Starfighter Down: Relics of the Ancients

One

Captain Elya Nevers exhaled, shook out the bone-deep ache in his hands, and tilted his Sabre into the canyon.

Sheer rock walls rushed by as he plunged into shadow. He inhaled, gripped the stick in a sweaty palm and pulled back to level the starfighter, guiding it smoothly forward, testing its pitch and roll as he settled in. He was aware of the weight of his helmet, the sound of his breath, the way the spinal port at the base of his skull rubbed against the stimchem injector. By now he’d flown dozens of missions on as many worlds and though the landscapes blurred together sometimes, he never got bored of being in the cockpit—as if it were possible for him to grow tired of being a starfighter pilot in the Solaran Defense Forces. How could he? He was living his boyhood dream.

A Kryl drone tore around the corner ahead and beamed toward him, its wing-tip cannons held open on full auto. Elya banked hard right, dodging the projectiles and passing the ship with less than a meter to spare between his canopy and unforgiving stone. As he came around to give chase, his wing scraped a scree-covered ledge along the canyon wall. Although the Sabre’s forcefield saved him from serious damage, the impact caused a rockslide, forcing him to dodge falling boulders and fly with reduced visibility as he followed the drone’s blurred form.

He gained on it until the teardrop-shaped ship was only a few hundred meters in front of him. Engines screamed as two more bogeys dropped in on his six. Elya opened his throttles and blasted forward, separating himself from his pursuers only to see the one ahead had dropped a floating mine in his path at a chokepoint where the canyon walls tapered inward. He hauled back on the stick, narrowly dodging the explosive. The control column shook so hard his fingers went numb. Elya gritted his teeth and held tight.

His Sabre shot out of the canyon at a near vertical trajectory. He pointed the ship at the deep orange sun so that the two enemy ships still dogging him would have a difficult time spotting him in the glare. The drones, being both organism and ship in one, had faster reaction times than Solaran pilots, but even their ability to see was affected by the light of a star.

A blast to his left wing rocked the Sabre and took out an engine. Lucky shot, he muttered. Reaching for a switch, Elya cut the engine’s power, swung back around and mashed his trigger, blowing one drone into a cloud of carapace and guts. He banked and rolled, keeping his flight erratic to prevent any heat-seeking torpedoes from getting a lock on him. His detection and ranging systems, a combination of radar and lidar, bleeped loudly as he maneuvered, helping him out of danger.

He adjusted his course to lead him back down into the canyon. A yellow flash in his peripheral vision drew his awareness into the cockpit. For a split second, he was hyper-aware of the harness strapped tight around his chest, the array of digital and haptic controls curving around him. With an effort of will, he set aside the distraction and returned to the hunt, banking, twisting and turning at top speed.

One of the two remaining drones dropped into view ahead of him. His weapons system chimed for lock and Elya shot its left wing off, grinning as the drone bounced off the wall and exploded.

That leaves one.

Another alert pinged in at the top right of his visor. With an irritated growl and a flick of his eyes, he swiped it away, annoyed he had forgotten to mute notifications.

He led the final enemy, who had dropped in behind him, on a meandering chase through the canyon, bringing his starfighter so low at one point the Sabre’s belly skimmed the surface of a river cutting through the canyon floor.

Then he climbed high and fast, intending to loop back over the top of the drone and force it into the rocks. He crested the ridge, pulling up, feeling a heaviness on his chest and shoulders. Stim chemicals flooded into his spinal port, making him momentarily more resistant to the G-forces, and decreasing his reaction time. An orangish-red light flashed, then went blue, distracting him again and causing him to miss the moment.

Instead of a successful kill, Elya ended up a smudge of grease against the canyon wall.

The sim went dark. Red letters appeared superimposed over the front window: Mission Failed.

Damn it! Elya snatched his helmet off, careful to detach the stimchem injector, and dropped it to the floor. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard red spots swam in his vision.

Extreme canyon run?

The woman’s voice sounded wry, amused, mocking. Elya only knew one person who snarked at him like that. He stepped out of the simulator, hopped to the ground, and glared at the muscled blonde leaning against the small room’s curved door frame.

