Green Zulu Five One: And Other Stories From the Vyptellian War

by Scott Whitmore

  A familiar thought came to mind: Even the few with no one in the war put up the orange to not stand out.

  In the earliest days people draped black ribbons on the triangles to indicate killed in action and blue ribbons for those wounded. Losses mounted and soon there were so many ribbons that people stopped doing it. Now without knowing someone personally it was hard to know exactly how much the war had cost them.

  The woman and her husband gave all four of their children to the war. Just one came back, her eldest son. He lost two limbs and an eye but was still in the military, stationed at a recruit depot as an instructor. The war had also taken three of her grandchildren — all missing and presumed dead. Two more would soon be old enough to receive draft notices, and there were three more after that.

  The woman would bear the future losses alone. Her husband died five years earlier, his heart stopped while he was on shift at the mine, five miles below the surface. He’d worked at the mine his whole life, was at least a decade away from mandatory retirement, and appeared to be in fine physical shape for a man in his mid-sixties.

  By the time the settlement’s octogenarian doctor made it to the mine her husband’s co-workers had carried the body up to the front gate. Then they returned to the face to continue their shift. She didn’t blame them for that: most were teenagers still too young for the military and had grown up inured to death and injury.

  And there were quotas to meet.

  After a year she stopped wondering if her husband would have lived had there been a doctor in the settlement not past his prime or at least on site at the mine that day. Or if there had been up-to-date medical supplies and equipment in the tunnels. The spark of anger she felt slowly died away. There was no point. The war had first priority on things like doctors, supplies, and equipment.

  She left the shelter of the apartment blocks behind, lowering her head into the cold wind as she came to an open area just below the mine entrance. The settlement’s schools were here, set back from the road. Two long, low buildings: one shared by primary and middle grades, and the other was the upper school. A handful of children, too young to have jobs, played on the three quantam courts between the schools and road.

  The woman had attended classes in both buildings, graduating with a ceremony held in the upper school auditorium. She had never been away from the settlement for more than a few weeks through all her life and had never left the planet. At one time she wanted to travel, to roam the darkness of space like the people who left Old Earth on the Long Exodus. But that wasn’t her fate.

  She loved learning and became a teacher herself, spending nearly forty years working with the settlement’s children. She started out and spent most of that time in the primary grades, and lived to see the spark of understanding in the young faces of her students. But then there was the war and she was moved to the middle and upper grades to take the place of teachers called to the military.

  The curriculum had changed greatly since her days as a student. Gone for the most part were the classics of Old Earth literature and media she remembered so fondly, replaced by lessons on military science or studies of Old Earth’s wars.

  The older students were different, too. They all worked jobs before or after school, most in the mine but also in shops and a small factory producing fuses used in smart munitions. So many older children were needed to fill vacant jobs that night school was started for those working day shifts.

  In class, these kids were less interested in learning than catching up on their sleep and in time she stopped waking them. They needed their rest and soon enough the military would have them. In uniform, they’d learn all they needed to know about fighting and killing

  She quit teaching after attending the remembrance ceremony for the last living student of the first middle school class she taught. It was one thing to realize an entire generation of the settlement was being wiped out, but it was too much to know each of them personally. The woman remembered when funerals were held, with bodies to be buried or cremated. In this war many died but there were no bodies, so the funeral rite became the remembrance ceremony.

  Yet another example of the countless ways the war altered their lives.

  Approaching the gated entrance to the mine, she studied the faces of the boys and girls waiting in line. She had been the primary grade teacher for many of them, and had taught some of their parents, too. It was depressing to know the future of these children was already set: working in the mine until they turned eighteen and then off to the war.

  The woman watched as they pushed through the mine gate and headed off to work in the shafts. At their age, her future had been a mystery. She could do or be whatever she wanted. Old Earth’s Utopian Ideal had been felt throughout the colony, even in her small settlement. Humanity had outgrown fighting over territory, religion, race, gender and sexual orientation.

  Sadness momentarily overwhelmed her, and she put a hand on her chest until it passed. How could so much change in so few years? Could they ever go back to the way things once were?

  The woman sighed and pushed her thoughts away as she passed through the gate. There was a long shift to be worked and quotas to be made. A sickness was going around and she expected to be short at least a few workers. Also, several ore processors were off-line for maintenance and she needed to check on the status of repairs.

  There would be time enough later to worry about the future and miss the past.

  Discoveries

  “What did you do next?” The squadron support officer looked up from the notes on his datapad, eyebrows raised and head tilted slightly to one side.

  Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Tyko glanced at his hands, folded and resting on the table that separated him from the support officer. We’ve been over this three times now, he thought, and by now you should have the vid of what happened.

  Tyko was annoyed when the patrol was terminated early, but that changed to unease when he and the three new pilots were escorted to debriefing rooms just off the flight deck. When he first got to the station, pilots were debriefed frequently and he had looked forward to having the chance to examine his actions and learn from his mistakes. Over time, the debriefs stopped, with no reason given.

