The launch bay depressurizes.
“Time on your training clock starts as soon as the doors crack. Be ready to move, pilot.” Amye forgoes rank.
The deep guttural order tenses his muscles. His whole arm jams forward on the thruster controls as the launch bay doors open.
The Mecat lurches into space. Low-orbit combat. First catching his attention is the beauty of the bluish star looming over the horizon of the planet. Next, plasma beams in space explode in such brilliance that, if somehow one was unaware each burst was extinguishing a life, this would be stunning.
Targeting computers demand response with constant beeping.
Maneuver, aim, fire, avoid.
Reynard depresses the trigger. Streams of plasma burst from the cannons built into the forward section of his Cat. The bolts merely bounce off the armor of the closest Mecat.
“That’s a Mammoth Class Cat. Nothing short of armor-piercing rockets will dent it. You’re wasting valuable energy reserves and precious seconds.”
Amye’s enlightening evaluation of his target does little good. Before he corrects his mistake and fires missiles, the Mammoth Class Cat incinerates him.
Electricity surges through Reynard—biting—reminding him he failed.
The cockpit canopy cracks with a hiss. As it raises Amye awaits him like a mother catching her son after curfew.
“Thirteen seconds. You lasted thirteen seconds.”
“Better than most days.” Reynard unclasps the seatbelt harnesses.
“How did you ever collect two-hundred hours with thirteen-second attempts?”
“It doesn’t start out on the hardest level. I blew through easy and medium like a Sega game, but now I’m stuck on level impossible without a Game Genie.”
“Your first issue is you don’t know your Mecats. You need to study the designs. Know what weapons class it takes to damage what armor—a basic skill. Then you have to understand mercenaries, buy one class of Cat and refit it with different armor and weapons to confuse Battle Analyst Computers.”
“Mercs custom-fit their Mecats. Got it.”
“Mokarran usually don’t. They get the standard assembly-line models, and they are armored well,” she informs him.
“I want to try again.”
“The training shock when you fail will be more intense this time. I don’t recommend it. Besides, you need to study Mecat designs before you lose another thirteen seconds. You could have blown through the Mammoth with your rockets if you chose them over plasma cannons.”
“Then I need to use what I’ve just learned and go again.”
“The simulator has an artificial intelligent program designed to anticipate your movements as you train. There won’t be a single Mammoth Class Mecat in the next combat round. We need to report to the bridge. Australia called while you were in the simulator,” she adds.
He shoots her an annoyed glance.
“There are no alarms going off, so it won’t hurt her to wait. What’s the perk of being the captain if you can’t take your time answering a communication transmission?” Amye smiles.
••••••
REYNARD HOLDS HIS thumb and forefinger about a half-inch apart. “I came this close to giving you a simulator to repair.”
Amye pauses before the elevator. Her right hand brushes over the top of her blaster on instinct as Reynard eases close to her in order to step inside the lift.
“Bridge,” he instructs the computer.
“Piloting a Mecat is not as easy as a fighter,” Amye says.
“I’m never going to make the five hundred hours needed in the simulator to get in the seat of a real one.”
“Not everyone qualifies. And considering the life expectancy of Mecat pilots, you may want to stick to the captain’s chair.”
“We’re mercenaries first, even if we answer to a secret benefactor.”
“There are plenty of ways to blend into the merc world without piloting a Mecat,” Amye assures him.
“It’s the best way to make a name for ourselves.” Reynard marches from the elevator.
“Not if we get killed first,” Kymberlynn whispers into Amye’s ear.
“Name a famous Osirian Mecat pilot,” Amye requests of her captain.
“You know I haven’t been in this future long enough to know popular sports stars.”
“Five years or five hundred. No one recognizes Osirian warriors. Most aliens don’t even care about us. Even without war, Osirians have a short life span.”
“So everyone says, but there’re hundreds of planets with millions of us on each.”
“We never have accepted the confines of population control.” Amye slides through the bridge doors.
The oval bridge configuration surrounds a series of control stations before a view screen that covers the entire end wall of the bridge. Nearest to the bridge doors sits the main control station with its form-fitting custom captain’s chair. Slightly below are the navigations and communications stations. Environmental, damage control, engineering, and weapons spread out among the four stations below the two. Optimizing configurations allow each control station to operate any of the ship’s functions, but each station’s layout works best for its primary design. Piloting the Dragon from the environmental station requires more skill than using the joystick controller at the helm. Before the view screen a horseshoe-shaped couch rests. The Dragon lacks a true communal area for the crew to gather. The designers of the ship focused on work instead of being social with their crewmates.
Amye abandons her captain, passing his chair and two more stations to reach her assignment.
“I’ve never seen a ship without some kind of view port, a window of some kind so you could run over and confirm whatever your sensors are saying you’re about to fly into. Not on the Dragon. Not a single window,” exclaims Kymberlynn.
“This ship’s full of technology other species haven’t invented yet. The builders must have had a good reason to avoid windows.”
“It would reduce hull stresses, and a seamless hull prevents so many problems on entering the atmosphere of a planet. Could be why a ship of this size lands on the surface with little issue.”
“Don’t get too spoiled. You won’t always get
