by J. S. Morin
“Only enough to debug ‘em,” Niang replied. “I’d be a liability out there in a dogfight.”
Reebo leaned away when attention turned toward him. “Don’t look at me. I’ve got my operator’s permit, but I’m strictly anti-personnel security.”
“Take Niang,” Yomin said, hooking a thumb at the former ensign. “I didn’t even have security clearance for the hangar bays.”
Niang glared at her. “Maybe, but this is a computer game, and you’re Miss Computer. That’s gotta count for something.”
“I stayed away from computer games just to avoid the stigma. You know how hard it is getting taken seriously when half the crew thinks your job is a game to begin with?”
“Fine,” Carl snapped. “If you numbskulls won’t volunteer, I’m recruiting. Niang, you’re in. Esper, you too.”
Esper froze. “Me?”
“You kept your mouth shut, and I know you can pilot a single-seat craft. If you can keep quiet on the comm and not shoot me or Amy, that’s a win in my book.”
“But I’m a…” she lowered her voice. This was no place to be spouting off about wizardry. “You know. I’ve got no business playing computer games.”
Carl reached across the huddle and put a hand on her shoulder. “Just keep it together and have some fun. This is a two-on-two match when it comes right down to it.”
“How do you know that your two pilot friends don’t have two more friends just as good?” Esper asked.
Carl grinned. “Oh, I know exactly who Red 3 and Red 4 are. I knew before we got here.”
# # #
Amy Charlton felt a bemused grin spread across her face as the cockpit canopy closed. Carl had told her all about the game at Duster’s, but to see a bunch of old Typhoon simulators turned into spectator sport just struck her as quaint. Is this what civilians thought naval combat was like: a simple simulator run that skipped briefings, in-hangar maintenance, and the god-awful travel times to and from the excitement?
The helmet provided by the diner smelled of lemony antiseptic spray and fit too loose for her liking. As the countdown to launch ticked away, Amy calmly pulled on a pair of her own aviation gloves and ran through a pre-flight check by rote. None of the systems were live and weren’t even registering her inputs, but none of that mattered. It was a ritual, a connection to the craft, even if it was fake. Carl blathered on to the newbies about the basics of the sim and squadron tactics; she tuned it out.
With five seconds left she took hold of the control stick and wiggled it to get a feel for its responsiveness. If it had been her Typhoon, she’d have had Niang tighten the slop.
At two, she test-squeezed the trigger a few times in rapid succession. Surprisingly good spring-back on the mechanism and little resistance. For a contest all about shooting, the diner’s maintenance staff had at least kept that in good working order.
With half a second left, Amy reached for the throttle and punched it open within a thousandth of a second of the simulator launch. Checking over her shoulder, she grinned at the sight of Carl’s Typhoon a fraction of a ship length behind her. She’d beaten him out of the hangar—just like old times. Lieutenant Commander Ramsey had never been able to match her reflexes.
She recognized the simulation immediately. This was Capital Ship Defense. Blue Squadron had just launched from one of the hangar bays on the ENV Important, a carrier vessel traveling with no support craft. The funny thing in this scenario was that both sides were defending the same ship. Naval doctrine on fighter combat held that capital ships were targets of last resort until all hostile fighters had been neutralized. That meant that neither side was supposed to fire at the Important, just one another.
Blue Squadron, this is Blackjack. Report in. This wasn’t the time to notice how sexy Carl’s voice was when he commanded a squadron. But there were seconds to spare before Red Squadron was in range, so she did.
“Scarecrow, reporting in.”
Hermit, reporting in. Amy smirked at the call sign. With the shaggy beard, he did look like he was shunning humanity.
Princess, reporting… oh, can’t I get something a little less inappropriate? Esper asked
How about you stick with Princess and if we do this again, you can pick a new one?
“Bogeys incoming,” Amy stated crisply. She could hear the change in her own voice as well. There was no room for sarcasm or wit when it was time to start shooting—unless your call sign was Blackjack, anyway.