Captain Casey Osprey held her hands together, supporting a small bot shaped like a hedgehog in her cupped palms. Hedgebot circled three times and curled up, comfortable as could be. No wonder his bot wasn’t by the cockpit, where it normally sat, during the last part of that canyon run. True to form, the danger detection bot had sensed movement on the sim deck and gone to scope it out.

How could you tell? Elya asked. From the outside, the sim itself was transparent so instructors could observe the pilots they were coaching. However, she wouldn’t have been able to see the landscape he’d been immersed in unless she had been here when he set the parameters.

You tried to do that loop maneuver again. I told you, it’ll never work. It takes too long.

You don’t know that for sure.

Have you managed it yet, Fancypants? She used his call sign like a prod. Most of the time he didn’t think twice about the nickname his style and record-breaking training runs earned him in flight school, but when she used it like that it rankled.

It’s just a matter of time, he said.

He didn’t use her call sign, since Raptor was too cool to be a taunt. It was a play on the captain’s family name and matched tattoos of the mythological Earth hawks adorning the inside of her forearms. He’d gotten Naab back for sticking him with Fancypants, but Elya’s chance for a cool call sign was as out of reach now as owning property on overpopulated Ariadne.

Mmhmm. Speaking of time, Osprey said, you spend an awful lot of yours on that sim, especially with this being our first deployment to the outer rim. Why don’t you live a little? Come hang out with us. See the galaxy.

She had only been appointed flight lead right before this deployment, and already she was giving him orders? I’m busy training. Besides, there’s nothing to see right now. The evac is going smoothly.

We’ll see action soon enough. What are you trying to prove?

I want to be ready.

Osprey moved into the room and hitched her hip against the steps leading up to the sim. Listen, Nevers, I’m not busting your chops for fun. It’s my job to make us a cohesive unit, and I can’t do that when you won’t act like part of the team. This isn’t just about being a good pilot. It’s about knowing we have each other’s backs.

He frowned. Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?

"No. You always take your assignment without whining. You never leave your wingman. You’re never late to drill. But you aren’t always present. Captain Elya Nevers is there. Yes-sir-reporting-for-duty-sir. Thing is, the squad needs Elya the friend, too. The guy who’s good with bot mods and completely insufferable after he beats you at a game of aleacc."

Hey! I’m not insuf—

She rolled her eyes and chuckled softly. I’m just giving you a hard time, Nevers. I want you to be you… come on, whaddya say? I’ll even offer to relieve you of a month’s pay in a game of handles.

Oh, how generous of you.

Elya fought down a smile. He’d always liked Osprey’s competitive streak. Something in him loved to rise to the challenge. At the same time, he didn’t like the censure, and hated knowing deep down that she was right. He wanted to be part of the team. He’d always wanted to be part of something where he felt connected to other people. But he didn’t always know how, and he wasn’t going to give Osprey any more ammunition.

He whistled, calling Hedgebot back to him. The little hedgehog-shaped machine—finely bristled, with sensing mechanisms running along its back and feet, and a whole lot of personality crammed into the color-shifting lights in its belly—hopped from Osprey’s hands to the floor and scampered up his arm to perch on his shoulder. It felt natural to have Hedgebot rest its weight there. The bot was clever and had no trouble balancing. It’d been given to Elya as a gift when he first became a refugee, long before he joined the Solaran Defense Forces. He’d been ordered to make several modifications to the bot’s programming and mechanics to meet Fleet requirements, but he’d been allowed to keep it, and for that he was grateful.

Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but I need to take care of a few things. I’m good doing what I’m doing, all right?

Elya dug his tablet out of his pocket and was trying to locate the notification that had distracted him during the sim when Osprey’s muffled snort caught his attention. She had picked up his helmet and was peering through it at the viewscreen.

What’s so funny? Elya snatched the helmet out of her hands. Hedgebot beeped at her, a dissonant sequence with a rising inflection.

You actually used Captain Ruidiaz as your avatar?

Mind your own business, Raptor.

Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. Ruidiaz was a war hero and an incredibly talented pilot. Wish he were still around to teach us a few tricks. She paused, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes. I bet you were the kind of kid that had a holovid of him in your bedroom, didn’t you?

