Good Luck, Yukikaze

The man in charge of the retraining unit was a Major Karman, the director of test pilot training for the Systems Corps.

“Gentlemen, here you will be receiving the highest level pilot training,” the major said. “It’ll last for two months. Now, usually it’d take about six months, but you people aren’t amateurs. I’m sure that you’ll be able to keep up with the pace. Once your training is complete, you all will be the best fighter pilots on this or any world. Don’t forget how much money has been invested in each one of you. You people are the elite, and the FAF expects great things of you. I want you all to give this your very best.”

The major then carried on with an outline of the curriculum, which was to involve both theoretical study and practical training. The theoretical part would start off with a foundation of the physics, mathematics, and physiology related to flight and go on to tactical air combat theory and the study of the mechanics of FAF fighter aircraft. The practical training would involve flight simulator training, flight training in actual planes, physical strength training, and frequent physical examinations.

Lieutenant Mayle thought it strange that, aside from the abbreviated time period, this course was identical to official test pilot training. From Major Karman on down, not one person said anything to imply that they were losers for having been shot down by the JAM. Mayle was actually starting to believe that the FAF was training them to be an elite force.

That wasn’t the only thing he found strange. It was also how seriously everyone gathered here was taking this. He couldn’t believe that he was the only man there who felt like a loser. Either these guys are a bunch of idiots without a thought in their heads, or else they’re even more brilliant than I’d ever expected, thought Lieutenant Mayle. He wasn’t going to lose to them.

As soon as their orientation session was over, they moved straight into training. The entire day was spent completing every sort of paper test Lieutenant Mayle could have imagined. It started with a review of the FAF military regs he’d memorized upon entering the service and tests on his general knowledge of math and physics, before moving on to a monotonous and seemingly endless list of questions for a psychological test. It was, in a word, torture.

Testing continued till dinnertime. After eating, it was back to his quarters to write a report on his impressions of the day’s coursework, and then he had to do homework to prepare for the next day’s classes. Risking my life in combat would be preferable to two months of this, Lieutenant Mayke thought without a hint of irony. His roommates simply sat silently at their desks, studying without uttering a word of conversation. It was unbearable. What the hell is with these guys?

Mayle didn’t feel like taking the initiative to introduce himself. He hadn’t introduced himself to his teammates during the assembly in the hangar either, and so he had no idea what units they were from or what their prior roles had been. But now, here in their quarters, the silence was choking him. I guess I’ll have to be the first to open up here, Lieutenant Mayle thought. And so he announced to his roommates that he’d come from the 505th TFS at TAB-15 and then asked where they were from. The only response he got was from the room monitor — their de facto squad leader — who replied that it wasn’t time to take a break yet.

“Are you serious?” Lieutenant Mayle asked. “C’mon, we’re all friends here, right?”

“I don’t want to end up washing out,” the man replied. “I don’t have time to chat with you. I won’t permit a roommate to sabotage my work here.”

“Is that your order as room monitor?”

“It is.”

“And when did you run for the position? When did we vote on it? Who named you?”

“I suppose we didn’t vote on it,” the monitor said. “Still, if you don’t like it, surely you can see that it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

Lieutenant Mayle had lost his appetite for any more conversation.

As he wondered who this guy was, Mayle suddenly recalled that there’d been a roster of the men in his quarters mixed in among the rest of the mountain of paperwork he’d received that day. He dug around and finally found it. The room monitor was at the top, his name circled. Neither his rank nor his former unit attachment were written next to it. It was just his name. Come to think of it, he wore no rank insignia on his uniform, just a name tag. Lieutenant Mayle scanned the roster, looking to see if there was anyone he knew in one of the other rooms.

There was one. Then the relief of recognition turned to shock. The name Lieutenant Mayle had found was that of a dead man. Jonathan Lancome.

No, it couldn’t be. It had to be someone with the same name. The Lieutenant Lancome who’d served under him had been killed by the SAF, dying instantly when some unmanned fighter called Yukikaze had opened fire while he was performing maintenance duty on the ground. He’d seen Lancome’s remains with his own eyes. There hadn’t been enough meat left to put back together. It’d been horrible.

He wondered where this slightly healthier Lancome had come from. At any rate, the guy didn’t have a very lucky name, that was for sure.

“Any of you guys know someone named Jonathan Lancome?” Mayle asked. This time his roommates didn’t ignore him, either answering no or shaking their heads. The room monitor, however, answered that yes, he did know him.

“Was he a friend of yours?” Mayle asked him, to which the monitor replied that no, he wasn’t.

“There was someone named Jonathan Lancome at TAB-15,” he said. “You must have known him better than I did.”

Wait, so this guy knows which base I’m from, while I still know nothing about him? Lieutenant Mayle didn’t like this one bit.

“I’m asking because this man here has the same name. The Lieutenant Lancome who served under me died in combat. But how did you know that he was one of my men?”

The answer to that question wasn’t anything Mayle could have expected.

“Because it was my plane that killed Lieutenant Lancome,” the man said.

“I beg your pardon?” Lieutenant Mayle said after a long pause.

“I was Yukikaze’s flight officer. She was flying unmanned then, wasn’t she?”

“You’re here from the SAF? What’s your name?”

“Second Lieutenant Burgadish,” the man said.

Yes, that was the name on the roster. But now that Lieutenant Mayle knew that Burgadish was a crewman from Yukikaze, the plane that had killed Lieutenant Lancome, Burgadish was more than just a name on a list. This was Lancome’s murderer, or if not the actual killer, then someone who needed to be held responsible for his death, wasn’t he? How could Burgadish be saying all this so calmly?

“What’s wrong?” Burgadish asked, tilting his head inquisitively. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Why...? Why did the SAF kill Lieutenant Lancome?”

“Well, about that...”

Mayle expected him to reply that he didn’t know, but the man calling himself Lieutenant Burgadish betrayed those expectations.

“Simple,” he said. “Lieutenant Lancome was a useless human being, and so they had him killed.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You don’t seem to know anything, Lieutenant Mayle. Why not go see for yourself?”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“You can ask Jonathan Lancome directly. His name’s on that roster, isn’t it?”

“What are you saying? Lancome is dead. The guy listed on the roster is somebody else,” Mayle said.

“I only know one man named Lancome.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You asked me if I knew him, and I answered you.”

“You’re talking bullshit,” Mayle said.

“You were the one who asked me if I knew him,” Burgadish said.

Lieutenant Mayle silently turned away from him. This guy was clearly nuts.

“It wasn’t the JAM who got us,” the room monitor went on. “The one who hurt us was the FAF. It’s given us all a raw deal. You think so too, don’t you, Lieutenant Mayle? You know exactly how I feel. It’s the FAF we need to take revenge on, and this will be the perfect chance for us to do it. We’re going to show the FAF just how much