by Tony Healey
Liam made an impressed face, pointing at himself. “I’m a sir now, apparently.” He pounded his fist into the access button.
“I say, what is all that racket?”―the entry ladder dropped open, far faster than it should have, dumping a three foot tall metal box onto the deck with a loud clang―“Boy. I say, boy. What in the Sam hill are you doin’ here?”
Thin metal arms extended from the apparently-upside-down droid, pushing itself first flat on the long face and then up on the proper bottom. A second or two later, it floated into the air, hovering with a soft ionic hum. It swiveled to face Liam, lights flickered in an approximation of eyebrows along the upper part as it spoke with a pronounced drawl.
“You hearin’ me, Boy?” PAU-44B gestured with its spindly gripper arm at the Manta. “They gave this here bucket o’ bolts to a hayseed like you, what in tarnation has the”―a toolbox slipped from the cabin above and bounced off the droid’s head. Lights scrambled on its non-face―“Oh, hey there.” It saluted hard enough to clink its arm against its hull. “Greetings, Lieutenant JG Liam Dalton,” it cheered. “I am the magnificent PAU-44B Pilot Assistance Unit. I am capable of astrogation at forty-thousand kilocycles per second, and I am rated eight-point-six on turret operation. I am your designated co-pilot.” It zoomed about, orbiting him like an excited puppy. “Most of the guys call me Keg since I look like a beer fridge.” It paused, swiveled left and right, and then tilted towards Liam, whispering past the back of a gripper claw. “What’s a beer fridge?”
“Hah,” said Michael. “Didn’t they used to install those droids in every fighter before they came up with the internal AI?”
“Bah,” Keg waved both arms at Michael. “Those zero-mass pansies can’t do a damn thing about exterior hull damage. And I can still calculate navigation waypoints just as fast; not to mention”―Keg held one arm up in triumph―“I can make you coffee.”
“Oh, this is going to be a riot.” Liam patted it on the side and climbed the stairs. “Come on, then.”
“He gets a coffee maker?” Emma whined. “I want a coffee maker.”
Keg held both arms up. “And a full bathroom!”
“I can barely fit a sack of chips in that thing, much less a coffee machine,” Emma grumbled at the Mosquito.
“Since your squad came up one pilot short, and given your flight performance, they assigned me to be your number two.” Keg bowed at Liam again, as much as a box can bow. “There’s a full stock of emergency plating, fuses, wire patches…”
Aaron backed away as the bot rambled on through an itemized list, not wanting to attract its attention. He climbed into his Glaive, leaving the canopy up and his helmet off as he ran through the preflight check. Emma did a walk-around inspection of her Mosquito, examining the launch doors of the dumb-fire rocket pods on either side of the main body. When she was satisfied all seemed in order, she vaulted into the cockpit and settled in to her new home. For once in her life, she was happy to be smallish.
Michael, after a walk-around of his own, climbed into the Glaive’s roomy cockpit and settled in. He could not, like Liam, get up and walk around inside, but the seat was comparable to first-class shuttle travel. The scent of new fabric and electrical sealant permeated it; these fighters had not yet seen real action. He squeezed the corner of the black cloth seat while waiting for the diagnostic procedure to finish. He was suspicious of the clean result, and even more distrustful of the second clean result. One by one, systems came back with ‘…OK’ on the far right side of the primary display. They would be launching soon, he had no time to check deeper. Whatever Aaron was up to, he only hoped it was some egotistical or juvenile prank. Since the diag process missed it, it could not be too major.
“Alright, Green Wing. We’re on standby until we drop out of jump. As soon as The Manhattan transits back to standard space, we are launching.”
Michael closed his eyes, listening to a series of “Rogers” come back over the comm. Each time someone spoke, a small holographic helmet or head appeared above his console. The last apparition, Keg, popped up with a loud cheer and flailing stick arms. “Let’s goooooo get ‘em!”
s Commander Grey ready to launch his fighters?” Driscoll asked.
Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra told Ensign Blair to verify status with the hangar deck. A moment later, the Ensign nodded.
“Yesss, Captain,” S’lestra said. “Awaiting your ordersss.”
