by Lance Berry
Travis was amazed that even that many had made it out, but said nothing of this. “What happened, Dad?”
Jack let out a slow gust of air, and his shoulders sagged…his back stooped just a bit under the weight of this burdensome memory. “Calvorian sensors are not quite as accurate as ours, but they do a good job in a pinch. More pods from other Heavy Cruisers ejected, but the battlecruisers started picking them off as soon as they left their ships. The three pods that made it off of mine were blessed. Captain Heather Pie, God rest her soul…she knew what I was up to, and what the enemy would do in return. When our pods ejected, she moved her ship, the Rejoinder, in front of us, using its bulk to block their scanners from detecting the pods. She fought valiantly, but I could see her hull taking critical damage as our pods built up enough speed to leave the battle site. We were joined by two more pods along the way and managed to land on a small moon about half a lightyear away. It had a thin atmosphere, enough that we could recycle some of it through the pods’ filters to use as oxygen in addition to our own supply, but only for small periods. The rest of the time we had to use breathing filters to live inside the pod. Eventually, once we considered enough time to have passed for the battle site to be clear of enemy activity, we sent out a distress signal. It was only picked up by the Pluto Watch Station a month ago.”
“So you and your crew lived in your pods for a year?” Travis asked in amazement.
Jack stood erect once more and moved to the window. He leaned his head lightly against its glass, and Travis could see that his father’s eyes were filling with tears…something he had rarely seen before. “Yes,” Jack replied, his voice almost a whisper. “But not without a price. Five pods made it to that moon, altogether holding forty personnel. But we soon came to realize that our food and oxygen wouldn’t hold out the entire time. So after the first four days, we figured out exactly how many people we’d have to…let go…before we would be down to an acceptable number that would allow the rest of us to stay alive.”
Let go. The words hung in the air with an inescapable air of finality to them, and Travis immediately knew what Jack meant. “How did you–?”
Jack sniffed, wiping away tears. “How did I choose? I didn’t…my crew did. I offered myself as first sacrifice. My ship was gone, I had a son at home who hated my guts, my wife was long-dead…what the hell did I possibly have to live for?” He turned to Travis, and his mouth moved silently, meaninglessly a moment, before he could speak. “I’m sorry, son…I’m not blaming you at all for my choice. I’m just stating what the situation was. But my crew and the survivors from the other ships wouldn’t let me sacrifice myself, no matter what. They said that I needed to survive, in order to help the others. But I was so helpless! What could I do to help anyone when every day, I had no choice but to watch as a different member of each pod was selected to step out into that environment and suffocate, while the rest of us drank in the oxygen left behind for us, the greedy fucking bastards that we were! At first, we tried to comfort them over the com-line, as we heard them gasping for breath. But then we couldn’t take that anymore, oh no–! We couldn’t stay on the line and bear to hear it, so we had to shut it off! Shut them out, then pretend that we couldn’t hear as they banged on the outer hull, begging to be let in as they changed their mind. The bangs would be violent, brutal and terrified at first–we could hear the desperation in it–then it would turn to slow scrapes, like the kind a dog uses when it’s begging to be let in on a cold day. Then nothing, and we knew that for one more day, at least, it was over. Oh yeah, thank God for that…”
Jack sobbed, his teeth gnashing as his body began to shake. “I started out with a ship, then forty survivors. And by the end, I managed to whittle it down to seven people, two of which are in mental institutions now.” He glanced at Travis, and there was a look in his eyes which surely teetered on madness. “You sure you want to join the military, son?” He tried to laugh, but it became a choking sob. Jack slid down the wall, curled into a ball, knees touched to his chin as he covered his face in shame. Travis slowly stood and walked over to him. And only a year ago, he could never have imagined that he would feel pity for his father, or that he would ever try to take him in his arms and comfort him, as he did now.
A while later, Travis found himself back in General Wintemberg’s office. Colonel Wentwell was present also, but Jack had been escorted to the campus psychiatrist’s office. “Your father is going to be taken to the MacLean-Barque Institute in Falls Church for a short stay,” Wintemberg told Travis.
