32
I reached the DDF compound a sweaty, out-of-breath mess. Fortunately, my daily walks back and forth to my cave had been a good imitation of physical training, so I was in reasonable shape. The gate guards waved me through, and I forced myself into another jog. I stopped off at the changing rooms near the launchpad and threw on my flight suit.
I bolted out the door, running for my ship. My Poco sat alone. Nedd’s ship had long since been assigned to another flight, and everyone else would be in the air already. The faint sound of AA guns popped in the distance, and burning streaks of falling debris indicated that this battlefield was dangerously close to Alta’s defensive perimeter.
My fatigue was suddenly overpowered by a spike of concern. A pilot was climbing into the cockpit of my ship.
“Wait!” I shouted. “What are you doing? That’s my ship!”
The pilot hesitated, glancing down at the ground crew who had been prepping the ship. One of them nodded.
The pilot climbed slowly back down the ladder.
“You’re late,” Dorgo—a man from the ground crew—said to me. “The admiral ordered all unoccupied ships manned and sent in as reserves.”
My heart thundered inside my chest as the woman—reluctantly—hopped down and pulled off her helmet. She was in her early twenties, and bore a prominent scar across her forehead. She gave me a thumbs-up, but said nothing else as she trudged off toward the crew quarters.
“Who’s that?” I asked softly.
“Callsign: Vigor,” Dorgo said. “Former cadet who got shot down just before graduating. She was good enough that the admiral added her to the reserve roster.”
“She ejected?” I asked.
Dorgo nodded.
I climbed up the ladder, then took my helmet from Dorgo, who climbed up after me. “Head to 110-75-1800,” he said, pointing toward the battlefield. “Unless you hear otherwise. That’s where your flight was told to hold position. I’ll let Flight Command know you’re up and off.”
“Thanks,” I said, pulling on the helmet, then strapping in.
He gave me a thumbs-up, then climbed down and pulled back the ladder. Another ground crew member waved with a blue flag once everyone was safely away.
I turned on the acclivity ring, then raised my ship. Eighteen hundred was a low altitude for fighting—we usually trained somewhere around 30,000. I felt like I was skimming the ground as I darted in the indicated direction.
“Skyward Ten,” I said, pressing the button to call Jorgen, “reporting in. Callsign: Spin.”
“You made it?” Jorgen replied. “They said they were going to send us a reservist.”
“It was a tight call,” I said, “but I convinced them I was the only one capable of giving you enough crap. You fighting?”
“No,” he said. “The admiral has us holding position near one of the AA guns. 110-75-1800, Spin. Glad to have you, crap and all.”
It took me around ten minutes to reach the position, where I spotted the other five members of my flight hovering between two large hills. I decelerated with a reverse burn, then fell into wingmate position by Hurl. Behind us, an enormous AA gun—longer than the flight school building, and then some—scanned the air for incoming Krell. A series of smaller guns sprouted from the base, ready to fire on low-flying ships.
A round of greetings from the others welcomed me. I could barely make out some flashes in the sky to mark the battlefield. The AA gun, however, let out a roaring blast behind us, shaking my Poco. Far overhead, a larger chunk of debris exploded into a shower of sparks and dust.
“So,” Hurl said in my ear, “how many kills you going to get today, Spin?”
“Well . . . the record in a single battle is held by callsign: Dodger. Twelve direct kills, nine assists. I figure it would be arrogant to try to beat that. So I’ll go for the tie.”
I expected a chuckle, but Hurl seemed serious when she said, “Twelve/nine? That doesn’t sound like so many.”
“Considering that most Krell incursion forces are around thirty ships?”
“There are seventy-five today,” Hurl said. “Easy pickings, if the DDF would let us actually fight.” She inched her Poco forward with maneuvering thrusters, and I followed.
“Where do you two think you’re going?” Jorgen asked.
“Just trying to get a better view of the battlefield,” I said.
“Yeah, belay that. Back into formation. Our orders are to hold position.”
We obeyed, but I found myself itching to get on with the battle. Sitting and waiting there, my fatigue kept bringing itself to my attention.
“Let’s call Cobb,” I said. “See if maybe we should send a pair of fighters out to scout the area.”
“I’m sure they have scouts working the field,” Jorgen said. “Hold position, Spin.”
“Hey, Arturo,” FM said over the line. “How far away is the main battle, do you suppose?”
“You’re asking me?” he replied.
“You’re the smart one.”
There was silence on the line for a moment.
“Well?” FM asked.
“Oh,” Arturo said. “Sorry. I was just . . . well, waiting for Nedd to make a wisecrack. I guess that’s still my instinct. Here, I can calculate the distance for you exactly.” A light flashed on our comm console. “Hey, Cobb. How far away is that fight?”
“About fifty klicks,” Cobb said. “Stay put, cadets. Victory Flight is almost up from the caverns, and they’ll relieve you once they come in.” His light flipped off.
“Great calculations there, Amphi,” FM said to Arturo.
“I consider it a mark of true intelligence to realize when someone else has already done your work for you,” he said. “That would make a good saying, right, Quirk? Will you use that one sometime?”
“Uh . . . bless your stars.”
“This isn’t fair,” Hurl said. “We should be fighting. We’re hardly cadets anymore, and I’m tired of simulations. Right, Spin?”
Off in the distance, flashes of light marked where men and women were dying. Losing friends, like I had.
I hated that this creeping, insidious worry had somehow infiltrated my heart. This hesitance, this fear. It was stronger today, probably because I was tired. Maybe if I could get out into the fight, I could prove myself . . . to myself.
“Yeah, Hurl’s right,” I answered. “We should be killing Krell, not killing time.”
“We do as we’re ordered.” Jorgen said. “And we don’t debate with our commanders. I find it remarkable how you can claim to hardly be cadets anymore, when you have yet to grasp something so fundamental as command structure.”
I bit my lip, then felt my face go warm with embarrassment. He was right. Stupid Jerkface.
I forced myself to wait for our replacements. They’d be one of the reserve flights, hangared—starfighters and all—down in the deep caverns. It was a careful balance; we couldn’t risk a blast wiping out the entire DDF by destroying Alta. But any ships we didn’t keep on immediate call took time to retrieve via the vehicle elevators.
Eventually, Cobb’s line flashed back on. I stifled a sigh. Truth be told, we weren’t in any shape to fight today—not after that long spent training. I prepared myself to turn and go back.