Coda found himself smiling as a sense of satisfaction welled up inside him. He couldn’t help feeling as if he’d made it. He was aboard a warship. The opportunity for glory rested at his feet.
Commander Coleman led them into an area of the ship that was less busy. “These will be your quarters,” Commander Coleman said. “These four barracks sleep twenty-five a piece. The rest of the squadron will be arriving shortly. In the meantime, the facilities are that direction.” He pointed down the corridor back the way they had come. “So, take a shower, get in a workout, do whatever you need to do to mentally prepare yourself for what comes next.”
“The rest of the squadron?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Commander Coleman said. “You didn’t think you were the only pilots vying for a spot in this squadron, did you?”
The pilot who asked the question, Autumn “Whiskey” Jones, stirred under the commander’s patronizing gaze.
“There aren’t even enough pilots here to fill out a squadron, let alone build one,” Commander Coleman said. “Yes, other pilots will be joining us. A lot more, in fact. I said each of these barracks sleeps twenty-five, and we have four of them, so even the worst student here should be able to figure out that means one hundred pilots. You number only fourteen. So you can expect to see a lot of new faces. Now get ready—your briefing begins in two hours.”
Commander Coleman disappeared down the corridor, and the pilots began filing into the various barracks. Coda noted which barracks Moscow entered and avoided it.
“Bunk together?” Uno asked Coda and the two other pilots who had enjoyed the flight with them.
“Sure.” Coda pointed toward the nearest barracks, the one farthest from Moscow’s. “This work?”
“Doubt any of them are different,” Squawks said. “And it’s closest to the crapper, so it works for me.”
When nobody voiced disapproval, Coda stepped inside. Like the rest of the ship, the barracks was long and narrow, with bunks stacked two high and inset into the wall on either side of the room. At the foot of each bed was a vid screen, and each was provided with a privacy shade that could block out light and muffle unwanted noise. It was a step down from his private quarters at the academy, but as far as sleeping arrangements went, he’d heard of worse.
“Back or front?” Coda asked. “Less privacy up front, but it has its advantages too.”
“Like what?” Noodle asked.
“You’re the first people the commander sees when he enters, and the last he sees when he leaves,” Uno said. “And squadron leaders are traditionally near the door. I vote the front.”
“Oh god,” Squawks said. “I didn’t know you were a kiss ass. We can’t be friends.” He smiled as he said it, clearly making sure Uno understood it was a joke.
“So… you vote rear?” Coda asked.
“Oh no,” Squawks said. “I vote front too. Too hard to sneak my drunken rendezvous through an entire barracks of sexually pent-up twenty-something-year-old men, you know?”
“Do you always talk this much?” Uno asked.
“Call sign’s ‘Squawks,’ remember?”
“Great.”
“It’s settled then,” Coda said. “We bunk at the front.”
The group dispersed, each grabbing the bunk nearest them. That left Coda with the bottom bunk two bunks deep into the room. Uno grabbed the bunk above him, with Squawks and Noodle across from him.
Coda quickly surveyed his new space, pushing a hand against the gel mattress. It felt like standard military issue, which meant it was only a few centimeters thick and barely softer than concrete. He opened the two drawers under the mattress and a locker with a handprint security system, finding each of them empty.
We’ll probably get our flight gear when the rest of the squadron arrives.
Coda slipped away from the barracks alone, took a shower in the communal facility, changed back into his clothes, and returned to his bunk, where he pulled the privacy shade closed. Something Commander Coleman had said had been gnawing at him since they’d arrived. He’d said more pilots would be joining them, a lot more, and that the squadron would soon number one hundred.
Squadrons in the academy were on the small side, numbering only sixteen in all, but on the front, squadrons numbered an even twenty-four. Commander Coleman had said he was building a squadron. Not a wing. And not a group. If one hundred other pilots were vying for a position within its ranks, that meant more than seventy-five would wash out.
He’s going to whittle us down, Coda thought. Only take the best of the best.
Coda’s previous feelings of accomplishment vanished, immediately replaced by an anxious pit in his stomach. The odds were stacked against him. Again. And something told him this would be his toughest challenge yet.
He gritted his teeth, his resolve hardening. He would meet the challenges head-on, and he would succeed. He didn’t have a choice.
7
Ready Room, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
The ready room of the SAS Jamestown was easily twice the size of those back at the academy, though it lacked the polish of the newer space station. The chairs were worn, their cushions cracked, and the paint on the walls had faded with age. Commander Coleman stood behind a podium at the front of the ready room, prepared to address the pilots, who had already found their places. Behind him, a large digital display board, the only technological upgrade in the aging room, stood out like a new button on a well-worn suit.
The rest of the squadron had trickled in over the last couple hours. Always in groups of ten or twenty, they were as diverse as their dress. Like Coda and the rest from the academy, some seemed have been recruited from other flight schools, but others wore the light blues of stationed officers, insignias proudly displayed on their uniforms.
The uncomfortable pit that had been balling up in Coda’s gut blossomed into full-blown anxiety. Competing for a