  Now, having finished going over the patrol for a second time, Tyko was back to being annoyed: There was nothing wrong with how he or the others performed, no reason for them to be pulled from the mission early. He suspected something else was going on.

  Perhaps the support officers were reminding him they were keeping a close watch. Or, maybe they weren’t satisfied with his reaction to being assigned to escort the wing’s newest pilots on their first combat sortie.

  Gaining and losing pilots was a continuous, but predictable, cycle. Squadrons rarely fell below full strength. With healthy and fit teenage pilots, far removed from actual combat, most vacancies resulted from illness or rec hall injuries. Very rarely, there were cases of pilots who demonstrated mental unsuitability for combat or military service.

  By far the biggest source of turnover was age: when pilots turned eighteen they transferred from the station. Some retained their flight status, serving as staff officers, academy instructors, or transport pilots, but most opted to join the Expeditionary Forces — to become ground pounders and take the fight directly to the Vyptellians.

  So getting new pilots blooded was a necessary task, but one usually given to much less capable and experienced pilots. It was a bit of a surprise to hear his name called at the flight cycle pre-brief, but Tyko assumed it was just another test to see if he’d learned his lesson from being suspended.

  In his mind, he had.

  As he had with all assignments since returning to flight status, Tyko accepted it without complaint. Before the patrol he pulled the three green pilots aside to answer their questions and tell them what to expect and how to react. He reminded them it was likely each would lose their fighter in the first few minutes of combat, but they shouldn’t dwell on it.

  After
taking control of their fighters he took them through some flight and formation drills to assess their strengths and weaknesses before leading them into the engagement zone. Throughout, he followed all flight protocols to the letter, knowing the new pilots would be closely watching. He didn’t want them starting out with any bad habits.

  Suddenly aware of the silence in the room, Tyko looked up at the support officer and nodded. “After Kemal was hit I came about, crossed behind Schmiller. The Vyp didn’t do what I expected and instead veered off to the right. I pursued, got into position and fired.”

  “That’s the second time you mentioned the enemy was unpredictable. Why do you think that was?”

  “They seemed new, like our pilots. The ones with me today, I mean.” Tyko stifled a yawn and shifted in his seat. “I suppose they didn’t know any better.”

  “You don’t think they were trying new tactics?”

  Tyko knew what he thought, but paused for a moment as if considering the question. “No. Like I said they didn’t move like Vyps who’ve been in a fight before. You know, you should have the vid by now.”

  A ghost of a smile appeared on the support officer’s face. “Regardless, we need to document your memories and opinions. What you saw, why you took the actions you did.”

  Tyko nodded and swallowed another yawn. He finished his account in a few more sentences. When he was done they sat in silence, the support officer looking over the notes on his datapad and Tyko glancing around the room.

  It occurred to him then that they were waiting for something, or someone. That the reason he told the same story three times was to give time to prepare whoever or whatever was coming next.

  Tyko looked down at his hands and wondered what was being served for dinner in the mess hall, and more importantly if Caviness would wait for him there. Probably not, he decided. She had been standing in a knot of pilots from other squadrons watching Henrik flight test the new interceptor when he climbed into his control unit for the patrol.

  She gave him a quick smile as he strapped in, a smile he shyly returned.

  Caviness was still there when he and the three new pilots were escorted to the debriefing rooms. He was sure she noticed how short their flight time had been but was probably too involved in observing the new fighter in action to give it much thought.

  After Henrik’s flight she may have waited for him on the flight deck. Perhaps she went to the mess hall to sit at the table in the corner where she had introduced herself to him a week earlier (and where they had eaten every meal together since). Or maybe she just left, walking past the door to the debriefing room he was in on her way back to her own squadron in Third Wing.

  Tyko’s shoulders slumped a little at the thought of not being able to see her again until breakfast.

  She had been on his mind a lot in the days after his squadron’s loss in the quantam semi-final — the girl with the bright blue eyes and sideways smile. Tyko found himself scanning the faces of other pilots in the rec hall and library, or any time he left Fourth Wing’s section of the station. He knew the odds of finding her were long.

  She was part of Third Wing but so were more than a thousand other pilots. At some point the math would work out, his squadron and hers would be on the same rotation, but without knowing her name or squadron all he could do was study passing faces.

  Then one day he was eating breakfast and heard a small cough at his shoulder. Looking up from a steaming bowl of grain cereal he saw those eyes and that smile. Tyko stammered a greeting and invited her to join him.

  “Morning. I’m Caviness,” she said, placing her tray on the table across from him.

  “I’m Tyko.” His face felt warm and he forced himself to look down at his cereal, worried his staring would unnerve her.

  “I know.” She smiled and raised a spoonful of cereal to her mouth. Caviness blew on the spoon before continuing. “I’m on temp assignment to learn about the Mark 6 from you.”

  “Oh.” Tyko sighed and looked away, his cheeks growing hotter. “That’s not me. You’ll be working with Henrik. He’s very good, great even. You’ll learn a lot.”

  The smile disappeared from her face and her eyelids narrowed. They ate in silence for a bit before she set her spoon down and quietly asked the question he wanted her not to ask.

