by Jet Mykles
She walked stopped at the head of the room, nodded at McCray, and turned to face the newcomers “At ease, Ensigns. Be seated.”
Drake dropped back into his seat and took his first real eyeful of a legend.
She was taller than he would have expected, five-eight at least, but maybe as tall as five-ten. Tall for a pilot, just like him. She had rich, dark brown skin and huge black eyes. Eyes that brooked no nonsense as she studied them. Her coal-colored hair was buzzed short around her neck, but longer locks curled from the crown of her head to ear length. Her nose was small and flat, her lips wide and generous. The body that the unisex coveralls tried to conceal had beautiful curves.
What I wouldn’t give for some of that, he mused, keeping his expression neutral as she briskly outlined how their lives would be led for the next standard year during their Emirate training.
He knew all about her history. She used to be a maverick, making up both her own and others’ rules as she dictated the way VBY Emirate flighters were made and flown. He’d read all about her in the headlines five or six years ago. The most famous story went that she’d conned a mechanic friend of hers into tweaking an early veeby jump drive and, unbeknownst to her superiors, had taken it into combat. The result could have been disastrous, but it wasn’t. Her added speed and new maneuvers had won the fight, which turned out to be pivotal in securing a new section of the galaxy for the Emirate. It had also secured her a few years of fame as she and her mechanic friend became known as the foremost pioneers in veeby design. She was considered one of the top five experts in veebys in the six known galaxies, and she was going to be his trainer! Maybe now he’d find out why she no longer served active duty.
Suddenly, military life wasn’t looking so bad.
Chapter Three
“Damn, he’s good!”
“He is.” Beth kept her eyes on the monitor that showed Drake Ange’s simflight. She tapped a sequence into the keypad underneath her right hand, which sent his sim opponents into a different formation.
Beside her, Pol leaned forward, folding her arms on the desk before the wide monitor. Her glossy black hair shone in the blue-white light. “He’s fast! I’m shocked the simcraft keeps up with him.”
Beth snorted, eyes darting to a second monitor above the first, which showed the flight from a different angle. “It’ll keep up with him. He’s still rough around the edges.”
Beth felt Pol’s glance, but her eyes were focused on the simulated dogfight before her. She was tempted to reach for the flightstick beside her right hand and take over for the leading opponent sim, but resisted the urge. It didn’t hurt to let greenies win a few during training. Except that, in the two months since he’d arrived, Drake Ange -- or Dragon, as his fellow recruits were now calling him -- had yet to lose.
Pol laughed after a particularly stunning roll. “He fights dirty.”
“Yeah. The little bastard.”
Pol sat back, crossing her arms. “There is nothing little about that boy, Beth, and you know it.”
Beth would have retorted, but she was too busy gasping. Ange took the sim veeby through a suicidal dive. “He’s going to break up.”
“What the fuck?”
They both watched, stupefied, as Ange pulled his simcraft out of the dive, spun, and took out the three leading enemy craft in just two pulses of his cannons. First a wingman, then the lead craft, which spun and smashed into the second wingman. There was silence between them in the little trainers’ booth as Ange took out the remaining two craft and brought the current vid to a close.
“Bleeding eyes of God,” Pol whispered, collapsing back in her chair. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
Beth scowled at the blank blue screen. “It shouldn’t be possible.”
“Could he have pulled it off in a sim if it wasn’t?”
Could he? Beth’s mind whirled. The simulation craft were state of the art, built on precise mathematics over decades of enhancements. Those sim-veebys should fly in every way exactly like the real thing. But that maneuver just wasn’t possible. The velocity of the dive and the following spin should have broken Ange’s craft apart.
“Beth?”
Was it the dive? Or the spin? And how could he not have been disoriented coming out of that?
“Beth?”
He hasn’t even been in a real veeby yet!
“Beth?”
“Shit.” Beth leaned forward on the desk, face in her hands. A fine tremor crawled over her skin. Heavens help her, but she found herself running the move over in her head, trying to figure out how to replicate it. Her right palm itched, dying to be wrapped around a flightstick. Even if it was in a simcraft.
A hand on her arm. “Beth, they’re in the pit, waiting. Want me to go out and talk to them?”
Beth inhaled, pushing back in her seat. “No. I’ve got it.”
Drake fucking loved flying! And this was only a sim! The training sims on Rainier kicked ass over the ancient vidscreen surrounds on Krystan. Back home, you had to get into a flitter to really get the idea of flight. But this sim rocked! Even the environment was controlled to give him a real sense of velocity pull.
He barely thought about his hand on the flightstick, having accustomed himself to the feel of it over the past few standard months of training. He steered his imaginary veeby through a handful of ragtag pullers, inwardly amused that the sim put the Krystanni ships in the role of the “bad guys.” Both Fox and McCray had apologized about that, but Drake wasn’t bothered. He was actually impressed with the way the pullers moved. Whoever had programmed the sim must have gone up against some classic Krystanni tactics in his or her time.
But you couldn’t pull Krystanni tactics on someone who’d cut his eyeteeth on them.
