by Lance Berry
He was brought back to reality by Ivanston’s voice over the com once more. “Alright, Cadets. I know you’re all wondering what’s going on. I chose this group first because you’ve done the best in class this year. We’re going to take a quick jump to the moon and back, so be certain that you follow my instructions exactly. In spite of the cinematic adventures of Captain Kane, jumping to light speed isn’t as simple as all that. Although the moon has a very light gravitational influence, it does possess one nonetheless. You’re going to have to compensate for that when coming out of jump, so as not to get caught in its gravity. The same goes for our return home. Stay in formation, and hold on the course I’m sending you now while I contact Alpha moon base for an approach vector.”
The com fell silent, and Travis’ fingers flexed around the twin-handle joystick in anticipation. A signal beeped on his console, and the readings for his altimeter shut off as, with a final clearing of the blue sky and an abrupt darkening of his cockpit, the vastness of the stars revealed themselves to him.
Travis gasped at the beauty of the heavens. Like any young man, he had spent summer nights sitting on the porch staring up at the sky and dreaming of being free of life’s gravity, able to soar among the stars…to be able to see them for what they truly were. And now he was here. Without the blanket of Earth’s atmosphere to dilute them, the burning pinpricks in night’s curtain shone in all their grandeur. He licked his suddenly dry lips, and felt tears of unparalleled happiness fill his eyes. And for one moment, a thought came to him: Maybe God does exist.
“All right, class,” Ivanston’s voice came back, shunting Travis out of his reverie, “Set your ship to automatic pilot for this one–Cadet Guzman, move your ship back one-quarter, please.” Travis checked his proximity readings. Hugo had moved up slightly, just out of formation–the nose of his personal craft just starboard and aft of DFC one’s engines, rather than beside Travis’ ship’s nose where it should be. He then glanced out of his canopy; with a gentle tap of his forward retro-thrusters, Hugo managed to move smoothly back into formation.
“Very good,” Ivanston complimented him. “As I was saying, I want your ships on automatic pilot for this jump. You have your approach vector, so mark it in your navicomp’s system. We will jump on my mark. Stand by.”
Travis had been so busy observing the celestial beauty all around him that he hadn’t noticed when Ivanston’s heading coordinates had come over the bearing indicator. But he saw them now, and quickly entered them into the navicomp–the system designed to take over and control the flight on long journeys, when a pilot might be exhausted and choose to take a brief nap so they might be more alert when they arrived at their destination.
“Activate your navicomps,” Ivanston said. Travis did as ordered, and tentatively removed his hands from the joystick controls. His DFC maintained course and speed without a beat, and he exhaled in relief. “On my mark, we go to light speed. Three, two, one–mark!”
On Ivanston’s mark, Travis tabbed a panel on the navicomp, and felt a minimal pressure increase as the ship’s fusion engines created a null field around the vessel, deleting its weight to nearly absolute zero and allowing the DFC to almost immediately accelerate to the speed of light. The stars vanished for a few moments, as the ship moved so fast that nothing could be clearly seen. Travis checked his light speed indicator and galactic plane orientation systems. The DFC was moving at 186,000.10 kilometers per second, and the galactic plane showed one large mass in his path. With a mild shudder, the DFC came out of lightspeed and Travis had to fight the urge to grab his joystick and turn hard to port or starboard as the moon itself suddenly loomed in front of his squadron’s path. The navicomp beeped, signaling journey’s end. Ivanston’s voice reported in once more: “Shut off your navicomps and take control of your craft once more, class. Use your long-range sensors to scan the surface. First one to tell me what your board shows receives an extra ten points added to their final grade.”
“We’re 752.6 kilometers above Alpha moon base.”
Travis shook his head, dejected. He had just finished checking his readings, when Danielle piped in–she must have switched to manual and checked her board as soon as they dropped out of light speed.
“Very good, Cadet Keys. Someone else, pull up the population count for another ten points.”
This time, Travis was ready. “One hundred thousand and seventy-two civilians and soldiers, sir.”