Driscoll shot Commander Teague a questioning look.
At that, she went to stand behind Lieutenant Hardy. “Helm, time to co-ordinates?”
The Captain watched this with satisfaction. Less than a day working together and Commander Teague was already anticipating his needs.
This’ll work out well.
Hardy kept a wary eye on the countdown on his screen, his hands a blur over the other controls as he prepared the other helm functions for the Manhattan’s exit from Jump. “Twenty seconds.”
“Everyone, full defensive measures,” Driscoll said, loud and clear. “This region of space is going to screw with your equipment. Expect anomalies. Expect readings you don’t anticipate. Catalogue any irregularities, but do not panic. Just do your best.”
“Sir?” Lieutenant Brooke asked from the weapons station. “Without the aid of sensors, we’ll have to rely on manually operating the Manhattan’s weapons systems…”
“Exactly, Lieutenant. Look sharp,” Driscoll said.
Lieutenant Brooke’s face dropped and he turned back to face his station.
“Exiting the Jump in eight, seven, six…” Hardy muttered, still tweaking controls.
Driscoll reached up to a handhold and waited for the sensation of shift to come as the massive ship dropped from Jump speed.
“… three, two, one…”
Space returned to normal before them, or seemingly so. As much as it looked perfectly safe out there, it truly was anything but. The Chimera Cluster was one of the most volatile areas of known space. Anything could happen now.
Even the Manhattan―a veritable colossus―might not be able to withstand it.
We’ll see how tight Macintosh put in those rivets. We’ll see…
“Captain, shall I give Commander Grey your permission to proceed with fighter deployment?” Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra asked.
Driscoll nodded. “Yes. Go ahead. All bays are cleared for immediate launch. Set them up in a standard near-sector patrol ring.”
“Everyone, red alert. All hands, man your stations,” Commander Teague ordered, hot on the heels of Driscoll giving the go-ahead for fighters to leave the Manhattan.
Around him, the bridge erupted into a flurry of activity, but the Captain had only one thought.
Operation Chimera had begun.
They were here. Their starfighters were due to disembark, the rookie pilots eager to stretch their legs. He remembered his own debut tour of duty, how exhilarating it had been to pilot his very own starfighter. To feel the awesome energy at his fingertips. To fire its weapons at a Draxx and feel the rush of satisfaction as it exploded in a flash of light.
And to bring it home, in one piece, until the time came to fly the next mission. Landing in the hangar, his CO giving him a slap on the back and telling him he’d done good.
The Captain grinned at the thought, overcome with nostalgia at those simpler, carefree days. He’d not been one with the darkness back then. No, he’d not fallen under the shadow’s wing then. Not yet. All of that was to come. Back then he’d been just like Commander Grey’s young pilots, readying their ships to leave for the first time. He’d been new, fresh―innocent.
Good luck, kids. You’ll need it.
last doors secured the launch portals during the Jump. Wisps of fog rolled across the flight deck, pooling for a few seconds wherever it encountered a loop in one of the arm-thick hoses crisscrossing the floor. Command Ops sent the five-minute warning; ground crews scrambled about with last-minute preparations, and all pilots had buttoned down their canopies and secured their helmets.
Michael tapped his gloved fingers on the stick, tracing his eyes over the X-shaped pattern at the center of the immense hatch. The door was three feet thick, almost enough to absorb a direct hit from a small torpedo. He did not understand the point, the hull to either side was thinner; who shoots at the doors on purpose? To his left, Zavex sat amid total calm. So still, the reflections of his displays were legible via their reflection upon his helmet. Beyond him, Emma huddled forward as if blowing hot air into her hands to warm them. He poked the touchscreen with his squad mates’ status reads to open a private comm channel.
“Sylph, everything okay?”
Her head bobbed up. “Got a little case of the collywobbles just sitting here, Lieutenant. I’ll be okay once we’re underway.”
“Don’t let him get to you. If he starts to psych you out, let me know.”
“I don’t need a big brother.” Her helmet turned toward him. “If he steps out of line, then do what you have to do. I’ll not let him take the Mickey out of me.”