“With all due respect, you mean he’s being committed, sir,” Travis replied evenly, wishing to clear the discussion of all pretense and subtext. Wintemberg shook his head firmly. “No, Travis. Your father has agreed to go. He knows that with proper counseling and support, he can resume a full military career in time. He wants that.”
“Then what about the two survivors he told me about, who’ve already been committed,” Travis countered.
“There were a couple of personnel who survived who have not mentally recovered from the ordeal, yes,” Wentwell answered. “They are exceptions to the rule. Although every human being has the potential within them to become a soldier, not every one accepted has the wherewithal, either physically or mentally, to endure once they have achieved that goal. You know I’ve mentioned that before.”
Travis nodded in deference.
“The two people your father spoke of just simply did not possess the mental structure to intake the situation fully which they were in, adapt to it, and endure its consequences,” Wentwell said matter-of-fact, as if he were reading a WeatherCom report for the day. “Your father does. It will take a while for him to get back on the path, but he’ll get there.”
“How can I help?”
“You’re just going to have to give him some distance and time, Travis,” Wintemberg answered. “He is going to require solitude and time to find his way back to us. But the psychoanalysts at the Institute are the very best. They’ve helped countless soldiers and veterans regain solid mental footing again, and I’m sure that Jack will be one of their greater success stories.”
“In the meantime, Cadet,” Wentwell said, his tone turning more business once again, “while you have our sympathy, you need to realize that your father’s situation does not accord you any lapse in your responsibilities to this institution, or special treatment at any time. We’re going to give you today off for free time, but tomorrow morning, it’s back to duty.”
Travis nodded in acceptance. “I understand, sir. Thank you for your help. Thank you both.”
Travis walked back across the quad to Brigand. Colonel Wentwell had given him his room assignment, so he knew that he was now in quarters B- 5, on the fourth floor. He had the same bunk assignment as the previous year, and was even going to have the same roommates once again. He was pleased by this, until he remembered that Francis Horatio’s mother was also lost in the Vega battle. He was pondering what to say to Francis, or even whether to tell him the news about his father, when he walked into the room to find Theo, Cavanaugh, Chen and a young man Travis didn’t know, all standing around Francis, who was sitting on one of the bottom bunks, rubbing tears from his swollen red eyes. Danielle sat beside Francis, rubbing his shoulder and speaking softly to him, trying to console him. Theo was the first to notice Travis, and he strode over to him, blocking his sight of Francis–or perhaps, Travis surmised, it was the other way around. “Your dad’s back, huh?”
Before Travis could ask how he knew, Theo answered, “Word’s all over campus, man. Somebody recognized your dad when he arrived a couple hours ago. He survived the battle? It’s true?”
Travis nodded, an edge of guilt in his voice as he responded. “Yeah. He’s alive. Guess Francis is taking it pretty hard, huh?”
“No shit,” Theo said, but then placed a friendly hand on Travis’ shoulder. “It’s not your fault. I don’t think he blames you or anything, it’s just…y’know?”
Travis nodded slightly,
then gently brushed past Theo to join the group. “Francis–?”
They all looked up at him, and there was no sense of judgment in their eyes, at least as far as Travis could detect. Francis tried to speak, but a harsh sigh came out instead. He took a breath, and tried again. “Where’s my mom, Travis?”
Travis shrugged. “I don’t know, man. And I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, my dad’s being shipped to the funny farm right now.”
“What?”
Travis sat down on Francis’ other side. “He’s got, I guess you’d call it, ‘survivor’s guilt’. He’s gotta undergo some therapy, and maybe he’ll be okay. His chances of survival were one in a million, man. And he really does only have his crew to thank for it. I’m sorry.”
Francis said nothing. He started to cry again, and Danielle took gentle hold of his head, guiding it to rest on her shoulder. As Travis watched, he suddenly felt downcast. He began to feel as if this was going to be a very long year, after all.