“Well done, Cadet Rand,” Ivanston responded. “Last question, ten points as well. Where is the base located?”
“The Apollo crater,” Christina said proudly.
“Ten points to you, Ms. King. All right, class…I want you to follow me. We’re going to turn slightly to port, twenty degrees. Special surprise for you.”
Travis checked his positioning on the galactic plane, and reconfirmed visually: the transport was a solid hundred kilometers ahead of the squadron, which was following a perfect formation pattern. The transport began to turn and they followed exactingly. Ivanston gave no further orders as the front of his transport dipped steadily toward the moon’s surface. Its engines lit up as they fired slightly, and the transport lowered on a gradual angle. The squadron members assumed they should do as the transport did, and in perfect formation, they dipped the noses of their DFCs and followed at the same rate of descent as the shuttle.
The transport evened itself out at about five miles over the rocky planet’s surface and headed on a direct course. The squadron followed about half a mile behind Ivanston’s shuttle. Travis wondered where they were going, and he was sure the others were as well. After a couple of minutes, his sensor board started beeping, and his map of the virtual horizon showed a structure of some type ahead. He looked up, checking the view thru his canopy…he could just about make out some kind of metallic structures, and occasional flashes of light. He glanced down at his virtual map, which should have given a name to what he was seeing, but didn’t. Other than the proper name of the lunar location they were approaching–the Mare Moscoviense–no information of any kind displayed on his terminal. With an announcing signal, Ivanston came over the ODC again. “By now, you’re probably wondering why you haven’t any information showing on your monitors. The reason is that we are approaching a secure installation, which is not yet publicly known. But I have a couple of friends in the right places, and so I’d like to welcome you to the underconstruction Yeagher moon base.”
Travis’ eyes widened in wonder. He craned his neck for a better view, which he quickly realized was both useless and reckless; as he stretched his neck, his body shifted and his ship pitched downward by half a degree. He quickly righted the ship, but Ivanston had already noticed. “Cadet Rand, what are you doing?” he said sharply.
“Sorry, sir. Got distracted by the sight of the base.”
There was a slight pause before Ivanston answered. “Pay more attention,” he replied simply, a stern measure in his voice. Travis nodded, more to himself than the professor, who obviously couldn’t see him. His proximity signal abruptly activated, and five blips appeared on the virtual map, apparently rising from the incomplete base itself. “Not to worry,” Ivanston said casually, “Those are standard DFCs which are assigned to guard the base. They know we’re coming.”
Sure enough, within moments, the five DFCs were only a few dozen kilometers away. They closed tight ranks–far closer than Travis’ squadron held–then spread apart like a blossoming flower, each soaring past the cadet class so close that Travis’ proximity alert went off. He twisted his neck around quickly to catch a glimpse of the Yeagher DFCs, which swiftly came hard about and cut back toward the cadets.
Two of Yeagher’s DFCs shot past on either side of the squadron formation, making proximity alerts go off once again. Travis focused ahead, watching intently as the rest of the DFCs from the base rejoined their fellows and headed back toward the construction site, all closing tightly into formation as they went. Travis whooped and cheered along with the rest of his flight ca
dre, their yells mixing with his own over the com system.
The flight cadre didn’t proceed much further, as Ivanston’s clearance could only carry them so far. Upon the professor’s order, the squadron turned back the way they had come, and soon enough they were back above the Alpha crater, pointed in Earth’s direction. Travis took a good look at his home world on the horizon, the planet’s lower quarter eclipsed by the shadow of its only natural satellite. He found it almost impossible to believe that as little as a century ago, the great conflicts between nations were only just beginning to settle down. People of different ethnicities and religious creeds still held animosity toward one another. All of it–all the stupid, petty bickering and insipid divisiveness–ended the day the Calvorians came to Earth and announced their intent to annex the planet into their own territories. It was the ultimate irony of the war, that if there were any one thing to thank the Calvorians for, it was that through obtuse means, they brought a type of peace to the human race. Now the species was united under one banner to defeat this alien enemy for good, and who knew–? Perhaps once the war was finally over, the peace between nationstates and the people within them would not be only a fleeting necessity brought about by conflict. Maybe it would last.