Nah. I would have had one if I’d learned about Ruidiaz back on Yuzosix. Once we became refugees, we couldn’t afford luxuries like having our own bedrooms.

Elya’s family relocated to a settler’s moon after the Kryl invasion of Yuzosix and spent the next several years skirting the edges of abject poverty. There had been months-long stretches where it was a good day if he got two meals and a roof over his head. Not having a holovid of the legendary pilot who was his hero—or a bedroom to put it in—was something his brother Rojer would have whined and moaned endlessly about. Not Elya. Instead of complaining, he invested every ounce of energy into getting off that rock and learning to fly Sabres.

Osprey put her hand on his shoulder. You know, now that I think about it, you do kind of fly like him.

I guess that’s what happens when you study countless hours of footage in the library archives.

One thing the refugee colony did have was a library. He was able to spend as much time as he wanted watching holovids of Ruidiaz’s Kryl encounters. That footage was the main reason he’d decided to join up. At least as an Imperial pilot, he could count on being able to send a few credits home each month. That was more than most could say.

Osprey snorted. That’s some way for a kid to entertain himself. When I was a kid, I got so sick of my dad and granddad telling war stories and talking about how being in the Fleet was such a noble calling that watching old footage was the last thing I wanted to do.

So why’d you join up?

She shrugged. Didn’t want to let him down, I guess. Plus, I’m good at it. I can outfly your butt any day.

He grinned. That’s the best you got? And you became flight lead, how?

The thought of settler’s moons and sending money home made something click in his mind. The notification had been a bank alert. A quick review with his tab confirmed that his paycheck, measly though it may be, had been deposited into his account.

One nice thing about working for the Solaran Empire, he said. The money always shows up on time.

He swung around Osprey and ducked into the hallway. Soon he was making his way out of the living quarters and into the communal spaces at the center of the Imperial destroyer.

Hey, wait up, Osprey called. I’m not done with you yet.

Elya didn’t slow his pace. She may be flight lead, but they were technically the same rank and he wasn’t about to let her boss him around on his personal time. If she wanted to talk, he wasn’t going to stop her. But he wasn’t about to wait up for her, either.

Her footsteps quickened. Osprey jogged until she came alongside him, giving him an irritated look.

Look, the last thing I want to do is order you to rec.

You can’t order me to spend my free time with anyone I don’t want to. He usually had a better hold on his temper but screwing up the sim and getting lectured by his flight lead drilled on his last nerve. I know we both wanted to see more action on this mission, but since we haven’t seen any Kryl yet, I don’t see why spending a little extra time in the sim is a bad thing.

Plus, the rec wasn’t exactly his idea of restful. It held ball courts, game tables, pleasure sims—all sorts of mindless crap designed to keep soldiers entertained. There was a bar, too, although they closed at 2200 Galactic Standard Time to prevent the crew from getting too rowdy.

Her smile was strained. All the more reason for you to be well rested and ready to go.

To be fair, I was there yesterday. We played aleacc, remember?

Yeah, you showed up, Osprey said. "But like I said, you weren’t really there, you know? The rest of the squad thinks you’re kind of standoffish."

He was careful not to let it show how much that remark stung. He’d never had problems with any of his squadmates. But would they have told him if they did?

Of all the other pilots, it was Osprey he knew best. She hated broccoli and liked to workout first thing in the morning. She sweated over other people’s approval, and it was no wonder, since her father had packed her off to a military academy without so much as a warning when she was still a girl. It taught her to adapt quickly to awkward social situations and strive to fit in. She was also a damn good pilot. In flight training, which they had gone through together, they’d always been neck and neck in the rankings, with instructors pitting them against each other in maneuvering and shooting drills.

This forced competition had one huge advantage: It made both of them better pilots. When they began to fly real Sabres in mock combat missions, they separated from the pack. This shared history was probably the reason why Osprey had come to talk to him. No one else would have bothered. He grudgingly gave her credit for caring at least that much.

Look, Captain, I like playing aleacc, but I don’t like spending the whole day killing time. Plus, I’m not much of a drinker. And you know most of those guys, if they don’t have to fly that day, they don’t want to be walking straight, either.