Chapter 16
A short while later, Francis gathered himself together and the room began to clear out, as the cadets had to go to assembly. Travis noticed that the new boy left with Francis and Danielle, and wondered what that was about. Only Hamilton Cavanaugh loitered behind, and Travis pointed his chin in the direction of the now-empty doorway as he asked, “So who’s the new guy?”
“Oh, that’s Tony Drake.”
The name was tossed off with such casualness, and an air of expectancy, as if Travis should automatically know who he was. To Travis’ surprise, he did. “Tony Drake, as in: son of Carter Thomas Drake, who settled the Mars Alpha Base just last year?”
“Yep. One more celebrity to add to our growing cult,” Cavanaugh chuckled as he slapped Travis’ shoulder. His voice abruptly dropped a bit in volume though, as he cast a glance back at the door before turning to Travis again. “Double bad break for Francis, though. I’ve heard Drake and Danielle hooked up about a week before school started. Supposedly, they’ve already done the deed.”
“Drake and Danielle?” Travis had to fight to keep the hurt from his voice.
“Yep. And Francis had a thing for her all last year, too. He was just too chicken-shit to admit it. I chatted with him over the vid-com during the summer, and he was gonna tell her how he felt soon as he saw her. Too bad. I think they would’a made a cute couple.”
“I had no idea. So what’s Drake like? Is he good to her?”
Cavanaugh shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, he’s an alright guy. I don’t know him too tight, but shit, we’ve only been in contact since Francis started the waterworks.”
Travis considered this new information, and realized that it simplified his life if Danielle was with someone else. In spite of her protestations to the contrary the previous semester, Travis still had the sense that she had feelings for him. And yet, Gilda was at home back in Garrison, waiting for him faithfully. Yes, it would be better this way.
“So, you comin’ to assembly or what?”
Travis started, and looked at the doorway, where Cavanaugh was now standing. He shook his head. “No. General Wintemberg and Colonel Wentwell gave me the day off. I think I’m just going to relax here for a while, collect my thoughts.”
Cavanaugh held his hand up, bending the wrist in a foppish manner. “Well, lah-dee-dah,” he said jokingly. “Next time the General has you over for tea and crumpets, you might at least put in a good word for me. Us real working class heroes would like a day off from time to time.” Both young men laughed, and Cavanaugh tossed off a goodbye before leaving Travis alone.
Several days later, Travis was back in the swing of things. Although the news of Danielle and Drake turned out to be confirmed as fact, he refused to let himself be bothered by it, and it seemed that Francis was taking it fairly well also. Travis also found out that Theo Booker and Christina King had become a couple as well, and Theo seemed to be getting along better with Anthony Chen because of it. Travis was doing well in his classes, and was eager to finally be in the Advanced Aeronautics and Spaceflight class for DFC pilots. The instructor was a small, nerdish-looking man, Professor Ivanston. He wore a tweed vest under a white lab coat, and blue trousers. His voice cracked on occasion, as if he had somehow not yet managed to escape puberty, though he was well into his forties. Most of the class took place in an old-fashioned classroom, where Ivanston actually wrote out notes on a blackboard. Travis didn’t realize blackboards still existed, yet it seemed to make perfect sense in keeping with Ivanston’s old-world persona. He wondered whether Professor Blaustein would have gotten along with him, or if he would have grabbed him by the seat of his pants and tried to kick him back to the pre-war era. Travis found that having to wait for Ivanston to write out his notes and diagrams on a blackboard rather than transmitting his teachings from a personalized dsp to the rest of the class was interminably boring, but he did his best to pay attention.
“You may think this is boring,” Ivanston said to the class as if he had read Travis’ mind, “but believe you me, the flying of a DogFighter Craft involves far more physics and knowledge of the celestial arena you will be navigating, than just hitting a button marked ‘go’! Navigating through space, whether it’s just flying from one parsec to another, or bringing your vessel in for docking in a Heavy Cruiser’s launch bay, is far more complicated than most people think, which is why so many flunk out. So don’t be surprised if many of you would-be ‘flying monkeys’ become just another statistic.”