“All right class,” Ivanston said, bringing Travis back to the here and now, “Set to autopilot and on my mark, jump to light speed.”
Travis and the others did as they were told. In just a few brief moments, Earth loomed large in their canopies. Travis was about to switch off his autopilot as they entered the atmosphere, when his proximity alert suddenly blared to life.
“Guzman! Guzman,” Ivanston cried over the ODC, “Change your approach vector! Correct! Correct!”
Travis snapped his head to the right, and his heart leapt into his throat–Hugo’s canopy and face were so close to his own, Travis could hear his helpless scream of mindless terror above the wind rushing around them. Hugo’s canopy brushed against the side of Travis’ DFC, just below Travis’ own cockpit. There was a flash and explosion from the rear of both ships and Hugo’s craft bounced off, spinning away as Travis’ ship shook violently. He had time to just glance out his window, and saw flames sprouting from Hugo’s dual fusion engines…and then, just so simply, Hugo’s ship exploded, the shockwave from the blast jostling all the DFCs and making debris rain in all directions.
So many warning lights and signals went off on his control board at once that Travis didn’t know where to look first. The nose of his DFC began to tip at an angle, making the ship pick up descent speed. He grabbed his controls tightly, but the joystick was sluggish, beginning to lock up. Forcing himself to come to his senses, he checked his engine reading first, then power levels. According to the smartware’s instant diagnostic, the number one engine had full power, but number two was heavily damaged and fluctuating wildly. It was either going to blow, or just go dead completely. Several mainflow power routing systems(MPRS) were heavily damaged on the starboard side and rear, where Hugo’s ship had struck. They couldn’t fully be counted on, but there was still a significant amount of power which could be rerouted if necessary.
“Cadet Rand! Travis,” Ivanston called out, “You’re about to go into freefall! You need to get your wings level! Pull back on your control joystick!”
As the DFC continued its forced descent, it was jostled by the irregularity of the wind rushing past its tilting wings. Travis pulled back on his joystick, but it had tightened significantly. He checked his Vertical Speed Indicator–a device he normally wouldn’t need, free of Earth’s atmosphere–and found he was doing nearly 120 knots.
Travis knew he needed to get down to at least sixty-five knots if he was going to be able to level off and control his descent. He pulled back harder on his stick, grunting in frustration and swearing at the stuck control. The sound of rushing air seemed to grow louder, but Travis realized at the last instant that his proximity alarm was going off once more. There was a screech-crunch! and Travis actually felt something bump into his ship! He checked his sensors in disbelief, then craned his neck out his canopy; another DFC had matched his speed and lowered itself to come partially underneath his own, then rose to a point where Travis’ wing was “perched” atop the wing of the other ship.
“Danielle!” He called over the com, “What the hell are you doing!”
“I haven’t got a clue,” she cried back, desperation in her voice. “I did a quick scan of your systems. I’m hoping I can level you out to a point where your controls will unlock, and you can take it from there. My comp says that once you’re at a level speed, your joystick will unfreeze. Just cut your engines a bit–“
Another screech…
“–and hurry, before someone has to catch me!”
Travis did a quick systems check, letting his smartware do another diagnostic on his fusion engines. His eyes scanned the readout and he began to throttle back on the port side engine, letting it power down to a level nearly matching the weak output of the starboard one while tapping his retro-thrusters. His VIR showed his speed decreasing slightly–the power of his engines no longer adding to the rapid descent at least–and he tried to ignore the horrible intermittent screeching from his starboard wing, not wanting to contemplate the damage that was being done to Danielle’s own…hoping that when all was said and done, there wouldn’t potentially be two bloody splotches mixed in with the debris on the ground.
He pulled back on his joystick and felt it finally start to give. With an exhalation of air, he pulled back again, and this time the stick slid toward him easily. “Alright, I’ve got it,” he signaled over the com. “Get outta here, Danielle–now!”
