mahmoud looked embarrassed for a second. Jack had made him step back, and that wasn’t something that usually happened. He seemed uncertain, but when the spit hit his face he went a little crazy. Wiping it off with the back of his hand, Mahmoud yelled, “You’re a liar!”

  He stepped forward again with his eyes blazing and shoved Jack with both hands. Jack shoved back even harder, and Mahmoud stumbled and fell over backward. He tumbled to the ground, and from the sound he made Jack could tell all the wind had been knocked right out of him.

  Mrs. Lane-Roc came running over, her face red with disapproval. “No fighting, children! NO FIGHTING! Jack Klingerman, you come with me!”

  Why was Mrs. Lane-Roc blaming him for what had happened? Mahmoud was the one who had pushed him first. Did she only see what happened when he pushed Mahmoud back, or did she see the whole thing and blame him anyway?

  It didn’t make any difference. Whatever the reason, his teache
r was giving him all the blame. As they walked down the hall, she kept lamenting what had happened on the playground.

  “Oh, Jack. What shall we do with you? It’s not your fault, I truly believe it’s not your fault. But violence is just not acceptable.”

  “Mrs. Lane-Roc, Mahmoud…”

  “It takes two, though, doesn’t it Jack? I know he provoked you, but that’s no excuse for putting your hands on him. It’s just no excuse. But I know you can’t help it…”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded too much like what they’d said about his Daddy. Was Mrs. Lane-Roc taking him to Dr. Jeong?

  He soon discovered that she was not: his teacher was only taking him to the office like any other naughty kid. Maybe, just maybe, she would make him go talk to the Socialization Counselor and leave it at that. If he was really good from this point on…

  She marched him right past the door of the Socialization Counselor’s room and dragged him up to the door of the office. “You can sit right here for a minute, Jack.” She pointed at a chair in the hallway, where kids who were in trouble had to sit. “I have to make a holo call.”

  He must be in really bad trouble then. “Are you calling my Mom?”

  “You just wait right here. Everything will be okay. It’s not really your fault.”

  Mrs. Lane-Roc closed the door, but her voice was loud enough that he heard her anyway.

  “Yes, Doctor… mmm-hmmm. Well, would this be considered a symptom?”

  Jack’s heart started to beat so fast he could hear it in his ears. He had done it now.

  Chapter Eight

  Several hours later, Diane Klingerman was still waiting in the lobby of the hospital. No one had told her what was going on, only that her son had been taken in for some emergency tests after an incident at school and that she would have to wait to see him. She could hardly believe it, but it made her feel sick to think about it. She tried not to.