Yorra rarely drinks and yet she always hangs out with us. You could do the same.

I maintain my starfighter and keep my blaster clean. I help the others repair their bots when they can’t do it themselves. I’m never late to a briefing. I’m a good pilot. What more do you want from me?

Osprey sighed and ran her hand over her face. She stared up and away. He studied her out of the corner of his eye, tracing the strong line of her jaw, the slightly crooked cut of her nose from where it had been broken in a fight. She looked like a hologram of an Old Earth statue. Not his type, exactly, but attractive in a patrician sort of way.

You don’t have to like it. But you could at least make an effort.

By now they had taken three or four turns down nearly identical hallways. Every so often, a supporting frame jutted out a bit into the hall so that he got the feeling that he was walking through the ribbed belly of a whale, or some other ancient creature out of Old Earth mythology.

The others have to know they can count on you when it matters most, Osprey said. "If you don’t build that connection with them now, when it comes to a firefight, they’re not going to know that you have their back either. Training is important. Believe me, I love how hard you work. I always have. No one pushes me to be a better pilot than you do. But you’ve got to make an effort to be friends with the rest of the squad, and the time for that is at the rec."

The whole conversation annoyed him. He was doing his best. He knew Lieutenant Park was the only boy in a family of six. He knew Lieutenant Yorra had lost her parents in a raid during the Kryl War. He knew their birthdays, home planets, religions. He had made all the requisite inquiries. He wanted to fit in, but they had been on missions for the past six months, and though they hadn’t seen much action yet, they would soon. In his mind, this was the time to get serious about training. He’d be damned if his career ended early because he made an amateurish  mistake. It had happened to better pilots than him.

We’re not out here evacuating a rim world colony to make pals. We’re here to kill Kryl. And to take vengeance against the xeno scum who stole my homeworld, he added silently.

Osprey stepped in front of him and forced him to stop walking. She reached out and gripped his shoulder, squaring herself up. She hesitated a moment before saying, You're not a refugee anymore. All I’m saying is, you don't have to do this alone.

He stiffened against her touch but didn’t jerk away. He didn’t like to talk about his past with anyone, not even Osprey. It’s not about that. I just want to be ready when the time comes.

She dropped her hands. He pushed past her and picked up the pace. Several more turns through the halls of the destroyer led him to the library and the computers that could transmit data back to the settler’s moon. It was the only place on the ship with a secure ansible connection, which he needed to transfer credits to his mom’s bank account back home.

And the place was jam-packed with people.

Oh, Earth, he muttered, scanning for an opening.

How about the colonel over there? Osprey said. Looks like he’s getting up to leave.

A hungover balding man in his mid-fifties with a colonel’s sunburst on his shoulder pushed up from his seat at a console in the far corner of the room. Elya made his way through the crowded library, past the rows of immersion holodecks until he reached a relatively private row of functional monitors with screens much larger than the tab in his pocket. He let a servant bot sanitize the workstation, impatient at the delay, then groaned when he tried to log on.

There was a queue for ansible access, too.

A lanky man with sloped shoulders sitting two seats down, who Elya recognized as a line cook, chuckled and said, Me too, man. Imperial technology!

He stewed in silence while he waited, studying the crowded library. More people than usual filled the place, but with fifty thousand personnel stationed on the Paladin of Abniss, there was no such thing as quiet in here. Everyone came to the library to get their news, talk to their families, check their mail, and more. Most people seemed to be in good spirits. Perhaps, like him, they were pleased they’d been sent out here to the galaxy’s edge to evacuate a colony because it meant a chance to see action. After a twelve-year stalemate in the war against the Kryl, most soldiers—especially Sabre pilots—were itching for a fight.

When his turn finally came, he logged on to his bank account, put half the money in savings, set aside some for spending, and sent the remainder home to his mom. It wasn’t much, but the money assuaged a little of his guilt at leaving them in a place with little chance for employment and ration cards that barely put food on the table.

He tabbed over to a news aggregator and checked if there was any word from the system where his family was located. After scouring the feeds for a while, he blew out his breath. No news was good news.