Amy spotted them visually before the scanners picked them up. Two Typhoons were running an eyes-only pass along the dorsal side of the Important, using the carrier’s shield emitter as an E-M blind spot. It was the sort of advanced tactic that they didn’t teach in flight school, but that Carl had hammered into Squadron 333 in his endless simulator trials.
When they break visual contact, swing around on bearing zero-two-seven mark one-one-four. We’re going to come around the ship from the far side and see if we can’t catch them underestimating us.
Roger that, Niang said. He pulled into a tight formation behind Blackjack and Scarecrow.
I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m coming! Esper’s Typhoon overcompensated twice on the turn, trailing well behind the other three ships. Oh, this was an awful idea. How’d I let you talk me into this?
This was no time for mollycoddling. “Princess, just keep formation best you can.”
Stop calling me that!
Oy vey! Bringing a wizard along was a bad idea. Trusting her to handle astral travel was a stretch, but at least magic was her area of expertise. But she didn’t belong at the controls of a starfighter—even a simulation of one. All this tech was too much for her to handle. The squadron would have been better off with Yomin or Reebo warming a seat.
Carl was in the lead position, with Amy on his wing, when the rival Typhoons came into view on the far side of the Important. Far from being surprised by the blue team looping the long way around the carrier, two of their Typhoons were poised with guns ready to bear.
The shots flew wide and wild. Carl hung in and returned fire before breaking for evasive maneuvers. Two of his shots connected, hammering into the shields of the red team’s Typhoons. Amy squeezed off a shot of her own at the second bogey before following on Carl’s tail. Niang fired off a volley of errant plasma before turning to follow. Esper just trailed after them without a shot.
That’s a rearguard. We’re 4 on 2 right now. Fan out and let’s bag these kids before Mom and Dad show up to bail them out.
Amy blinked, momentarily drifting away from Carl’s six. “Wait. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Lisa and Jax Jr. I have socks older than the both of them, Carl confirmed. We’re still planning on dusting them though, so don’t get soft on me.
The two child-piloted red Typhoons opened fire, astutely aiming for the clumsiest of the blue herd. Esper’s shields flickered out before she jerked wildly enough to throw off the junior Schultzes’ aim. Gah! I’m so sorry everyone. I’m just not cut out for this.
Nonsense, Carl replied. He fired maneuvering thrusters to put his Typhoon into a sidelong slide, bringing his guns to bear on the enemy while his momentum carried him toward his port wing. In a concentrated burst of fire, he eliminated one of the red Typhoons. You’re doing great.
Mother of Mercy… I’m bait, aren’t I? You brought me along for target practice.
Amy mimicked Carl’s maneuver, kicking her forward-port and aft-starboard thrusters in unison and taking a target lock on the second Typhoon. She kept quiet on the comm despite a rising inclination to wring Esper’s neck. What did she expect, a tutorial? A shooting range?
Niang’s voice popped in for the first time since calling the role. Um, this is Hermit. I think I found the ringers. A second later, his ship disappeared from radar.
Carl commented immediately. You know, I’ve wondered what the other sim pods show once a player is eliminated.
“I don’t plan to find out.”
I’ll take notes for you, Esper sa
id with resignation.
The two Typhoons piloted by Jaxon and Rachel Schultz were flying as if attached by cables. Whichever of them was flying the wingman position was shadowed in the shields of the lead Typhoon. Esper’s fighter accelerated away as they approached, but her headlong run made her an easy target. The panicked breathing that had been transmitting over the squadron comm went silent.
We better make this 2 on 2 quick.
“Roger that. Engaging infanticide mode.”
That sounded creepy.
“Yeah, I guess it did. Sorry.”
Just imagine if those were our kids.
“I’d like to think that ours would handle themselves in a dogfight.”
They’re 6 and 5.
Amy scowled at the radar. Two of the hostile blips were closing fast while the other two beat a haphazard retreat. Punching the throttle, she took off in pursuit of the easy targets while they were still easy targets. Carl had already done likewise.