“Whatever that means.” Michael laughed, ending the comm.
“Betty, you see anything strange in the systems?”
“No, Lieutenant.” A pleasant female voice flooded the cabin.
He squinted at Aaron, sitting back in his Glaive like the king rooster of the henhouse. Flashing orange lights distracted him from any lingering suspicions. The ground crew all ran for something to grab. The flight deck filled with the voice of Frank, the Manhattan’s AI, counting down from ten. A few of the ground crew that failed to find proper refuge went into the air like flags during the hard deceleration out of jump space. As the forces squished him to the right side of the cockpit, Michael pondered the oddity of all fighters having female AI’s, while the large ships seemed to all have males.
The human banners returned to the ground and the flashing lights ceased. Several ran to a control console and set about opening the launch bay doors. As the immense doors slid into the ceiling, the pilots of Green Wing looked out through the atmospheric retention field at the opposite side of the inverted canyon. Two hundred feet away, the other row of fighter bays appeared as round-cornered blue rectangles. Michael opened a general comm to his wing.
“Green Wing, this is Green Leader. Our sector patrol is on the opposite side of the carrier from our departure point. Once we clear the bay, roll inverted and break ninety degrees down. We’ll do an Immelman up and over the Manhattan and proceed to our rendezvous point.”
The row of small holographic helmets in front of him all nodded. Michael’s ship AI communicated his flight pattern to Frank, who in turn relayed it to the rest of the fighter squadrons. One by one, the intended departure paths of every wing appeared as lines in their HUD; everyone knew where everyone was going. Except for the bombers―they were stuck on standby in the flight deck.
“Heads up people, this is Commander Grey. You are thirty seconds from launch clearance. We have arrived without incident in the Chimera Nebula by the way, Hunter.”―Green Wing cheered and waved at Aaron―“Long range sensors have not picked up any hostile contacts. In all probability, this will be an evaluation run to test the functionality and capability of you and your ships. Best of luck.”
“Avast ye scurvy dogs! Prepare to be boarded! The Green”―the tirade of a whining pirate voice ended with a sharp metallic clank―“Righto, chaps, apologies for that outburst. Carry on.”
Emma cracked up. Zavex looked around, trying to figure out where that came from. The piteous squeak of Liam trying not to laugh invaded their helmets.
“That damn droid is insane,” said Aaron.
“I assure you, my mental faculties are doing far better than yours would be, were you my age.” The stuffy, aristocratic voice emanated from Keg.
“This is where Sylph says she thinks it’s cute.” Aaron shot a saccharin smile at her little fighter.
“Alright, secure that crap,” said Michael. “We’re hot.”
Green Wing lifted off the flight deck at the same instant, Emma led the way through the field in her faster-accelerating ship. They all rolled inverted once clear of the door, heading down into a vertical (relative to the carrier) descent for a thousand meters before they pulled into a sweeping upward curve that took them across the top of the Manhattan and to their assigned position. Before long, they reached a distance of 18,500 meters, which reduced the massive carrier to a gleaming speck.
Michael checked the navigation system once more, satisfied at their position relative to the rest of the fighters. “Diamond, tight.”
Liam shifted the large Manta fighter toward the center of their formation, with a Glaive on either side and Emma out front. Michael took the outside spot, with Zavex in the rear and Aaron closest to the carrier.
“Gee, guys, I feel so loved,” said Liam.
“Dragon, I’m getting some kind of strange shape on my Navcon.” The sound of Aaron’s fist banging on something followed.
“I got nothing, looks clear to me,” said Emma.
Michael looked up at the odd calm in her voice. She sounded cold now, almost irritated by Aaron’s issue.
“Same here,” added Liam.
“Yes, yes. Everything is in order,” said Keg.
Zavex chimed in last. “I have no issues.”
“Everyone run an A-3 diagnostic,” said Michael.
Several minutes of silence passed as their various ships’ AIs got to work.
“Oh, this is so disappointing. I remember doing these A-3s, manually. Used to take a good hour you know. You’d think they’d have given me a socket to plug in die-rect, but oh no.” Keg waved his little grippers over his head. “That would have cost just a little too much.”