After what seemed like ten eons in Ivanston’s classroom, it was finally time for each student to take a turn in the DFC flight simulator. The class of twenty students was led to a large, half-lit room without chairs. In the center of the room, a large Type IV Typhon-Class DFC rested on a mobile platform. Although the years of wear showed a bit on its exterior, it was still one of the most beautiful things Travis had ever seen. Like all the other students, his eyes glided over it, taking in its slender shape, the powerful twin laser cannons mounted to its bow, the large dorsal guide fin and wings, which helped it maneuver in a planetary atmosphere when necessary. That was one of the main features which helped push the Calvorian Skimmers off-world, when they first arrived at Earth: that the first series of DFC was more maneuverable in an atmosphere than their Calvorian counterparts. The Calvorians’ retreat at that time gave humans a chance to prepare for their eventual return.
Travis’ eyes roamed across the twin fusion engines at the rear, which allowed the craft to jump to the speed of light at almost a moment’s notice. He then saw that situated around the ship were three large holographic projection monitors: one directly in front of the ship, one on the starboard side, and one aft. They were blank at the moment, and Ivanston moved in front of the craft’s port side, bringing the class’ attention back to him. “You will notice that this is not the most recent DFC in use. It is actually the breed just decommissioned last year, before the new Predator series was placed aboard our Cruisers. However, the controls are still similar enough that you will be able to effectively master the Predator style, when one is given to the school later in the year. That is, if you manage to master this one first. I’ve given you all the theory on how to work these controls, and now it is time to put them to effective use. Don’t worry, the engines will not actually activate, nor are the cannons operational. But the system will provide accurate and actual ship motion and recoil, so be prepared.” Ivanston took a dsp out of his jacket pocket, and Travis was amazed that he didn’t have to dust it off or take a moment to figure out how it worked before using it. In fact, his fingers flew across the touchpad, and the three monitors suddenly lit up; the forward and starboard monitors projected an almost completely realistic interior of a Heavy Cruiser’s launch bay, complete with personnel darting about, while the aft monitor showed a readout of the DFC’s readiness.
“And now, we’ll need a volunteer–“
Travis’ hand shot up so fast, he almost clipped the person next to him. Ivanston pointed at him. “Very well, Cadet Rand.
Have at it, then.”
Travis couldn’t help it; he eagerly rubbed his hands together, and almost ran to the simulator. He climbed the footholds built into the vessel’s side as the canopy opened automatically. He almost didn’t hear Ivanston addressing the class, telling them that because this was a simulation, they didn’t need to worry about wearing flight gear. Even though the ship contained its own interior gravity, the professor explained, for the purposes of the exercise that feature was negated, so as to forego the push of g-forces on the individual inside. “Don’t worry,” Ivanston told them, “Soon enough, we’ll have the gravity field turned on.”
Travis slid into the cockpit, trying to relax in the stiff-backed seat as the canopy slid securely shut after him. The instrument lights came up at once, and he smiled widely as he checked out the positioning of all the controls: attitude and heading reference, 3-to-4D entry and egress management, emergency oxygen recycling, voice interface. He exhaled lightly, bracing himself as he took hold of the twin-handle control stick.
“Holy shit, this is so cool,” he whispered to himself.
A rap at the canopy shocked him back to reality. Ivanston’s face was all but pressed up against the reinforced glass. “Any day, Mister Rand.”
Several of his classmates snickered. Travis nodded eagerly at Ivanston, and noticed him tabbing commands into his dsp just before he turned to face forward. The simulated depth and width of the launch bay was almost daunting. Without warning, a red light flashed overhead. “Bridge to DFC twenty-seven. You’re clear for launch,” a synthesized female voice called out.
Travis snapped to alertness, checking his panel’s readouts as before him, the launch bay doors began to open, revealing the vastness of space waiting beyond. Travis flipped pitch and yaw switches, activated his inertia standby thrusters to lift his ship up. “This is Travis Rand in DFC twenty-seven. Launching now,” he said into the com, a thrill of excitement coursing through his body as the mounted ship simulated the feeling of lift as it “rose”, and he kicked on his main engines–