  Without a thought of lying or evading, Tyko told her about walking into Pri-Fly and his suspension, giving her the few details he was allowed to tell. He was surprised the story hadn’t spread to her wing but then she told him it had, just with no name attached.

  They finished their breakfast in silence and then she chuckled. “Hey. We lost the station championship.”

  “I know … to a squad from First Wing. I would’ve gone to watch but I was on duty.”

  “That makes sense.” Her eyes crinkled. “I looked for you, in the crowd.”

  “Oh?”

  Caviness giggled a little. “Yes. I thought you’d want to see if the team that beat yours won the title.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Also to see if you were a sore loser.”

  “And since I didn’t show, you thought I was?” Tyko laughed when she shrugged and looked away. “No, you beat us fair. Those last points, you were quicker.”

  “Thanks.”

  From that point on they ate every meal together, Caviness joining him even when the other pilots on temp assignment returned to their own squadrons. For the first time in his years of Fleet service Tyko found himself looking forward to something other than flying and battling Vyps. During patrols he counted the minutes to turnover so he could join her at the table in the corner of the mess hall.

  The door to the debriefing room opened, snapping Tyko back to the present as the support officer jumped to his feet. Assuming a senior officer had entered the room, Tyko followed suit, painfully hitting his thighs on the table in the process. He stood at attention, looking directly ahead until his squadron commander and an officer he didn’t recognize came into view.

  “That’ll be all, lieutenant. Thank you,” the commander said with a nod, prompting the support officer to quickly exit. Her next words, spoken before the door closed, made Tyko forget about Caviness and dinner. “Flight Officer Tyko, this is Major Tham, the Air Group intelligence officer.”

  Tham was older, in his late forties by Tyko’s estimate, with a narrow face and close-set eyes under bushy eyebrows. If Tyko’s heart sank at the sight of his squadron commander taking over the debriefing, it stopped beating with Tham’s presence. The young pilot’s daily life revolved around his squadron; he rarely had any dealings with the air wing and to his knowledge had never been in the same room as an officer from the Air Group in charge of the station’s flight operations.

  Tyko swallowed with some difficulty and nodded at the major. His squadron commander and Tham pulled out chairs and sat down, leaving Tyko standing on legs that felt rubbery. After a moment the commander nodded and gestured for him to sit down.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Tyko, the major and I just watched the patrol vid from your fighter, but we’d like to hear from you what happened.” The commander sat back and considered him with unblinking eyes. “Start from the initial engagement with the enemy.”

  He told them how the four-ship group entered the outer edge of the engagement zone, Tyko leading the way followed by Schmiller, Coldron and Kemal. He scanned ahead, looking for a good spot to throw the new pilots into the fray when a flight of six Vyps came at them from their left. It was surprising, but not unprecedented. Vyps usually preferred straight-on attacks, relying on sheer numbers to overcome their enemy’s greater skill and equipment.

  He ordered the others to make a hard diving turn to the left, increase throttles to full power and engage the enemy. Tyko’s plan gave the new pilots the best chance of surviving long enough to send some charged slugs in the direction of the enemy — as he saw it, a reasonable outcome given their lack of experience. At the same time, he would turn but remain level with the oncom
ing Vyps, drawing their fire while engaging from a low-percentage angle.

  Tyko ignored the excited yelps and cries from the others and focused on his own ship and fight. After coming around, the targeting reticle briefly flashed twice as his fighter’s nose passed the oncoming Vyp formation. He fired blindly, sending out streams of green while hoping to give the new pilots time to move into better positions. Some of his slugs found their target: a bright flash of light in the darkness of space ahead was followed moments later by another.

  Then he was past the line of Vyp fighters and using the flight controls and throttle to twist his own ship into a series of tight turns. Tyko expected to hear a warning warble indicating at least one of the Vyp fighters had locked on to his fighter, but instead his earphones filled with the excited chatter of his patrol mates as they engaged the enemy.

  He concluded that the Vyps were also new, and decided to let the two groups of green pilots flail at each other while monitoring his displays for new threats. When Coldron’s fighter exploded, Tyko pushed his throttle forward and headed back toward the battle, slowing down after a few seconds as he came across a motionless Vyp fighter. The enemy ship was nearly intact, split in half near the cockpit, which was something of a rarity: enemy ships usually fragmented into thousands of pieces.

  This is one of the strangest patrols I’ve ever been on, Tyko thought with a wry grin. Can’t wait to tell Caviness about it.

  Then one of the Vyps blew up Kemal’s ship and Tyko decided it was time to end the lesson. Pushing his throttle to full, he acrobatically moved through the swirling Vyps, destroying three of the remaining five enemy ships with as many bursts of fire. The final two Vyps fled at full speed and Tyko ordered Schmiller to form up on him.

  He set a course for the rally point where replacement fighters would be waiting for Kemal and Coldron, and requested Schmiller’s fuel and ammo status. Before she could reply a flight controller came on the net, ordering them to depart the engagement zone and await relief.