Laughing viciously, he tore through the formation and took the sim veeby through what looked like a suicidal dive. He had a brief moment to wonder if the sim would follow him through it, but it did. He executed a tight roll and duck that brought him up behind the lead puller and took out it and two of its wingmen in two blasts from his cannons. The last two were a piece of cake, their formation broken with the sudden loss of the leaders. He was almost disappointed when they were all gone.
Riding the adrenaline high, Drake watched the fake shieldscreen before him blink to uniform electric blue as the sim shut down. The fake cockpit around him rocked slightly as it was brought back down to its cradle. Only when the simcraft had settled did he unstrap himself from the pilot seat and turn toward the exit two steps behind him.
“Stars, Drake!” greeted Oren as Drake descended the five steps to the simpit floor. “That was stellar!”
Alecks was right behind Oren, grinning like a madwoman. “You sure you’ve never flown a veeby before, Dragon?”
“That would be my question,” interrupted a low, sultry voice.
He, Oren, Alecks, and Jones looked toward the door to the training room as Fox stepped into the simpit. Lieutenant Pollanwe Byter, their other flight instructor, followed behind her.
The ensigns stepped back at Fox’s approach.
Fox stopped directly in front of Drake, looking up at him. Dark fire, as always. A man could happily get lost in those eyes. “What the hell did you think you were doing, Ange?”
“Sir?” Did she really have freckles across her nose?
“In there. What was that move?”
“The roll?”
“Yes.”
She did! How cute was that? “Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, there’s something wrong. Your ship should have fallen apart with the velocity of that move.”
He stared at her steadily. “Flitters can do it.”
“Flitters are quite a different build than veebys, don’t you think, Ensign?”
“With all due respect, sir, the ship made it.”
“In a simulation.”
“It worked.”
That steady fire sparked and ignited a now-familiar ache in the pit of his groin. It was w
rong to taunt her; he knew that. But, stars, she was stunning when she was miffed. What would she be like if she really got mad?
Unfortunately, she kept a tight rein on her temper. “Those kinds of risks are not yours to take, Ensign.”
“With all due respect, sir, whose job is it to take those risks?”
“Not. Yours. Don’t get me wrong, Ensign. You’re an incredibly talented pilot. I’ll give you that. But you keep taking risks like that and no one will put you in a real ship. There’s a matter of expense and human life at stake, Ange.”
He inhaled, pretty sure he scented the spicy herbal scent of her. Hopefully the cup in his flightsuit would contain the boner he could feel starting. “Yes, sir.”
She glared at him for a few more heartbeats and then stepped back. “Get into the viewing room, Ange. Jettylnim --” She pointed at Oren, then at the simpit door. “-- your turn.”
“I don’t know what’s got her shorts in a wad,” Oren muttered, watching Fox’s retreating back.
Drake smiled, unseen by Oren as they both manhandled the safety straps into place. Fox and Pol had assigned them to clean up the simpit after training.
“See you at dinner, Dragon! Jetter!” called Alecks from up ahead as she left with Jones.
Drake waved with one hand, holding the strap in place for Oren with the other.
“You did it,” Oren muttered over the hook and lock of the strap. “Okay, it was stupid for me to try, but it was such a cool move.”
At that, Drake just laughed outright. It had been stupid, and Fox had spent a good ten minutes ripping Oren a new one for it. “Don’t feel bad, Jetter,” he said, using the man’s newly adopted call sign. He stepped up to the wall beside the trainers’ booth and flipped the final switch. Most of the lights in the simpit dimmed. “She was blowing off steam. She was still pissed at me.”
“Oh, boy, was she!” Oren whistled as they started toward the exit. “I thought she was going to swallow her tongue. She just hadn’t seen the Dragon in action, had she?” Oren grinned.
Drake smiled. He rather liked the call sign his fellow recruits had dubbed him with. Not many tales of Earth’s legendary beasts had withstood the test of time, but tales of dragons and their exploits were told the galaxies over.
“She’s just pissed ’cause you’re better’n her,” Oren declared as they stepped into the main hall and started toward the gym and their next class.
“I don’t think I’m better than her.”
Oren snorted. “She hasn’t flown in action for five years. I’ll bet you are better’n her.”
“Yeah, well, you might want to keep that one quiet.”
Realizing they were in a public hall, Oren looked about. But there were very few people in the hallway for that time of day, so no one could overhear them. “I wonder why she doesn’t fly anymore.”
Drake wondered that himself. There were no records of why she’d stopped, just that she suddenly had after her promotion to lieutenant. She’d been on Rainer as part of the training force ever since. “Hey, why don’t you ask her?”
“Oh, right. She’d have my nuts in a vise before she’d even consider giving me an answer. She hates me.” Oren sighed as they started down a wide staircase to the lower level. “You think she really helped invent the veeby jump drive?”
“No. Not invent. But she did help refine it.”
“Yeah?”
Drake glanced down at the shorter man. “Don’t you know this?” he teased.
Oren rolled his dark brown eyes. “I’ve always hated watching headline vids. I’m a pilot. I don’t need to know this stuff.”
