9
Hangar Deck, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
The next morning, the pilots formed up in front of Commander Coleman on Hangar Deck 7B. The Commander stood in front of a squadron of X-23 Nighthawks; the single-manned starfighters were larger than the Z-18 Hornet drones the pilots were more familiar with, sporting a sleek design with angled wings, four rear thrusters, and a narrow cockpit. Matte black and ornamented with a full armament of missiles and a nose-mounted cannon, the Nighthawks looked every bit like the big brother to the Hornets that Coda had imagined them to be.
“Welcome to FAM Phase,” Commander Coleman said, “also known as the Familiarization Phase. Over the next two weeks, you will familiarize yourself with every nut, bolt, nook, and cranny of the X-23 so that when we are done, you will be able to rebuild your Nighthawk in space with nothing more than your flight suit and fingernails.
“Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, the next two weeks will be one of the most trying times of your lives. It will test your patience and mental endurance more than ever before. FAM Phase is not fun, but it is important, and I expect you to treat it as such. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the squadron echoed in unison.
“Good,” Commander Coleman said. “There are one hundred of you and only twenty-five X-23s, so form into groups of four and find a fighter. Over the next hour, I want you to acquaint yourself with it. Run your hand along her body. Sit in her seat. Look her up and down, inside and out, then we’ll begin the real fun.”
Coda quickly formed a group with Squawks, Uno, and Noodle and found an X-23 that wasn’t already surrounded by overly excited pilots. Squawks bounded up the ladder and climbed into the cockpit before anyone had an opportunity to argue, grinning as he took in the various gauges and screens.
Coda circled the X-23, studying its contours. The Nighthawk wasn’t just bigger than the Hornet, there were subtle variations in the curve of the body and a slightly different angle to its wings. Its navigational thrusters were more numerous and spaced out more evenly to increase maneuverability.
Like the Z-18, however, the Nighthawk’s matte-black exterior seemed to absorb the light of the hangar, and Coda knew from his studies that it was resistant to radar, lidar, and other forms of detection. Most of the battles on the front were fought at range with missiles, but the larger battles often devolved into close-quarter combat—dogfighting—and the fighter’s dark exterior made it difficult to spot amid the black of space.
Uno took Squawks’s place in the cockpit, easily outmuscling Noodle for the next position in line. Coda didn’t mind. He would get his turn, and besides, he was equally fascinated by how the fighter’s hundreds of plates fit together so perfectly that the ship almost looked as though it had been carved from a solid block of metal.
When he finally took a seat in the cockpit, the childlike excitement that had consumed the others overcame him as well. Where the Hornet drones were little more than cold predators, there was something majestic about the Nighthawk. A history. A connection to every pilot who had sat in its cockpit. Beyond the luminous dials, instrument panels, buttons, switches, and triggers was the smell of sweat, blood, and human resolve. Squawks was right—the fighter was awesome. Coda couldn’t wait to see what it could do.
Unfortunately, the commander had other ideas, and by “real fun,” he had actually meant unbelievably tedious. After their session with the Nighthawks, Commander Coleman brought each of them to a private room no larger than a broom closet and had each sit on a deck-mounted metal chair in front of an embarrassingly old computer terminal.
“What is this, sir?” Coda asked, sitting down on the uncomfortable chair.
“This is your Computer Assisted Instruction,” Commander Coleman said. “It will guide you through all of the technical workings of your starfighter.”
Coda looked at the ancient screen skeptically. It looked like it would sooner project a grainy black-and-white image than it would anything Coda was accustomed to.
“Is there an issue, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” Coda said. “It’s just that… sir, how old is this?”
“The Jamestown is one of the oldest ships in the fleet, and it’s not equipped with the fancy technology you were pampered with at the academy. If you’re looking for state-of-the-art equipment, Coda, you signed up for the wrong squadron.”
With that, the commander turned to leave. Coda watched him go, silently cursing himself. As far as early impressions went, he wasn’t making a very good one. Turning back to the terminal, he sighed, ready to begin. There was only one problem.
“Sir!” Coda shouted as the door hissed closed. “I don’t even know how to turn this thing on.”
The Commander didn’t return. He didn’t even respond.
“Great,” Coda mumbled. He looked over the terminal and, seeing no buttons or switches, touched the screen. It immediately came to life, displaying a propaganda-like image of a squadron of X-23s overlaid with a menu of options. There were seventy-five modules to choose from, and with a sigh, Coda toggled the first one, titled Program Overview.
The menu disappeared, replaced by a clean-cut private citizen who no doubt worked for the contractor who had built the X-23. The man gave a standard introduction, highlighting the Nighthawks’ capabilities, top speed, and success in battle as if he were reading straight from a brochure—which he no doubt was. Contractors were every bit as concerned about securing their next contract as they were about fulfilling their present one, and that meant constantly touting their successes.
Ten minutes into the program overview, Coda’s legs began to tingle. The metal chair was cutting off the circulation to his lower half. Worse yet, since it was bolted to the floor, he had no way to move it to a more comfortable position.
Two weeks, Coda