Stretching, he relinquished the seat to the next person in line and headed for the exit. Thankfully, Osprey was nowhere to be found, and no one else took it upon themselves to yank his chain about his social ineptitude.

Hedgebot beeped. Elya reached up and touched the sensor on the tip of the bot’s nose. What’s that, bud? You want to fly another sim? Great idea. Let’s swing by the mess for a bite to eat and a charge, and then we can get back to work.

He pushed away thoughts of Osprey’s advice, of his mom, of the hellhole his family couldn’t escape. His only job was to train. Get better. Be ready.

It was only a matter of time.

Two

Casey scrolled through the library terminal, opening files at random and hoping she might get lucky. You’d think that with access to centuries’ worth of leadership content, at least one book or holovid would be able to reveal the key to getting through to that idiot, so intent on staying walled off from anyone and anything except a training sim. But no such luck.

The next time she looked up, the terminal Nevers had been using was occupied by someone else. Casey logged out and hurried to the doorway in time to see him turn down the next corridor and out of sight. That damnably cute little robot of his pulsed blue and scurried along the curved wall after him, as if it moved on an invisible leash. She’d never seen a bot more devoted, and while usually this fact made Nevers seem endearing, today it made him seem like an aloof jerk.

She fumed at his stubbornness the whole walk back to the rec. When Lt. Colonel Walcott first told her she’d made flight lead, the news had filled her with pride and excitement. She knew it was a big responsibility, but it was also her first step on the leadership path—the path she’d been groomed her whole life to take. She just never realized the most difficult part of the job would be dealing with other people. Casey was usually great with people.

What am I missing? she wondered.

The portal to the rec where the rest of her flight was killing time irised open as she approached, belching out a cloud of acrid tabac smoke. She caught a whiff of ganja mixed into the scent and knew that Lieutenant Innovesh Park must have been digging into his stash again. Cannabis was sold in most base exchanges, right alongside the loose tabac and cigars. Casey felt a hankering to light up a smoke of her own right now but resisted the urge while she hunted Park out of the crowd. True to form he was puffing on a rolly as he slouched in a chair at a card table in the corner.

He bent the hexagonal cards in a fan toward himself and gazed around the table, then pushed all his chips into the pot. He flipped a card over, tapped a symbol on the table, and the hologram of a saber-toothed tiger sauntered forward and ripped out the guts of a dragon guarding Lieutenant Olara Yorra’s position.

Oh, no fair, Naab! Yorra said, throwing down her cards. I had you cornered.

Park shrugged, a boyish grin lighting his brown eyes. He was descended from the colonists of Taj Su and shared the canted eyes, sharp cheekbones, and short, stocky frame common on his planet. A jokester at heart, Naab was a head shorter than most women on the ship, but broad in the chest and handsome. And he always had a big smile for a pretty girl.

Spotting Casey, Park turned that smile on her and waved. She wove through the crowd. As she reached the table and stood over him, she plucked the rolly from his mouth and took a big drag. See you've been having fun. She exhaled the sweet smoke. A hint of mango and cannabis coated her tongue.

Told him we were still technically on call, but this flyboy didn't listen.

Does he ever?

Always the jokester, Naab had earned his call sign when he went streaking through the mess hall and ended up getting locked outside on a cold winter morning, naked as a baby. Hence, Naab. She always suspected Fancypants was the one who locked him out, but Nevers refused to admit it.

What’s the big deal? Tiny dose of stim and I’m right as rain. He tapped the port on the back of his neck. Casey felt her own tingle. All starfighter pilots had them installed when they joined, and most days she forgot it was there.

Casey shrugged and collapsed into the free chair. She may have been flight lead, but she wasn’t the squadron commander. They were still on call, but as long as they weren't flying, Casey wasn’t about to police their consumption. If the Fleet didn’t want pilots smoking ganja, they shouldn’t sell it in the exchange. Besides, Casey had tested it herself and Park was right. Even if you were half drunk and stoned out of your gourd, those stim chemicals sobered you right up.

Park eyeballed Casey as he reshuffled the deck of cards and dealt them out between himself and Yorra. Where’ve you been, Raptor?

She scratched at an imperfection in the table.

You were checking in on Nevers, weren’t you? Gears sat up