“You’re already looking at an afterimage,” she said, and with a roar, her ship pitched out from under his and sped away. Travis checked his bearings; he was about sixty miles off course from the Sanderson School’s hangar bay, but near enough to Mount Laguna that he figured he might possibly be able to make a landing in the Anza-Borrego desert. He adjusted his bearings to make the course correction, then fired his engines just enough to give himself a little more thrust forward. He had been dipping to just below sixty knots, so he brought it up to seventy and managed to maintain this by powering down his engines once more and using his aft thrusters and dorsal glider wing to achieve his best gliding speed.
“Cadet Rand,” Ivanston called over the com, “You’re out of visual range, but I still have you on my board. What’s your status?”
“I’m on approach to Anza-Borrego, sir. Hoping to make it there. It’s all I’ve got.”
“You’re doing well, son,” Ivanston said, trying to maintain an air of calm. “You’re at a good speed, just remember that once you pick a spot to come down, you need to open your wing flaps to slow you down. It’ll give you more lift for a safer touchdown. Are you listening, Travis?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied tersely.
“Good. Pay attention, because you’re going to need this: unlike twentieth and twenty-first century aircraft, DFCs aren’t really built as well as they should be for a forced landing, since they’re usually not used in a planetary atmosphere. Prewar flying ships had wheels on their landing gear. We make due with struts, but this won’t help you in a crash. If you try to land rear struts first like you were flying a tomcat, for instance, they’ll snap straight off and you’ll tumble end-over-end to your death. Are you hearing me, Travis?”
“Yes, sir. If I can comment, I’d like to say that nothing you’re saying is making me feel any better.”
“Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, when you come down, don’t use the struts at all. Keep them retracted! Keep your nose up, let the undercarriage take the damage. Do you understand?”
Travis checked his virtual map. He had just passed the mountains, and the desert was directly ahead. “Yes, sir.”
“Remember, Travis…come in at as gradual a speed as you can. Pay attention to your VIR and map. For every mile you are from the spot you intend to come down, you should add three hundred-fifty feet
to your height off the ground. If you’re three miles, it’s ten-fifty feet. If you’re two miles, seven hundred. If you’re one mile–“
“I get it!” Travis shouted, hoping the last sound he would hear wouldn’t be Ivanston’s incessant droning. If death meant a release from the professor’s puberty-locked voice, then so be it.
“Just so,” the professor said evenly. “Good luck, Travis. I’m praying for you.”
Travis shook his head. Might as well pray to the Easter Bunny, he thought sardonically. He picked out a spot where he thought he could safely land, and let his eyes dart between the VIR, his map and the view outside the canopy. He kept his wings level and pulled the joystick back as he opened his flaps. This managed to decrease his airspeed, which was nearly back up to ninety knots, due to less wind resistance at this lowered height. With the exception of the map, he now powered down everything but auxiliary batteries. He struggled with the joystick, which was beginning to lock up again. It was only now that Travis realized he was sweating profusely. He couldn’t afford to swipe away at the salty sweat which ran into his eyes, forcing him to blink as the tangy moisture stung them. He pulled back, forcing the nose up, the tail down–and then the craft hit the ground so hard, his neck snapped back and he was lifted up slightly from his seat. He swore as the top of his helmet bashed against the curve of the canopy, but he maintained his grip on the stick. There was the sound of screeching and scraping away of metal on the undercarriage, which was almost as loud as the crash itself. He skidded for what felt like forever, the titanium of his ship brushing aside cacti and rocks of various sizes.
Yet finally, he slowed to a stop. He checked what instruments he could, due to only being on auxiliary power: his starboard engine was in total shutdown, the fusion cells drained. Sensors showed that his class was nowhere in the sky…more than likely, Ivanston had ordered them to return to the school for their own safety. He did see on the scope that the professor’s transport was on final approach, and then noticed that he could hear the distant whine of its engines as it moved closer. He tabbed a panel and his canopy opened, allowing real air in, along with the brightness of the sunny morning.