“But that’s an important piece of Emirate news. She helped put veebys in the forefront of ship design. You’d think you’d know the history, coming from Telyrud. It is the Emirate seat.” Not to mention Fox’s home planet.
“Yeah, yeah, so all my course teachers told me.” Oren snorted, scratching at the black stubble on his head. “I dunno why you bother to know it, though. You didn’t need to know anything about the Emirate to get in. I mean, you were a shoe-in, weren’t you?”
Drake froze, staring at the other man. Was Oren implying what Drake thought he was implying?
Oren stopped a few steps past him, turning with a confused look on his olive-skinned face. “What?”
A few young women passed by them, whispering softly.
“I was a shoe-in?”
Oren glanced at them, smiling. “Well, yeah.” He looked back at Drake, still confused. “You’re, like, the best pilot I’ve ever seen, man. Of course you were a shoe-in.”
Drake blinked, then laughed, relaxing as he started walking again. He had to remember that Oren was only capable of linear thought. The man wasn’t stupid, but he didn’t tend to see all the ramifications of what might be happening around him.
Oren frowned, following. “What?”
“Nothing.” They reached the floor and turned right toward the gym. “As for learning the Emirate history, I had to. Without it, I’d be lost around here.”
“You? Never.”
He was about to fill Oren in on some details of Fox’s illustrious past when a deep voice hailed him.
He turned, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head before training took control of his body and he snapped to attention. “Colonel Werner, sir.”
Werner strode toward them, waving as he neared. Werner was one of those men who was just bulky. Not an ounce of fat on him, but he was thick from the top of his square bald head to the bottom of his solid boots. The crisp lines of the blue daily uniform didn’t quite seem to suit him, but he wore the air of authority like a second skin.
“At ease, recruits.” He smiled at Oren, but his attention wasn’t in it. His attention was quite obviously on Drake. “Drake Ange. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is your training going, Ensign?”
Drake bobbed his head. He was a full foot taller than the colonel, which was rather disconcerting. Thankfully, the colonel stayed a few paces in front of him. Close enough to be personable, but far enough away so that he didn’t have to crane his neck. “It’s going very well, sir.”
“Good, good. I hear excellent reports about you.”
“You do, sir?”
“Yes. Sergeant McCray is quite impressed with you, as are most of your other trainers.” He cocked his head to the side, smiling. “Even Fox is sometimes complimentary. Although not often. The woman hates to admit to anyone else’s competence.” He laughed as though that were a huge joke. “Don’t let her get to you, boy. She’s one of our best.”
Drake nodded, trying to hide the fact that he was highly offended by the man’s flippant remarks about Fox. “I agree wholeheartedly, sir. It’s an honor to train with her.”
“Good.” Werner looked to Oren again and nodded, smile pasted on. “Good day, recruit.” Eyes back to Drake. “Ange. I look forward to your elevation ceremony.”
“Whoa!” Oren muttered when the colonel was a safe distance away, his back to them. “What was that all about?”
Drake frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
“See, man?” Oren slapped Drake’s shoulder. “I told you you were a shoe-in.”
Chapter Four
A shadow fell over her notes. Beth looked up -- and up -- a large male body in dark blue utility coveralls until her eyes locked with green ones. A head topped by an inch or so of fiery orange hair blocked a particularly bad glare from one of the main lights in the mess hall ceiling above them.
Ange stared down at her, a ghost of a smile hovering around the corners of his pale pink lips. He tucked his hands politely behind his back, waiting for her to acknowledge him.
“Did you need something, Ensign?”
“May I talk to you for a moment, sir?”
She gestured at the bench across the table from her. “Have a seat.”
He nodded and sat. His gaze settled on her face. That hint of a smile remained.
She se
t her notepad aside, flicking the corner that would send the screen to safety mode. “What’s on your mind, Ensign?”
He folded his hands calmly before him on the table. “You don’t like me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t like me, sir, and I would like to know what I did to warrant that reaction.”
Her smile was there before she could suppress it. “Rather direct, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I find it cuts through the shit, if you’ll pardon my language. Sir.”
“Why do you have the impression that I don’t like you?”
“You’re setting me up to fail.”
“Oh?”
His eyes narrowed. “You deliberately lowered the fluid levels of my simcraft this afternoon.”
Echoing his position, she folded her hands primly on the table between them. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you believe that a pilot should check his fluid levels before taking off?”
“We’ve never had to worry about fluid levels in sims before.”
“Your training is progressing.”
“If you had told us that we needed to look out for things like that from now on ...”
She frowned. “And why should I need to tell you that, Ensign? I’ll ask again -- don’t you believe that a pilot should check his fluid levels before taking off?”
“Yes, sir. In a real craft. But this was only a sim --”
“Hold it right there. That is an unacceptable excuse. Those simulations are to be treated as the real thing. If not, how can we expect you to take anything seriously?”
“But we’ve never had to worry about checking the gauges before.”
“You should have been checking them all along. The fact that you haven’t been called on it shouldn’t matter in the least. We are first and foremost training you to be a VBY pilot, Ensign, and that includes the care of your ship. If you can’t even take care of a sim, why would anyone trust you with a real ship?”