Liam glanced over at his butler-bot, waving his antenna-like arms about as it spoke, before it rubbed a chin it did not have.
When the systems check came back clean, Michael looked out across the Manta to Aaron’s fighter. “Hunter, you still having that glitch?”
“Nope, guess the diag cleared it up.”
“Green Wing, this is Operations, acknowledge.”
“Copy, Operations, this is Dragon. Go ahead.”
“We are vectoring a target drone in your direction for weapons testing. Take note of any unusual interactions between onboard systems and the nebula.”
“Copy that.” Michael hit the master arm switch, and his HUD lit up with weapon status and targeting information. “Team, we have an inbound target drone, approaching from zero-four-seven degrees starboard. Weapons hot, recorders on. Tell, don’t nail the drone… just shoot the ghost.”
Aaron laughed. “Hit the drone, that’s rich. That’s like shooting a missile down.”
Liam chuckled, grinning.
Beeping signaled the approach of a long tube-shaped drone, its transponder simulated the signature of a larger ship. The intent was to fire through empty space, leaving the drone itself untouched.
Emma flicked the safety cover open at the top of her right-hand stick to expose the trigger. The drone simulated a cargo pod, an easy target if there ever was one. She fired a few times, twin blue-white beams of energy leapt from the nose of her Mosquito through the designated target area.
“Betty, simulate missiles. Don’t waste ammo,” said Emma.
“Acknowledged,” chimed her AI.
On her HUD, the computer animated a ripple of virtual rockets, most of which went through the target area.
Liam nudged the Manta through the bottom of the formation, to get a shot past Emma without risk. “Keg, hop on the turret.”
He pulled up a little harder than the droid was expecting.
“It’s just a cargo pod, are you certain we should be fir”―clank― “Wow. Spaaaace.” Keg stuck against the canopy, small clamp-hands pressed into the glass. “It’s sooooo dark.”
Clank.
Keg shifted to ‘look’ at him. “Dammit, boy. Why you keep hittin’ on me like that. I say, one of these days y’all are gonna go one step too far and”―clank―“What?” Keg
shifted back and forth. “We launched? Turret? Oh, heavens…” The boxy droid hovered up out of the co-pilot seat. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m on it, sir.” Six feet behind the seats, he zipped upward through a round portal in the ceiling, leaving a puff of dust billowing out on the floor beneath him.
Liam shook his head as he brought the Manta’s main guns online. Neutron beams were the longest ranged weapon in the Fleet arsenal, even if they did lack the destructive power of particle cannons. They penetrated better, but did not inflict the same catastrophic mangling on impact. He yawned as he squeezed the trigger; four dark azure streaks of light connected the axe-wings to the virtual cargo box several times.
“I can hear you yawning,” said Michael. “Relax, it’s not a test of skill. We’re evaluating the weapons.”
From above his head, red flickering pulse-laser blasts seared through the black. Keg had the turret going as fast as the lasing chamber could cycle.
“Is this good?” he asked. “Am I doing it right?”
“Yes, yes. Looks fine.” Liam tapped at the readout, watching capacitor levels fluctuate. “Come on back down.”
The turret ceased firing. Keg floated through the ceiling hatch, ignoring the ladder as a legless, hovering droid should, and glided to rest on the co-pilot’s seat once more. Liam punched it in the side.
“Ouch.” A little robot hand rubbed the spot. “Why did you do that?”
Liam squinted at the droid. He sounded sane again. “Oh, nothing, I just got tired of the sycophantic bit.”
“Sycophantic bit? What are you talking about?”
Michael tracked the virtual target, opening fire with the main particle cannons first. Streaks of orange-yellow light sailed off through space, surrounded by crackling lightning. He let off the trigger after the first blast. The readouts showed normal, the weapon capacitor crept back up to full charge as expected. He fired again, watching the charge drop from eighty-four percent to forty.
“Hunter, Zavex, you seeing sparks on your partie-beams?”
“Yes,” said Zavex. “Perhaps an unforeseen interaction with the energy here?”