It would have been nice to say that Juggler and Vixen’s comingled DNA had resulted in preternatural piloting skills even from such tender ages. But these were still kids. While they seemed to have figured out the basics of Typhoon flight controls, there was nothing that could hold up against an adult’s reflexes and training, especially not two of Earth Navy’s top pilots. In silent agreement, Amy and Carl took a target apiece and poured simulated plasma bolts into them until they vanished in twin puffs of debris.
Two down, two to go. Any particular way you’d like to do this, sweetie?
“Scarecrow to Blackjack, cut the chatter. Take point. I’ll cover you, as always.”
Amy had often wondered what it would have been like leading a squadron of her own. As a pilot, she was certainly qualified for the job. Playing wingman was, quite frankly, beneath her. Fleet wide, there might have been five pilots that were her equal. But thanks to some rather gruesome psych evals, Blackjack Ramsey was the only one who’d take her into battle. He trusted her when no one else would, and even counted on her to watch his back. Falling into formation to cover Carl’s ass was like old times. Still, maybe next time she would take point.
Juggler and Vixen had been flying together too long. They moved in tandem, coordinating like a pair of linked AIs. Standard tactics would have dictated trying to separate them, but one major topic in training was avoiding having that happen to you. Those two knew it as well as Carl and Amy, and they had far more recent practice.
The dogfight dragged on as both sides expertly used the carrier Important as cover, dodged incoming fire, and stubbornly refused to make a fatal error. Amy found her jaw clenched in frustration and worked it side to side to loosen the muscles. “Blackjack, we’re not making any headway here. We’re out of practice.”
Oh, sorry. I was having fun and lost track of time. We ready to end this song and dance?
“You have a plan?” This was where Amy had never been able to compete with Carl. Technically, she might have been the superior pilot, and certainly her precognitive reflexes gave her an edge. But she lacked the imaginative insanity that served Blackjack so well.
Next time we pass the Important’s bow, spin a 180 and redirect all shield power to the forward array. We focus fire on whichever of them is first around to follow.
“That’s not much of a window.”
Doesn’t matter. The head start on plasma output will give us a kill. Their only hope would be to know we were planning this and break off pursuit. After that, I think 2 on 1 will be cake.
The little part of Amy’s brain that unconsciously scrubbed away the bullshit from everything Carl said reported back clean. “Roger that.”
She dodged a blast of plasma fired more for form’s sake than with any lethal intent. Juggler and Vixen had to be getting used to the idea that she and Carl weren’t going to take more than a glancing hit to the shields, and even then only rarely. Rounding the bow of the Important, Carl and Amy fired maneuvering thrusters in unison, simultaneously redirecting shield power to face the onrushing Red Squadron fighters.
Which of them was which, Amy hadn’t puzzled out. But either Jaxon or Rachel careened around in pursuit and ran into a face full of Blue Squadron plasma. Shields lit in staccato flashes until they failed and the Typhoon disintegrated into simulated scrap metal.
After that, it was a rabbit hunt. A good pilot can draw out a full-on pursuit for minutes even under concentrated harassment fire. But Carl was an unnaturally good shot, anticipating evasive maneuvers and accounting for it in his aim. She’d never been able to match his fire-on-target percentages either in simulators or live combat. The last red Typhoon didn’t stand a chance.
When it was over, a simple “VICTOR” message flashed up on the screen, and the simulator’s canopy opened of its own accord. Used to managing the controls herself, Amy felt like an actress being thrust out onto stage before she was ready for her scene. Taking off the ill-fitting helmet, she shook out her braids and set it on behind the headrest. As she climbed down, her legs were jittery and her heart rate still spiking above norms.
The Red Squadron pilots were already approaching. Juggler and Vixen looked like mildly aged versions of their old selves, and two miniaturized copies followed close behind.
“I knew it was you!” Jaxon Schultz shouted across the diner as he closed the distance. “Brad Motherfucking Ramsey! And Jesus, you brought Amy Charlton to fly on your wing. Who the hell’d I piss off?” Despite the bluster, Jaxon was grinning to the ears. He wrapped Carl in a bear hug.
“Mom,” Lisa Schultz whispered. “Who’s Brad Motherfucking Ramsey?”
“That’d be me, kid,” Carl said, disengaging from the girl’s father and kneeling down in front of her. “Though the ‘Motherfucking’ part is honorary.”
Rachel hugged Amy. “It’s good to see you, both of you.”
Jaxon lifted his namesake. “You owe us dinner, Blackjack. We’ve been eating on the house for weeks. I don’t even have hardcoin on me.”
“Sure, but I’ll do you one better: I’ve got a job offer for you.”
Rachel gave Carl a hard look that had a distinctive maternal disapproval to it. “What sort of job?”
“The sort we can discuss after dinner… someplace with fewer ears.”
# # #
Roddy paced. It would have been a hard message to record, so he hadn’t. Instead, off into the astral void went a vague text comm to the emergency comm ID of the Mobius filled with innuendo and a stringent request for Carl to get in touch with him. That had been three hours ago.
Three hours wasn’t a long time in the grand scheme, but he’d run the calculations. Even if the Mobius was at the far end of the disputed sector, the message should have reached him by now. Five units of astral depth plus a signal traveling at near light speed relative to realspace… it covered a lot of void in a hurry.
Carl might have been sleeping. That was Roddy’s number one reason for not commandeering one of the syndicate’s ships and heading off toward the last known location of the Mobius. He looked like enough of an ass as it was, and paranoia was a one-way ticket off the priority team. Niang would keep Roddy’s job permanently.
Carl might have been pissed at him. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for the captain of the Mobius to deal with whatever shit Roddy had caused and just not tell him. Tanny used to talk him out of petty bullshit like that, but she wasn’t around anymore, and Amy might not have known all the duties that came along with her position.
Carl also might have been dead. In which case Roddy should have entered full-blown guilt and climbed back into the largest bottle he could find. An alcohol-addicted laaku wasn’t a great candidate for making friends, even if he was naturally gregarious—which Roddy knew he wasn’t. Carl had been the best friend he’d ever had and was rather unfortunately irreplaceable.
# # #
Carl sat at the kitchen table of the Mobius with the two newest members of the syndicate—once they relented and agreed to work for him. Cracking open two cans o
f beer, he passed them across to Jaxon and Rachel. Jaxon took a drink without hesitation, but his wife eyed hers skeptically.
“This the kind of sewage you organized crime boys always drink?” she asked.
Carl shrugged, taking a long swig from his own can. “Sorry. My regular mechanic is drying out, and we’re doing him the favor of washing down his stash. It may only be Earth’s Preferred, but we don’t let beer go to waste around here.”
In the background, Jaxon Jr. and Lisa were playing Omnithrust Racer on the holo-projector while Esper kept watch over them. At a glance, both of them were better at the game than Adam had been. But comparing the gaming skills of a 5- and 6-year-old to those of a 102-year-old brain in a 10-year-old body wasn’t quite fair. Still, it kept the rambunctious little rascals out of the way while Carl hammered out a deal with their parents.
“So what is it you guys do?” Jaxon asked. Sitting at Carl’s right hand, Amy chuckled.
Carl grinned sheepishly. “Funny you mention that. I was actually hoping to glance a few ideas off your shields.”
Pausing in the middle of an exploratory sip of her Earth’s Preferred, Rachel shot Carl a wary glare. “What kind of operation you running here?”
“A new one. I’ve got resources coming out my ass and no idea what to do with them all. Duty roster is over a hundred, but other than the six of us out here, the rest are back at base, polishing door consoles and picking out drapes. I’ve been running a small crew for years now, and I’ve been stuck thinking small.”
“Seriously, Blackjack,” Jaxon said, shaking his head. “I’d go to prison for you. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have Rachel and the kids. But what do you want from us? I’m not seeing it.”
“I need hands that are used to getting dirty. I need grace under pressure. I need people I’m used to having at my back and that I can trust in a fight. To put it bluntly, I need half-devils.”
Jaxon sighed. “Not a lot of those left.” He tipped back his can in an impromptu salute to the dead.
“From here we’re going to track down Samurai. I got a comm back from him last night that he’ll meet with me. He’s as good as in.”
